Sham

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. There used to just be your usual evils: Bandits, Giant Rats, and the Government. Then one day, poor Mathenial looked up from tending his hogs to see a few dark shapes descending from the peaks of the Anderlas. He was the stubborn, steadfast sort. “Former adventurer” he used to claim, and yet there was nothing he could do but watch as his sheep, his possessions, his land, were taken from before his very eyes. Many a night, we would hear him over at the only sturdy table of the ‘Ol Direboar, sober as an uptight priest. “Can’t even afford to drink anymore” he would say, hoping for a sympathetic ear. “Can barely afford to apprentice my son off with this new job”.

During those few early months there was still enough money to go around that he and the others would sometimes be able to obtain the stupor they sought out, but as more of the people of the Valley experienced the tremors and trauma of a dragon and their entourage visiting; hard times caused harder hearts, and even slimmer wallets. One by one the dragons had carved out the 'rights' to the land that we had worked for generations, either burning it all down for their own designs, or keeping work the same but paying a tiny fraction of the profit in bi-weekly increments.

“Grilagem” was the word they used when talking between each other. “Thievery” or “hogshite” was ours. Not content to simply bask on hoards of gold anymore, the primeval monstrosities had been “lobbying” the officials at the capital, sowing seeds of corruption and compliance the same way we would sow crops to bring to market. This investment had then allowed them to purchase our land at “reasonable” rates using the government’s authority; leaving most people with a small lump sum but no future prospects for themselves or their families. Worse, any coin paid soon found its way back into the claws of the dragons, as needs still had to be met.

We gathered with our torches and pitchforks several times in those early days. Initially we confronted Mayor Cunningham, but he had nothing to offer us other than his resignation. Mathenial himself brought up talk of a revolt, but between the might wielded by the dragons and the rumors of other rebellious townships having been set upon by regiments of Hillsguard, it seemed like anything we tried would be futile. The fury that seemed to spill the most from people’s lips was that the local councilwoman had even allowed the purchases. I understand it, since blaming the dragons seemed pointless. ‘Nothing could be done’ was the prevailing thought. “That’s just how dragons are,” lamented some. “But the extra money they make will trickle down,” said those most removed, and those most in need of hope.

As the months turned into years, and the years into decades, the Valley changed. The cooper, one of the blacksmiths, and half of the farmers found their buildings and land repurposed for more ‘economical’ purposes, specifically growing and processing tobacco – something that had never been in high demand in the Valley, but was rapidly seeing more and more use. Many goods and services, no longer produced here but still deemed in demand by the dragons and the managers they appointed, were outsourced to another enterprise owned by the businesswyrm in question. If necessary, our needs were eventually bargained for in the constant back and forth game of power, prestige, and possessions played by the draconic tycoons in their new summer lairs built into the Anderlas.

I watched Mathenial pass away, no longer naming the hogs he used to so gingerly keep track of. His son, Geom, who had grown up playing and napping with the piglets, had dropped his apprenticeship to take up the business of maintaining the tightly-packed cages and running the slaughter house based on the demands of a boss who visited once a season. Antonius Cunningham, the former mayor, managed to secure the sanctity of some of the Valley’s most historic buildings and land by pleading in the courts at the capital. He disappeared on his return trip, along with his wife and youngest son. Flora, the daughter of the local priestess of Agri, was eventually able to organize enough of the discontent to cause the national assembly to ‘solve’ the issue: by replacing the councilwoman with someone just as pliable.

Though Flora kept trying, the dragons became more entrenched. The terrors-turned-oligarchs were well-practiced in manipulation, and more importantly unified in their desire to keep control of the status quo. As children grew into parents and a time with autonomy was forgotten, the dragons amassed their money and influence. Long ago they learned an important lesson: Heroes without the backing of their nation are just criminals.

