Tales: The Benevolence Archives, Vol. 3

by Luther M. Siler

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Foreword

  The Duel

  The Ziggurat of Zaumg

  Debut

  Inheritance

  The Recruit

  The Customer

  The Ursine Abduction

  Rebirth

  Thank You

  About Luther Siler

  Also by Luther Siler

  Copyright

  Tales: The Benevolence Archives, Vol. 3 is a work of fiction.

  Copyright © 2017 Luther M. Siler

  Cover copyright © 2017 by Jamie Noble Frier,

  http://www.thenobleartist.com

  All rights reserved.

  Ebook ISBN: 1-947520-02-4

  Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-947520-02-8

  Dedication

  Dedicated to Corrie

  The coolest neatest awesomest and bestest person ever

  Because shut up, that's why

  Foreword

  This one was rough, folks.

  Tales: The Benevolence Archives, Vol. 3, formerly known as Tales from the Benevolence Archives: Volume 3 of the Benevolence Archives until I realized how insanely unwieldy that title was, is my sixth book. Six! It is completely ridiculous to me that I've released six books, even if two of them are properly novellas. The thing is, Tales was originally Sunlight, which was the sequel to Skylights … which is not a Benevolence Archives book. Then that book fell apart on the page on me as I realized that I was telling the wrong story. I picked Tales up, knowing that I had seeds for several stories in my head already, thinking Oh, we'll just knock this next BA book out, then, it'll be easy.

  That was in March of 2016. I had managed a nice little two-books-a-year pace before that. And in the post where I let everyone know I was putting Sunlight on hold, I gave everyone a target date for Tales: June of 2016.

  I'll wait while you laugh at me. It's okay. I'm laughing at me.

  Let's just say I've blown a lot of deadlines since then, and that one wonderful thing about being an independent author is that when you have a year that, to be charitable, has more than its usual share of personal and political and societal dramatics and trouble, when you blow your deadlines you have no one who can fire you. You have fans you can disappoint— or at least one hopes one has fans— but they have all been wonderful and supportive and I don't think anyone has kicked me off of their bookshelves for being late just yet.

  That said, I like how it turned out: eight new stories, some of which make our universe a bit bigger, some of which push the story forward, and one set in the earliest days of our heroes as a team. There's a couple of clues here and there about where the series is heading next, too— and the next Benevolence Archives book will be another full-length novel. I may do another short story collection after that, but Vol. 4 will be one coherent story.

  Some thank-yous: Thanks to Matt Davis for naming Del Kormus from The Duel, winning what I framed as a contest on Twitter but was actually a complete inability to brain. Thanks to Jamie Noble Frier for the outstanding cover, the first time our heroes have actually appeared on a Benevolence Archives cover. My favorite part? Brazel's clothes. Thanks to Real Authors Michael J. Martinez and Anne Leonard for being kind enough to provide cover blurbs, even if both of them are technically for BA vol. 1. And thanks, as always, to my family and most especially to my wife Becky for putting up with me while I kvetched and complained and wrote three sentences and called that a day and then took another week before I wrote another word.

  The next book will be faster. No, really. I promise.

  Yours,

  Luther M. Siler

  Somewhere in Northern Indiana

  September 8, 2017

  The Duel

  "Checkmate," Grond said, sliding a knight into position. The pale human on the other side of the table glared at the chessboard for a moment, then sighed and surrendered her king, laying the piece on its side. "Congratulations," she said, offering a hand across the table. Grond took it, taking care not to squeeze too hard, as her hand was like a child's compared to his. The lights came up in the room, and the chess pieces on the table flickered and disappeared as the crowd surrounding them began to clap and cheer.

