6. Leoric
Chapter 6
Leoric
I sat on the porch of my cottage, munching on one of Jeromah’s famous meat pies as I studied Orphium’s so-called coin. Tender meat, carrots so sweet, hearty potatoes, gravy to die for. It should have been so difficult to slip into a foul mood with something so delicious in my mouth, yet there I was, moping, staring, sulking.
Why in the world was everyone falling for this shiny, worthless thing? Amateur work. Clearly a counterfeit. Whoever had forged this atrocity didn’t know the first thing about crafting finer details, about consistency. And if Orphium had actually magicked it out of thin air? Well, then his spellwork needed plenty of polishing, too.
A low whine distracted me from the too many minutes I’d spent staring at the ridiculous coin. A skinny gray dog sauntered up to me, pawing at the ground by my boot.
“Scabbard!” I said, greeting the neighborhood stray. “You poor thing. You hungry, boy? ”
I flung my hand out, casting chunks of meat as close to Scabbard as I could throw. It was a reflex, I realized, how I’d dug the meat out of the pie without even noticing.
He snuffled at the meat hungrily. I sucked on my fingers and finished off the empty pastry. Somehow I always ended up sharing part of my breakfast, and some lunches, and several dinners with Scabbard.
Now Scabbard? Scabbard was a fantastic grifter. He knew just how to appeal to his marks — everyone who lived in Barrowdeep, that is — making the rounds when he knew that the townsfolk would be eating.
A piece of begged meat here, a broken wedge of cheese there, some day-old hunks of bread — Scabbard ate better than anyone in Barrowdeep, and still somehow managed to maintain such a trim figure.
“But the point is,” I told the dog, “the point is, you know how to run your game. You’re a professional. Not like this Orphium fellow.”
Scabbard couldn’t be bothered to reply, giving my fingers a grateful lick before he moved on to the next stop on his daily culinary tour.
I raised the coin to eye level, studying its faces carefully. On one side, some sort of bird, but very badly drawn, its eyes bulging as it stared in different directions, its feathers a tattered mess.
On the opposite face was an alarmingly rotund dragon, its wings far too tiny to carry it in flight. Its slobbery tongue draped out the side of its crooked jaw, more dog than dragon.
“Embarrassing, frankly,” I muttered, stuffing the coin in my pocket, taking a pull from my waterskin to wash my lunch down. I couldn’t possibly be the only person in town who knew that this was all just some elaborate hoax.
Father Whiston, for one thing, hadn’t always lived in Barrowdeep. Like many others devoted to the new gods of Aidun, Whiston received his education at the Ivory Abbey, deployed as a missionary once his training was deemed complete.
The clerics of the Ivory Abbey were taught to fend for themselves out in the world, whether against bandits, hungry wildlife, or grifters eager to purloin what few earthly possessions they had. Whiston was a clever man, well read and well traveled. Surely he could tell a counterfeit from the genuine article.
Or take Jeromah, who collected coin from travelers who passed through Barrowdeep and patronized the Ugly Mug for food and board. I’d seen her throw people out of the tavern with her own two hands, whether it was for stealing from her larder or trying to trick her with false currency.
Both of them had played Orphium’s games and won themselves a gold coin, the same as everyone else in Barrowdeep. They were perceptive enough to know the difference, and yet not a word of protest. There was magic in these coins, to be sure. Was it enough to dazzle even those who knew better?
A kind of enchantment, a form of fae glamor, perhaps. Then why did I remain unaffected? It was the games. It had to be. Exchanging something as a wager — maybe that was the same as weaving a pact with the fae, a contract.
That was it. I had to avoid this Orphium and his deceptive little games. I had to keep my head on straight when everyone else seemed to be losing theirs.
“Leoric!” called a voice from down the road. “We brought the wood you asked for.”
That was Riggs, the younger half of the town guard. And now it was time to work. I went down the road to greet him and his father, Redginald, the pair of them pulling double duty for the town guard. They’d been tasked with protecting Barrowdeep before I’d even arrived, already embedded in their work of defending the townsfolk against all threats, whether living or dead.
“Let me help you with that,” I said, taking over from Redginald, pushing on one side of the cart to help Riggs bring it into balance. All the scrap loading the cart down had made the thing travel all lopsided. While I admired Redginald’s dedication and spirit, he was getting a little too long in the tooth to be carting around so much weight.
The wheels creaked and squealed as the cart rolled over uneven ground, over broken stone. The road down to the graveyard had fallen into disrepair over the years, but Barrowdeep couldn’t be blamed. The labor and materials were better used for reinforcing the town’s defenses.
These weren’t a wealthy people, after all. If it came down to using meager resources on boarding up and trapping the ghoul tunnels or improving the roads? Dead or dismembered ghouls were greatly preferred, each and every time.
Father Whiston and the others had always suspected that a network of tunnels existed beneath the graveyard, though whether they predated Barrowdeep or were dug by the ghouls themselves was difficult to say.