—

The ‘Ol Direboar was a sad reminder of the times. The inn-keep would say that the place had used to be called “the Gold Direboar, til I had to sell the G and D,” but even the oldest patrons didn’t remember a time when it could have lived up to that name. Not a flake of paint vaguely resembling yellow could be seen, let alone gold. Most of the windows were boarded over, and the floor creaked like it was being supported by baby guinea-hogs. Yet for all the flaws of the place, you could tell that it was well-loved. Every night the floors were cleaned, the fireplace was swept, and the mix of chairs and stools were put back into a semblance of order. Even the formerly wobbly tables had been mostly steadied with the liberal use of folded rags and scrap wood. It was one of the few places left in the Valley that was worked by the person who owned it, and as such any travelers who didn’t show the place proper respect very quickly found the town less hospitable than it already wasn’t. So on the one night of rest the town got, when the door was roughly kicked open and muddy boots began stomping with purpose towards the bar, it was understandable that a lot of the local regulars immediately began to shout and stand in protest. Upon seeing the axe, well-used scale armor, and massive frame of the half-orc the boots were attached to, only the most vehemently drunk continued their protests.

Elu, the inn-keep, immediately paused their conversation with the gnome traveler that had been trying to haggle for some rooms, putting a hand below the bar and onto the wand they kept there. Elu had been caretaker of the Ol’ Direboar for centuries, and though they had once thought of it as a chore, the recent upheaval of the Valley and its peoples’ livelihoods had been a significant reminder of what not to take for granted. In part due to this care that they had shown the inn in recent decades, Elu was distinctly aware of how the half-orc’s heavy-seeming strides weren’t making the floor squeal as much as they should. Elu raised their free hand in a gesture both of ‘hold up there, buddy’ to the offending newcomer and ‘I’ll handle this’ to the other patrons.

Putting on the polite-yet-firm tone they reserved for the dragon’s brutes and the obnoxiously drunk, Elu adopted the facsimile of a smile. “If you’re wanting a drink or a room, I’m afraid I’ll have to charge you a cleaning fee first.” The half-orc stopped his stride towards the well-stained bar, and for the merest of moments his face contorted, like he was trying to smother a smile. He stared down the ancient innkeeper for several seconds before noticing the gnome sitting at the bar, who was at this point doing his best to hide his face behind an embroidered cloak.

“Found you,” the half-orc growled in a singsong voice, his eyes locking onto the gnome. His muse squeaked in fear and began frantically grasping around in the pockets of his cloak, eyes darting between his task and the intimidating presence coming his way.

Certainly not happy with the direction things were going, Elu began to intervene. “Hey now-” but they were cut off by the half-orc, whose eyes had never left their target. “Hand it over and I’ll play nice,” he continued in the deep, almost-melodic tone, even as he took the last couple steps towards the fumbling traveler.

Elu raised the wand from behind the bar, but as they did so, the gnome’s hands apparently found what they were looking for. He launched up onto his feet, a spark of surety settling onto his otherwise shaky visage. The half-orc halted mid-stride, his eyes narrowing, hand reaching back stealthily to unclasp his axe. The whole inn stilled for a few breaths. “Leave” said Elu, cutting over the gnome’s own declaration. This must have caught the gnome off-guard, since he glanced back in surprise. The half-orc reacted in that brief moment, swiftly bringing his axe down from behind his armor before sweeping it back up quickly – directly toward the gnome’s side.

A yelped incantation burst from the gnome at the same time as Elu, being slightly caught off-guard themself, chanted the activation phrase for the wand. A paralyzing bolt of purple and white electricity built and launched out of the tip of the wand toward the assailant, despite being too late to save the gnome. Though, belatedly, Elu realized that the half-orc had seemingly frozen mid-swing, axe blade barely not brushing the cloak of its intended target. As this realization was occurring, the half-orc’s entire form snapped to the color of gold.

The entire inn stared, slack-jawed, both at the golden form of the massive warrior mid-swing, and at the even more eye-catching gauntlet on the gnome’s outstretched hand. It, too, was gold - though with a massive, luminescent, waxy red gem on the palm. The pointer finger, currently directed at the now-solid-gold statue of the half-orc attacker, was inscribed with intricate runic channels of the same color and radiance. The gnome was the only one to move, and he gingerly took the gauntlet off his hand before carefully tucking it somewhere back into his cloak. He retrieved a wand of his own, which he pointed at the golden statue, before covering his eyes and speaking a command. Instantly, the statue exploded into a blinding burst of golden light. When the other patrons were able to blink the stars out of their eyes, there was nothing to even indicate the half-orc had been there at all aside from some muddy boot prints at the door.

