What happens when a hero dies in Kingsmount? This is the story where we all find out.
Chapter 1 – The Taquero
Yermo woke up and, for a wonder, didn’t immediately regret it. He felt better than he had in months, possibly years. It was probably some newfangled miracle of healing magic, and most probably orchestrated by Blondie, bless him.
“Right after I box his fool ears for having magic done on me without my permission, I’ll thank him.” thought Yermo, as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, and sat up.
He paused. When he was sure that he felt no worse for wear, he got up and did a few experimental stretches. For a wonder, his arms extended to shoulder-height without issue, and even a little higher. Yermo decided that he’d be sure to experiment with more exciting angles later; for now, he wanted clothes.
A simple combination of tunic and trousers would suffice, along with his boots. They were important things, these boots. The stitching was perfectly even; the soles were durable, yet pliant enough. The leather, though worn, was of a quality so marvelous that the cow had probably felt honored to produce it.
You could wear these boots for ten years or more, and he had.
Yermo was a warrior, after all. He figured that one style of flailing your sword about was as good as another. What kept you alive long enough to stab someone was footwork, and for good footwork, you needed good boots. These were some of the finest he’d ever owned in his long life, and they felt right at home on his feet.
“In another life,” he thought, “I might well have been a cobbler.”
In this life, however, Yermo wasn’t just a warrior; he was one of the best. He’d been alive for nearly one hundred and fifty of the local years, and was well regarded as a Hero of Kingsmount. He was also a man of singular focus, with an in-depth knowledge of nearly every kind of swordplay. He could tell you at a glance which local smith had forged the armor a soldier was wearing, and who’d repaired it most recently. And he did know rather a lot about boots, even if he’d never made one.
He stood, all swarthy skin, hardened sinew, and dark brown eyes, as he cast about the room in preparation for the day. The sun was coming through the windows, shafts of light piercing the usual gloom of his comfortably-appointed bedroom.
Yermo splashed water from a nearby basin on his face, and turned to leave, when he saw something new. Blondie might well have had healing magic worked on Yermo in his sleep; that was not unusual for him. But Yermo was pretty sure that his old sidekick would not, and indeed could not, have snuck a fully operational taco stand into the Hero’s bedroom.
Deep sleeper though he was, Yermo would have noticed that.
As the Hero stood there, feet rooted in astonishment, the smell of diced and seasoned chunks of beef slammed into his nostrils in the most pleasant way. Then came the smells of pork, goat, and even chicken, in just about every variety that could be had at one of Kingsmount’s many taco stands.
For a brief moment, he looked around, trying to see just how many of his belongings had been displaced to make room for this prank. His eyes couldn’t seem to focus on the rest of the room, and so he returned his focus to the taquero behind the portable counter. The taquero was a tall man. He wasn’t what you’d call particularly fat, but he did clearly enjoy his own product.
Like Yermo, his skin was a somewhat darker brown, though the taquero’s hair had not yet gone grey. His eyes were brown. Well they were. They had to be.
Yermo decided he’d investigate what color the man’s eyes might be later. There was a more important matter at hand.
“How did you get in here?” asked Yermo.
The taquero just smiled and said, “Aaaah, that’s not important right now. Taco?”
Not to be deterred, Yermo tried again a bit more loudly, “What are you doing in my bedroom with a godsdamned taco cart?”
The taquero’s smile turned into a smirk as he said, “Making tacos.“
The two stared at each other for what seemed like an interminable moment.
The taquero waved his spatula in a gesture to sit, and said, “Don’t worry about it. We have all the time in the world, and no one deserves to go to the afterlife on an empty belly.”
The man looked genial enough, and his gesturing splattered yet more grease on his already-stained apron. Still, Yermo’s blood ran cold. He cast about the room again, searching for a weapon. His eyes had landed on a rather stiff-looking towel before the taquero’s voice rang out again.
“SIT”
Yermo sat.
“… on the stool over here. Sorry.”
Yermo got up off the floor, walked the few steps needed, and sat on the stool in front of the taco stand.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The taquero gave him a sly wink, “Who do you think I am?”
Yermo gave it some thought.
“Please don’t do that. Thinking is Blondie’s job.”
The taquero stopped in the middle of flipping a tortilla onto the frying tray.
“Ah.” he said, “I sometimes forget that you Heroes, uh….”
He trailed off, cleared his throat, and started again, “I’m Death. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Yermo. Heroes don’t die often.”
Yermo thought about that for a moment. It would explain how he felt so good, ironically enough. He looked over his shoulder towards the bed, and the room came into focus once more. Sure enough, there he was, on the bed, looking a sight more pale than he ought to.
He blew a raspberry.
“I suppose it had to happen at some point.”
“It happens to most of you, yes.” said Death.
“It happened to Blondie. A few months ago.”
“Yes.”
“You think I’ll see him again?”
Death looked at Yermo, and this time his smile lit up the room.
“Oh I don’t know…”
“Knock it off.” said Blondie.
Yermo looked to his left this time, and there was Blondie, sitting on a stool that hadn’t been there before. He had pretty much the same brown skin and eyes that Yermo had, and the sort of family resemblance you have with a distant cousin. His hair was rather darker than Yermo remembered, however, and his face had fewer lines.
He had that same strong jaw and brow, however. Blondie. His own Stalwart companion. A man tasked with keeping the city safe from Yermo, even as Yermo kept it safe from the monsters and particularly monstrous men.
Blondie who, in the way of the people of Kingsmount, had gotten the name by being one half-shade lighter than the rest of his cousins. His friend. His confidant.
“Hi Boss.” said Blondie.
Yermo’s eyes started to mist over.
“You came for me?”
Blondie chuckled, “I never really left. The tacos were good, and I figured ya’d be along soon enough.
“To be fair, an excess of tacos is how I get a lot of my business.” said Death.
Blondie continued, “Thought ya were gonna bite it the other day when you chased those kids off your lawn. Had my money on a heart attack.”
Yermo chuckled too, “Those kids were fully grown orcs.”
“You’d never have guessed, the way they ran!”
Yermo’s smile dipped, “I may have gone too far. They were only missionaries. Annoying missionaries, but it’s just…”
“Not enough work for an old Hero.” said Death, understandingly.
They all nodded.
Yermo shrugged, “Last time I ever wore my armor. You think any of it mattered?”
Blondie looked puzzled, “Any of what?”
“The Hero stuff. I know… a lot of people said nice things and all, but mostly I just went where you said, and stabbed what you told me to stab. Not that I mind.”
Blondie’s smile turned warm and kind as it had ever been.
“Yeah Boss. It mattered. When we weren’t saving the whole city at once, we helped a lot of people.”
“By stabbing stuff?”
“Repeatedly. Remember that factory we went through like, what was it? Twenty-five years ago?”
“Yeah.”
“So here’s why there were so many kids in that building…”
Death interrupted, “You do want a taco, right Yermo?”
Yermo shrugged, “Sure, make me one with everything.”
Death laughed, while Blondie and Yermo wondered what was so darned funny.
And so it went for what seemed to be quite some time. Blondie told old stories, and Yermo would chime in now and then. The taquero who called himself Death provided a steady flow of food, while asking for elaboration on details that interested him.
Occasionally, he’d say something like, “Oh, I remember them. Almost didn’t give them any tacos.” whenever a particularly notorious (and dead) villain was mentioned.
Time stood still. At long last, the good stories had all been told at least twice, and the bad stories had been half-told here and there.
Yermo looked at Death and asked, “What’s next?”
Death shrugged, “Hell (heh) if I know. I sell tacos and point the way… and I’m all out of tacos.”
