Decapitation?

Lady Amaranth read a report claiming a Lifesaver was used to revive an adventurer beheaded by an ogre. It noted that the party’s cleric administered the Lifesaver almost immediately after the decapitation — and that the said adventurer was apparently fine.

“This changes everything.”

The Scourge’s miracle pill had a horrible reputation — but this report would have people flocking to the Corner Shop™. If enough people bought their healing drops there, their profits on their hiked-up drops would surely plummet.

Perhaps Sebas would be willing to sell them ninety percent of their stock? Or perhaps match their prices to theirs?

The drops were just too good to give up. Over the past two weeks, they sold more than four hundred of the drops — bringing more than 4,000 gold in profit. How could she give those numbers up?

The Lifesavers™ had even greater potential. Sebas was selling them for less than 300 gold each. She could probably get 1,000 gold easily if she sold to the right people.

She imagined nobles getting themselves beheaded and revived to explore their theories of the afterlife. Hell, younger nobles might do it on a dare or as a party trick!

The possibilities were endless. The Scourge just eliminated the threat of death — as long as the affected individual didn’t die instantly and had a Lifesaver™ in their person.

Lady Amaranth even wanted one for herself and her loved ones. The thought of drawing blood to give to the Scourge held her back for a moment — but the wizard hadn’t displayed any leanings towards evil or even subterfuge. He was an open book. Too open even!

She surmised she could probably guess what the wizard was thinking if she tried hard enough. The hardest part would be to accept the absurdities that he would fall into — especially with his child-like manner of thinking.

She shook her head. Putting herself in the place of the wizard seemed to drain a part of her intellect. Sure, the wizard was intelligent — he made the Lifesavers™ and the healing drops after all. He was just too detached from how people normally thought — or was it a ruse?

Lady Amaranth remembered the wizard’s appearance in front of the council. His simple and sometimes idiotic answers brought to light the nobles who were against him — the same nobles who were later found conspiring, albeit unknowingly, with the traitor.

He didn’t seem fazed until the thoughtreader was brought up. Even then, it was because reading his mind would make the man go insane — or perhaps expose his secret protections.

Who had such wards in their mind? She didn’t believe for one second that it was a curse that he carried — that was a ward that protected the mind and destroyed the ones who would pry its secrets.

She paused.

Knowledge in alchemy that equaled or surpassed the greatest alchemists of the kingdom, mental wards that would lay low any who would pry, and a butler who seemed more suited to serve royalty — the Scourge was a King’s man, probably sent to help his cousin, the duke!

It didn’t escape her attention that the Scourge was integral in stopping three disasters that threatened the city — four if she counted the intended assault in her estate that never seemed to happen.

He stopped the fires, eliminated the cultists, and rooted out a spy that was ingrained in the nobility. The Scourge did all that without overtly siding with the Duke. He was even banished to Evergreen for his supposed crimes against the city.

That was probably another ruse — one that distanced him from the duke even further.

The incident regarding glass shards that blocked the way to the Great Forest of Dun was also suspect. Did the kingdom perform secret operations within the forest? Were the glass shards meant to restrict travel and conceal clandescent activities?

There was so much to digest — but first, they needed to secure more healing drops and perhaps find a way to sell Lifesavers™.

***

Damn him!

Valev was one of his most capable operatives — how could he fail at such a simple task?

Sacher slammed his hands on the table, feeling the wood creak underneath.

Valev’s failure was most disturbing — the man knew his name if not his face. The deed would likely be traced to him — especially if that idiot loosened his tongue.

He would need to make sure he didn’t talk.

Sacher accessed a hidden compartment on the wall. It opened into a small cubby filled with various vials. His eyes swept through the contents, finally finding the one he was searching for — Valev’s vial.

It held a single strand of the man’s hair — enough for a trace, enough to silence the man.

He frowned. There was no trace of Valev. The man was either dead, held in a secure prison, or in another plane entirely.

Still no response. The bastard was most likely dead.

There were no prisons that could ward a general location seeking unless they were located in another plane — and there were no such prisons that he knew of near Bountiful.

At least he had the decency to die properly. The chances of the kidnapping being traced to him dropped significantly, and he had ears in the city waiting for word of a reaction.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

So far, there were none. He was in the clear.

His hands strayed to the sword and dagger by his sides. They were indeed forged in a manner that was novel. At first, the appraisers believed they were forged by dragonfire — but they later acquiesced when he mentioned hellfire.

Hell-forged weapons.

They were marvelous — but could he rely on them, knowing where they came from?

He would have to consult the few enchanters that he knew to make sure the weapons were not ensorcelled. He didn’t want them failing at a crucial moment against the butler — who would probably be on the alert after the incidents over the past two days.

Why did that assassin lady have to barge in with him? Their kind could always detect their own through hidden weapons, bearing, and the subtle aura of death that lingered on one’s person.

The lady was dangerous — perhaps even more dangerous than he was.

Sacher paused to think.

