“Do yourself a favor, lad,” Gorm said, nudging the warrior in the right direction. “Lose the gear and gold. Specifically, where I can find it.”
Instead, Third Rank opted to call the bluff Gorm wasn’t making. His face red and spraying spittle, he charged forward with an angry bellow.
A good charge is a hard thing to appreciate. Most people assume anyone can grab a weapon and run straight at an enemy, pointy-end forward, and for the most part, they’re correct. The tricky part of a frontal assault, Gorm knew, was surviving it. But if you had the finesse, timing, and skill, a good charge could be unexpectedly effective.
A sloppy charge, on the other hand, is easily countered. A feint to the left, a quick knee to the gut, perhaps an elbow to the nose for emphasis, and a swift uppercut could leave an inexperienced assailant flying through the air with blood and surprise all over his face—theoretically, anyway. In practice, it took a second uppercut.
Gorm took a moment to retrieve Third Rank’s fallen sword before strolling over to where the warrior had landed.
“You’re no hero.” The wounded warrior gasped, struggling for as much breath as a broken nose and bruised sternum would allow. “You’re … you’re a common thief.”
“I still ain’t found the difference,” said Gorm. “Second chance, lad. Ye won’t get a third.”
As luck would have it, Third Rank had found time to reconsider the attachment to material possessions that had overtaken his life and had recently threatened to end it. He departed shortly thereafter, with a renewed appreciation for existence, his undergarments, and little else, leaving Gorm to take inventory of his recent “find.”
The warrior’s purse contained over forty giltin in loose coin, plus another eighty in bank notes and guild cheques. Much of the armor was worthless: leathers so old and furs so thin that a tanner wouldn’t buy them for scrap. Still, the iron helmet was sturdy enough to fetch a decent price, as were a steel pauldron and a pair of chain greaves, and the sword alone was worth at least a hundred. Bundled with a couple of rings, some hard provisions, and a sturdy belt of Elven make, Gorm estimated the hero had been carrying well over four hundred giltin worth of goods and gear and, perhaps best of all, a salt-pork sandwich for lunch.
He was cleaning crumbs of crusty bread and bits of grease from his whiskers when a small voice piped up from the edge of the woods. “Gleebek?” it chirruped.
Gorm looked up from his recent haul. The Goblin was crouched at the edge of the woods, eyeing him with optimistic caution.
“Gleebek?” it said, tapping its ribcage with a bony fist. “Gleebek.”
Gorm snorted. “Oh. Thought ye’d run off. Probably should have.” He turned back to organizing his new armor by weight and value.
“Gleebek. Da gub Tib’rin. Ra lubbinz da poot.” The Goblin tapped its chest.
“Look, Gleebek—”
“Gleebek!”
“Aye, or whatever ye call yourself,” Gorm said without looking up. “I know it must have looked like I saved your hide, but really I was just liberatin’ these here valuables. It’s your lucky day that I ain’t got no reason to kill ye, but I ain’t got a reason not to either. So ye’d best leave before my mood changes.”
The threat in Gorm’s voice was strong enough to leap over the language barrier. The Goblin’s face flashed with panic, and it swiftly retreated back into the woods.
But it didn’t leave.
Gorm caught glimpses of a nervous green face peering at him from the trees as he bundled up the goods. When he took a bath in a nearby brook, he could hear something splashing around downstream. Something small and furtive had darted through the woods and startled the wandering tinker who bought the stolen weapons and armor. And Gorm heard a few people claim they saw a Goblin skulking outside the roadside tavern where he spent most of the day’s earnings on enough alcohol to drown his memories and give them a proper burial at sea.
The next morning, he awoke in a different part of the Freedlands, lying facedown in a different ditch, with different mud smeared through his beard, and the same Goblin crouched a few yards away, staring at him with big amber eyes.
The wretched creature even followed Gorm after breakfast, as he wandered the road from Mistkeep to Whitegeld, and hid in the trees a hundred yards behind him. It got closer when Gorm settled down for lunch, and it was following within a couple of arms’ length by the afternoon. No amount of hollering or threats would keep it away for long.