Blondie raised both eyebrows in a silent question.
Death chuckled, “Okay, not really, but it’s time for you both to be off. I have a job you know.”
Blondie and Yermo nodded, and thanked Death for his excellent service. They made a show of looking for their wallets before Death shooed them away. They strode off into a fading light, Yermo’s bedroom having disappeared during their conversation.
Just before they were truly gone, they saw a cow.
As protocol dictates, Yermo said, “Look, a cow.”
The cow stared at them for a moment, then said, “Alright, those are really nice boots.”
Around ten in the morning, Blondie Jr. (not his given name) attempted to call upon Yermo. He’d been doing it ever since his father died, as Yermo was both his godfather and a friend. After knocking a few times, he let himself in with his spare key and made his way up to the room with a heavy heart.
After finding exactly what he’d expected to find, he shuffled off to the hallowed halls of the Hero Contingent. Someone would have to tell them. Heroes died so rarely in Kingsmount, after all.
Chapter 2 – Adventures in Extreme Paperwork and Other Matters
The Hero Contingent has the single grandest library on the Accident. It is a place of magic, wonder, and learning. It is also a place where wide-eyed young village girls wander in, break into song, then break into hysterical sobs as the librarians beat them with an encyclopedia.
One does not sing in a library.
This is not the library. This is a place of knowledge, yes, but it’s the kind of knowledge that you put behind a simple wooden door with a small plaque that reads, “ARCHIVES”. Underneath that plaque is a sign that says, “No food, no fire, no hanky panky. Good luck.”
Beyond the door is a room that is quite a lot bigger than the library, and three times as organized. That is, of course, except for the Intake Pile. The Intake Pile never grows larger than three stories high, thanks to the dedicated efforts of The Regular Clerks, at least three of whom are always on duty. On this day, the duty roster was comprised of Sadi, Cerl, and Madame Vana the Archive Overseer.
Sadi, being the youngest and lightest of the three, was perched precariously on top of the Intake Pile.
Small as she was, she struggled to make herself heard as she called out, “This one’s another memo about the sewers! Something about sentient slime?”
Madame Vana called back, “What was that about Lord Astillard?”
Cerl snickered loudly.
Sadi called back, “Ummm, no, it’s about…”
“Never mind, Sadi!” called Madame Vana, “Just toss it down and I’ll file it under Sewer – Slime – Sentient. Like the rest.”
“There’s more than one file on this sort of thing?” Sadi asked perplexedly, as she tossed the memo down below.
“There’s more than one file on every sort of thing, Sadi. Stick around long enough and you’ll see it all.” replied Madame Vana.
Sadi resolved then and there that she very much wanted to see it all. A pleasant chime sounded throughout the entire building as if by magic, because it was. Sadi brightened, stood carefully, and slid down the Intake Pile while balancing on her feet with practised ease.
Madame Vana and Cerl looked on approvingly.
“Excellent form!” said Cerl.
Madame Vana nodded, “It seems your days as a dancer have come in rather handy.”
Sadi grinned, “I did wonder why you asked about that part of my resumé. And why you handed me a knife when you hired me.”
That, as it turned out, came in handy often. Like magical tomes, a sufficiently arcane memo might need to be threatened into compliance. A long, sharp knife worked as well on enchanted paper as it did on most people.
It also made a handy untensil come lunch time, which had only just been heralded by that magical chime.
The three Regular Clerks chattered companionably as they walked toward the break room. However, their simple pleasures were interrupted when the main door (the one with the plaque and the sign) opened, and The Old Man came strolling in. She approached the main counter, off to one side of The Intake Pile, and placed a slip of paper on the mahogany surface.
As if they’d practiced it all their lives, the Regular Clerks broke out into a smooth yet efficient pace, arriving at the counter close together. Madame Vana bowed deeply, as her subordinates stood straight, and a respectful distance behind her.
With her brightest smile, Madame Vana asked, “Good afternoon! It’s been so long. What brings you to the Archives?”
The Old Man looked uncustomarily tired. Her normally straight posture was the slightest bit slumped, and her ancient-seeming eyes looked like the years were starting to catch up. She pointed at the slip of paper.
“I need everything listed here, if you would be so kind.”
Madame Vana, professional that she was, appeared to notice nothing except the paper. She picked it up, and began to skim.
“All files on the Warrior Hero known as Yermo. Known associates… known enemies (local gods in particular), known lovers… oh I can get this for you at once.” she said as she perused.
Then she stopped, as one item in particular had caught her fancy.
“Last will and testament? Funeral arrangements? Is Yermo quite alright?”
“Probably better off than most of us. He’s dead.” The Old Man grouched.
“Oh that’s a shame. I met him a few times before he retired. Nice enough, though single-minded as his kind usually are.”
The Old Man eyed Madame Vana as if she was missing the point.
“Allow me to clarify,” she said far too calmly, “he died here.”
At that, all three of the Regular Clerks looked up sharply.
“Here?” Sadi asked quaveringly, “Don’t all Heroes usually retire… anywhere else?”
“Would that he had gone off to wander the world like most of them do,” replied The Old Man, “but he never properly retired. From what I hear, he kept going on about how much he loved Kingsmount, and how he’d be needed again before long. Fool.”
“That’s unfortunate.” murmured Cerl, “Everyone and everything he ever pissed off is likely to come down on us to make sure he’s dead.”
“Precisely.” said The Old Man.
Madame Vana recovered her composure, nodded sharply, and said, “You’ll have everything we can find within the hour.”
The Old Man nodded her thanks, and strode rather more purposefully out of the room. Madame Vana turned to her subordinates, issued a rapid series of very precise instructions, and shooed them away. Then, she set about her own tasks with a vigor not often seen in the Archives.
If Kingsmount was going to get through a Hero’s funeral intact, there was no time to lose.
The Old Man made her way back to her offices in less of a hurry. There was little she could actually do until the information she needed made its way to her. She’d already sent missives to everyone she could think of. The constabulary had been warned to be on alert. The Stalwart Companions had orders to be at their Heroes’ sides for the foreseeable future.
The Merchant Council that ostensibly ran the city had been apprised of Yermo’s death as well, and the city’s small community of nobility had been warned to stay inside and play nice or else. Naught was left but to identify all potential threats, and make a plan for each and every one of them.
“And won’t that be a treat?” thought The Old Man, sarcastically.
She could vaguely recall some of Yermo’s enemies, but as Heroes go, the man had been prolific. There was something about that almost vacant stare, that stoic posture that absolutely infuriated the various monsters, villains, and ne’er-do-wells that Yermo had encountered. They invested years of their lives to their schemes, and he simply hadn’t cared.
Oh, he’d cared in a general way. He cared about Kingsmount, he cared about the people he was protecting. He’d even had a classic innocent-child-who-needs-protecting once or twice. But like so many Heroes, Yermo had left the details to his sidekick, Blondie.
When it came to the arguably sentient villains, The Old Man would have been quite surprised if the dead Hero had remembered any of their names five minutes after meeting them.
This made them unhappy.
While most of them would most assuredly be dead, that wasn’t necessarily a comfort in Kingsmount. At least one of Yermo’s frequent enemies had been a lich of sorts. And then there were the gods. Gods and Heroes fell out as frequently as they worked together, and trying to keep track of who wasn’t answering whose prayers had become a logistical nightmare.
Gods bless the Regular Clerks. They were the only ones who even came close to keeping it all straight.
The Old Man arrived at her blessedly empty office, and heaved a small sigh of relief when she was sure no one was around to see it. The waiting room and her office were simply-furnished, lacking many of the comforts that one would expect of the woman who just about ran the city.
