Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  “Is this it?” asked Heraldin.

  “There doesn’t seem to be any more of the path,” said Jynn, looking up the mountain.

  “What did you expect?” asked Burt. “We’re high in the mountains, and we can see Highwatch.”

  “Ye said there’d be a fort,” said Gorm.

  “There is. Sort of.” Laruna pulled aside some scrub brush to reveal a motley heap of stones, no higher than Gorm’s waist, arrayed in a semicircle against the fortress of Highwatch.

  “There it is!” said Burt, his tail wagging madly as he ran around the tiny fortification. “Ratrup’s Fort! Legends walked where we are now!”

  “It’s a pile of rocks,” said Gorm.

  “It ain’t—” Burt growled and shook his head. “That ain’t just a pile of rocks. It’s disguised to look like one, so the Lightlings looking out of Highwatch would think it’s harmless.”

  “Well, it’s workin’ a little too well then,” said Gorm. “‘Cause I ain’t that far away and even I think it’s just a pile—”

  “It isn’t a pile of rocks!” Burt’s hackles were up far enough to give the impression of a ruffled collar.

  “When you’re through discussing the scenery, we have more pressing matters to attend to,” Heraldin said from the easternmost edge of Ratrup’s ledge. The bard and Gaist stood on the edge of the cliff, staring out over the Ruskan landscape.

  The eastern foothills of the Highwalls teemed with shambling ranks of the walking dead. Beyond that, the blighted grasslands were covered with a seething, black mass of undead illuminated by the occasional glow of erupting Shadowflame.

  Gorm turned to Laruna. “Ye ready with that staff?”

  The solamancer nodded, her mouth pulled into a tight line. She walked to the edge of the cliff and set the bottom of the Wyrmwood Staff into a small notch in the stone, releasing it with an arcane gesture and a murmured incantation. The staff remained upright, an amber glow emanating from the crystal at its top.

  “What does this thing do, anyway?” asked Heraldin.

  “Lots of things,” said Laruna. “It amplifies power, aids in weaving, provides meta-magical benefits—”

  “Yes, yes, that’s fine,” said the bard. “But I meant here. Now. Specifically, what can it do against that many undead?”

  “We don’t know, exactly. We’re going to use it as a focus for sigils of light and life and find out.” Jynn took Laruna’s hand in his own as they stared out at the grim army. “Together.”

  “Whatever happens,” the solamancer whispered with a brave smile.

  “Whatever happens,” said Jynn.

  “Whatever happens should happen quick,” said Gorm.

  “Right.” Laruna released Jynn’s hand and began to weave.

  Wisps of flame flickered into existence around the solamancer’s arms, spiraling around her wrists toward her palms, where her fingers deftly twisted them into the beginnings of a spell. Her hair rose up as though carried by the wind, and soon the mage herself lifted off the ground, borne aloft by the currents of magic.

  Gorm shivered and adjusted his furs and cloak; a deeper chill settled over the plateau as Laruna’s gathering power drew out the last of the warmth in the air. He noticed Burt creeping back away from the mages.

  “Off to hide?” he asked Burt.

  “Hey, do you know the average life span of a Kobold soldier?” said Burt. “It’s one battle.”

  “I’d heard as much,” Gorm said.

  “That’s why I make a point of attending zero battles. So if you need anything afterward, give me a shout. Otherwise, I’m gonna duck down behind those shrubs and have a smoke.”

  “Fair enough,” said Gorm, turning back to the mages.

  Now Laruna wove thick cords of flame into strange sigils, and her eyes glowed with power. She spoke otherworldly litanies in an echoing voice, and Gorm could see that Jynn was mouthing the words along with the solamancer as he looked up at her. When the chant reached its zenith, the solamancer thrust both hands toward the Wyrmwood Staff. Her flaming symbols flew into the staff’s crystal, followed by the errant threads whirling around her. The glow in the solamancer’s eyes faded and she dropped back to the ground as all the magic nearby was drawn into the sorcerous focus.

  They stood and watched the staff for a breathless moment. The glow in its crystal faltered, then faded altogether.

