The vision departed as suddenly as it had come. Niln dutifully finished transcribing it, though he had no idea what it meant. Incoherent, rambling scriptures were a hallmark of the All Mother; indeed, those who believed Scribe Pathalan was the true high scribe, instead of Niln, were quick to point out that most of Niln’s writings made much more sense than any words of Al’Matra for more than three hundred years. His predecessor’s life work had been a treatise on the similarities of toenails to prawns. Scribe Pathalan’s latest work was an inventory of all the items built into mouse nests within the temple, including personal names for all of the buttons.
The Book of Niln, by contrast, was filled with relevant stories, verifiable history, and direct commandments. Naturally, the other Al’Matrans held it as suspect.
And the Wizard Jynn did provoke the Mage Laruna, who did throwe a Mighty Spelle at him, and he did return another spelle, and so forth. And their battle did smite the Temple Mightily.
Niln sighed. He had hoped that this particular incident wouldn’t have made it into the scriptures, but he didn’t have any say. The words of the holy texts burned across his mind, and his only recourse was to write them down. What the goddess willed, he wrote.
So Gorm, Son of Inger, Son of Hruxo, did smite both of yon mages, and tell them to shape up, for he held a Great Fire in his heart for the Quest.
Gorm’s newfound enthusiasm was an interesting development. Sometime between the king’s ceremony and arriving at the temple, the Dwarf had transformed into a veritable zealot. He had ordered training gear, scheduled a time for practice in the morning, and delivered a rousing speech, all before dinner. Niln couldn’t see any reason why Gorm would become so passionate so quickly. Still, Niln had little choice but to accept the Dwarf’s sudden support, whatever the cause. The All Mother knew he needed it.
That night, Heraldin Strummons, the Bard, went to the room of Kaitha of House Tyrieth, for he held a Great Fire in his pants. And he did profess his desire for her.
Niln shook his head and sat back to listen. A yelp of pain rang out from across the temple. Niln resumed writing.
But yon Elf made it clear that she was Not Interested. And in so doing, they awoke Gorm, Son of Inger.
Bootsteps echoed in a distant staircase, loud and fast.
And Gorm did correct Heraldin Strummons, and tell him to Behave Professionally.
Gruff shouting echoed in the staircase.
With much emphasis.
Niln winced at a low thud and a cry of agony.
And this was a distraction to the High Scribe Niln, but his work was not yet completed. For his Fate was to assemble the foretold Heroes, and to lead them to their Destiny, as was foretold in the First Book of Niln.
The conflict was a distraction, Niln thought, as the goddess’s words faded from his inner sight. But he was undeterred. The scriptures made it clear that he was the Seventh Hero. Although …
Niln set the quill down. A thought tugged at the back of his mind, a seed of hesitation that had plagued him since the verses of prophecy first bloomed in his mind. The verses he wrote never directly named him as the Seventh Hero, or even one of the heroes. He would assemble them, and lead them, and quest with them, and guide them … but he was never said to be one of them.
Still, what else could the scriptures mean? He was called by name to lead the Heroes of Destiny. He was chosen to assemble the six. He was explicitly told by the goddess that his works would save the world.
Niln shook off the lingering doubts and left his study. There was much to be done before bed. Most pressingly, the bard would likely need a healing potion.
Gorm ascended the tower steps, carrying a hunk of bread and several slabs of cheese from the larder. Gleebek followed him, laboring under a load of loaves, cheeses, fruits, and pastries.
“I admire a good appetite, lad,” Gorm told the Goblin. “But I think ye may be overdoing your breakfast.”
“Da grong.”
“Ye keep eatin’ like ye’ll never see food again. Oh.” It didn’t occur to Gorm until it was too late that, up until recently, every meal that Gleebek had eaten had likely been served with a side order of uncertainty. Aside from heroes, starvation was the greatest threat wild Goblins faced.
They could hear the voices of the other heroes on the terrace as they neared the top of the stairs. Gorm slowed when he realized that he was the subject of discussion.
“He’s out of his right mind,” Jynn was saying. “He seemed like the normal sort at first, but yesterday he came in practically frothing at the mouth to tell us to get ready for this quest.”