  There was a barely audible hum as the public address system cut in. YOUR WINNER, NOW THE THREE-TIME WINNER OF THE PERRETON DISTRICT CHESS CHAMPIONSHIP, the voice intoned, GROND OF ARRADON! Grond raised a hand over his head, waving to the crowd, and adjusted his glasses. He generally only wore them as an affectation while reading, but had found that they also tended to be slightly distracting to opponents during chess matches as well. It was difficult enough to play chess against a halfogre. His opponents tended to worry that he would lose his temper if he lost, which occasionally led to them making silly mistakes. Playing chess against a halfogre in business attire and glasses was more than a lot of them could handle.

  Not that that had helped him against this opponent. His runner-up, whose name was Del, was a fine competitor, and he'd lost as many matches against her as he'd won over the last few years. He lifted her hand over her head as well and gestured for the crowd to continue cheering. The announcer took the hint. AND YOUR RUNNER-UP, DEL KORMUS OF ELDRAVVAR!

  "Where's Eldravvar?" he whispered. "And last I checked your last name wasn't Kormus."

  "I made it up," she said, a grin on her face. "Had somebody try to follow me home from one of these things once. I didn't want to have to blow anyone up after this tournament."

  Grond shrugged. "Might make up for losing the purse," he said.

  "You could always just give me your prize money," Del answered.

  The halfogre grinned broadly. "I'll buy you dinner next time we do this," he said. "We'll call it even."

  "Done," she answered.

  * * *

  The comm light was blinking when he got back to his rented room a few minutes later.

  "Play," he said.

  It was Rhundi. "Grond, it's me. Got something for you. Get back with me."

  Grond chuckled and opened a comm channel.

  "Congratulations," Rhundi said.

  "About what?" he asked.

  "You won the tournament," she said.

  "I won fifteen minutes ago," he said. "How did you—"

  "Grond. It's me," she said.

  He stopped protesting.

  "And I see you beat Del again. That's two in a row. You should start trying tournaments with a higher level of competition."

  "The Risik Invitational won't let me in anymore, remember?" he said. "That'd be the next step up."

  "Oh, right," she said. "Have I apologized for that lately?"

  "Yes, to me," he said. "They're still mad."

  Rhundi ignored this.

  "So, listen. I know you're on vacation, but something just came across my desk and I thought you might be interested."

  "You've got a job?"

  "No. Prescott has a job. And he actually asked for you specifically. And since you were already on Carocawa—"

  "Prescott's on Carocawa?"

  "Yep."

  "What's the job?"

  "He didn't say. Just said he had something for you and was wondering if I would, his words, 'loan you to him' for a few days."

  Grond bristled. He'd been property in the past. He didn't especially like being treated like a thing.

  Rhundi noticed the silence. "I don't think that's what he meant, Grond."

  "Of course he did," Grond said. "Prescott's a dick. But his money spends. He really didn't tell you the job?"

  "I figured since you were already nearby I'd just let you look into it. I didn't commit you. I just said I'd tell you about it."


  "I'm told," he said. "And my price just went up fifteen percent. Dickery surcharge."

  "Fine with me," she said. "I'll set up a meet for you tomorrow and comm you when and where."

  "I just flew here in a planethopper," he reminded her. "If he wants me shooting at things I'll have to come home and resupply."

  "I'll make sure he knows," she said. "Go out and do something fun. Extend your vacation by however long it takes to do this; I don't have much piling up over here yet."

  "Whatever you say, boss," he said.

  "One more thing," she said. "You ever met Prescott before?"

  Grond thought about it. "No, actually," he said. "Done a handful of jobs for the guy but they all came through you."

  Rhundi chuckled.

  "He's got a thing," she said. "Don't look at it."

  "A thing," Grond said.

  "A thing."

  "You wanna be a little bit more specific about this thing?"

  "Nah," she said. "Just that he doesn't like people drawing attention to it. So don't stare. Let me know how it goes, okay?"

  "You're kidding—" he said, and she dropped the connection.

  Shit, Grond thought.

