“And I suppose you’re the same group who says it’s necessary,” pressed Tyren.
“King Klenn of Ruskan has authorized the Academy of Mages throughout the kingdom to take steps to ensure the safety of the Ruskan people,” recited the Councilor of Owls.
“And he said scrying pools? He gave you permission to scry on his own subjects?” asked Tyren.
“We can’t be certain that he didn’t mean that,” said the councilor.
“What we can be certain of is how the public and town elders might react to my report on the matter,” said the knight-commander. “Unless, of course, you were to use it in defense of our city and nation.”
“And there it is,” said the Councilor of Owls.
“We’ve received word that a great threat approaches from the south,” said Tyren. “And we need proof to confirm the warning and mobilize our defenses.”
“And finalize your claim paperwork as well, I’d imagine,” said the councilor. “I suppose if we don’t help, you’ll run off to tell the town about the scrying pool.”
“Let’s not discuss such formalities when the threat is so great.” Gorm noticed that Tyren didn’t specify which threat. The Councilor of Owls seemed to pick up on that as well.
“Fine,” sighed the old noctomancer, signaling to the other mages. With scowls and grumbles, the noctomancers and solamancers shuffled into position. “And where is this alleged army?”
Gorm raised a hand. “Due south. It took us about four days of marchin’ to get here from where we spotted them. The undead don’t sleep, but they don’t move fast either.”
“The undead? Very well,” said the councilor, now a little more serious. At her signal, the mages channeled weaves of solamancy and noctomancy into the scrying pool. Silvery light and dark shadows danced across its surface, coalescing into moving shapes. A moment later Gorm could clearly see the Chamber of Owls as though viewed from above, complete with an image of himself staring down into the pool. He could even see Burt leaning out of his rucksack to get a better vantage.
“Back in the bag before someone sees!” he whispered.
The Kobold noticed himself and ducked back into the rucksack with a muttered curse.
“Take us up,” said the Councilor of Owls.
Gorm could make out light blue threads of air among the weaves as the noctomancers around the scrying table adjusted their spell casting. The image within the pool seemed to drop away, and another floor filled with wizards and mages fell over it, followed by several more, and then the tower’s roof. The tower and surrounding buildings shrank as the scrying pool’s vantage rose higher above Vetchell, stopping only when the city below was a mosaic of rooftops with cobblestone cracks running through it.
“South,” said the Councilor of Owls.
The buildings and streets in the scrying pool began to move as the solamancers around the relic added strands of fire and water into their weaves. Gorm felt his stomach drop as his eyes told him that he was soaring over a silver city, and moving faster every moment. The walls of Vetchell flew past, and before long they were soaring over southern Ruskan. The fields and forests looked an irregular quilt with roads and rivers for seams.
As they soared along, however, the features of the landscape began to run together like eggs with their yolks popped. Bubbles started drifting to the surface of the pool, popping into small, wispy clouds of steam.
“Remember your virtues,” chided the Councilor of Owls.
“Are they havin’ shameful thoughts?” Gorm muttered to Laruna.
“What? No!” hissed the solamancer. “Why would they be thinking about things like that now?”
“How should I know?” said Gorm. “I can’t ever think of a reason that ye tall folk are ever thinkin’ shameful things, but I’ll be thrice-cursed if ye ever stop!”
The solamancer sputtered. “We don’t—I mean, people like Heraldin, yeah, but—why would you even bring that up?”
“The Owl Lady had to remind them about their virtue.” Gorm nodded to the noctomancer guiding Vetchell’s mages.
Laruna rolled her eyes. “The Councilor of Owls was reminding them of a mage’s virtues. That’s different.”
“Like only usin’ magic for good?”
“See, that’s how it’s different. You’ll find teachings on good and evil in the temples. But a mage’s virtues are power and mastery,” said Laruna. “And balance, technically, when it comes to omnimancy. Most mages don’t need help remembering that they want power and mastery. But when you’re working with old omnimancer relics, you have to mind all three.”
