“Waitin’ on the signal,” said Gorm.
The omnimancer nodded. “We’ll have plenty of backup, it seems.”
Other parties were clustering around the four Heroes of Destiny, arranging themselves according to the order of their arrival. The Shadow Stallions had reached the palace surprisingly early, with their Great Eagle circling above. The Night Panthers managed to get a spot just ahead of the Gutter Dogs, and now the rival parties growled and snarled at each other. Gorm caught sight of Mr. Brunt towering over his own party; a one-eyed woman and a pair of Gnomes clustered around the Ogre like soldiers around a siege engine. He waved to the Ogre, and thought perhaps he got something approaching a nod in response.
Heraldin emerged from between the Obliged Corpses and the Spinning Rocks just as the trumpets blared again. “Is it time?” the bard asked.
“Just waitin’ on the signal. And an answer,” Gorm added loudly, looking up to the ramparts.
Johan shook his head, a snarl curling his scarred lip. The pitch and volume both skyrocketed as he sputtered accusations down at the party, “If you hadn’t killed… no, if you hadn’t… You said…”
“We’re here ’cause of what ye done, not us,” Gorm called out to him. “Are ye comin’ peacefully or not?”
Yet the king didn’t seem to notice the Dwarf at all. He shook his head. “There’s still time!” he screamed, turning to fly across the ramparts. “I can still win! There’s still time!”
The palace guards along the wall glanced back and forth, weighing the situation. On the one hand, their king was fleeing, and on the other, a legion of heavily armed professional killers was coalescing in the plaza. Those most familiar with guild practices must have realized that they were currently mid-demotion from defenders of the crown to evil henchmen, because they began stripping their armor and weapons off as they broke ranks and fled into the courtyard.
Gorm grimaced. He’d hoped to keep the king occupied near the front gates a bit longer. If Johan had enough time to make it back to the ruined steps, he could still find a way down into the dragon’s lair and attack the wounded creature. But they couldn’t start the new quest before—
A white comet suddenly flew from one of the upper tiers, like a falling star headed back home to the sky. It rose high above the Pinnacle and popped, flaring into the grinning, giant face of a Goblin shaman glowing faintly against the dark clouds. The strange visage took a moment to orient itself downward, then smiled and winked with exaggerated enthusiasm as it dissipated on the roiling winds.
“They’ve registered the quest at the stock exchange,” Heraldin said.
“Do we need to give them time to transfer all of the shares?” asked Jynn.
“Ain’t time for that,” said Gorm. He looked to each of the other heroes. “Ready?”
Heraldin nodded grimly and extended a hand into the center of the group. “For Kaitha,” he said.
Gaist put his hand on the bard’s and nodded.
“For Thane,” said Laruna, adding her hand.
“For the people of the Freedlands,” said Jynn, placing his unmarred hand on the pyromancer’s.
Gorm nodded and placed his calloused hand on top. “For all of ’em, and for Niln and Tib’rin too. Let’s slay the king and save the dragon.”
They locked eyes with one another, each face reflecting a steely resolve. Then Gorm gave a curt nod, and they broke apart and turned to face the queue of heroes still forming behind them.
“Heroes!” the Dwarf barked, raising his axe above his head. “Colleagues and acquaintances from across the realm! I’m Gorm Ingerson, formerly the Pyrebeard!”
A silence fell over the Pinnacle, save for the footfalls of civilians vacating the plaza. It is well-known that professional heroics is a spectacle best enjoyed far from the range of any errant fireballs.
“I slew the Hydra of Hangman’s Grotto. My party saved Andarun from the Liche Detarr Ur’Mayan. And most recently, I led an excursion to battle the Dragon of Wynspar!” Gorm said, banging his axe on his shield to emphasize each accomplishment. “But this quest is the most foul I been on yet. I could tell ye of a bastard king whose lies killed citizens as he seized power. I could tell ye of injustices and deceptions that span back years, of men and women murdered to slake his lust for power. I could show ye evidence—damning evidence—that would prove that he and his lackeys are behind all of the so-called dragon attacks plaguin’ the Freedlands!”