“That was after he assaulted us,” Laruna added.
“Absolutely bonkers,” Heraldin said.
“I think we should give him the benefit of the doubt,” said Kaitha. “I was excited about the job at first too.”
“You were inebriated to the point of oblivion,” said Jynn.
“Exactly. He was probably drunk last night. It seems more likely than him suddenly going insane.”
“It makes sense that he would join the Al’Matran’s madness,” Heraldin said. “He’s a berserker, you know.”
“Aren’t those the Dwarves who get so angry they go crazy in battle?” asked Laruna.
“Berserkers are members of the Brotherhood of Flame, the most elite of the Dwarven fighters,” said Jynn. “The highest honored among their armies.”
“And?” prompted Heraldin.
“And yes, they get very angry and go absolutely crazy in battle,” Jynn said.
“It ain’t anger,” said Gorm, stepping out from the stairway.
The other heroes had been breakfasting around an old oak table, and upon Gorm’s appearance they attempted to arrange themselves around it to affect maximum nonchalance.
“Oh, good morning, Gorm,” Heraldin attempted.
“I mean, of course there’s some anger. You’re fightin’ after all. But anger ain’t what makes ye berserk.” Gorm stood next to the table and looked out across the terrace, to the city.
“It’s purpose. Ye find something in the battle to fight for, something ye’d die for. Your brothers back in the clanhome, the honor of your Da’s name, the lives of innocents. A reason to fight, if nothing else, like a tiny fire, and ye reach out and grab. And ye hold it no matter how it burns. And soon ye can’t separate yourself from your purpose, any more than ye could take the light from a candle flame. Ye live to win. Ye can’t lose; ye can only die.”
“Whoa,” said Laruna.
“And later, they’ll say ye looked crazed, or ye howled like a beast, or ye seemed possessed, but their words are nothing but a vapor in a breeze. ’Cause ye can still feel a flicker of the fire ye held inside, and ye know now what ye knew then, and ye’ll never be the same. That’s what it is to be a berserker, and I’d never trade it for anything. Or I wouldn’t have, until I ran. A berserker doesn’t run.”
He caught Gaist’s eyes, and saw his own painful memories reflected in them. Memories of death, and fear, and flight.
Gorm sighed. “I lost me flame at the dungeon of Az’Anon. Call me what ye will, and say I’m crazy if ye like, but don’t call me a berserker. I ain’t one anymore.”
“So this is just your normal, run-of-the-mill insanity?’ said Heraldin.
Gorm shot him a sidelong glance. “I don’t believe this campaign will be as bad as ye think. This quest ain’t half the danger we thought’d it be, and who knows, maybe they’ll be done after that?”
“Or maybe they’ll send us after the dragon of Wynspar. Or troll hunting,” Heraldin said. “The Al’Matrans are half as mad as their goddess.”
“The Tandosians ain’t, and they’re behind the quest.”
“You’re a bigger fool than I thought if you trust the Tandosians,” said Jynn.
“Ain’t got much of a choice, do we?” said Gorm. “We’re on the quest either way. As far as I can see, we can either do what we can to make the job better, or we can sit back and make snarky comments.”
/> “I’m happy to say that Mr. Ingerson has the right of it.” Mr. Flinn materialized from the shadows behind them.
“Don’t do me any favors, mercenary,” said Gorm. “What are ye here for?”
“Why, only to deliver a couple of messages.”
“So deliver them.”
“Naturally. The first is that you are to meet the esteemed ambassador from House Tyrieth for lunch tomorrow. You will join Her Ladyship at the Elven Embassy at noon. And as for the second, it almost seems unnecessary, but I do want to make sure you realize that Master Niln’s safety on this adventure is paramount.”
“He’ll be fine. We’re gearing up and training today,” said Gorm.
“Ah yes, but I’m sure you’re aware that some of the greatest threats to professional heroes come from within the party, do they not?” said Mr. Flinn. “And given your reluctance, I’m guessing at least one of you wouldn’t be above slipping a dagger between a scribe’s ribs to be free of this quest.”
“Hold on. Are you suggesting we’d kill Niln and make a break for it?” said Laruna.