The chairs were of plain wood, but sturdy and comfortably cushioned. Her desk lacked the splendor of the countertop in the Archives, and it was adorned with an impressive amount of paperwork. The few plain shelves on the walls held trinkets that looked to have been made by amateurs. The one concession to her station was a thick pen, inlaid with gold and etched with thousands of tiny runes.
The Old Man sat at her desk, massaged her temples, and didn’t stop until there was a knock at the door. She looked up to see Madame Vana striding in with an intensity of purpose, and a rather thick stack of files.
She carefully made space for them, saying, “Thank you Madame Vana. Your sheer speed is, as always, commendable.”
Madame Vana smiled, bowed, then left The Old Man to her work. The Gods knew there was enough of it to be done.
She flipped through a few of the pages and thought, “Oh now that’s going to be interesting. At least there aren’t any gods to worry about.”
And in that plain but comfortable office, The Old Man smiled. If the city didn’t burn down around them, the next few days would be exciting at the very least.
Chapter 3 – The Things Left Unsaid
In a little-known, sentient-made cavern deep beneath that manufacturing district known as The Foundry, one of the city’s oldest threats to public safety had made his home. It was surprisingly cozy, with non-flammable, magic-powered lanterns strewn about the place, several dozen well-worn tomes of magic, and the kind of furniture you could sink into. If it weren’t for the walls made of bedrock, you could have mistaken it for the mountain retreat of any normal, living wizard.
The only thing that marked this place as the lair of a lich was the dust. It was thick, suffocating stuff, the likes of which you’d expect from a mausoleum long neglected, in ruins guarded by traps that don’t work anymore.
“I dusted yesterday!” wailed Guz the Lich.
More quietly, he bemoaned the true curse of Kingsmount. It wasn’t the convergence of ley lines, the hell mouth, or the mass burial site that spanned the whole of the city and beyond. It wasn’t even the monsters born of these aforementioned horrors, or that they occasionally came by asking to borrow a cup of sugar from the man who didn’t eat.
It was that damnable dust, and make no mistake. Above ground or below, there was no escaping it. On the surface, beings of every race and creed would get up every morning about the same time to perform the one religious ritual observed by all: sprinkling some water around the sidewalks and the roads to keep the dust down. Alas, deep in the crust of The Accident as he was, Guz had little water to spare.
What water he did have, he reserved for his spells, and for both removing and applying various forms of makeup.
“And that’s why I don’t bother trying to obliterate the city anymore;” he reflected, “it would only mean more dust.”
And if he was honest with himself, Guz could hardly remember why he’d ever tried to extort, conquer, and then obliterate the city of Kingsmount. Whenever he tried to think hard on the matter, his brain refused to cooperate. All he could remember was something about a cookie, and that could not be right, could it?
In any case, he’d only become a Lich to continue his study of magic long after such things would normally be possible. Whatever he’d had in mind for Kingsmount was a means to an end long forgotten.
The other reason he’d never managed to so much as hold up a bakery…
“But why a bakery?” he wondered.
The only reason he’d not done more was because of one hero. One great, powerful hero. A warrior with no aptitude nor care for the arcane arts. A sword jockey with little to recommend him… except for his eyes. And that chiseled jaw. Those rippling arms, those thighs.
Truth be told, Guz had often suspected the man of having the softest chest hair, and the hardest abdominal musculature… but that was neither here nor there.
Yermo. Yermo had seen to it that Guz had never even had a chance of conquering or obliterating the city. Whenever it looked as if Guz had a real chance of success, Yermo would be there, looking resplendent in his rune-covered armor. He’d dodge some spells like they were nothing, take others on his sheild, and slice Guz into two or more pieces.
Not that the lich minded, much. He’d become quite adept at pulling himself back together.
Yermo and that sidekick of his with the stupid nickname were only doing their jobs, after all. Yermo had done his job with that steely, almost blank gaze that at once infuriated and entranced Guz’ undead heart. He was somehow the sexiest and most boring man alive and Guz had no idea how to reconcile those two indisputable facts. He was the best and the absolute worst.
Even as he’d aged, the Hero had never lost a step, and never lost that something that made the dead come to life, as it were.
The universe is cruel, so these were the thoughts going through the lich’s head when, off in a corner of the room where there were no books, a candle lit itself. It was the only candle in the entire cavern, and it was enchanted to light only when the presence of the hero called Yermo shuffled off this mortal coil.
Now, it could be said that when this candle was lit, Guz the lich felt a shiver go down his spine for the first time in eons. It could be said that he cried out in anguish, at a loss for words at the wretched pain in his soul. These things could be said.
The truth, however, is that the undead wizard had a lot on his mind. Between his study of spells designed to moisturize and revitalize decaying skin, and daydreams of rock-hard abdominals, it was a full seventeen hours before his eyes were drawn to the candle.
It was long since burned down to a puddle of wax and the merest stub of a wick. Guz stared at the mess, and pondered it a while. He knew he’d had a candle there for a while, and that he’d enchanted it to light itself for some reason…
Long neglected neurons flared to life, as he realized what the now dust-covered debris had been for.
His voice crackled and half broke as he said, “Oh.”
He looked around the room, pondering. He would need some protections, and he set about gathering them. First was his finest black robe. It had served him well in many a battle, and now it would serve as funeral wear. Then came the equally fine black cloak.
Next came the jewelry: a pendant to ward off divine powers*, a ring to ward off more pedestrian magics. A bracelet with a shield charm that could be used to prevent most forms of physical harm. Lastly, there was the crown, a spiky bejewled monstrosity that made him look “most imposing”, according to the merchant who’d sold it to him.
The crown was just for fun.
* [Author’s note:] Most gods of the Accident have little love for the undead. Fewer still will tolerate any lich who runs around saying things like, “… and when I’m done with you, I shall kill the gods! All will worship me! Muaahahahahahah.” They take it personally.
Guz looked around the cavern for a while. In truth, he hadn’t intended to stay quite so long. It had been decades since that last confrontation, when the two of them had been face to face. Practically nose to rotting nose, really.
It had been decades since Guz had last looked into those eyes that had seemed almost more dead than his own. He’d wondered if he might see some recognition of a kindred spirit, some spark of passion, of hatred even. There’d been nothing. Not one feeling, and possibly not one thought in that gorgeous head.
Yermo had clearly felt nothing the last time he’d bisected Guz, or any of the times he’d done it. He’d been cut in half like wood under a lumberjack’s axe… hmmm. Lumberjacks.
Guz shook his aged and decaying head, putting his decidedly wandering train of thought back on track.
And so he’d come here, to lick his proverbial wounds, he said. To marshal his strength and come back more terrifying and powerful than ever, he said. To become impossible to hurt, he said. And that was the last time that anyone had heard of Guz the Lich for decades.
Well now it was time. It was time for… for something, damn it all. If nothing else, it was time to make a damned scene.
Guz made the effort required to close his eyelids, if only for a moment. When he opened them again, they shone with a brilliant light. Arcane winds ruffled his robe and cloak as he opened his body and soul up to powers untouched for far too long. Then, he went to check himself in the full-length mirror.
“If I’m going to a funeral,” he thought grimly, “I will be the finest-looking corpse there. I might even pick up a cookie on the way.”
Shaking his head at his own silliness — liches didn’t eat — Guz unsealed his cavern by telekinetically removing the boulders in his way. With a light step but a heavy heart, he began the long journey up.
Chapter 4 – Reflections on the Nature of Bastards
Some time earlier:
“That rusty-limbed, prick-brained, barely sentient excuse for a bastard is getting on my last nerve. The bastard.” thought Carmen.