Gorm scratched his beard. “So… they’re throwing too much solamancy or noctomancy at it?”
“Well, they were.” Laruna nodded at the silvery image. “Look, they’re bringing it back into balance.”
The solamancers around the scrying pool were increasing the power and complexity of the weaves they sent into the edges of the silver basin, while the noctomancers were pulling their own magic back a bit. As the mages of the two Orders approached equilibrium, the picture within the pool came into focus once more.
“There,” said Jynn, pointing at the pool.
Amid the roiling bubbles in the boiling pool, distant figures were moving over the plains. They looked no bigger than toy soldiers, but even from far above their shambling gaits and bloodied clothes were, for lack of a better term, dead giveaways. A collective gasp rose from the assembled mages.
“The undead,” whispered the Councilor of Owls.
“Aye,” said Gorm. “An army of ‘em, comin’ for your gates.”
“Gods above,” said Tyren.
There were only a handful at first, but scattered groups and then entire squads of the walking dead slid into view as the mages pushed the scrying pool ever farther. Wraiths, ghosts, and carrion birds flew over the army, looming larger than life in the silvery surface of the pool.
“It is the army of the liche Detarr Ur’Mayan,” Jynn said, watching ranks of dead men lurch together in ragged formations.
The Councilor of Owls was startled at the name. “Ur’Mayan? A liche? Are you sure?”
One specter flew closer to the pool’s vantage point, slipping into their view like a ghastly whale gliding beneath a ship. The ghost turned over as it flew, as if to look up at the scrying pool’s invisible eye, and for a moment the boiling pool was filled with a giant, skeletal visage.
“I am regrettably certain.” Jynn stared stoically down at the pool. “And with every day, he draws nearer to Vetchell.”
“How… long do we have?” asked the knight-commander, his face pale to the point of translucence.
Gorm shook his head. “Three or four days. Five if the river slows their progress.”
“Then we’ve lost too much time already,” said the Councilor of Owls.
The picture in the scrying pool winked out as the mages powering it scrambled into action. Some began discussing their next steps, while others didn’t wait before rushing off, already bellowing orders to apprentices. Knight-Commander Ur’Thos marked a few checks on his forms, solicited a signature from the Councilor of Owls, and made for the door with barely a wave to Gorm and his party.
“And with that,” Kaitha muttered in Gorm’s ear, “I think our work here is done.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “It’s best we move on before—”
“Leaving so soon?” said the Councilor of Owls, her hand clamping down on Gorm’s shoulder like a bony vise. “You and I still haven’t had a chance to chat, Gorm Ingerson.”
Gorm felt his stomach drop at the mention of his name. “Uh, who?”
“Don’t,” said the Councilor sharply. “Come. We will speak in my office.”
“Come in, come in.” The Councilor of Owls ushered Gorm’s party into a large room near the top of the tower, windowless and drab. Old bookshelves lined the walls, each straining under the weight of ancient grimoires and stacks of parchment. A simple desk sat in the middle of the violet carpet, empty save for a qu
ill in the inkwell, a nameplate that read “Davaya Ur’Manel,” and the requisite skull set near the corner.
The councilor looked at the party standing in her chambers with condescending amusement, like a swamp drake contemplating a lost farm animal. “And now, Gorm, I think we should have a frank talk.”
“Ye can start by tellin’ me how ye know who I am,” said Gorm.
The sorceress shrugged. “Your faces are on wanted posters from here to Silvershore.”
“Drake spit,” snapped Gorm. “Those posters give nothing away. The knight-commander of the city guard didn’t even notice the resemblance.”
The Councilor of Owls’ laughter was like a subterranean pool; dark, cold, and deep. “Oh, I wouldn’t hang your case on the competence of our knight-commander.”
“We’re hanging it on the incompetence of your woodcut artist,” said Gorm. “Those portraits look nothing like us.”
“They barely look like people,” added Heraldin under his breath.
“Fair enough. The truth is that I recognized you because you’ve made a name for yourself lately by traveling with an old acquaintance of mine.” The noctomancer turned and smiled at Jynn, earning him sidelong glances from the other heroes and an open scowl from Laruna.