No one had dared to attempt a proper exploration of these passages, these catacombs. Ghoul attacks were sporadic, but when they came, it was always in terrifying numbers. I could think of nothing more horrific than being trapped in the tunnels in the midst of a ghoulish onslaught.
Where they’d come from, no one could truly say, only that their presence had grown alongside the fighting and turmoil across Aidun. Territorial disputes, the wars of petty lords, righteous rebellion — it didn’t matter. Blood washed into the soil, rousing seeds of darkness that had long slept in the earth, exactly as water gave life to nature.
That was Father Whiston’s theory, at least. I wasn’t a religious man myself, but I couldn’t think to find fault with his argument. Whiston and his Ivory Abbey believed in their gods, these otherworldly beings who lived among the stars. Who was I to say that the opposite wasn’t true, that unknowable supernatural darkness lay buried deep within the earth, too?
And so we worked, Redginald, Riggs, and I, sealing whatever entrances we could find among the crypts and graves. The more popular exits — the ones the ghouls especially liked to pop out of, like moles, like gophers — those we lined with sharpened stakes, with razor wire, or ropes coated with tar and shattered glass.
The traps often worked, which in itself was a boon and a bane. A boon because it meant we’d saved at least one life in Barrowdeep by preventing a ghoul from entering town. A bane because it meant we’d find that same ghoul shrieking and scrabbling to free itself.
A blow to the head, normally. That was enough to end a ghoul’s unlife. Severing its skull at the neck worked even better. Smothering it in fire, to be sure, something that Whiston could accomplish with the power of his faith, setting them alight with his prayers, casting azure flame from his censer.
Again, I never was a religious man, but seeing a priest become an asset in battle made me respect the profession and its gods just a little bit more. Maybe Vahtalla the Unblinking wasn’t so bad, after all.
We settled the cart in the middle of the graveyard, surveying the usual spots for signs of damage or disruption. We’d developed an efficient enough system for it, setting up flags that the ghouls might trip with their passage, looking for evidence of freshly turned earth.
The worst was when the ghouls discovered new places to poke their heads through. Or their hands, for that matter, grabbing at anyone unfortunate enough to be roaming the graveyard. Good enough reason to keep it off limits for the rest of Barrowdeep.
It was a wonder the ghouls hadn’t burrowed under the town plaza, or, gods forbid, straight into the cellar of the Ugly Mug. Perhaps something about the stench of death kept them close to the cemetery .
Riggs and Redginald set to work unloading the cart, seeking out areas among the gravestones that might require reinforcement. I stamped at the ground with my boot, testing for loose soil, or disturbed earth, or any sign of ghoul activity.
Ah. That didn’t seem right. Something whitish in the dirt. Human remains? Some sort of bone? I scraped away the soil with the edge of my shovel, holding my breath as I worked to unearth my grisly trophy.
I breathed a sigh of relief. False alarm. Just a ham bone. Freshly buried, too. We could keep the people of Barrowdeep out of the graveyard, but only the gods themselves could stop Scabbard from doing what dogs loved to do best.
“You must really love your work, smiling as you scrabble in the dirt like that.”
The sound of Orphium’s voice sent shivers up my spine, and not in a good way. Were the fae really so light on their feet? I never heard him coming.
“Mind your own business,” I said, glaring at him for good measure. “Any day that there isn’t sign of ghoul activity is a good day.”
He smirked at me, this smug, insufferable creature. With the ridiculous emerald green and gold of his clothing, his iridescent trappings, Orphium reminded me of a jewel in the dirt. He didn’t belong here, not in the graveyard, not in Barrowdeep. As he took one, two steps forward, even the soil itself seemed to make way for his delicate footsteps, shunning his boots, rejecting his presence. Perhaps it was only my imagination .
“You shouldn’t be here,” I said. “Might get dirt all over your fancy clothes.”
He rolled his eyes with an amused snort. “Flatterer. You would know all about fancy clothes, now, wouldn’t you?”
I glowered, gripping the handle of my shovel tight. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
Orphium shrugged, long fingers spread apart as he turned up his hands. “You had some very interesting things to say about me and my court of origin. Or have you forgotten? You’re a learned man, but you aren’t a priest, nor are you a scholar.”
I waited for him to finish, watching his lips, wondering if I’d be better off shutting him up. Several ways to accomplish that. I hated that he said too little of merit and yet knew too much. Everything that left his mouth was superficial, as if deliberately measured, meant to titillate or irritate.
Yet for how much he vexed me, I couldn’t deny how soft and pretty his lips looked. Poisonous. Sweet. A forbidden flower.
“And the way you hold your spine, your shoulders — that confidence, it borders on arrogance. Authority. You aren’t from peasant stock, shovel man. I can smell it on you. You don’t belong here, my handsome, dark-haired human.”
“And neither do you,” I snarled. I leaned forward, eager to give him a piece of my mind. But Riggs’s voice pierced the haze of anger buzzing in my skull.
“Mr. Orphium! You shouldn’t be here.”