Thousands of eyes stared back impassively from the eye-slits of ornate helmets and beneath enruned hoods.
“But half of ye wouldn’t listen to me back story, and most of the rest wouldn’t care,” Gorm conceded. “And I ain’t time for it anyway. All ye need to know is that our cause is just, that our payout is certain, and that I’m declarin’ this quest…”
The air crackled with anticipation as the berserker took a deep breath. Gauntlets tightened around sword grips and magical staves.
“This quest is a guild raid!” Gorm shouted. “All parties share the work and glory!”
A shout like thunder erupted, a cacophony of excitement and war cries blending into one roar from the throat of the guild. Gorm and his party were carried forward on a surge of charging heroes. Crackling clouds of flaming gasses erupted from the palace as spells and potions collided with its walls. The main gate was a bent and ruined husk by the time Mr. Brunt ripped it from its freshly corroded hinges. With another shout, the wave of adventurers swept into the courtyard and crashed down on the contingent of palace guards and Tandosian clerics therein.
A melee swirled around Duine Poldo.
Bodies pressed against the Gnome from all sides. Distant screams of anguish and despair pierced the air, usually from traders only now fully grasping the actual value of their portfolio given the price of the Dragon of Wynspar’s hoard. They screamed offers and demands and desperate pleas as they pressed down upon the assembled brokers of Warg Inc., waving purchase slips and fighting to get closer to the trading kiosks. Cries of triumph rang from those who successfully swapped their shares in the dragon’s hoard for a stake in the new quest to bring King Johan to justice. Wood Gnomes streamed past, ferrying reams of paper back and forth between the roaring giants all around them.
An Orcish broker thrust a contract at Poldo. He signed it after only a cursory glance; the lawyers would sort it out later anyway. This business was desperate and fast, every transaction a messy skirmish. Corporations teetering on the brink of collapse were pulled back up from the edge of bankruptcy, while others fell and were consumed. Arth shook as the economy of the Freedlands took a sideways step.
Behind Poldo, Mrs. Hrurk perched on a small platform. The Gnoll beat a war drum while minding a complex spreadsheet of her own design. The Domovoy had set up a large chalkboard behind the Gnoll. A Wood Gnome in a chipmunk pelt used a piece of twine to rappel down to a long rectangle drawn on the middle of the gray slate. As shares of the dragon’s hoard were transferred, Wood Gnomes below the makeshift chart chittered details of the transactions up to the suspended Gnome, who filled in more of the graph with a piece of chalk as long as her arm.
Yet as innovative as this system was, there was no time to marvel at the Domovoy’s ingenuity. Just the first third of the makeshift meter was full, and already the sounds of fireballs and lightning bolts were ringing on the Pinnacle. Poldo felt his stomach turn, and grimaced. They needed more time and faster sales if they were to have any hope of success. “Keep on!” he shouted, grabbing another contract and signing it. “Keep going!”
“Hurry!” Gorm thrust his hand forward as if trying to haul his companions along with an invisible rope. “The vault and Royal Archives are just up ahead.”
“Right,” said Laruna, unmoved by the Dwarf’s pantomimed tugging.
“And I’m pretty sure Johan’s staircase to the Black Fathoms is at the back of the vaults.” Gorm did a sideways shuffle toward the doorway, a motion that was less a mode of ambulation and more an encouraging dance for his fellows.
“Yeeesss.” Jynn had to squeeze the concession from between his clenched teeth. “And yet…”
The shriek of sorcery rending steel and a scream of agony rang out from somewhere above them. A palace guard or Tandosian cleric had either decided to put up a fight or failed to disarm fast enough, and the results were the same. Some defenders of the palace believed in their cause enough to stand against the guild heroes pouring into the palace. Those who managed to survive the carnage quickly realized that the difference between a noble guard and a hapless henchman was public opinion of one’s boss and, more pressingly, that the difference between a henchman standing against guild heroes and an oily smear on the cobblestones could be measured in seconds.
