Chapter Three

  "The Plan Pt. 2"

  You’ll have to forgive me. I got excited.

  It tends to happen when things seem to be going right for once.

  I’ll get back on track, don’t worry.

  We were talking about the plan.

  Yes…my wonderfully conniving, and brilliant plan. It starts with…well, it actually started three years ago. But to save you the long of it, let's just say I’ve played my cards to perfection.

  That Black Market I was telling you about, the one I partake in every once in a while, well, there is a…benefactor, we’ll call him, that I’ve done a few jobs for. He calls himself Baron Gray. He knows the locations of highly valuable, highly guarded artifacts. The kind that can get a man an estate in the middle of nowhere, unbothered by chumps like…

  Anyways, I’d made him a lot of money. He’d paid me some of that money. And now I have his trust.

  I’d been waiting weeks in this backwater valley for his letter. One last job. I’d met Baron Gray in a tavern two years ago. He’d told me he knew the locations of some choice items that some of his benefactors were interested in.

  Most were chump change.

  But there was one. A crown that once adorned the head of a very vile, very evil man that had called himself The Forever King.

  He died at the age of thirty-two.

  If you can trust the history books, his own sister killed him. Doesn’t really matter to me who did the deed, only who got the crown.

  It’s valuable for two reasons.

  First, it is solid gold inlaid with diamonds the size of your thumb. These have inherent value. I don’t need to explain that.

  It's the second thing that makes it damn near priceless.

  The crown is said to contain all the memories of those who wore it. Not only did the Forever King wear it, but so did his heir. And his heir was a man called Mogrub. Devious as his name sounds, he was a good king, by all accounts. And he lived in the time before Wormslung. Even before the Hero of Ages came, when the gods still ruled.

  And he was beheaded and subsequently eaten by none other than the Hell Gal herself. Helga the Hvorathian. Goddess of Crippling Blows. Which essentially meant she could hit hard and keep hitting hard until either she got bored, or you died. And she rarely, if ever, got bored.

  The gods really were wretched creatures.

  I hate to do another history lesson, but it seems we can’t get around it. Try and keep up.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Way before the Worm came to Calastros, gods ruled the land. And the lands beyond the waters. All the lands, as far as I know. They were cruel and wicked and exactly what you could expect from beings of infinite power who answered to none. It was not a good time to be alive.

  Just as there are twelve kingdoms now, there were twelve gods back then. Technically there still are. Along with any number of minor gods. I won’t list them all because I know I’d really lose you then.

  When the burden of living under these beings who toyed with the lives of mortals became too much for them, a man rose up to defend his mortal comrades.

  We call him the Hero of Ages.

  But how does one kill immortal beings who pull the very threads of power in the known world?

  He knew he could not kill them. So instead, he cast a spell on them. A spell so brilliant it give me chills to this day. It gives everyone chills.

  The Hero of Ages blinded the gods.

  The Hero made it so the all-powerful, the all-cruel gods were forced to rely on us mortals to live their lives. You can imagine how that went.

  It took but one century before they couldn’t take it any longer. They opted for eternal slumber. Laid into tombs of such darkness no light would ever find them, they were tricked by their mortal caretakers and locked away.

  If I had to guess, they were nothing more than emaciated corpses. Anyone with a brain would hope they were.

  Helga, my wicked wench god, was known for her lust for treasure. She demolished many a baron in search of it. Turned many a castle to rubble. And many a man to mere sacks of flesh and bone.

  Alright, enough of that.

  In short, I will retrieve the crown, search its memories for this trove of treasures, and pray to those old, conceited bastard gods that it's still there.

  Hmm, I quite like that. The bastard gods.

  If any of you are scholars at the College of Mercy in Forsynthe then I want you to mark this moment I came up with that.

  The Bastard Gods.

  You may use it free of charge.

  The only hiccup to my brilliant plan was the letter I now held in my hand. It held two words written in black ink. Two words that could ruin everything.

  Mordred Barrows.

  I hiccupped at the thought and my stomach growled. The letter went back into my boot, and I cursed Baron Gray.

  “Why can’t this just be easy,” I said to myself, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “Why can it never be–”

  “If I may,” Rory interrupted from the branch over my head, making me jump. “Perhaps you should inquire about gainful employment and then it will be easy.”

  This had been his ongoing response to each of my outbursts.

  “Gainful employment for a man on a wanted poster.” This was my weak reply. “Where exactly would I do that?”

  “Leave [BLANK] and try for work in Halfgard or even Bobo.”

  “You know I hate the jungle,” I snapped. “I could never.”

  Rory fluttered down near the fire, flapping his wings. It made the flames flash. Did I mention he loves fire? Couldn’t imagine what he’d get up to if he was a phoenix instead. Might be more useful.

  He croaked, as if reading my thoughts. “You’re right. You don’t have it in you.”

  “You’d be annoyed too if you’d ever heard of the Mordred Barrows.”

  “What makes you think I haven’t?”

  “You’re still here.”

  “Oh, please, dear boy. I’ve been to far worse places that a simple barrow in the ground.”

  I sighed. What did I expect from a bird that rarely, if ever, went below ground.

  “The Mordred Barrows is where the Doomraiders stuffed all their loot after pillaging most of Miraval some two hundred years ago. The place is beyond cursed.”

  “Dirt tunnels?”

  “Dead things that aren’t actually dead but want to make you very dead,” I clarified.

  “Necromancers?”

  “No,” I said, summoning a loaf of bread from my inventory. “Are you even listening?”

  “Yes, yes. Sleeping barrows and mischievous dead things,” he said dismissively, further fanning his wings.

  I’d lost him to the fire. He’d be like this for anywhere from an hour to three.

  “I didn’t know crows had white feathers,” I teased.

  He just flicked his head and left me to brood over my doom. And to wonder, if I was plotting my own death, or if I really thought I’d walk away from it with my life.