  “Did it fail?” said Heraldin.

  Gorm scratched his beard. “It must need to—”

  The Wyrmwood Staff flared with searing golden light, bright enough to send the heroes stumbling backward. Gorm shut his eyes and dove for cover, but he could still see the blinding, all-consuming luminance.

  Tyren surveyed the battlefield from a raised platform. Before him, endless ranks of the dead rolled like a black wave toward the mountain fortress. Beyond the marching ranks, he could see the soldiers and warriors on the walls of Highwatch, staring with grim determination at the approaching force. Some of the figures on the ramparts scuttled around what looked like massive glass spheres, glowing with a wan green light.

  “Is everything in order, Knight-Commander?” asked Detarr.

  “We launched an hour ago, lord.” Tyren turned back to the liche.

  “Excellent,” said Detarr. “And how goes the campaign?”

  The knight-commander glanced down at the clipboard. A grid of figures was scrawled out in the Head of Marketing’s handwriting, for lack of a better term. “A disappointing conversion rate, sir.”

  Detarr looked at Tyren. “And by that you mean…”

  Tyren was prepared for the line of inquiry. The key to managing failure was to make it sound like success. “Our forecasts predicted this particular demographic, especially given their geographic location and particular needs, would be very reluctant to embrace our message. So I’m happy to report that we’ve confirmed our forecasting model to be accurate.” It also helped to make everything sound as complicated and technical as possible.

  “Well… good,” said Detarr without enthusiasm.

  Tyren moved on to future successes quickly. “The Head of Marketing is working on the next campaign. We think the fall of Highwatch will give us a powerful message to—”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure it will be grand. It seems the task of taking Highwatch shall fall to… other methods. Are the troops ready, Lady Genevieve?”

  “Ready and willing, lord,” said Genevieve, hovering in the air above them.

  “Great. And your arrangements are ready, Lady Carabae?”

  The vampire materialized from the shadows. “Indeed, master.”

  “Excellent!” The liche nodded happily. “The moment is at hand, yes? Bachopel’s Tocatta and Fugue in D-Minor should do nicely.”

  From behind them, the Gnomish organ roared to life. High, piping notes filled the air.

  “Ah, now there we are.” Detarr paused for a moment, humming along with the music and counting out the notes. At the height of the piece’s exposition, the liche pointed to a brazier on the ground borne by a skeletal construct. A flare of viridian Shadowflame separated from the blaze and rose high into the air, bursting on a high note. Across the battlefield, the undead shambled forward at the signal.

  Flashes of light erupted from the ramparts of Highwatch as its defenders sent arrows and spells raining down on the encroaching monsters. Lady Carabae gestured toward the spells. “Master, perhaps it is time to—”

  “Almost. Timing is everything.” The liche swept his hand back and forth with the deep swells of the music. “And you may give the signal in five… four… three… two—”

  A boom like the gods’ own cannon rang out, and a wave of searing light washed over the undead legion. The southern half of the front ranks were vaporized in an instant. Ghosts and banshees caught in the blast were reduced to nothing more than traces of ectoplasm and faint wails on the rushing wind.

  The blazing light remained even after the shock wave faded, shining like a beacon in the Highwalls south of the fortress.
Something about the light held Tyren’s gaze as a flame binds a moth’s attention, and as he stared he felt a deep terror welling up within him. He could sense the Master’s commands in the back of his mind, the Crown of Iron Thorns compelling him to stand firm, but to no avail. The knight-commander took a step back. On the edge of his vision he could see the ranks of the undead breaking apart in open flight, and he heard the banshees and ghosts screeching around him as they retreated.

  “Why is it always at the worst possible time?” sighed Detarr.

  “What is it?” Tyren backed away from the horrible light.

  “A distraction. How fortunate that I have countermeasures,” said the liche, rising into the air. “Release the infernal beasts! Lady Carabae, I leave the fortress to you. Knight-Commander! The beasts!”

  The last order snapped Tyren from his stupor. He turned and pushed his way through the fleeing mob of undead. Zombies, ghouls, and skeletons all ran from the sight of the agonizing light, and the knight-commander had to fight the tide to reach the large cage.

