“Get the fang for me, won’t you? Get the fang for me, won’t you?”
This phrase, in the silky voice of the lich, plays through Abia’s throbbing head, even hours later, as the gang sits ’round a table in the Blighted Pixie common room. They’re sharing a single pint, morosely nursing it between themselves.
“We’ve got to make some money,” Shyan says.
“This is obvious,” says Cang.
“I thought we had some?” Fassn asks hopefully.
Cang flings an empty sack at the old, bearded fellow. “A gold bar. Perhaps you recall?”
“Oh yeah,” Fassn says from within the bag. He pulls his head back out. “Empty.”
Cang sighs. Secretly, he fingers the tiny emerald sewn into his vest’s lining, thankful that Horton and the lich didn’t find it.
“We just go back in there and demand what’s ours,” Shyan says, without much enthusiasm.
“Or,” Abia says. All eyes fall to her — this is the first she’s spoken since leaving the blacksmith’s. “We could get fang for lich.”