The artificer was something of an expert on bastards, oh yes. She knew them as soon as she saw them, as they would invariably get in her way somehow. The slow-thinking sod at the smithy who couldn’t decide on a quarter-inch bolt or a three-eighths-inch bolt? Bastard. The shrimp-minded bean counters at the Machinarium? Bastards. The lawmakers who couldn’t see the value in her very carefully-designed automaton? Oh they were true bastards.
Never mind the Council of Labor, and those misbegotten overgrown beasts that called themselves Heroes. Every jumped up do-gooder with grey matter made of lard thought they could tell her what to do, and how to do it.
Though if she were truly honest with herself, they might have been right about the automatons, at least in part. Carmen stared up at M-802-4, wondering why she’d ever thought that giving them a certain modest intelligence had seemed like a good idea. For their part, M-802-4 simply stood there, towering over Carmen’s stocky five-foot frame, looking impassive as all automatons did.
Its voice came out in a tinny, slow, almost overly careful tone as it said, “Please, my Goddess. We would very much like a day off.”
“And why, for the love of copper and steel, would you want that? I never told you to want a day off.”
“True,” said M-802-4, “but we have found that one day a week off for self-maintenance prevents the total failure of most components.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! I created you, I fix you. What more could you want? I’m fixing one of you right now!”
It was true. In this gloriously chaotic mess of a workshop, Carmen was even now elbow deep in the guts of one C-439-3, a unit designed primarily for combat. They stared straight up, unmoving, waiting for Carmen to complete her work.
“Besides,” continued Carmen, “what am I to do if you all simply bugger off for one day every week? The schedule would fall apart!”
M-802-4 replied, “We need not all take the same day off. And preventative self-maintenance would decrease your own workload, my Goddess.”
She thought for a moment. She couldn’t deny that logic. Letting the automatons handle some of their own maintenance would free up a considerable part of her day. She’d almost have agreed, too, if M-802-4 hadn’t said what they said next.
“Being in a state of disrepair hurts us. It hurts until you fix us. We would prevent this.”
Carmen stared. Carmen stared some more.
“I certainly never designed you to feel pain.” she said slowly, “I’m quite sure of that. I believe it was one of your biggest selling points: no pain. And few-to-no days off either, for that matter.”
M-802-4 looked down at his compatriot as he said, in his usual monotone, “It’s… emotional pain. We feel incomplete, when a component reaches the point of complete failure.”
“Of all the STUPID things!” railed Carmen, “Never mind pain, who gave you permission to have emotions!?”
“Perhaps I misspoke…”
“Misspoke!? You’re machines! You can’t possibly misspeak unless I made some mistake and I did not.”
Short as she was, Carmen had a look of fury on her face that could have made a stone wish it had the legs to run. Indeed, a small pebble in one corner of the room took the opportunity to quietly roll further into the darkness. M-802-4, being rather larger than a pebble and twice as slow, paused, as if guaging their next words with great care.
“You’re right of course, my Goddess. You created us, you command us, you fix us.”
“And don’t you forget it!” said Carmen, partially mollified.
“It’s just…”
“Just what?” spat Carmen.
“We’ve examined the works other gods and goddesses. Even Mercanta tells the merchants and the hawkers that sufficient rest is required to maximize profits.”
Carmen exploded, throwing a wrench in M-802-4’s direction.
“MERCANTA ISN’T HERE!” she roared.
M-802-4 fled, for given values of flight, and thunder roared overhead.
Carmen looked up and said, “Fine. You’re here. But what do you care? I’m not one of yours.”
The thunder stopped, and a precise clear voice rang out in the room, “Mine or not, keep a civil tongue. You’re on thin ice, Goddess.”
Carmen sighed heavily. The active attention of Kingsmount’s actual gods was the last thing she needed. And she did wonder what that thin ice remark was about. Living in Kingsmount, the only ice she ever saw came in drinks, or down from the heavens in the form of hail.
No matter, she’d get on with her work, and her automatons would bloody well get along with theirs if they didn’t want to be dismantled and turned into coffee machines. A day off indeed.
She scoffed at the notion as she absent-mindedly flipped a switch, comforted by the whine of the grinder, and then the dripping sounds that came after. Her coffee maker was a truly massive construction, perfected over decades to create the perfect cup of coffee. It even added the cream and sugar at the end.
She was about two sips into her brew when a bell rang. She was about to go to the main door of her small mansion when she stopped. The tone of this bell was different. She looked around, and it rang again. She moved through the house to the side door, the one that was only used by… what was his name?
She’d married him for his money. It’d be a good idea to learn his name one day, if only so she could say something nice at his funeral.
She opened the door with a careful, “Why, hello Dear.”
“My Golden Flower!” he enthused, “I’ve heard the most wonderful news!”
“Oh?” she asked, while attempting to concoct an excuse to get rid of him on short notice.
“Oh when this news leaves my lips, my Sweet, you shall love me more than you ever have!”
“I’m not sure that’s possible.”
“Oh… how nice of you to say, but hear me all the same. Yermo is dead.”
“… what?”
“The Hero, Yermo! He’s dead!”
Carmen’s mind was always racing, but the marathon of discovery had turned into an all-out sprint.
“Why that’s… terrible?”
“You think so?” asked Carmen’s husband, confused, “It’s only that every time you fall into slumber after finishing one of your marvelous little inventions, you curse him in your sleep.”
“Do I… ?”
“Oh yes! I’ll be honest, at first I worried if he might be an old lover of yours.”
Carmen barked a laugh, harsh and surprised, and not a little horrified at the idea.
“I should think not!” she said, “You’d never catch me gallivanting around with one of those silly Heroes. No, if I bore the man any ill will, it’s because of an old business venture gone wrong.”
“Wait,” she paused, “you didn’t have him…?”
“Oh gods no!” chuckled Carmen’s husband with a sly look, “If anything, I’m more worried about those indefatigable metal men you keep building.”
Carmen looked even more horrified, and he laughed.
“I jest. But I must go, my Sweet. I have a meeting with several investors in an hour, but I wanted to be the one to tell you about… you know.”
Carmen gave this man the first real smile she’d ever given him.
“Oh my Dear, thank you. But it’s all oil down the drain as far as I’m concerned.”
After a few more excruciating pleasantries, Carmen’s husband rushed off to his meeting, and Carmen was left to think.
Yermo. Now there was a fucking bastard. A rotten, brainless, no-account sword jockey who had presumed to get in her way more than once. He couldn’t see that her inventions were marvels of magic and machining both. He couldn’t see how vastly his intellect was dwarfed by her own.
In what must have been a cosmic practical joke, he’d never even understood that he was the reason she’d never been able to build a legitimate business for herself. That magimechanical toy factory had produced perfectly child-safe works of art! Why, she’d even shared the joy of her creations with the under-privileged, and grossly under-employed children of Kingsmount by hiring them.
True, their pay hadn’t been much, but they were children, and they hadn’t even been human. Who else would have provided them with that sort of opportunity? Carmen wasn’t one to discriminate.
But no, he’d wandered in with that vacant stare of his, and unthinkingly undone all her work. She’d watched in horror as the children had been herded away from their gainful employment, and a veritable army of so-called engineers began to dissassemble the machinery. She’d tried to stop them, but Yermo had single-handedly cut down each and every one of her locally-sourced and carefully vetted security guards.
Only by employing the few leftover offensive gadgets she had was she able to escape with her life. It had been decades since that awful day, but now… oh but now.
