“I know who it is!” Johan leapt to his feet, sending errant strands of webs and flailing arachnids flying from the throne. “What does he want?”

Gorm let the king’s question hang in the air. Instead of acknowledging the paladin, he pulled a thick cigar from his belt.

“I said, how dare you make demands of your king?” Johan shouted, leaning over the ramparts of the palace. “What news is so important that you could not bring it to my throne?”

Gorm stood alone on the slate cobbles outside the palace walls. Pinnacle Plaza was mostly deserted, swept clear of shoppers and professionals by a bitter chill and a biting wind. The hardy souls that did remain were beginning to hurry over toward the royal gates in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the king, or a spectacle or, ideally, both.

Gorm struck a match. A tiny amber light flared outside the palace like the lone campfire of a miniature besieging army. “I come to parley,” he said, putting the flame to the tip of the cigar.

“Parley?” the king sneered.

“Aye. Negotiate. Discuss. Come to terms as quickly as possible.”

Johan rocked back on his heels. “You speak to your liege, Dwarf! Why would I need to negotiate with the likes of you?”

The berserker smiled. He knew he had Johan by the cape now, and all that remained was to keep the king’s focus where the party wanted it. He took a deep breath to savor the moment, which unfortunately meant savoring a lungful of acrid smoke from the cigar. His witty retort died in a fit of choking.

“What’s that?” asked Johan. “Speak!”

“I come—ahem—to—cough—make you—cough—I—hack!”

“What?” demanded the king. “What are you getting at?”

Gorm lost his words entirely in a cloud of expectoration and bluish silver smoke. His throat burned and tears welled in his eyes.

“Something wrong?” asked Johan, cruel amusement creeping back into his voice.

Doubled over and about to cough up a lung, Gorm inwardly cursed Boomer and Buster’s convoluted design sense. Il’ne se la indeed! Through his tears, he could see that the cigar had only started burning toward the ring of scarlet foil.

“You had better have a good reason to behave this absurdly, Ingerson!” Johan leaned over the ramparts, desperate glee cracking his voice. “Do you realize what legal jeopardy you’ve put your party in? I’d have heard if you reported your quest to the guild offices! Not only are you disrespecting your liege—you’ve abandoned your duty!”

Gorm cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “Debatable,” he said.

“What debate is there?” Johan demanded. “I sent you to kill a dragon, and⁠—”

“And we fought it.” Gorm’s throat was still on fire, but the thrice-cursed cigar burned too slowly for him to catch his breath. He put the wretched device to his mouth and gave it a cautious puff, careful not to inhale the smoke.

A smug smirk split the king’s scarred face. “Ha! We both know that’s not true!” And then, remembering the gathering crowd, he added, “We, uh, would have heard the battle. And you would look worse for wear!”

Smoke drifted from the edges of Gorm’s grin. “We fought your dragon, and then we talked things out with her.”

“Talked things out? Ha ha!” Johan gestured down at the Dwarf as though inviting the rampart guards and growing crowd of onlookers to join in his ridicule. “What nonsense is this? Did you get the beast to sign a contract? Did the mountain itself serve as witness?”

“Nope.” Gorm puffed at the cigar, watching the ash burn toward the red foil circle. “Just talked to her.”

“Nonsense!” said Johan, leaning over the ramparts. “You can’t talk to dragons!”

Gorm puffed out a cloud of smoke, cleared his throat, and pulled a smooth shard of crystal from his belt pouch. “We both know that ain’t true,” he said, holding it up. The fragment caught the last of the light in the deepening gloom, reflecting a distinctive, scintillating shade of amber. “You’re familiar with the Eye of the Dragon, I’m sure.”

The crowd gasped, though Gorm doubted anyone beside himself and the king knew of the gem. Rather, he suspected they were shocked by the way Johan visibly recoiled from the sliver of the gem, like a vampire stumbling upon gauze drapes. The king caught himself and tried to hide his reaction by feigning a confident shrug, but the muttering of the crowds said the onlookers had seen the flinch.

Gorm puffed the cigar. The edge of the red foil finally curled in the flame. A thundering rumble echoed from the north. The Dwarf smiled and flicked the thrice-cursed cigar away.