  * * *

  Grond arrived at the meeting first, and was quietly amused at the near-panic his appearance created among the staff at the restaurant Prescott had selected, a place called Banik's in a surprisingly classy district. He'd expected somewhere much seedier, and was distinctly more shabbily-dressed than most of this place's mostly human clientele. A few dwarves and elves dotted the tables here and there, but he was the only being there of ogre extraction.

  "You're gonna need to find me a bigger table," he said to the host. Prescott did this on purpose, he thought. Not to inconvenience him. This was directed at the restaurant. The owner had probably pissed Prescott off at some point.

  Too bad I didn't come ready for a fight, he thought. He wasn't dressed for a chess match, but at least most of his tattoos were covered, and he was only wearing one or two easily noticeable weapons.

  The host gulped, hurriedly saying something into an earpiece.

  "We'll have your table in a moment, sir," he said, and Grond watched as a few dwarves muscled a larger table onto the dining room floor and brought out a chair more suited to his frame. Prescott was human; they'd have to bring out a higher chair for him as well, a thought that amused Grond to no end. It was difficult for ogres and humans to sit at the same bars and tables without at least one of them looking rather ridiculous. He considered insisting that the table be moved farther away from the kitchen and decided against it. Unless he was specifically told he was there to cause trouble, there was no point in it.

  "Thanks," he said to the host, and went and sat down without being asked. A waiter quietly deposited a large glass of water in front of him and swiped at the table, which displayed a menu on its surface. Grond sorted the menu by price and ordered several of the most expensive items, only barely paying attention to what he was getting. He decided he was going to order something else every five minutes until Prescott showed up.

  Luckily for his host, he only had to wait another four. Grond kept careful control of his facial muscles as Prescott arrived and climbed into the chair that had been set for him on the other side of the table. Climbed, because Prescott was easily one of the shortest human beings Grond had ever seen. In fact, only the human-looking ears and lack of a snout convinced Grond that he was actually looking at a human and not a gnome that had shaved off all its fur. His clothes were fine enough that he fit in with the rest of the restaurant's clientele, but he wore them with the air of a man who wasn't comfortable with what he was wearing and probably never would be.

  The fact that he had the word "THIEF" embedded into his forehead, glowing bright blue— Grond suspected brightly enough to see by at night— didn't help with the ensemble any.

  A nanotattoo. Grond had heard of them, but despite having spent a large amount of time in tattoo parlors had never actually seen one, since they were usually used by law enforcement on certain planets in Benevolence space for precisely this purpose— to mark criminals. The tattoo couldn't be covered up; it would simply glow more brightly if covered with makeup. If the bearer tried to cover it with something, it would either relocate itself to somewhere else on the body or simply separate itself from the skin and settle atop whatever the person was wearing. They were typically used for criminals who were actually in jail to guard against escape. The fact that Prescott's was still live and glowing implied that he'd broken out of prison and had never managed to get his deactivated.

  I wonder if Irtuus-bon has a way around that, Grond thought. Rhundi's troll scientist had managed to penetrate the biolocking mechanisms on Benevolence guns. Surely he could find a way to remove a nanotattoo, especially for the right price.

  "I already ordered," Grond said. "You want anything?"

  Prescott brought up the menu and stared at it for a moment. "You must be hungry," he said.

  "Nah," Grond answered. "I just want food."

  Prescott shrugged and added something to the order.

  "May as well cut to the chase," the little man said. His voice was deeper than Grond expected. "I need a second."

  "You've got until I'm done eating, at least," Grond said.

  Prescott looked confused for a moment, then winced. "No, I mean … shit, you know, a second. I need one. I don't know what else to call it. Somebody to fight on my behalf."

  Grond very nearly spit some of his water across the table. "You mean you need a champion. You got challenged to a duel?"

  "I did," he said. "Somebody trying to weasel out of some money he owed me. Human named Barron. You'd hate him. Real scummy guy. Decided to trump up some reason why I wasn't worthy of his money. Said it impyooned his honor to pay me. I told 'im to fuck himself and he threw a glove at me. A literal fuckin' glove." He blew his nose noisily on a napkin. "Guess whose restaurant this is."