  “Open the cage!” Tyren yelled, staggering toward the door. “Loose the infernal beasts!”

  Nobody responded. Ned and Ted had fled with the rest of the dead.

  With an unholy growl, Tyren shoved aside a panicked skeleton and fumbled with the latch. Dark shapes stirred in the depths of the cage, lurking shadows that the magical light never seemed to touch.

  Then the latch released, and within a split-second the cage door burst open in a sudden wave of fire and heat. The knight-commander fell to the ground as three blazing shapes erupted from the cage and launched into the air. They trailed after the distant liche like fiery comets arcing across the sky.

  Lights swam in front of Kaitha’s eyes as she ran through waves of glowing grasses, psychedelic colors rolling through the field with every gust of wind. Strange faces leered up at her from the logs and rocks littering her path, and a gibbous moon laughed at her as she fled.

  She wasn’t sure what was pursuing her. It often sounded like more than one thing, and it certainly had more legs and eyes than any one creature should rightfully possess. At times it looked like a massive, bat-winged scarg, at others a sort of fleshy drake with faces leering from every inch of its skin, and sometimes it seemed just a bubbling black shape swimming through the land behind her. It nipped at her heels, howling garbled words in an incomprehensible tongue.

  Her pursuer’s amorphous nature had initially led Kaitha to believe that it was merely a hallucination of her elixir-deprived mind. But then the first swipe of its arm, or perhaps its tentacle, had connected with enough force to knock her off course. Pain has a way of connecting you to reality, or at least something approximating it. The threat was clear enough.

  The ground beneath her swam, catching her leg. With a choked cry she stumbled and rolled through yellow and blue wisps. By the time she righted herself, her pursuer had surrounded her. Or rather, her pursuers.

  Their faces were blue and scaled, each with long fangs and no fewer than three eyes. Their bodies ran together like too many slimes pressed into a barrel, but their faces were distinct and grinning with undisguised malice. They pressed in around her, and amid their laughter and gibbering she heard the whispers of steel being drawn from scabbards.

  “Go away!” she screamed, closing her eyes and putting her hands over her ears. She could hear her own blood roaring in her veins. “Just go away!”

  The first blow came from behind, a hard knock to the back of her head that sent her staggering. A knee caught her in the stomach, knocking the breath from her, and another strike hit her in the shoulder. She lashed back with a right hook that flowed into a high kick, both of which connected firmly. A hard punch slammed into her side, and the uppercut that followed took her off her feet. She landed hard on a field of teeth and bone, the taste of copper and dirt filling her mouth. A scaled hand grabbed her wrist, and another seized her ankles. Kaitha let out a long scream.

  To her surprise, the hands let go. She curled into a small ball, still shrieking, and braced herself for an attack that never came. After a while, it occurred to her that she wasn’t the only one screaming.

  She opened one eye and caught a brief glimpse of one of the blue scaled creatures sailing through the air, its face a mask of terror. A couple of her assailants lay twitching on the ground, bent in places that seemed unnatural even for their strange anatomy. Another attacker ran across her field of vision, but something grabbed the creature mid-stride and pulled it into the air. A moment later its shrieks cut off with a sudden crack.

  Kaitha shut her eyes and held her breath. The screams of her remaining pursuers faded in the distance. She heard the ragged breathing of a huge creature and could sense its presence inches from her. Her whole body trembled no matter how she tried to keep still.

  She was startled as great hands slipped under her, but they were gentle and soft. Strong arms lifted her slowly, cradling her to a massive, furry chest. She felt the wind in her hair, but the great creature sheltered her body from the chill. She opened one eye, and this time saw a shaggy blue and gray coat of fur and hands the color of stone.

  When her eyelid drifted closed again, though, she could see wildflowers and green mosses and an ancient maple tree. For the first time in a long while, she felt safe. “Just like the garden,” she murmured.

  As hallucinations went, it was as pleasant as she could hope for. She held onto the thought until finally, mercifully, sleep found her.

  “No time for lyin’ around.” Gorm gave the bard’s leg a kick. “Get up.”