“And I know you’re thinkin’ this is some game or trick, since neither you nor I thought there was ever a dragon down there. Ye been to the center of the mountain too, I know.”

“You lie! I don’t know what you speak of!” snarled the king.

“I wonder if that’s true,” said Gorm. “I wonder if ye thought there was an old weapon or mounds of treasure past that magic barrier ye couldn’t get through, or if ye knew it was just a few old statues.”

A couple of screams rang out from the crowd at the revelation, and many quick-thinking residents rushed off to find their broker or their sprite stone.

Any pretense of confidence dropped from Johan’s face. “You… you saw…”

“I did. Don’t much matter now that your staircase down to the Black Fathoms is rubble. Turns out there was a dragon on the other side after all, guardin’ them sculptures for some reason.”

“You… that’s not…” Johan shook his head slowly. “You couldn’t… I mean, there’s no drag—there’s no way you spoke with a dragon!” His eyes darted across the murmuring crowds staring at him from every corner of the plaza. “He lies!”

Gorm shrugged. “The dragon will say otherwise, once we get her NPC papers sorted. And she’ll also deny burnin’ a single village or caravan.”

“That… that doesn’t prove anything,” said Johan.

“Maybe not,” said Gorm. “That’s why we’ll bring the documents from your facility up north. Lots of interestin’ readin’ there, including orders that you⁠—”

“This is slander!” shouted the paladin. “You betray your king! It’s… it’s treason!”

“Ah, no. Those are different.” Gorm’s voice was as cold and hard as steel. “Slander is tellin’ everyone the good folk of Bloodroot were to blame for stealin’ them Elven Marbles. Betrayal was murderin’ the hardworkin’ Orcs and Goblins there because of your greed. Treason is killin’ your own citizens in fake dragon attacks to cover up your crimes. What I’m here for is justice.”

“Bloodroot?” Johan’s face twisted up in confusion, and then split into a mad, incredulous grin. “You—you’re accosting me on behalf of the Orcs? Ha! That’s right! I forgot you had a thing for greenskins! This is all because that little Goblin you ran around with was put down!”

“It’s about so much more than that,” said Gorm. “It’s about all the peoples everywhere ye killed, directly or not. It’s about those ye put bounties on and those ye let starve in the street. It’s about a priest ye had murdered, and about Kaitha and Thane, and all the others who died on account of your treachery. It’s about all the crimes I don’t know about, the victims we’ll never find.”

The Dwarf unslung his axe from his belt and leveled it at the king. “And aye, it’s about Tib’rin, the best thrice-cursed squire a hero could ever ask for. And if his was the only blood ye had on your hands, I’d still be here.”

“And where exactly do you think you are?” Johan growled. “You stand alone in a street, making empty threats against your king!”

“Not threats. An offer to parley,” said Gorm. “I’ll take ye peacefully. We’ll choose a panel of magistrates. Ye’ll get a fair trial, and lawyers, and⁠—”

“Who do you think you’re speaking to?” shrieked the paladin, suddenly apoplectic. “I’ll not submit to the law of commoners! I am the King of Andarun! The Champion of Tandos! The mightiest warrior Arth has ever known! An army waits at my command! This palace is a fortress, built and stocked to withstand a siege, and our vaults hold the greatest weapons on Arth!”

Gorm’s lips pulled back in an ambiguous grin that could have just as easily been a predatory snarl. “So what you’re sayin’ is, you’re a big threat sittin’ on top of a lot of wealth.”

Johan’s mouth hung slightly agape, as though his next sentence had lodged there on its way out. Realization struck the confusion from his face just as a horn trumpeted in the distance, playing the Heroes’ Guild call to arms.

Chapter 28

“The new quest declares King Johan a Force of Evil, and the Palace of Andarun his dungeon,” Duine Poldo explained. He gripped a leather armrest to steady himself, but their carriage was designed for an Orc, and he still slid across the wide seat as they careened up the streets of Andarun. “That means the Palace of Andarun is now officially a dungeon, and the treasures within it are officially loot.”