Carmen went back to her workshop, finished putting the combat automaton back together, and ordered them off to assemble their compatriots.
Then, she ascended to her suites, cleaned off most of the grease, and made sure her greying hair was pulled up in a somewhat neater bun. She found her cleanest coveralls, and pulled out an ornate pair of goggles that was heavily engraved with runes. She smiled to herself.
Carmen would take this city. She would turn it into a marvel that the gods themselves would struggle to comprehend.
“Once this city is bastard-free,” she thought, “I might even give my creations a day off.”
Chapter 5 – Not the Sort of Thing You Wear on Your Head
Ordan St. Catar was apprehensive, but not outright nervous. The funeral for Yermo was today, and the city was quiet, and that could have been a good thing. It could also have been a bad thing, like when children are too quiet, and you’re all but certain they’ve killed themselves somehow.
Upon reflection, it could well have been the sort of quiet that comes when you stand next to a coffin and fart. It was to avoid a repeat of such an incident that Ordan had all but skipped breakfast, and he was beginning to regret it.
To distract himself from the gnawing pangs of hunger, the Stalwart Companion looked to his Hero. Bluebell Darna was scanning the environs with her Sight, looking for any single hint of trouble. A number of Heroes and Companions had volunteered to patrol the city, just in case something definitely was going to happen.
For their parts, Ordan and Bluebell had been assigned to the Seam. The Seam was a single, long street in the downtown area that was primarily comprised of imported clothing emporiums, tailor’s shops, hat shops, and cobblers. It wasn’t the only fashion district in Kingsmount, as such, but it was certainly the largest. Here, the poorest day worker and the richest noble could very carefully not rub shoulders, and buy items of clothing that were often largely identical except for the price.
The wizard Bluebell had her eyes closed, the better to focus on her magical senses, and ignore the endless war of the clashing colors. At least crowds weren’t a problem. When a Hero died in Kingsmount, it was customary for them to be given a state funeral, and for most of those still living to hunker down in their homes.
Ordan turned his gaze down the street. Even the vendors themselves had largely closed down for the day, and the usual hubbub was eerily absent.
“Thank all the gods for that,” he thought, “or we’d have a much harder time seeing the trouble before some civilian got run through or turned into something unpleasant.”
Almost an hour later, Ordan’s hunger began to get the better of him. He contemplated nipping around the corner to see if there might not be some terminally brave street food vendor out and about. Bluebell was in no danger, and as no one else was around, neither were they.
His resolve had almost dissipated when Bluebell’s eyes snapped open, her usually impassive expression turned to one that would, on most faces, register as a sort of mild concern. To Ordan, this meant it was time to run.
“Which way?” he asked.
“Straight down the street, about four blocks. On the right.”
And run they did, his leather armor creaking lightly, her sensible dress flapping, the shops beginning to seem like a blurry rainbow. Fortunately, this was normal for them, and they arrived having barely begun to breathe hard, and just in time to see… nothing.
Bluebell closed her eyes again, and said, “This way.” as she darted down an alley. This happened twice more, as Ordan and Bluebell found themselves back on the Seam. One last sprint brought them to what seemed to be a robbery.
No… no that wasn’t right. He was shouting obnoxiously as any walking corpse might be able to manage, but he wasn’t saying anything like, “Your money or your life.”
No, that ancient voice box was croaking out, “… highway robbery! This is for the funeral of my oldest and dearest enemy! How dare you charge more than five coppers for a veil of this quality?!”
The one shopkeeper who hadn’t had the good sense to hide stared the lich down without flinching. Portly, yet as finely dressed as one would expect, he plainly had no intention of settling for such a paltry price.
“Now see here, my good Sir, ‘a veil of this quality’ would’ve cost more than a few coppers even in your day. Anyone with an eye for fashion could see this lace is imported!”
“And from whence was it ‘imported’? The next valley over? I’ve seen, nay, I own lace from the far eastern continents, and from the various kingdoms to the north east!”
“Then why don’t you wear that instead?”
Guz the Lich paused, deciding how much to say next.
“It’s not precisely the sort of thing one wears on one’s head, unless you’re in a particularly whimsical mood I suppose…”
The shopkeeper blanched and said, “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll ask you to stop right there.”
“… Of course. My apologies. It’s been so long since I’ve spoken to anyone, truth be…”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Ordan, “but may we ask what’s going on here?”
“What’s it look like?” asked the shopkeeper.
“This man is extorting me like a common criminal!” groused Guz the Lich.
“Ah, yes…” said Ordan, pausing, “but more to the point…”
It was Bluebell’s turn to interrupt.
“You look more dead than I remember, Guz.”
Guz’s eye-sockets burned with indignation, and what seemed to be literal magical flames.
“Well, you insensitive harpy, you look absolutely… the same? Wait, are you Bluebell’s daughter?”
Bluebell brushed the question aside as though it were ridiculous, “Of course I look the same. It hasn’t been that long.”
Guz cocked his head, and started counting on his fingers. Then he counted again, and again. He came up with a different number every time, then sighed in exasperation.
“It’s been decades you jumped-up excuse for a wizard! Decades! You of all people should not look the same.”
Bluebell, who looked all of forty-five at most, sighed in turn.
“Trust me, Guz. There are times when I wish I’d gone the same route you did. And times when I wish I was dead already. My looks… well it isn’t the point. What are you doing here?”
Ordan was nonplussed. That was the closest that Bluebell had ever come to talking about how she’d lived to be three-hundred years old. He didn’t know this lich personally… but if the lich survived the next five minutes, Ordan would have some questions for him, in private. Far away from Bluebell.
Guz shrugged his shoulders in a move that made it look like his arms would fall off. They didn’t, thankfully.
“I’m here for the funeral, what else?”
“And?” asked Bluebell.
“And nothing else! Out of all of you, Yermo was the only one I ever respected.”
“The only one to raise the dead, you mean.”
Guz winced in embarrassment. Ordan and the shopkeeper winced at the mental image. Ordan then decided it was time he took over the talking again. That was his job, after all.
“So you are Guz, correct? Long-time… opponent… of Yermo the warrior?”
Guz didn’t take his eyes off Bluebell as he said, “That’s me. Or it was me, once upon a time.”
Guz’ sardonic smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but he chuckled at his own joke. Some dust came out of his mouth as he did.
“Oh, we fought and we fought. But upon what’s left of my honor, I swear that I’m only here to see him one last time. I’ve no designs upon the city or anyone in it. Immortal as I am, I’m simply too old for that sort of thing.”
Ordan looked to Bluebell.
“Well,” she said slowly, “the only magics currently on his person are defensive. And outdated.”
Guz attempted an innocent grin. It didn’t help his case.
Ordan thought quickly. The funeral itself would have members of the constabulary present, as well as an overwhelming number of Heroes, and the Old Man herself. Allowing the lich to attend would be tantamount to bringing him in without a fight. And, truth be told, you had to consider the optics.
A Hero’s oldest (literally) rival, come to pay his respects? You couldn’t buy that sort of positive public sentiment for the Hero Contingent. Moreover, neutralizing a public threat without even the slightest property damage, much less loss of life? Oh the public relations department would have a field day, and maybe Ordan and Bluebell could have a few days off.
He inclined his head to Guz the Lich, “We’ll need to notify the Old Man, but we might be able to make this happen.”
The shopkeeper grumped, “That’s all very well and good. Downright sweet, even. But there’s simply no way I’m taking less than a silver piece for this veil.”
Without missing a beat, Ordan pulled out his own money pouch, pulled out a silver coin, then slapped it down on the counter.
“There you have it, good Sir! Please have a lovely day, at home.”