For a while, Gorm thought about putting the Goblin out of his misery—Gorm’s not the Goblin’s—but the idea didn’t settle well in his gut. There was no money in it, and gods knew the points wouldn’t do Gorm any good. Mostly, he didn’t like the taste of killing someone, or something, just for being too friendly. He’d have much preferred to scare it off.
Later that evening, sitting by a makeshift fire and swigging cheap rum, Gorm realized it would be difficult to scare off a Goblin when he was probably the least threatening thing the Goblin could encounter.
Heroics was an increasingly popular profession. Despite the low base pay, poor benefits, and a mortality rate that made working in a Gnomish foundry look like an office job, there was no shortage of men and women lining up to wield a blade and delve into some ancient dungeon in search of fame and fortune (not necessarily in that order). To get into an ancient dungeon, however, a hero needed to be of sufficient rank. Rank-twelve heroes regularly struck down eldritch horrors for bags of gold, but a rank-one hero was lucky to clean a basement of uncommonly nasty rats for a handful of giltin.
The only way to gain ranks was to get points on your Hero’s license. The fastest way to get points on a license was to kill things that the Heroes’ Guild had designated as foes, or more accurately F.O.E.s—Forces Of Evil. To any of the multitude of young, up-and-coming professional heroes wandering the Freedlands, a wild Goblin was a walking professional advancement, just waiting to be skewered.
The Goblin had to choose between a forest full of professional Goblin killers and a surly Dwarf whom he had seen fighting one of them. The fact that Gorm was even thinking about the Goblin, instead of cleaning it off his axe, put him leagues ahead of any other choice. Gorm was the best of bad options.
“More the pity for you,” slurred Gorm, raising his bottle to the Goblin crouched opposite the fire pit. “It don’t go well for folks who pin their hopes on me.”
“Nub gugginz?”
“Better off on your own,” said Gorm, but even in the depths of his inebriation, he knew that wasn’t true.
It would be an understatement to say that Goblins are family-oriented; they have breeding habits that would make a rabbit blush, enshrined in a culture that valued a large family over any other virtue. The Anthropological Society of Scoria theorized that Goblin culture was steeped in procreation because they were bred to be the shock troops of the armies of evil in ages long past. To this day, strength in numbers remains a Goblin tribe’s most viable defense. Goblins don’t live alone—at least not for very long.
This particular Goblin had undoubtedly been blessed with a large family before a group of adventurers made short work of them, leaving it alone and frightened. It reminded Gorm of when he’d heard the sentence handed down, and the great gates of Khazad’im had closed to him forever, leaving him standing in the cold damp of the Pinefells wondering how he would live without his brothers and uncles and clansmen. Where he would live. How he could work. How he could eat …
Gorm took a swig of rum as the unwelcome memory surfaced. It didn’t work. “Gleebek.”
“Gleebek?”
“Here.” Gorm tossed a hard biscuit to the Goblin. Then he bundled up his provisions and lay down, using his pack for a pillow. He was sick of drinking, and sick of being sober, and regretting that those were essentially the only two options he, and everyone else, ever had.
Above him, sparks from the fire danced up toward the leaves of oaks and birches, cavorting in a summer breeze that smelled sweet and smoky. Beyond the tree
s, the stars glimmered around a gibbous moon. He listened to the crickets, and the breeze, and the frenetic scarfing sounds of a Goblin attempting to inhale a hard biscuit.
Gorm didn’t see any good options. He could leave the Goblin to its fate, but this had proved more difficult than anticipated in the past, and he knew what the fates held for a lone Goblin in the Span. Or he could take the Goblin with him, but if the little blighter wanted to avoid trouble with the Heroes’ Guild, it would be best not to be within a wide radius of Gorm.
The only option left was to take the Goblin to Andarun to get its noncombatant papers. With those in hand, a Goblin could walk the streets in relative safety, provided it kept its head down. Gorm was a proponent of keeping one’s head down; unfortunately, that was why he usually avoided Andarun.
Still, the Freedlands’ capital was a big city, and he’d been there before without any trouble he hadn’t been looking for. And a set of papers could be acquired within a day. If he timed it right, he wouldn’t even need to spend a night in the city.
