Finances

Income

Missions #19, #20 & #21

£0

Revenue from Eisenberg mine

9s

Expenses

Wages

£1 6s

Loss

17s

Total

£26 12s 11p

The emergency meeting of The Rotten Apples, in The Pig and Iron in Eisenberg, was not going well.

Lothar was losing control of his mercs. It felt like a nightmarish repeat of the previous times when his crews had collapsed. Come on, Stiff, he cajoled himself. The one advantage of failing so many times is the experience you have to draw on.

Twerk’s expedition to Urlay had been a horrific failure, ending with Rylan Blair’s murder of Usa. They wanted revenge. Meanwhile, The Explorer’s crew had returned from their mission to find the fourth barrow. For some reason, they were equally determined that the Blairs should pay the ultimate price.

‘Listen,’ he shouted above the back and forth. ‘Do you really think it wouldn’t suit me to have those damned Blairs out of the way? The Apples would be the only company in Gal’azu.’

‘Then what’s stopping you?’ Ashlyn demanded. ‘We’re all united on it. Have some courage!’

‘It’s not a matter of courage, Ashlyn,’ he tried to explain. He was desperate to get his views across without leaving her and the others feeling insulted, or ignored. ‘I could send you all to Dorwich to go take on the Blades. And I’d lose you all. They have more mercs than me, and at higher levels. Only last week, Wynter picked up a Level 7 warrior.’

‘Then let’s find and kill her,’ Twerk suggested.

‘She’s long gone. Look, I understand how much you all want this. I have no doubt you’d shed some blood. But not that of the Blairs. No. They’d come out of it very much alive. Do you want them to win?’

‘If everyone had that attitude, no one would do anything,’ Wilson complained. ‘And what about Izil? He has a right to get vengeance. And we have a duty to go with him.’ The gnome pointed a finger at Lothar. ‘You weren’t there, Stiff.’

‘I know, Wilson. But think back to when we first started. The idea of us going to take on the Blades in battle would have been laughable. Now look at where we are. The Apples are catching up—have been for some time. We’re not there yet. But soon, we will be. That will be the time to act. When we can win.’

‘So what would you have us do?’ Ashlyn asked him.

Does she sound a little mollified? Is she listening? Lothar dared to hope. ‘The barrow you found. Each time we’ve cleared one out, we’ve grown. In money, mercs, and weapons. This last one could tip the scales.’

‘Or it could be our undoing,’ Jaelin warned. ‘We told you about the trolls, remember?’

‘I do,’ Lothar conceded. ‘But we have strengthened our team,’ he said, gesturing at his latest recruits. Larik the Bludgeoner was a decent addition. But the three ex-Blades from Urlay were something else. Two 5s, and a 6. The truth was, Rylan’s actions had weakened his own company, and strengthened Lothar’s. If he could just get them to stay in line and do what he wanted.

‘What about Izil?’ Ashlyn asked. ‘He can’t be expected to traipse all that way with us.’

‘No, of course not. I will look after him here. Make sure he doesn’t go off on some suicide mission.’

‘How will you do that?’ Greenblade demanded. Doubt, and lack of faith, were plain in her words and her expression.

Lothar pushed down his hurt, and anger. ‘Rosalind and I will look after him. He will get his vengeance, when we are ready to deliver it.’

It was probably his mention of Rosalind that persuaded her. Ashlyn shared a look with the others. The ex-Blades looked lost, somehow stuck between their former employers and their current ones. She got nods from The Explorer and The Bowman. Then from Wilson. What a rebellious little group that was. He felt proud of them, in a way.

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‘Alright,’ Ashlyn said, taking the role of spokesperson. ‘We’ll do the barrow mission. But you can’t put the reckoning off after that.’

Relieved, Lothar agreed.

***

Sal waited for his brother and sister, in his office in the building they liked to call their palace. Are the gods punishing us for our hubris? He wondered. In hindsight, establishing Dorwich and basing their operations here felt like a mistake. But hindsight was all too easy. He fidgeted with the parchments on his desk, detailing his finances and his roster of mercs. Some of the pages had gone missing a few weeks back. That was when the rot set in, he reflected. Did that bastard Stiff send his thieves here? Just to steal some papers?

His thoughts were interrupted. Rylan and Wynter entered together, sinking into the chairs on the other side of the desk. He turned his gaze on them. At least his brother had the instinct to look a little guilty.

‘What in Gehenna were you thinking?’

‘I didn’t mean to do it,’ Rylan whined. ‘That cocksucker Usain Bizra kept winding me up. Pronouncing on the rules of the merc business. To me! Interrupting. I lost it,’ he admitted. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘And in doing so lost us three loyal and able employees. Didn’t just lose them, handed them over to our rival.’

‘A bloody overreaction on their part.’

‘Just when we needed them.’