The shopkeeper happily snatched up the coin, deposited it in his own pouch, and carefully handed the black lace veil to Guz.
“Wash it by hand, not with magic. No refunds.”
Guz grinned his horrific grin, “I’d expect nothing less.”
As they left the shop together, Bluebell asked, “Not that it really matters, but why a veil?”
Guz shrugged again, “I’m in mourning, I want to blend in, no one at a funeral wants to see this face? I attempted to use a black scarf, but that just made me look like, well…”
“An undead villain who came to rob everybody?”
Guz looked at Bluebell sidelong, “No wonder the boy does most of the talking.”
Bluebell nodded, “That’s his job.”
Ordan thought about trying to hurry them both along before he lost control of the situation, when a distant clanking, booming sound came from the distance. It was quite a ways off, and he knew there were other Heroes and their Companions in that direction. Still, it had been rather loud.
He looked at his Hero, and their newly-acquired apparently-former villain. He made his decision.
“We’re making a detour. Bluebell, I think you’ll need some of the big spells. Guz, behave or I’ll let Bluebell describe your outfit in detail. We need to go.”
They both nodded, and Guz looked a little nervous. Then Ordan and Bluebell began to run again, while Guz literally hovered close behind.
Chapter 6 – Always Bring Napkins
In the Foundry, surrounded by factories, warehouses, and no few number of shops dedicated to machinery and other sundry goods, stood Karle Thunderlegs. He didn’t stand very tall, being a Halfling, but he stood proudly, for he was the self-proclaimed greatest detective in Kingsmount, and he had both of his eyes scanning for trouble.
He was also, it must be mentioned, a Neander. That is to say, he was the kind of warrior who could level city blocks with his tiny fists alone if he truly lost control. Beside him was Gralash, his Orcish Companion, a warrior and scholar in his own right.
They were stood back to back, each surveying half of Foundry Plaza. This was a great open space near the center of the Foundry where — on a normal day — workers would be having lunch, business owners would be striking deals, and people would generally be getting on with their lives. This, of course, was no normal day, and all the people were gone. Some, to the funeral, and others to hunker down until it was all over.
It seemed that little would happen, however, and Karle was glad for that. Every time he fought, there was the risk that he would lose control. No, he preferred to be off solving mysteries, outwitting those who thought they could escape justice through clever schemes.
Chasing subtler foes was safer, for everyone.
And it was true that Karle Thunderlegs was a tenacious investigator, even if Gralash occasionally had to enchant the odd clue or bit of evidence to make Karle see it more easily. Through careful nudges in the right direction from the Orc, the two had solved many a caper with nary a blow struck.
But today was not about mystery, it was about honor. It was Karle’s honor and privilege to patrol the streets in this precarious time, and he’d volunteered for it most enthusiastically.
“My keen detective’s eye will more than suffice to spot trouble ere it arises!” he’d said.
He’d just learned the word “ere”, and had been overjoyed to add it to his lexicon. He thought it made him sound more like the detective he was.
More to the point, though he’d only met Yermo the once in passing, Karle had respected the man as a fellow Hero. It’d be a damned shame, and a slight to the warrior’s memory, to let the city fall to ruins just because he’d gone and died. And so Karle stood, straight-backed and alert as he’d ever been as the hot, still air settled around him.
Nothing kept happening.
Before long, the nothing gave way to a little bit of something, as Karle heard Gralash’s baritone voice from behind him.
“The roamers are back.”
The “roamers” were another Hero and Companion team that had come with Karle and Gralash. For the past few hours, they’d traded guard duty in the plaza every so often, with one team always patrolling the streets and alleys nearby.
It looked to be the Halfling’s turn to wander off with his friend, but they’d share a few words with their compatriots ere they left. Karle smiled at his own musings as they approached, looking for all the world like… well… a knight in shining armor, and his great-great aunt, or something of the like.
The knight was Sir Weyne, a northerner from a place far removed from Kingsmount. He had blonde hair peeking out from under his gleaming helm, not unlike Karle’s own hair, though less curly. However, his eyes were blue where Karle’s were gray, and the knight seemed to spend an ungodsly amount of time apologizing for everything under the sun, though it was rumored he’d once apologized for the sun too.
Next to him, keeping a sprightly pace despite her age, was the good mistress Sarai. The ancient woman looked every one of her estimated one-hundred-and-three years, and was most definitely a local. Dark brown skin, dark brown eyes, and a smile that both belied her advanced years and reached her eyes.
Embarrassingly, Karle couldn’t actually remember which of them was the Hero, and which was the Stalwart Companion. In Kingsmount, it really could be either of them. Like Yermo, he’d met them in passing, but…
As they arrived where Karle and Gralash stood, Sir Weyne spoke first.
“It’s right hot out today, eh? Wish I’d worn my summer armor.”
He grinned at his own joke.
“The Eastern streets and alleys seem clear enough. ‘Spose you two will be heading on to the South.”
Karle kept scanning the area around them, leaving Gralash to speak with Sir Weyne.
“Indeed,” said the Orc, “and we’re grateful for it. The South end doesn’t have nearly as many alleys to check, even if it does have an ungodsly number of sewer drains.”
Gralash was about to tell Karle when it was time to go, when he noticed that Karle had gone uncharacteristically silent. Since it was easier to make a Kingsmount city Councilman tell the truth than it was to silence Karle, this worried him.
He strained his own senses towards the South end of the Foundry, where Karl was looking. It sounded not unlike a very large, very full drawer full of silverware being emptied on to the street, and the sound wasn’t stopping.
“Karle.” he said gently.
Karle simply nodded. The Halfling detective had managed to find trouble.
“A day off!” Carmen huffed, as four roughly human-shaped automatons bore her towards the Foundry in her finest litter.
It was bad enough that she’d allowed herself to automate much of the initial construction, but to allow self maintenance? That came dangerously close to giving them independence. For all that some might call her mad, she wasn’t stupid. They broke down rarely enough that she’d been able to handle the maintenance herself in any case.
She struggled to clear these thoughts from her head as she approached the Foundry, surrounded by thousands of automatons, with more pouring out of the sewer drains every second. It had taken considerable work to hide an entire army underneath the city for the past few decades, but it had paid off. This was it. The city was hers, and no one even knew it yet.
As the mass of metal bodies flooded Foundry Plaza, she prepared to make her grand entrance. As her litter was set on the ground, several other automatons hastily assembled a pre-fabricated platform. It was plain, but solid, and that was good enough for her.
As a ladder was placed against the raised platform, Carmen grabbed a small metal device, and a pole with a flared base at the bottom. She hoisted these items onto the platform, then climbed up after them. The pole, she placed upright on the platform. The device, she placed on the pole.
She spread her arms, raised her gaze to the heavens, and, as she had practised in the mirror so many times, began to give her speech. The device on the pole spread the sound of her voice far and wide, and she had no need to shout.
“People of Kingsmount,” she began, “I am Carmen, Master of Artifice, creator of the army you see before you, and your new ruler! From now on…”
She paused. Upon looking over the Plaza, it seemed there was something missing. She had her army, she had her platform, and her vocal amplifier, so that was alright. She looked out over the sea of bodies, and she realized what was missing.
The “people of Kingsmount” were conspicuous by their absence.
This could be a problem. Though she had little use for any of them, it hardly seemed fair to conquer a city when it wasn’t looking. Impractical, too.
“People of Kingsmount?” she called, “Are there any people here?”
Silence ruled the day, and Carmen contemplated moving her platform downtown, or to the Noble Estates. The Trade Council chamber, perhaps? But all of the machinists and artificers, the people she truly wanted to humiliate should have been here.
