Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  “There,” said Laruna, pointing to a cleft in the rocks a few dozen yards up the mountains. Looking at the crack from a specific angle, the heroes could see a small, gravelly path winding up the mountainside before it disappeared around a bend.

  “That’s it! We’ve found it!” said Burt. He sidled up to the small marker by the boulder and started to untie the drawstring of his trousers. “Now, hang on a second. I gotta do a thing.”

  “What are ye—ah, bones, Burt!” Gorm turned away and shut his eyes tightly. The other adventurers groaned and shook their heads as they headed for the trail.

  “Oh, grow up!” Burt called over his shoulder. “I’m letting future Kobolds know I was here.”

  “So carve a note into a tree trunk,” said Laruna, already stepping through the cleft in the rock.

  “Hey! Wait up! I’m almost finished!” Burt yelled.

  The stream of heroes pouring into Haertswood had dried up in the first days of Dawngreen.

  The city was, by all accounts, little more than a support system for the massive Heroes’ Guild office that dominated the center of town. Yet despite being the Freedlands’ easternmost bastion of professional heroics, Haertswood usually had remarkably few heroes in residence.

  Adventurers were financially motivated to spend more time dungeon spelunking or ranging in the field than doing paperwork. When a particularly important quest was launched from the Haertswood guildhall, the city’s population swelled to the bursting point. When fame and fortune were better sought elsewhere, Haertswood shrank back down to a ghost town, populated by clerks, shopkeepers, and the odd hero popping in for an eye exam.

  Once soldiers and adventurers sent to fight the undead moved on to Highwatch, the guildhall was largely silent. Clerks and laborers quietly prepared the ledgers and loading bays for a sudden influx of ectoplasm-soaked loot. Calm and quiet had returned to the sleepy town.

  And then the Red Horde came.

  It was a host out of the Agekeepers’ histories, the sort of giant warband that Mannon once set out against the great Elven cities. The Shadowkin aptly referred to such an army as zabbarundar, or a “Great Storm;” the army of raiders spread out over the plains of Aberreth like a thunderhead, and their arrows and slingstones fell like rain. Orcs, Goblins, Gnolls, Kobolds, Slaugh, Gremlins, Ogres, and even a few Naga scaled the walls and flooded into the city streets. The defenders, such as they were, barely had time to ring the warning bells before they were overwhelmed, and the fight, such as it was, ended before most of the invaders had seen a foe.

  Shortly thereafter a smaller, yet equally intense, fight broke out in a back office of Haertswood’s former guildhall.

  “You always do this!” growled Darak, trying to contain his growing fury. “You have done such since we were whelps!”

  “I am truly sorry, my chieftain.” Asherzu put a sardonic spin on the honorific, turning her brother’s title into a metaphorical tweak in the ear.

  There is a particular rage that only a sibling can inspire, and it bloomed across Darak’s deep green features. “Why must you dishonor me so? And do not feign ignorance like some simpering Gnome!”

  There is also a particular delight that can only be attained by irking a sibling, and it took all of Asherzu’s will to hide it. “I do not know what you speak of, honored chieftain.”

  “You know exactly what I speak of!” snarled Darak. “I brought you on this raid to show the Guz’Varda that we remain unified, and yet you have done nothing but sow discontent among the ranks!”

  Now Asherzu felt her own blood rising in her cheeks. “I did nothing of the sort!” she hissed. “The Guz’Varda came to me with their own concerns, as did many other warriors. They wondered where the honor is in attacking an empty town, or why we would risk ourselves for so little plunder. I did not tell our people what to think! I warned you of their thoughts!”

  “In view of my generals! In the presence of Grignot and his warriors!” Darak shook his head. “You are supposed to be a wise-one now! Do you know nothing of command and power? Your words make me look weak!”

  “You make yourself look weak when you fawn over that snake!” Asherzu snapped back. “Your people are frightened and unhappy, and all you care about are the thoughts of Grignot and his fools!”

  “Enough!” hissed the chieftain. “All I care about is family. Father’s people, Char’s legacy, the memories of Challu, Derdod’zu, and Frak. And always your well-being! Everything I do is for us! Everything! And you still dishonor me and treat me as a child!”