‘Why? What’s up?’

Sal sighed. ‘Five thousand goblins heading right here. Led by a warlord and a goblin mage. They’re bringing their whole clan. They’re coming to stay.’

His siblings made the same, confused face. ‘What can we do?’ Wynter asked.

‘I’m going to Avolo, to talk with the council. We’ll all need to unite against the threat. The Rotten Apples as well. Though I honestly don’t know if that can happen now,’ he said, unable to resist another glare at his brother. ‘Wynter, tell me things went well in Avolo. Please.’

‘There was a lot of riffraff to sort through. And Stiff arrived to challenge me. But I recruited six decent ones.’ She smiled. ‘One of them is more than decent—a warrior. The Guvnah, he calls himself. Level 7.’

Sal let out a pent up breath of relief. They needed that, after the loss of Tree and the others. He only had one scout and two medics left now. ‘Well done, Wynter.’

She grinned. ‘Good job one of us has a brain.’

With a cry of anger, Rylan grabbed her hair. ‘Don’t you dare give me cheek,’ he yelled, pulling her one way then the next.

Sal stood, his chair tipping backwards. He gave in to his anger, launching himself over the desk and landing a fist on his brother, knocking him and his chair onto the floor. He didn’t stop, leaning down to deliver another blow. ‘No wonder father felt the need for the beatings,’ he snarled, spittle flying. ‘It’s the only damned thing you ever pay attention to.’

***

Stricken walked into the inky black cavern. It was a large space, and the farther he walked, the darker it got. He had to be careful. There was a sheer drop down to the Hollow.

When he found it, he began the tortuous climb down. His wasted body struggled with it. He feared letting go and falling to the rocks below. What scared him the most was the prospect that such a fall wouldn’t kill him; that he’d be able to get to his feet and carry on. It was a terrifying thought.

After the climb down, he walked through a vast underground chamber. The ground was covered in guano, from the bats who made their home far above where Stricken trod. He entered a tunnel. At last, a faint light helped him navigate to his destination. The light framed a doorway. He opened the wooden door and entered.

The light came from a fire that burned in the centre of the room. Two score humans sat or stood around it, many staring into the flickering flames. Only a few turned their heads to give Stricken brief, uninterested looks.

He walked through the room into a courtyard. Around it were more rooms, more fires, and more humans. In the centre, stood a solitary figure.

Stricken approached. ‘Master Amotken,’ he said, with a bow.

Amotken turned to him. ‘Stricken. Thou hast served me well so far.’ He spoke softly; almost kindly.

‘Thank you, lord,’ Stricken said. He avoided his master’s eyes, focusing instead on a point on the man’s chest. His doublet had an intricate, stitched design. His fur-lined cloak looked like it would keep him warm in this underground lair. Amotken wore the richest fabrics. But they had an aged, faded quality.

‘I have a new task for thee. A most precious one. It is time to awaken those who hath been sleeping. There is one whose rest has already been disturbed.’

A series of images intruded into Stricken’s thoughts. An underground barrow. Figures he knew entered—it was Stiff’s crew, exploring the tomb. On a stone plinth lay a skeletal figure, encased in metal armour. It is time Eyota is returned to us, Amotken’s voice spoke into Stricken’s mind.

Stricken understood what Amotken wanted of him. He had no understanding of his master’s reasons. He knew he had been protecting this place from discovery. Few dared enter the moors since his reign of terror had begun. But he didn’t know what the point of it all was.

He resolved to ask his master about these people he kept here. They were strange—always just waiting by the fires. They didn’t speak, or carry out chores, or do any of the things humans normally did. Except, when he spoke, other words bubbled up, pushing the question aside. ‘I am so hungry, master!’

Amotken growled with displeasure. ‘Dost thou not think I am hungry, Stricken!’

Stricken couldn’t stop his head from turning, or his eyes from gazing into Amotken’s. From a sunken, bony face, his blue irises, and the whites of his eyes, had been stained yellow. They emanated madness, pain, and grief.

‘Hundreds of years have I been assailed by the hunger you now wrestle with. Alone, I have waited in the shadows, praying for a chance to right the wrongs done to my people. The hour of rebirth is at hand. Thou darest speak to me of thine own petty suffering?’

‘I am sorry, master,’ Stricken conceded. Emotions fought within him. He wanted to be loyal. He wanted to please. ‘Why did you choose me?’

‘Stricken,’ Amotken said, a kindly tone returning. ‘Even when thou livest, ye were already half dead. Thou thought only of killing, and the basest of instincts. Thou were already a thing—a wight. Thou art the most suited of all thy kind for the role I have given thee.’

Stricken understood. It was true. He was different from the people Amotken kept in this dungeon. He had a special role to play.

‘Now get thee gone,’ Amotken told him. ‘Bring her back to me.’