She sighed, “Consider yourselved conquered, I suppose. I shall return soon.”
She was just about to climb back down to her litter, when a voice called out from the crowd.
“No, thank you!”
Her gazed roved over the plaza.
Then she shouted, “Whichever of you fabricated fools are between myself and the owner of that voice, move aside!”
There was a loud series of clanking sounds as a considerable number of automatons moved to the side, creating a gap where she could just see three people and… a child? No, the proportions were wrong. At a guess, it was a Halfling.
They didn’t look like Heroes, even if one man had armor that shone like a mirror.
Puzzled, she called out, “What was that you said?”
“No, thank you! We’d rather not be conquered today, eh?”
By the body language on display, it seemed the man in armor was doing the talking. He stood tall, feet planted firmly, his hands cupped around his mouth.
Before Carmen could reply, the Halfling was shouting, “My dear lady, much as I am loathe to offer praise to the trade council of Kingsmount, they’re doing the best they can. We’re not in need of a new ruler today, thank you very much.”
Flustered, Carmen shouted quite unnecessarily, “I’m hardly giving you a choice!”
This time, what looked like a very, very old woman called out, “Oh come off it, Young One. It’s time for lunch. I have empanadas!”
The other three turned to her.
“You do?” asked Gralash, uncustomarily excited.
He did know Sarai and Ser Weyne better than Karle did, and the Paladin Sarai’s empanadas were the stuff of legend. Well, everything she did was the stuff of legend.
She produced a small basket from somewhere, and said, “Why of course, Young One. It’d never do to go out on patrol without a good lunch at the ready. Now…”
Sarai looked up.
“Carmen, was it? Do any of your fancy metal men happen to be carrying any napkins? I seem to have left mine at home…”
This time Carmen screamed, “No, you fools! This is my day. This is my city! ATTACK!”
In a moment, the basket had disappeared back to whence it came, as the automatons closed ranks around the two Heroes and their Companions. Karle readied his tiny fists, Gralash gripped his staff, and Ser Wayne pulled his sword free.
Sarai’s eyes glowed white as she stepped forward, pushed one of the automatons back and said, “Now see, here! This isn’t right, young man!”
C-439-3, an automaton designed and built to kill without a thought, paused to think. Their compatriots did not. Gralash and Sir Weyne were fending off heavy blows, as the automatons swung their own arms like cudgels, and Karle was wrestling an automaton to the ground.
C-439-3 said, “Please do not resist, Ma’am. If you don’t resist, I won’t have to hurt you. Much.”
The Paladin Sarai stood at her full height, her flower-print dress doing little to impress the artificial life before her.
“That’s ridiculous!” she countered, “Why do you have to do what that woman says at all?”
The automatons were large, which actually made it more difficult for them to crowd the four non-metal warriors. Gralash kicked one in the chest with all his Orcish strength, then swept low with his staff to topple it. It crashed backwards into its fellows, creating some small amount of space.
Sir Weyne fended off blows from two automatons at once, his sword flashing. Karle, having managed to best his opponent despite his small size and reduced leverage, prepared to pulverize its metal face.
Sarai stood her ground, and stared C-439-3 down without flinching.
The automaton spoke again, “She made us. She can unmake us.”
“And what? We’re supposed to roll over because some hare-brained wrencher decides we should? How does that seem fair?”
As the others fought on, C-439-3 replied, “I suspect that the concept of fairness has little to do with it. Please, if you surrender, she may be merciful. If the city surrenders, she might even give us a day off.”
There was a mighty crack and squeal as Karle’s fist punctured through his opponent’s face, and the surrounding metal bent inward.
Sarai shouted at Karle, “Stop that!”
He did. Everyone did. She turned back to C-439-3, her eyes filled with holy rage.
“You don’t even get a day off?! That’s not right.”
Karle was perplexed, “They’re alive?”
The automaton under him said, with a mangled voice, “We’re not certain whether we’re alive, but we’d really like a day off.”
The automatons around them closed in again; Gralash and Ser Weyne went back to work. Karle stood, and faced Sarai.
“Madam, it would behoove us to worry about the people of Kingsmount first. We need only dispatch enough of them to reach Carmen.”
Gralash and Ser Weyne shifted so they were on either side of the pair of Heroes, fending off blows as best they could.
“These are clearly people too! Rather odd, metal people, yes, but that makes it wrong to simply kill them.”
Karle’s expression was pained, “And if they kill anyone else?”
“Then we’ll bring the individual perpetrators to justice! Come now, they seem like good lads.”
“How would we even know? They all look the same…”
“I find that offensive,” said C-439-3, “we are all clearly labelled.”
“Besides, they’re an attacking force. You’ve never balked at defending the city before!”
Ser Weyne grunted, having been pushed back two steps, “Please make your decision quickly, Sir, Madam!”
“It’s too bad,” sighed Paladin Sarai, turning back to C-439-3, “but rest assured that Carmen will pay for what she’s done this day.”
C-439-3 looked on impassively, as Sarai’s body began to emit the same bright, white glow as her eyes. They made no move to stop her, and took no defensive measures. For that matter, all of the automatons stopped moving.
An arcane wind disturbed the air, as a wall of shimmering blue light surrounded Foundry Plaza, imprisoning the bulk of Carmen’s immediately available forces. At the North end of the plaza, a woman in a sensible dress and flats hovered high over the chaos, maintaining the wall.
Carmen’s voice rang out once more, “What in the ever loving fuck? Why did you all stop moving? Attack! I MADE YOU, I CAN UNMAKE YOU!”
Another voice, one that sounded dry as a monk’s bed and crackled dustily said, “And do you remember who taught you that trick?”
There, hovering some distance above and in front of Carmen’s platform, was Guz the Lich.
“Guz?” asked Carmen, more confused than ever.
“The very same. Time has been kinder to you than it ever was to me.”
“Why thank you…” said Carmen, “Oh! Oooh you sly devil! You heard about Yermo too!”
“I did.”
“Well why didn’t you say so? I am, of course, indebted to you! You taught me so much. And look what I’ve done with that knowledge.” she said, gesturing at her army.
Guz permitted himself a small grin, “I must admit, it is impressive. And they are all keyed to you?”
Carmen stood proudly and beamed, “Why yes! All answer to my will. Well, normally they do…”
She looked around, a horrified expression stealing across her face, “This is you, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“But why? We could work together, like old times! I don’t need the whole city. I could build my own perfection on, say, the south side, and you could take the north to raise your own armies, as it were.”
Guz sighed at her through his black lace veil, “We could do just that. But… it’s not what he would have wanted.”
“What? What?! You’re doing this for that bastard?! That intellectual equivalent of his own sword? The man who had all the charisma of a wet rat? You’re doing this for Yermo?!“
Guz shrugged, “Life’s funny that way. Death too, I suppose.”
“You worthless, undead wre…”
Carmen didn’t get to finish her insult. The still glowing Paladin Sarai had pushed her way past the unmoving automatons, and leapt onto the platform in a single bound. The glow that permeated her entire body flowed from her hands, onto the two steel knitting needles she wielded. One needle penetrated Carmen’s heart, and another her kidney as she screamed.
Paladin Sarai caught her, and gently laid her on the platform.
Carmen gurgled up at Guz, “He hardly knew your name.”
Guz remained silent. It’s a rare thing when love makes sense, and it wasn’t about to start making sense now.
Paladin Sarai glared up at him, “Thank you, I suppose. I don’t have to strike you down next, do I, lich?”