  “Did it work?” asked Heraldin, pushing himself to his feet.

  “Had an effect, that’s for sure.” Gorm squinted as he tried to survey the battlefield beyond the brilliant light. “Seems like there’s a lot less of the undead out there.”

  “But did we kill Detarr?” asked Laruna.

  “No,” said Jynn. The noctomancer pointed to the sky, where four glowing comets were hurtling toward the heroes. “We just made him angry.”

  The foremost plume of light accelerated. Gorm barked a few orders, but his party was still scrambling to get into formation when Detarr Ur’Mayan arrived in a burst of violet flames. He hovered in the air above the heroes, arms outstretched and shadows dancing from his fingers. “Who dares to stand against—you again?” The liche’s grandiose speech slumped into paternal exasperation. “What are you doing here?”

  “W-we’ve come to… t-to… w-we’ve c-c-c-ome—!” Jynn choked back a stammer.

  “It doesn’t even matter!” snarled Detarr. “The gods alone know how anyone could blunder into so many of my plans, let alone my son. You’re a veritable avatar of Novian philosophy.”

  Jynn pointed at his father. “You—you can’t—”

  “You can’t possibly have intended to cause all of this chaos, I know. That would require careful preparations, and, well, you see where I’m going with this.” Detarr was calm as he descended to the plateau. “I’m more inclined to believe your talent for disrupting my schemes is nothing more than a novice’s luck. And as you don’t seem to have a serendipitous Troll to rescue you this time, we can surmise that luck has run—”

  A sudden blast of golden flame melted through the liche’s magical defenses, cutting off his speech and very nearly doing the same to his arm. Detarr recoiled with a hiss.

  “Gods, do you ever stop talking?” growled Laruna. She leveled the Wyrmwood Staff at the liche as she advanced on him. The brilliant light had faded from its crystal, but the gem still thrummed with latent power.

  “The Wyrmwood Staff of Geffyn?” said Detarr, eyeing Laruna warily. “How did you—well, I suppose it doesn’t matter how you found it. It does change things, though.”

  Laruna fired another volley of sorcery. The liche dodged and returned a blast of violet flames, but she brushed away his attack with a wave of the staff. Detarr followed up with a spell when Laruna was off-balance, but a bolt of noctomancy from Jynn threw the liche off guard again.


  Gorm stalked around the edge of the magical battle, looking for an opening to strike. He spotted an opportunity, signaled to Gaist, and made it two steps into his charge when a flaming comet crashed into the stone in front of him. As Gorm leapt back, the black ball at the projectile’s blazing center unfolded itself into a hulking form with tusks of iron and bone and a single, baleful eye that glowed like magma.

  “I wouldn’t say one against five is unfair under these circumstances,” Detarr called, dodging a blast of solamancy. “But it does seem inefficient. My infernal beasts will help speed things up.”

  Gorm took a step back and found himself next to Gaist, who was facing off against what appeared to be a crossbreed of a pit dog and a Gnomish furnace. “Infernal beasts? Ye ever seen the likes o’ these before?”

  Gaist shook his head grimly.

  “I think the brute force of my netherboar and the fury of my hellhound will be more than a match for the likes of you,” said the liche.

  “And this one?” said Heraldin, pointing his rapier at some sort of flaming rodent in front of him. “What do you call this little fellow?”

  “Ahem, yes. That’s, uh, that’s the fiendish weasel,” said Detarr, with notably less enthusiasm.

  “The fiendish weasel?” laughed Heraldin. “Look at his tiny, angry eyes! He’s more adorable than—aurarablaugh!”

  The fiendish weasel, while indisputably cute, was also remarkably ferocious. It whipped around the bard in an orange blur, a tiny firestorm that left bite marks and burns in its wake.

  “I didn’t exactly set out to make one,” said the liche smugly. “But you know how it is when you’re experimenting. Every so often you get one of those happy accidents.”

  Gorm kept a wary eye on the one-eyed boar. The demonic creature pawed at the stone with an iron hoof, snorting with obvious menace.

  “Easy, lad. Easy,” said Gorm slowly.