It was a small thing, really, Gorm thought. A tiny kindness for a Goblin nobody would give a second thought to. Totally inconsequential. He’d have forgotten he’d even done it by this time next year, if not next month.
Gorm made his decision.
History pivoted on it.
Deshmin Scroot enjoyed his job. He saw interesting things at work. He met interesting people. Most importantly, he was the big man in the room, and not just because he was the only man in his department who wasn’t some variety of Gnome. “That will go on lot A, Mr. Muggens,” he said to a Halfling who was struggling under the weight of a massive claymore.
“Yes, Mr. Scroot.”
“And tell the Tinderkin I want to see the half plate properly polished.”
“Yes, sir.”
Scroot walked through the airy warehouse festooned with long cerulean banners that featured a sword crossed by a flaming comet—sword and sorcery being the ancient crest of the Heroes’ Guild. The room was divided into lots, each rapidly filling with weapons, armor, jewelry, gems, and sacks of gold.
Any professional hero will tell you that the most important step of any quest, big or small, is dividing the loot. The hero’s business model is based on the principal that ancient and powerful evils also tend to be wealthy ones, due to the fact that the FOE have spent so long pillaging the countryside and slaying well-equipped heroes. Thus the old axiom, “The bigger they are, the richer we’ll be.”
Of course, a monster’s killers aren’t the only ones with claims on its loot. A quest-giver, be it a simple shepherd or an entire city, could lay claim to nine-tenths of a hoard, minus the heroes’ fee. And quest-givers could often capitalize on those claims by selling shares of the hoard, even before the foe in possession of the loot had been slain. The speculators who bought those shares often bundled them into plunder funds, which were then divided up and sold to other companies, who were owned by other companies, and beyond that … well, it hurt Scroot’s head to think about who owned what.
Fortunately, the shares owned by each interested party were always written down for him. Scroot glanced at his clipboard as he made his way up the stairs to the catwalk. The city of Scoria, twenty-six percent. Adventure Capital, thirteen percent. The heroes, led by one Arthan the Brightblade, got ten percent plus a six thousand giltin fee. The Whitegeld Bannermen Pension Fund, eight percent. Relic Investment Group, three percent. Goldson Baggs High Risk Adventuring Fund, one percent. Goldson Baggs Ironbreakers Hoard Fund, half a percent. Scroot stopped reading. The rest of the list was all plunder funds.
As far as Scroot was concerned, percentages were the easy part. Dividing loot always boiled down to the same question: who gets what? After all, a ring of safeguarding and a conch of the sea were technically worth the same amount, but it was a lot easier to sell warriors a ring that surrounded a wearer in a magical shield than a big shell that could summon fish. Larger hoards often had so much treasure and so many interested parties that the loot couldn’t be divided without guild intervention. That was where Scroot stepped in.
Scroot stepped into the warehouse office.
“Arbiter Scroot! Arbiter Scroot! Sir, I must insist—”
Scroot walked calmly through the crowd of shouting representatives and heroes, all clamoring for his attention. He didn’t hurry as he made his way around the long oak table in the middle of the room to the great windows at the rear of the office. Folding his hands behind his back, he wordlessly stared out the window at the work below.
It looked like a good hoard. Heaps of treasure and gear filled every lot from A to H. Most of the gold wasn’t even giltin, but old solid gold coins from before the turn of the age. You didn’t find those often anymore, not even amid the peaks of the Ironbreakers.
Apparently, it had been an ancient wyvern; Scroot could see a team of Hill Gnomes hauling the long reptilian carcass in. The head would wind up on the wall of some tavern, the talons and venom sac would be sold to the Elves for medicinal purposes, the hide would be valuable to high-end armorsmiths, and the meat could be fed to dogs or orphans.
By the time the wyvern was on the butcher’s block, silence had fallen in the room behind him. Scroot turned to find a cadre of indistinguishable businesspeople, representing various companies, seated around the table, all forcing polite smiles. The full party of five guild heroes was also present, including a diminutive Scribkin wizard and a rather fetching cleric of Musana. Scroot smoothed his mustache and sat at the table. “Now then,” he said. “Let’s begin.”