Turning back to Elu, the gnome smiled sheepishly. “So about that room…”.

—

Much later that night, after finally being able to convince the worst of the gossips they could still posit theories tomorrow, Elu contemplated the whole ordeal. The gnome, Mercuridas apparently, had headed up to bed not long after the initial event, but had let Elu know about a human companion of his who would be arriving later. Not too long after, the companion in question had slunk in. Initially surprised by the tales she was hearing from the rambunctious crowd, the enterprising woman had very quickly turned the situation to her advantage. She had cajoled the crowd into buying her free drinks by insinuating she would tell what she knew about the wondercraft displayed by Mercuridas, if only sufficiently inebriated. She had done a masterful job of squeezing the crowd’s voracious appetite for gossip, only giving his name and saying that he was a purveyor of rare artifacts, relics, and other magical oddities. In exchange, she had drained almost a quarter of a keg before heading upstairs – and wasn’t half as addled as most of the other patrons.

As Elu cleaned and pondered, they came upon a slight burn mark near the front door. It took a minute, but the realization came that this was probably caused by the paralyzing bolt they had cast. This caused Elu’s long eyebrows to scrunch inward, as they were certain the bolt had been heading directly for the brute’s chest. It should have impacted the half-orc’s body right after the transmutation. Confused, but chalking it up to some odd property of the artifact that Mercuridas had used, Elu finished their nightly routine and headed for what they were sure would be a dream-filled sleep.

—

The human woman stepped into Mercuridas’s room, swaying a bit too much from the drink and blinking as her eyes tried to adjust to the darkness. With a whisper that could barely be classified as such, she called out “Sham! You there?”

“Yes I’m here, and keep it down!” came the reply. “Come over here and let me set the spell up.” The woman stepped slowly towards the voice, focused in the way only the half-drunk can on retaining solid footing. “Oh for-” Sham mumbled a couple words under his breath, and a soft, tiny light emanated from the pillow at the head of the bed. “I always forget that your kind are functionally blind in the dark”. The woman made a mock-offended gesture, before sitting down cross-legged on the bed without speaking. Sham made an exasperated noise before muttering another spell under his breath. Once completed, they were surrounded by a small invisible bubble that would let them talk in private, while anyone outside the bubble would just hear raucous snoring.

“So, all-in-all, that went pretty well I think, despite your…improvisations.” Sham leaned back against the exterior wall. “I genuinely thought you were going to hit me there.” The woman didn’t say anything, but as the silence went on for a few seconds her easy smile just kept growing. Rolling his eyes, Sham let out a well-practiced sigh. “Yes Jade, you can talk now.”

“Well… now that I have your permission.” Jade’s grin grew even wider and more shit-eating upon seeing Sham’s annoyance, until she let out a small chortle. “Even if I had hit you, the axe was dull, and I wasn’t putting but barely any of my weight behind it. Most it would have done was bruise you…or broken a rib or five. Besides - serves you right for getting distracted.”

“Yeah. Well. Normally when we pull something like that, there’s not someone directly behind me talking over my lines. I’m just glad I was able to get the timing okay. Good job on matching it.”

“Thanks! It was honestly a close call. That inn-keep’s spell went right over my shoulder!” She quickly drew an invisible line through the air, tracing where the bolt had gone. “I saw it pass through your illusion right where my chest had been. That would have been good practice for your improv.” Jade laughed, sprawling out and kicking her legs against the side of the bed.

“We also would probably have had to scrap this whole suicidal scheme.” Sham gave her a serious look. “I know you know this, but one slip-up here could very easily mean either, or both, of our deaths – or worse.”

“I know,” Jade said, matching the tone, “and I know you’re not just being hyperbolic about the ‘or worse’ part.” She turned towards Sham, a caring smile appearing on her face. “I’ll be on my best behavior, but I think you need to be careful of being too stressed to adapt well.”

“What’s there to stress about?” Sham replied sarcastically. “We’re just trying to swindle some dragons.”