See? Even Riggs knew. He didn’t know, but he knew .
Redginald strode up to us imperiously, mustachios quivering as he cleared his throat. “Quite right, quite right, Mr. Orphium. Very dangerous ground, the graves, don’t you know?”
“Don’t you fret. I am quite capable of handling myself around the undead. But it is very kind of you to worry for my wellbeing, Sir Redginald.”
Orphium’s fingers, light and lithe, grazed the metal of the old guard’s armor. Redginald stiffened to attention, hopelessly charmed by the fae, and no doubt entranced by the notion of being considered a knight.
I stuck my shovel in the dirt, dragging the back of my hand across my forehead, wiping away the sweat.
“Why are you even here in the first place? You seem awfully curious about our ghoul problem for someone who’s only passing through town.”
Orphium smiled widely. The twinkle of mischief in his eyes drove a sliver of annoyance into my chest, a hammer driving a stake into the heart. Good for ghouls, vampires, other undead. Bad for Leoric.
“Why, haven’t you heard? I’ve decided to stay a little while longer.”
Riggs, the fool, gave a whoop of excitement. “That means more games, right, Mr. Orphium? And more gold.”
Metal clanked as Redginald smacked his son in the back of the head. Served him right. Riggs could at least pretend that he wasn’t so greedy. Or to get down to the truth of the matter, he could at least sound a little less enthusiastic about being fleeced by our new fae friend.
And yet I would sound positively insane if I attempted to accuse Orphium like that. What was he taking from Barrowdeep, anyway? Some ancient knick-knacks, useless bits of ribbon and leather? If anything, Orphium could rightly say that the people of Barrowdeep were robbing him in broad daylight.
But I knew he was up to something. And now that he was staying, he had plenty more time to get more of that something done. Well — whatever it was.
“Nobody’s stopping you,” I told Orphium with a sniff. “You’re free to stay as long as you like.”
“Is that right?” he replied, his words thick and smooth, like butter, like honey. “And here I thought you would protest. Perhaps you fancy the idea of me lingering. Like a fine perfume, eh, Leoric?”
A poisonous flower , my mind echoed. Lovely. Delicate. Deadly.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I growled. “Riggs. Go and check on the rest of the graveyard. See if you can find any soft spots in the dirt.”
Riggs scratched the back of his head and sloped off to do as I asked. I’d been a little harsher than I’d intended, the poor man. I made a note to treat him to a pint at the Ugly Mug later. Redginald excused himself, following hurriedly after his son, perhaps sensing the imminent danger of existing physically in the space between me and Orphium.
“You must be so exhausted, keeper of the graves,” Orphium cooed. “Look at you sweltering under this hot, unyielding sun. All the sweat on your skin. So much glistening perspiration.”
I could feel my ears burning, and I knew it wasn’t because of the heat. I focused on the dirt, on the gravestones, anywhere but Orphium’s face. I knew he was grinning to himself. I knew he was enjoying this far too much, tormenting me.
If I had to be honest, I hated that a small, uncomfortable part of me was enjoying it, too.
Just me, the shovel, and the dirt. Day in, day out, that was all the work I focused on, and that was how I would block Orphium’s menace from my ears and from my mind. Dig, dig, and dig. Shovel the dirt.
He grew tired of taunting me soon enough, his barbs and japes landing on deaf ears. But instead of leaving the graveyard entirely, he took his time to inspect the closest headstones, rearranging the flowers, clearing away twigs.
Biding his time, in essence, allowing his presence to slowly wear away at my sanity. My chastity. I stared at the ground, at the dirt, refusing to acknowledge how Orphium kept bending over to read the headstones, offering me an exceptionally clear view of his tight breeches, of that shapely, round, pert —
Wait. What was that? Something bright in the dirt. I furrowed my brow, squinting at the soil. Not something bony and white this time, but the glimmer of gold. Real gold.
“What in the world?” I muttered, more to myself than anyone else.
“Hmm?” Orphium answered, drawn like a moth to the flame of my voice. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” I said, holding up the disc, clearing the dirt away with my fingers.
All these days and weeks and months I’d worked in the graveyard, never once did I dig up anything that might pass for treasure. But this? This was real gold. Unmistakable, the look, the gleam, the weight of it.
Oh, and the craftsmanship! On one side, a raven, majestic and mysterious. On the other, a dragon, fearsome in flight. I held it up against the sun, watching it sparkle: a golden coin.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered.
“It is, isn’t it?”
There was a breathless wonder in Orphium’s voice, a look of recognition in his eyes. All traces of taunting and flirtation melted from his face, leaving only the loveliest of smiles, pretty and innocent enough that he could ask anything of me — anything — and I would grant it.
“Leoric?” he asked, so soft, so sweet. “I’m so glad you found my missing coin.” He reached out with one shaking hand, fingers parting like feathers on the wing of the purest dove. “Give it to its rightful owner, won’t you?”
I considered his plea, looked him straight in the eye, and gave him exactly what he deserved.