He was overthinking the problem — putting too many factors on the table. Disregard the snail, the strange farmhands, the hell-forged weapons, and what seemed like a small school of mages — and there was only the butler. A normal helpless butler. He even had a reputation of fleeing from fights or having his friends fight for him.

He should have stabbed him when he had the chance. If only the woman wasn’t there. He’d have more hell-forged weapons with him. Exposing his identity would have been a small price to pay.

Sacher weighed his options. He favored subtlety — a quick stab in a dark alley. Hired thugs proved ineffective — but what of monsters?

There was talk of a strange three-headed hydra in the forest. The creature would probably make short work of the giant snail.

It was a possibility. He grabbed a potion from one of his desk’s drawers. His associates had stolen it in one of their forays. They thought it was useless — but Sacher knew its value.

He held the flask high, marveling at the golden liquid as it sloshed ever so slightly. This was monster’s ambrosia, a liquid that would drive them mad as they craved for it. How his men found it was a mystery. All he knew was that the potion was a rarity, their production lost to the ages.

Who in their right minds would want to attract monsters and drive them mad?

Sacher furrowed his brows. His men probably crossed cultists unintentionally. There was an attack on the city recently — the vile potion could have been the foundation for another one.

To think the city owed him a debt of gratitude for relieving cultists of this potion.

Oh, he would put it to good use. He would have his men rally the monsters of the forest against the Corner Shop™ and deal with the butler in the chaos that ensued.

***

Cicero watched as his men flocked to the Scourge. They did so, not because he was popular — which he was — but because it was cool. Literally cool.

At first, he thought it was part of the wizard’s strange aura — a mix of soul-sucking terror, piercing malevolence, and a comfortably cool temperature.

He later learned that it was the staff. It created a bubble of cool dry air around itself — a precious thing under the hot sun and the constant training of the vanguard.

The wizard had tried leaving the staff on the field, but it only functioned when someone was holding it — and did his men try holding it!

They made a game out of it to see who could last the longest. It stopped when Masock held on to the staff too closely, as if savoring the pain — even uttering guttural moans that led the others to pry him off the staff.

Now, the staff stayed with the wizard — and his men flocked to his side whenever he was on the field.

The staff was painful — Cicero knew that firsthand. He had been healed by it quite a few times — all of them quite memorable.

He surmised the staff had functions that were more nefarious than actual healing — especially since the part that healed ended with a barbed point.

Yes, it was something that Sacher would do — but he knew the Scourge was the Blackstaff’s son and not the healer’s.

“Cicero!”

He turned to see the Blackstaff approaching. He was early for their meeting — perhaps eager to discuss his son.

“Milord.”

“Hush, Cis,” the Blackstaff waved as if banishing the title. “Call me Amos, you earned that, at least — unless you want me to call you captain?”

“Amos, S-sir,” he stuttered.

This was the Blackstaff. Serving under him for years made him realize the enormity of his powers — it was not easy to dismiss his reverence to the man.

“How is the training? Is the Scourge getting along with the men?”

“The Scourge displayed near-absolute competence in the battlefield,” Cicero chose his words. “He would be a significant addition to any team. He has the makings of someone who can turn the tides of battle.”

The Blackstaff seemed to frown at his answer — not hearing what he expected.

“His mastery of his staff also progressed rapidly,” he added, hoping that was what Amos wanted to hear. “He can now hold his own against the most skilled veterans.”

The Blackstaff kept frowning.

“He is vital to our team. He kept our casualties at a minimum — saving soldiers on the brink of death.”

“Stop,” the Blackstaff raised a hand.

Cicero wondered what more the Blackstaff expected from his son. All his deeds were exemplary.

His eyes widened. Did he expect him to exaggerate his son’s accomplishments — as big as they already were?

“I’m asking if my son is getting along with the men?” the Blackstaff explained. “Is he making friends? Does he go out drinking? He spends too much time in his lab and his only friends are his butler and a giant snail.”

“A giant snail, you say?”

“Yes, a giant snail! How could a father not be worried?”

Cicero paused — clearing his mind of giants snails. He recounted the times the Scourge acted strangely. It was as if he lacked the common sense of an adult and bore the naivety of a child.

His very own staff was a testament to his strange mind. Who would make a staff that made the surroundings comfortable — but holding it brought unimaginable pain?

“The men like him,” he answered truthfully. “He’s friendly enough —“

“But?”

“His experiences and stories seem so outlandish or utterly boring, the men are finding it difficult to find common ground.”

“Well yes, that would be a problem.” Amos frowned.

“Maybe you should encourage him to do other things aside from his alchemy or visiting other planes?”

“Or maybe, some of your guys can take a trip with him when he goes exploring those other planes?”

“He visits hells, Amos. He even has a notebook where he documents each one.”

“He has a notebook?” the Blackstaff seemed disturbed. He started pacing around the room, even holding his head in frustration.

“He got that from his mother, you know?” he looked almost distraught. “To think he would grow up making lists and organizing things — it’s just not right!”

Cicero stared at the Blackstaff, realizing the similarity of the two.

“Don’t worry about him, Amos,” he assured his former liege. “He’s your son. He’s definitely your son.”