“Not all of you, certainly. Maybe not even most of you. But there might be one or two among you who have thought that the open road would provide an opportunity for freedom. Most likely the bard,” he added, pointing.
“Fair enough,” said Heraldin.
“Sounds more like something ye’d do, Flinn,” said Gorm. “I know your type. Ye’d kill your own mother for tuppence.”
“Ah, you see, that’s where you’re wrong,” said Flinn. “I know the value of a life, usually within a few cents. When I killed my mother, it was for well over five thousand giltin.”
“That’s disgusting,” said Kaitha.
“That’s economics. Everyone is worth something, and some people are worth a lot more posthumously, which is rather the point, you see. Think what you will of him, but Master Niln’s identity as the Seventh Hero means that he is worth more than any of you. And what’s more, essentially all of your worth comes from the fact that you’re on Master Niln’s quest. If he were to meet an untimely end, there’d be no quest for you to be on, and subsequently no value in you being alive. The price on your heads, on the other hand, would be more than enough to compensate for the trouble of finding and collecting them.”
“Ye through?” said Gorm.
“Merely a friendly warning.”
“Ye make a lot of friendly warnings,” said Gorm. “They’re all starting to run together. Sounding like a bunch of noise.”
“I assure you that I’m more than capable of backing up my good word, Mr. Ingerson.”
“Perhaps, but then who’d be on the wrong side of the law? We’re heroes on a job now,” said Gorm. “I’ve enough of your crowing. Be off.”
Mr. Flinn’s smile was like an autumn frost. “It seems you won’t be so easily manipulated.”
“Seems as much.” Gorm grinned back at him.
The standoff was interrupted by a distant rumbling. “COO! COO!”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Brunt!” shouted Mr. Flinn. “We must work on those birdcalls!” He tuned back to the heroes. “That signal means Master Niln is on his way. I must bid you good day. I must also insist that this conversation never happened.”
“It seems more like it never ends,” said Jynn.
“You stand corrected, sir,” said Mr. Flinn, and took his leave.
“What a little Goblin snot,” said Laruna, watching the Gnome walk away. “No offense.”
“Nub Hupsit.”
Gorm spotted Niln walking across the terrace and carrying a small bowl of oats and a cup of tea for breakfast. “I think there’s something wrong with that Ogre,” said the high scribe. “Well, regardless, I believe you said we were to start training this morning, Mr. Ingerson.”
Gorm grinned.
They started with assessments. “We’ll run several drills to assess where ye are in your fighting skills, and where ye need work,” Gorm explained. “When we’re done, we’ll see where we need work, and the top performers will train those who lag behind.”
They ran sprints and did an obstacle course. They shot targets and sparred with a training golem. They held a mixed skirmish fought with wooden swords. By mid-morning, Gorm had a good idea of where they were.
“We’re dead,” Gorm said.
“It’s not all bad,” said Kaitha.
“He needed a healing potion after fighting a training golem. A bloody training golem,” Gorm marveled.
“Well, it is a sorcerous automaton built for combat.”
“It has pillows for arms! I can’t see how he even got nicked fighting one, let alone needed a potion.” Gorm rummaged through the medicinal rucksack. “How many did he drink, anyway? I thought we had more elixir.”
“So Niln needs work,” said Kaitha. “Look on the bright side. The wizard was better than expected.”
“Well, set the bar low enough …” grumbled Gorm.
“And the bard can fight better than you thought,” Kaitha said.
“He’s got no sense of the battlefield. Too used to questing solo. Doesn’t look past his own nose in a fight.”
“Well, we’re here to work on that,” said the Elf.
“Aye. I suppose we are.”
He set Kaitha up training both Niln and Gleebek, starting with stave drills. “We’ll try to move ye up to daggers this afternoon,” Gorm told them. “Assuming ye’ve made enough progress.”
“I must confess, I’m a little surprised that you’ve put me with the Goblin,” said Niln.
“Don’t worry,” said Gorm. “You’ll catch up.”
“Lob’dod!” Gleebek brandished his staff.