One by one, treasures were carried in by the attendants and placed on a dais near the door, along with an initial appraisal. More often than not, the men and women around the table agreed to the estimates without comment, each noting the items that they would most like to procure.
Some finds, however, were more contentious, such as a small black statue of a puma. “This sculpture will apparently summon a celestial war cat from the metaphysical planes,” Scroot read from a card.
“What can you make the cat do?” asked the party’s warrior, a burly man in a horned helm.
“Let me see…” said Scroot, checking a scrawled note in the margin. “Ah, nothing. It is, after all, a cat. Still, it is valued at ten thousand giltin.”
The sum prompted protests from the warrior, but was defended by the representatives from Adventure Capital. They bickered and argued and debated for a while, until Mr. Scroot weighed in with a suggested price of nine thousand giltin, and all agreed. The next item was brought in.
The process could take days. Scroot surmised the treasure from this hoard would take a week just to assess; actually dividing and distributing the loot would likely take another month. The cleric and the wizard were eyeing the same amulet.
Just after Scroot returned from his lunch break, the marble busts were wheeled in. There were five of them in the display case, each about a hand’s length to a foot in height, milky white with orange stains running down their surface. They were carved into heads with angled, exaggerated features. Time and weather had worn away much of the detail, but one could still make out tiny eyes, sloped brows, and square jaws with tusked underbites.
Scroot didn’t have time to glance at the stones’ card before one of the businessmen spoke up. “Excuse me, Arbiter Scroot. These will be sent to Relic Investments in Andarun.”
“That remains to be seen, I believe,” said Scroot.
“No, it does not.” The speaker was a thin Human with a dark suit and a pair of silver spectacles. His name plaque identified him as Mr. Boggert. He looked almost exactly like Scroot, with perhaps a little more gray in his hair. An uncanny resemblance, really. “Relic Investments will forfeit any other claim on this hoard,” Mr. Boggert added.
The other stakeholders seemed more confused than upset by the proclamation. Aside from being unorthodox, it was just bad business. They’d seen over three hundred thousand giltin in treasures so far today, and there was coin worth over half a millio
n. Whatever secret the stones held, it wasn’t worth a three percent stake in such a hoard.
Still, whether or not it was good business was someone else’s problem. Scroot’s concern was procedural. “It is my job to arbitrate and decide how this loot is divided, Mr. Boggert. And I shall do so only after it is all accounted for.”
Mr. Boggert’s companion leaned forward. He was an exceptionally unattractive specimen, with a face like a gnarled oak and a single bulging eye. His neatly cropped hair, rumpled suit, and conspicuous eyepatch were all the same shade of gray. He had no name plaque. “That won’t be necessary,” he said, pointing to the card in Mr. Scroot’s hand.
Scroot glanced down. The card read, in large type:
LOT B, ITEMS 782–786.
THESE ITEMS SHALL BE THE PROPERTIE OF RELIC INVESTMENT GROUP INCORPORATED, hereafter RELIC INVESTMENTS. ANY OTHER CLAIM OWN’D BY RELIC INVESTMENTS TO THE HOARDE OF THE WYVERN OF DARKCRAGGE MTN. IS HEREBY FORFEIT.
Aside from that, there was nothing on the card except for the seal of the Office of the High Arbiter. It was unorthodox and unprecedented, but the high arbiter wasn’t constrained by orthodoxy or precedence.
“Ah,” said Scroot. “It seems the matter is settled, then.”
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Boggert, standing. “Thank you and good day.”
“A pleasure,” added the one-eyed man.
They walked out of the room. The case of stones was wheeled out after them. A double-headed great axe was carried in. The assessment resumed.
Later, Scroot stood in the office window, observing the floor during a coffee break. He watched the team of Hill Gnomes load five small crates onto a carriage bearing the Heroes’ Guild crest while Mr. Boggert climbed aboard it. Scroot saw the carriage leave the loading bay and take a turn on the road south.
Then he turned back to the meeting, and he didn’t give the stones or the carriage another thought until a week later, when Guild Investigators told him that both the carriage and the cart had disappeared somewhere along the road to Andarun.
Orconomics: A Satire (The Dark Profit Saga Book 1) Page 2