“I’m afraid you have the advantage, madam,” said Jynn, his brow furrowing. “I’ve had few dealings with the Ruskan branches of the Order.”
“I met you well before you were in the Academy, before you walked or spoke. Perhaps this will refresh your memory.” The councilor picked up a sheaf of paper and tossed it into the air with one hand, and with the other made a quick gesture. The air around the page shimmered with a faint whispering noise and the page was reduced to a flurry of scraps in seconds.
“You’re Aya of Blades,” said Jynn.
“Hello again, Jynn,” said Aya.
Gorm started at the name. Aya of Blades was one of the five mages behind the Leviathan Project, along with Win Cinder, Teldir of Umbrax, Az’Anon the Black, and Detarr Ur’Mayan.
The wizard sputtered as he stared. “But… I thought… I mean, I assumed—”
“That I was dead?” said Aya. “A useful rumor encouraged by one Davaya Ur’Manel. I’m sure you’re familiar with using an alias by now. I faked my death and left the Leviathan Project after Az’Anon found his doom. If I hadn’t, I’d likely have met the same fate.”
Gorm flinched at the mention of the Spider-King; he still remembered running from the quest that ended his former career. “Ye were scared the guild would send a hero like Johan to run ye through.”
Aya of Blades shot him an inscrutable look. “No,” she said. “That became a concern after Johan killed Detarr, but I was already re-enrolled in the Academy under a new name.”
“But surely someone must have tracked ye down through all these years,” said Gorm.
“They did.” Aya dusted a couple of paper scraps from her sleeve. “They regretted it.”
“Ah.” Gorm winced as he looked at the sad pile of shredded parchment on the floor.
“An unfortunate necessity, but we do what we must. Self-preservation and all,” said Aya brightly. “Speaking of which, that’s why I’ve brought a gaggle of renegade heroes into my room and told them my little secret.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” said Laruna.
“I’m sure she’ll be telling us about an errand she had planned for us,” said Gorm.
“Close,” said Aya. “I want to help you do what you’re already doing. And now that you know who I am and what I worked on, you know I can help you defeat Detarr Ur’Mayan.”
There was a hiss and a rustle as the assembled adventurers took a synchronized deep breath and leaned back in unison, wearing faces that ranged from alarmed shock to awkward winces.
“We… we’re not going to fight a liche,” said Kaitha.
“Not again, anyway,” said Laruna.
Even Gaist shook his head, if ever so slightly.
Aya shrugged off their protests. “Oh, don’t bother playing at this. You will.”
“Why would we do that?” asked Heraldin. “It’d be suicide by dark magic!”
“Which is why you need my help,” said Aya.
The senior noctomancer waved her hand and a set of drawers against the far wall suddenly shifted down the face of their filing cabinet, as though sliding into the floor. When each drawer reached the bottom, it disappeared with a gleam of sorcery. As the drawers scooted out of existence, a single drawer slid in from a similar spatial distortion at the top of the cabinet, slowing as it glided into place. Opening the single drawer, Aya produced a folio of loose documents.
“I have information on the artifacts we used for the Leviathan Project,” said Aya, leafing through the folder. “Who found them, what they were used for, notes from any experiments, and most importantly, where they are today. You’ll need at least one if you’re to stop Detarr.”
“You’re presumin’ too much,” said Gorm. “We’ve already risked our necks to do as much as we have.”
“Exactly,” snapped Aya, looking up from her documents. “You could have left Vetchell to its fate, just as I intend to once this conversation is over. You could have fled, but instead you risked capture by the guild for the sake of a gaggle of serfs and fools. And it’s because you’re all… all… what’s the word?” she asked, snapping her fingers.
“Good?” said Kaitha.
Aya shook her head. “I don’t like to be so binary.”
“Noble?” suggested Heraldin.
The Lady of Blades looked over Gorm and his muddy, road-worn armor with a critical eye. “No, that’s not it,” she said.