For Heraldin’s training, Gorm had a couple of attendants bring in an hourglass and a small wooden box. It contained a fine board inset with a grid of mahogany and pine spaces, and two sets of ornately carved ivory and ebony pieces.
“I’m to play a board game?” Heraldin said incredulously.
“You’re good with a blade,” said Gorm. “Good enough that a day’s drills ain’t going to do much for ye, at least. But ye lack strategy. A plan. A mind for staying ahead of your foe.” He set the final piece, an ebony king, on the board with a faint click. “Thrones teaches all that.”
“So we’re just going to play thrones all day?”
“Not me,” said Gorm. He nodded to Gaist.
“What? The mute?” demanded the bard. “Why not pit me against one of the topiary shrubs? I’ve seen them move more today.”
Gaist regarded them with the cold, tenuous serenity of thin ice.
“Make a move.”
“He didn’t even participate in the drills. For all we know, I should be training him.”
“Make a move.”
“We’ll start by teaching him to speak.”
“Just make a move.”
Heraldin sighed, advanced an ivory bannerman, and flipped the hourglass.
“There,” said Gorm. “Now, I can’t speak for this Gaist fellow, but Iheen the Red never lost a game of thrones in all the years I knew him. Never turned down a challenge, and never failed to win. But hey, maybe he’s changed.” He nodded to the sand pouring through the hourglass. “Maybe he doesn’t mind losing by forfeit.”
Gaist stared out over the horizon.
“Losing to a bard.”
The weaponsmaster didn’t so much as flinch. The sand had almost totally drained from the top of the hourglass.
“All right. Well, I’m surprised,” said Gorm. “Seems he’s willing to let his thrones record go without a fight. Never thought it’d be broken by a common bard working for the Al’Matrans.”
“This is starting to get insulting,” said Heraldin. “Anyways, time is u—”
Gaist moved like silk in the wind, gliding up to the table and advancing an ebony bannerman in one swift motion. He quickly flipped the hourglass, seated himself across the table from Heraldin, and resumed staring silently into the air.
“Oh-ho, that’s your move?” s
aid Heraldin. “Nobody moves the outer bannermen to start. I thought you were supposed to be good at this.” He advanced a paladin.
Gorm smiled. “Enjoy your education,” he said. He hadn’t made it halfway across the terrace when he heard the bard shouting.
“How have you won already? I didn’t even get to take five turns! I demand a rematch.”
That left the mages. Gorm took them down to the back courtyard of the temple. It was a good-sized expanse of grass and stone pressed against the ridge of Mount Wynspar, with few features but a couple of stone benches and an old plum tree. The fact that the courtyard was so big, and contained so little, was exactly why Gorm had chosen it as the site for Jynn to train Laruna.
Both mages erupted into immediate protests upon hearing Gorm’s plan.
“I’m not going to work with that pompous Orc-sired fool.”
“I can’t work with someone so absolutely ignorant.”
“What could I learn from him?”
“What could she learn at all?”
Their arguments washed over Gorm like waves over a stone. When it became clear that their dislike of each other wasn’t going to sway the Dwarf, the mages moved their arguments to a unified front.
“I can’t even touch solamancy, let alone teach it,” said Jynn.
“There’s a reason there are two orders,” said Laruna. “Mages can only see one side of magic.”
“All the mages worth mentioning, anyway,” said Jynn. “The point is, I really don’t think I can teach her.”
“I mean, I don’t like the guy, but he’s not a filthy omnimancer. He’s not going to have any idea about solamancy.”
“Well, I have some ideas of the theory.”
“The theory seems like that’s what she needs,” said Gorm. “She’s got plenty of power. No technique.”
Laruna shot Jynn a venomous glare. “I don’t need technique,” she growled. “Look, it’s simple. I’m going to be a pyromancer. I burn things. I throw fire at them, or set them alight, or make them explode. This is not complicated.”
“Except in that last fight, ye didn’t fare so well. Ye couldn’t burn the noctomancer, or stop me from takin’ ye down. All ye managed to do was cause a lot of damage to the temple, and maybe cost the Al’Matrans their property insurance.”
Orconomics: A Satire (The Dark Profit Saga Book 1) Page 11