  Asherzu glimpsed the brother she helped raise in the lord of the Red Horde’s rage. “I… I am sorry—”

  “No!” Darak hissed. “No more! There is much to do, and we must be away soon. I cannot have you making more trouble for me. Seek me out when you can speak without shaming our family!” With that, the chieftain kicked the door open and stalked out into the hallway.

  Asherzu exhaled through her fangs and kicked idly at an overturned filing cabinet. There was nothing to be done when Darak had set his mind to something. Her brother’s stubbornness had earned the pet name “Little Warg” when he was but a whelp, and just as with warg pups, his tenacity had become less endearing with time.

  She shook her head and reminded herself that this wasn’t all her brother’s fault, especially when it was apparent that Grignot was taking over the tribe.

  Jorruk once told a young Asherzu that a weak mind is a malleable one. Once it is convinced it has been lied to, it begins to lie to itself. Once persuaded that it is hated, it becomes hateful. Once made to fear violence, it becomes violent.

  Now the Orcess saw the unfortunate truth of Jorruk’s wisdom all too well. Grignot’s constant raving about the Lightlings’ evils was twisting the Red Horde into the murderous caricatures that they claimed to stand against. And while most Shadowkin she knew saw his warped fantasies for what they were, they had something more tangible to fear: the Horde was becoming less tolerant of dissent by the day. Asherzu’s station as the chieftain’s sister had inoculated her against recrimination thus far, but there was no telling how long Darak could protect her. Or if he even wanted to…

  Asherzu shook the foul thought from her head. Darak was comprised entirely of muscle and loyalty, and for all her brother’s flaws, she knew she could depend on him.

  A horn in the distance snapped her from her reflections. Like the great storms the zabbarundar was named for, the warband never stayed in one place for long. It arrived like thunder, it struck like lightning, and it was away like the wind, ideally with heaps of plunder in its collective arms.

  Darak would be happier if she returned with at least a little loot; Asherzu had refused to take part in any killing, but she could pillage a bit for show. She was scanning the room for something of apparent value when a familiar face caught her eye.

  The poster on the far wall clearly bore a portrait of Gorm Ingerson, and it was labeled with his name, but the text below it promised a huge sum of money for his capture. It was surrounded by several other portraits, most of which were recognizable as Gorm’s treacherous band, save the horrifying woodcut on the poster labeled Heraldin Strummons. More shocking than the bard’s hideous features, however, were the descriptions of the party’s crimes. All of the posters accused the guild heroes of colluding with the Orcs of Bloodroot to murder Niln of the Al’Matrans.

  Asherzu pulled the posters from the wall and read them again. These were clearly the heroes she remembered from her father’s last days, but they had never spoken an ill word of Niln. The Orcs had thought of Gorm, Niln, and their party as friends when they’d parted, and that opinion hadn’t changed until the guild heroes came and made Gorm’s betrayal apparent.

  Had Gorm betrayed Niln and the Heroes’ Guild? But if so, why would the posters implicate the Orcs as well? Why would the guild invent a crime for a band of criminals?

  A second blast of the horn reminded Asherzu that she needed to hurry. Any reflections on Gorm’s betrayal would have to wait. Sh
e tucked the posters into her satchel, grabbed a valuable-looking urn from the top of a desk, and ran out to join the rest of the zabbarundar.

  “The what?” shouted Handor.

  “I said a great storm, Your Majesty.” Johan reached over the king’s shoulder to point at looming thunderclouds on the eastern horizon.

  “Perfect,” grumbled Handor, looking at the dark clouds. He gripped his pommel tightly as the Great Eagle veered in the wind.

  Handor hated flying. He hated seeing the ground whisk by below his mount, and he really hated the deadly space between him and that ground. He’d thought flying at night might be better, but as it turned out, blurring the world into a black and blue smear speeding beneath him did little for his nerves. Icy wind burned across his face, and the straps of his flight goggles whipped at his skin.