  "There'd better not be anything in my food that's not supposed to be there," Grond said. "You're a big enough player. You've got your own muscle. Why bring me in on this? And who am I fighting? The glove-tosser?"

  "I've got muscle. I don't got you," Prescott said. "You're better than any of my guys. I'm not afraid to admit it. Any chance I could get you to quit on Rhundi and come work with me permanent?"

  "Not even one," Grond said. "I owe her."

  "Whatever you owed her you paid off a long time ago," Prescott said.

  Grond shrugged. There were things that Prescott didn't know about, and he wasn't about to tell him any of them.

  "Maybe," he said. "But I'm not leaving. What can I say; the little people entertain me."

  There was a brief, poisonous moment of silence. Then Prescott laughed.

  "Yeah, okay, I probably deserved that," he said. "But yeah. I wanted you because you're better than the local talent. And I need somebody who can be prepared for anything, on short notice. I hear you're good at that."

  "I'm good at that," Grond agreed. "You know the rules?"

  "Dunno," he said. "Maybe to the death. Hopefully not. First blood? Surrender? Who the fuck challenges people to duels anymore anyway?"

  Helpful, Grond thought. "Do you have any hard information? Who am I fighting?"

  "I don't know that either," Prescott said. "But I've got people working on it. He isn't supposed to know who you are either."

  "So this is a power play," Grond said. "You're letting him see who you've brought in in advance. That's optimistic. Anything stopping him from just having our food poisoned?"

  "The challenge was pretty public," Prescott said. "Too many witnesses. I could shoot myself in the head right now in this room and he'd be blamed for it. I'm basically fuckin' immortal until the fight happens."

  "May as well eat, then," Grond said, and as if by magic the food appeared. Half of it was on fire.

  Probably should have actually read the menu, Grond thought.

  * * *

  Grond hadn't brought
many weapons with him on his vacation— he had thought that even he could probably get through a chess tournament without having to kill anyone— but some things he just didn't ever leave the house without. Prescott had given him coordinates to a natural amphitheater a few dozen kilometers outside of the city limits, along with instructions to be there at noon.

  Grond headed out there at midnight anyway. He brought along his favorite heavy pistol and Angela, his Iklis sniper's longbow. If the fight was going to involve shooting it was going to be very, very short; Grond could take the head off of the average gunman with Angela before they'd even managed to lay a finger on their own weapons, and the longbow nearly never missed. He'd also strapped a half-dozen knives of various lengths to his waist, forearms and calves, and just for giggles slung a war axe onto his back. He hadn't even meant to bring the axe; he'd found it in his luggage when he arrived. He'd forgotten to take it out of the bag the last time he'd needed it. As a last resort, he wore spiked gloves on his hands.

  Showing up early had a few purposes. First, it was always good to scope out the terrain before any sort of fight. Second, he didn't trust Prescott as far as—

  Well, he thought, laughing to himself. He actually had a pretty good idea of how far he could throw Prescott, having tossed Brazel on more than one occasion. Maybe he trusted Prescott exactly as far as he could throw him.

  At any rate, if this was a setup, it was best to know in advance. Prescott probably wasn't dumb enough to try and catch Grond in a trap, but sometimes people could surprise you.

  It certainly didn't look like a setup, though. The boat he'd borrowed from Rhundi to make the trip was simple enough that it didn't even have a name or a speaking AI, but she'd had a decent-quality sensor package installed for him before he left. Those sensors weren't picking up anything alive that was large enough to be sentient and nothing emitting any sort of signals for a full two kilometers around the site of the meet. Someone had carved seats out of the stone bowl of the theater at some point, but the place was old enough that they'd probably used hand tools and their own muscles to create them rather than assigning the task to bots.