“Honorable?” said Laruna.
“Simple. Predictable. It’s some combination of all of them.” Aya waved away the verbal conundrum and walked over to retrieve an expensive-looking crystal from a shelf. “The point is, we all know you’re going to face the liche, and we don’t have time to pretend otherwise.”
“I ain’t pretending,” said Gorm. “Now that we warned the city—”
“Do we really have to do this?” Aya rolled her eyes as she set the crystal on her desk. “Very well. I could happily live out my days on an ice floe knowing I was the last living person on Arth. Could you? I’ll flee to northern Ruskan, and not care a whit for what happens to Vetchell or Parald or even Eadelmon. Will you? I won’t think twice about all the young lovers and terrified parents and grubby little children fleeing for their lives, or what will happen when they finally run out of places to cower. How many of you can say the same?”
The assembled adventurers suddenly took an interest in the astral pattern on Aya’s carpet, which was currently being scuffed and dirtied by the collective shuffling of several pairs of booted feet.
Heraldin cleared his throat and lifted his hand. His arm was halfway extended when he caught Gaist’s expression.
The weaponsmaster stared at the bard through narrowed eyes.
“Well, I might be able to,” muttered Heraldin, slowly pulling his hand back.
“I didn’t think so,” said Aya, giving the heroes a stern glare. “And since you all have ‘consciences’ or ‘morals’ or whatever vainglorious term you like for your suicidal tendencies, let’s agree you will face the undead, sooner or later. And if you’re unprepared when you do, well…” The old noctomancer pounded the crystal on her desk, shattering it.
“The guild can take care of the undead,” said Gorm.
“Ha! The guild!” Aya practically spat the word as she flipped through her folder. “All of these,” she added to the shards on her desk.
The air above the shattered crystal shimmered, and the page she was holding lifted from her hand. A second sheaf of parchment, this one blank, glided over as though borne by the wind, and as it did so writing and sketches burned onto its surface, mirroring the original page hovering near Aya’s hand. A moment later, two identical papers settled gently on the desk.
“After all you’ve been through, I can’t fathom why
you’d trust the guild to deal with a boggart’s boil.” Aya tossed another bundle of papers into the air, where weaves of magic quickly swept them up for duplication. “Let me tell you a story about the thrice-cursed guild. Do you remember Tyrannax the Shadow Master?”
“The necromancer down in Daellan?” recalled Laruna. “I heard he wiped out several parties of heroes.”
“Yes, he was a terror.” Aya watched the paper swirling around her. “Which is why the heroes of Hawksgate petitioned the guild to let them use the Crown of Iron Thorns.”
Jynn visibly started at the name, “The crown?”
“Ye know it?” asked Gorm.
“I remember Father talking about it, years ago,” said Jynn.
“He possessed it, for a time,” said Aya. She reached out and plucked a page from the papery maelstrom swirling around her. It bore an illustration that looked like someone had seen a pile of ship nails and thought it would make a nice hat. “Your father studied the crown for the Leviathan Project, and he kept it in the Ashen Tower until Johan took it back for the guild.”
“But what does it do?” asked Gorm.
“It holds great power over the dead,” said Aya. “So much so that the guild has declared it a class-one major artifact.”
The assembled heroes broke out in gasps and low whistles. You could fit all the class-one artifacts ever discovered into a small room, provided the walls were thick enough and you had a very, very strong lock on the door.
“It can’t be that powerful,” said Heraldin. “Hawksgate was almost wiped off the map, as I recall.”
The air around Aya was still a swirling storm of paper and ink. “And it wouldn’t have been if the heroes defending the city had been given the Crown of Iron Thorns. But the guild just finished processing the paperwork for the request this past summer.”
“What?” said Kaitha. “But Tyrannax died five years ago!”
“Six,” said Aya. The last of her papers settled into place, leaving two identical piles of parchment sitting next to one another. She placed one stack into a fresh folio. “And by the time they finally went to retrieve the crown, it had gone missing.”
Son of a Liche Page 9