  “We’ll beat it. Look!” Johan hollered from the back of the double saddle. The paladin pointed again, this time to a flicker of lights in the mountain. Highwatch.

  The Highwalls were aptly named, as their craggy peaks were marked by sheer cliffs that rose to dizzying heights above the plains and forests. At their northernmost tip sat Highwatch, a mountain fortress that was more like a fortified mountain.

  Handor nodded, trying to wiggle the numbness out of his extremities and willing the eagle to descend faster.

  Eventually, he could make out the shape of Highwatch’s inner courtyard, outlined in torches and flaming braziers. Much of the fortress was separated from the surrounding mountains by a black chasm. According to Johan, the only way to the keep was through the tunnels and hallways beneath the fortress, all controlled by a complex series of interlocking gates.

  “We’ll be landing soon, sire!” Johan yelled.

  Those riding the other Great Eagles in the flock couldn’t be heard at all; Handor could only just see them in the gloom of the moonlight. Dannel Clubs appeared to be talking incessantly to Weaver Ortson atop the eagle to his left. On his other side, Goldson and Baggs sat in stoic silence; Handor started when he realized that they were both reading small ledgers propped up on their saddles.

  “The orbs!” Johan called, pointing.

  Handor wiped his goggles and looked again. Now he could see the great, green orbs set up along the stone ramparts of the outer wall. Bannermen and Umbraxian workers scurried around them, finalizing preparations. He spotted a couple orbs set up in the courtyard, likely a precaution against the unthinkable.

  “Seems to be coming along nicely,” the paladin yelled.

  Handor nodded.

  The Great Eagles carrying the king’s guard were already touching down on the top of the inner keep. Handor watched the bannermen and heroes fan out and form a perimeter as his own eagle finally swooped in to land.

  “I trust Your Majesty’s flight was a good one,” said Fenrir Goldson as Johan helped the king dismount.

  “Yes, fine, wonderful,” grumbled Handor. It perturbed the king that everyone else seemed to enjoy flying so much; they focused on the sensation of being in the air, the speed at which you traveled, the majesty of the eagles. Handor didn’t think any of that justified the terror of the ground beneath him, the nausea of rising and falling so suddenly, and the frozen snot that encrusted his whiskers after a ride in the icy air.

  “We shall have to invite you to fly out of the city with us more often,” said Bolbi Baggs, stepping down beside Goldson.

  “And under happier circumstances,” said Goldson.

  “Certainly, certainly.” Handor tried to discreetly clean his facial hair. He found a handy distraction in Weaver Ortson plodding up to them. “Ortson, I’m surprised your heroes don’t use these all the time.”

  “Sire?” The loose straps of Ortson’s goggles slapped his face as he looked around in confusion.

  “The eagles, Ortson. One can imagine uses for Great Eagles on just about any quest the Heroes’ Guild could undertake.” Handor nodded to his eagle. It eyed him dispassionately before preening its neck. “Why, how many strange and dangerous journeys could heroes skip if Great Eagles were on hand to carry them to any destination? And what danger could they not escape if the eagles were waiting to sweep them away? I should think you’d want to employ the birds all the time.”

  “And we would, sire, believe me,” said Ortson. “But the accursed creatures have unionized.”

  “Unionized?” Handor stopped brushing his mustache.

  Handor’s eagle made a satisfied clicking noise.

  “Oh, yes, sire. The United Avian Workers dictates all the terms when it comes to hiring Great Eagles for any job. Giant Falcons and Dire Hawks as well. And once you factor in overtime and hazard pay, there’s no way we could afford to have them on anything but a fraction of our quests.”

  “A pity,” said Goldson.

  The eagle gave a high-pitched cry.

  “Yes, you can go on your thrice-cursed break!” snapped Ortson. “Twenty minutes, and not a moment longer.”

  The eagles snapped their beaks at the grandmaster, but collectively shuffled off toward the far corner of the keep.

  “This way, Your Majesty,” said Johan. “The heralds are announcing you now.”