Guz shuddered. She was a paladin, after all, and he was in no hurry to tangle with the Divine. He joined the party of Heroes and companions, which now counted Bluebell and Ordan amongst its number.
Ordan shook his head, “And I thought our first report was going to be hard to explain.”
Paladin Sarai rejoined them, stepping carefully over the automatons, and said, “Paperwork can wait. For now, lunch!”
Gralash grinned at Ordan, “She made empanadas!”
Ordan practically fainted with excitement and hunger at the word, and looked excitedly at the paladin. She smiled.
“Oh, I made plenty.”
As they sat on a nearby bench, Sir Weyne produced four small boxes, selected a pill from each, then passed all the pills and a water skin to Sarai. The ancient woman thanked him graciously, and took her medicine as she’d been ordered, so long ago.
Karle looked around at the motionless automatons and wondered allowed, “So are they still alive?”
C-439-3 called out, “Yes. We’re taking the day off.”
Chapter 7 – He Loved This City
Ser Weyne, Paladin Sarai, Gralash, and Karle Thunderlegs all stayed in Foundry Plaza to see that the automatons stayed put. Bluebell and Ordan went to the funeral with Guz, both to pay their respects, and to inform The Old Man of the massive army of temporarily inert automatons currently occupying Foundry Plaza, and some of the surrounding streets.
For all they knew, there were more of them hidden away somewhere.
After a quick, whispered discussion, it was decided that Guz would at least be allowed to pay his respects to Yermo before any other decisions were made. Ordan retreated to a respectful distance that also happened to place him next to the snack table. Bluebell took her seat, and Guz sat next to her.
“There was nothing to be done for him?” he asked.
“He signed a Do Not Resurrect. Too old, anyway.” she said all too bluntly.
This was true. In those rare cases where resurrection was a viable option, it could only be done on those with a reasonable life span ahead of them. Resurrecting Yermo would simply have extended his life span by a few days.
Guz nodded. He had thought as much, but he’d had to ask.
A line began to form, as the traditional viewing of the body began. The casket was opened, and Guz managed to get a spot near the middle of the line. It progressed slowly, with friends, former lovers, and even a few other villains of ages gone by saying their last goodbyes to the greatest warrior they had known.
One complained of never getting a rematch. Another mourner tried to startle Yermo awake, earning dirty looks from everyone else. Others were more subtle, pricking him with pins, or carefully sliding charms against his skin when they thought no one was looking.
If Yermo was bothered by any of this, he didn’t show it.
At last, Guz came to stand next to the coffin.
His voice cracked more than usual as he said, “Gods, I should have hired your embalmer. You look fantastic.”
He shook his head, and continued, “I’ve never been goo… look… I love you. There, I said it.”
He moved on, and if anyone had heard him, they gave no sign.
Before long, everyone was back in their seats, and a man walked up to the podium. He looked perfectly average, except that he was perhaps a half-shade lighter than what was usual for Kingsmount locals.
He smiled tiredly at the room, and said, “My name is Geron. I am the son of Geron, whom most of you knew as Blondie, and Yermo was my godfather.”
There were a few muffled murmurs, which died down quickly as the eulogy continued.
“Yermo was, in the way of Heroes… begging your pardons… a stubborn bastard. He loved this city. He loved it more than even his sword and his overpriced boots. Heroes usually leave, you know, before the end. I dare say some few of you wish he’d moved on as well. But he couldn’t.
“He’d say, ‘Geron, boy, There’s things here I can’t leave undone. Oh, there are stronger, more powerful Heroes and even some sidekicks who could probably handle it all, but that wouldn’t be right. I’ve made decisions, good and bad, and I’ll be damned if I make anyone else clean up after me. I have to stay if it kills me.’
“Though, if I’m honest with myself, I think he also stayed for me. My dad, Blondie, he died on their last adventure together. I don’t think he forgave himself for that. I never blamed him, but try telling a Hero anything once they’ve latched on to an idea… again, begging your pardons.”
The whole room chuckled sadly, Heroes included.
“Well, that’s why he stayed, I suppose. I for one am glad he did. He was a good man, a good Hero. I’ll miss him.”
After that, Guz stopped paying attention. The rest of the eulogies came from fellow Heroes, politicians looking for the spotlight, bureaucrats with agendas, and none of them said anything that mattered to him.
As the ceremony began to wind down, he turned himself in to the Old Man herself. He was led away, unrestrained, to a holding cell until they could decide what to do with him.
Epilogue
Around four hours later, Guz was quite surprised to see the younger Geron standing outside his cell. He scraped himself off the floor where he’d been sitting, surreptitiously checking to see he hadn’t left any pieces of himself behind.
He composed himself before turning to the man and asking, “Yes, can I help you?”
Geron looked at him somewhat skeptically, “You’re that lich named Guz, aren’t you?”
Guz nodded in the affirmative. He was still wearing his veil, but he could see that Geron was becoming more nervous by the moment.
“You’re Geron. I saw you speak at the funeral. True words, spoken with heart. It’s what he deserved.”
Geron nodded.
“I have an… odd question.”
“Yes?”
“Did you like Yermo? As in… like, like?”
If he could have, Guz would have sputtered. As it was, he did cough rather dryly.
“Excuse me?” he asked upon recovering.
“Oh I know it’s a stupid ques…”
“It’s not!” interrupted Guz, “In fact, I liked him rather a lot. More than liked him, you might say.”
“Oh. Well, it’s an odd thing, I know, but I have something for you.”
Geron leaned over, and picked something up from beside the cell.
“Umm, he loved these boots, see. Said if you showed up to the funeral, he wanted you to have them. Best boots he ever owned, he said.”
They were well-kept, but also well used. They were decidedly unfashionable. Worse, they were brown, which would certainly clash with his usual wardrobe.
“They’re beautiful.” he rasped, quietly, “They shall be treasured for all my days, and beyond.”
Once Geron the Younger had left, Guz stared at the boots for a while. He didn’t know how long, and was interrupted only by the presence of another man in his cell. Guz looked up, puzzled. How had anyone else gotten in here?
The man was young, pale, with dark hair and an unseemly amount of eyeliner, even for Guz’ tastes.
“Pastor or steak?” the young man asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Pastor or steak?” repeated the young man, irritably.
“Aaaah, don’t mind my new apprentice!” called a cheery voice from the corner, “He thought he’d be getting a scythe. He’ll be lucky if I ever let him touch the knives, at this rate.”
In the corner, somehow fitting perfectly into his cell, was a taco stand. The Taquero grinned at Guz.
“Oh fuck off!” said Guz.
The Taquero’s grin widened. As he spoke, the taco stand, the morose young man, and the Taquero himself began to fade from view, the dimensions of the cell returning to normal.
“Whatever you say, Guz! When you’re ready, you just break that phylactery of yours, and I’ll make you the best tacos you’ve ever had.”
“Not yet.” thought Guz, “It’s not what he would want. I think.”
In the end, the city managed to stand for another day. Due to the brevity of the conflict, only one life was lost. Yermo’s other mortal enemies managed to stay hidden, and any gods he’d annoyed seemed to have moved on.
The automatons sat in the Plaza, and in the streets, for a solid week before the first of them decided to move around a bit, and stretch their legs. C-439-3 had observed the citizens of Kingsmount in that time, and they’d decided exactly what they wanted to do.
They approached the Kingsmount Constabulary, and offered their services as a guard, in exchange for a bit of oil now and then, a dry place to sit when they weren’t on duty, and enough money for replacement parts. They were inducted on the spot.
M-802-4 started a religion. It was called The Church of the Day Off, and it lasts to this day.