  “Very well.” Handor headed across the flat roof to a small, raised platform. Aides and attendants helped him remove his goggles and flight helmet as he walked, and a circlet was placed on his head as he stepped onto the dais. Below and all around him, bannermen looked up from their duties expectantly. He hadn’t prepared a speech, and he didn’t understand the tactics, but he was more than familiar with appeals to blind patriotism.

  “For Andarun!” he hollered, thrusting a bony fist into the air. “For the Freedlands!”

  “For Andarun!” the bannermen echoed, raising their weapons in reply. “For the King!” Yet the cry faded as quickly as it was raised.

  “Well said, sire,” said Johan.

  “Perhaps,” said Handor. “That sort of thing usually gets them cheering and singing for at least a few minutes.”

  General Gurgen, high commander of the bannermen, stepped forward. She was an ex-hero, with one gray eye and a nose that still looked broken in a few places. Her hair was cropped short and her suit of silver armor was scratched and dented. “You must pardon them, Majesty,” she said in a low, crackling voice. “They have other things on their mind.” She nodded to the horizon.

  Handor turned, and his insides turned to jelly. At first it looked like the storm clouds were casting black shadows over the Ruskan landscape, but then he saw the glowing specters twisting above the black tide. A vast army crept over the land like a foul mold overtaking a carcass.

  “Bones,” he swore.

  “Indeed, sire,” said the general. “The liche’s force is at least three times the size of our own, though there’s no way to know if we’ve yet seen the end of their numbers. It is a threat unlike anything we’ve seen in our lifetime.”

  “When will they attack?” Handor’s lips were dry and his belly had turned to soup.

  “They should reach the walls by midnight, if our scouts are correct. I doubt they’ll wait for dawn to attack. You can be certain that some of those soldiers are going to die tonight.” She thought for a moment, and added, “More than once, in some cases.”

  “I see,” said Handor, mustering his courage. “And… and do you think we’ll carry the day?”

  The general considered the question carefully before nodding. “I do,” she said.

  “We have the orbs, after all,” said Baggs.

  “They’re very, very good orbs,” said Clubs. “The best! And they’re going to—”

  Ortson mercifully cut the blathering businessman off. “And we have the best of the guild’s heroes assembled here.”

  “Plus, we have a greater power on our side,” added Johan.

  Goldson and Baggs rolled their eyes, and Handor could understand why. The king often surmised that Tandos must truly be a god of the people, because his champion always seemed to find religion in public places.

  �
�Those are all well and good,” said General Gurgen. “But we’ll carry the day because we’re in Highwatch. In war after war, for ages upon ages, this fortress has never fallen.”

  King Handor watched the coming darkness on the horizon. “Let us hope that you are right, general. Gods help us if it falls now.”

  Chapter 15

  Gorm seldom invoked the gods. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe that the pantheon could or would involve themselves in the affairs of Man; it was that, historically speaking, everything always got much more convoluted and dangerous when they did. As a general rule, he tried not to bother any deities in the hope that they would return the favor.

  Heights, however, inspired a bit of piety in the Dwarf, if not propriety. He muttered prayers and curses in equal measure as he pressed his body against the stone of the cliff. Below him, the narrow path dropped away into a craggy abyss.

  “Come on, Gorm,” urged Laruna from the other side of the chasm.

  “You can do this,” added Jynn.

  The problem with Burt’s plan was that Ratrup’s pathway up the Highwalls was intended for Kobolds, and therefore was engineered for someone less than a quarter of Gorm’s size. The trail led into passages so narrow that the heroes had to crawl on their bellies. It brought them through ravines so tight they had to walk sideways. But worst of all were the narrow pathways that ran along the cliffs, barely as wide as Gorm’s boots.

  “Thrice… cursed… bloody… fire,” the Dwarf grunted, inching his way along the path. With a final push, he leapt and landed belly first on the wider ridge beyond the gulf. For a brief moment he scrabbled at loose rocks, but Gaist grabbed him by the collar and hauled him to relative safety.

  Just around the next crag, the trail widened into a large, flat ridge, painted blue and black by long shadows cast in the evening’s last light. The fortress of Highwatch dominated the view from the ledge, looming above the heroes even across the mountainous gulf.