Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  The netherboar loosed a horrible squeal and launched itself toward the Dwarf. Red flames bloomed around the creature as it lifted its hooves from the ground and flew forward, gobbets of magma trailing from its fangs. Gorm feinted, then dove to the left once the boar was too close to correct itself. The beast rushed by in a storm of fire and smoke, sparks flying from its hooves as it attempted to stop. A classic straight-line charge from a creature with no depth perception.

  “Easy,” Gorm muttered with a small smile. Many low-ranked heroes had been felled by monsters of sufficient speed and size effectively employing a good, old-fashioned trampling, but any experienced hero knew how to deal with such tactics. He sprinted across the battlefield.

  As he ran, Gorm caught glimpses of the mages battling Detarr. The noctomancer and solamancer sent coordinated lances of light and shadow at the liche, but Detarr dodged their spells as he flitted through the air. The flame around the elder Ur’Mayan’s skull surged in intensity as he wove his own dazzling counterattack—a great web of shadow and lightning that spread across the sky with a crack of thunder. Laruna only just managed to deflect the assault with a burst of light from the Wyrmwood Staff.

  Gorm stopped when he was within a few feet of where the stony plateau met the jagged wall of the mountain. As he turned to ready himself, he nearly stepped on the prone figure of Burt crouched behind a gnarled mountain shrub.

  “What are you doing?” hissed the Kobold. “Go fight!”

  “Ye go and hide!”

  “What do you think I’m doing behind this thrice-cursed bush?” snapped Burt.

  “Somewhere else!” Gorm roared.

  The Kobold scurried away, likely due to the unholy roar of the charging netherboar.

  Gorm waited until he saw the red of the boar’s eye, and then dove to the side again. He was already up and running as he heard the squeal of fear and the screeching of the iron hooves trying to stop on weatherworn granite. A moment later, however, the netherboar loosed a triumphant bellow as it managed to stop a few inches from ramming into the wall.

  “That’s right,” Gorm muttered as he ran. “Get confident.”

  Heraldin stumbled into view. The infernal weasel raced around the bard’s body like a dancing flame. “The teeth!” the bard cried, wildly swinging his rapier at the tiny figure darting around him. “The tiny, fiery teeth!”

  “Out of the way!” Gorm shouted, shouldering the hapless bard out of his path. He could hear the netherboar flying up behind him. Straight ahead, Gaist was locked in combat with the hellhound, his dancing blades flashing amber and crimson in the glow of the infernal beast. “Incoming!”

  Gaist caught the Dwarf’s eye and gave a hint of a nod.

  It was the only signal Gorm needed. He stayed on a collision course until the last possible moment, when he dove to the right with a full-throated scream. “Now!”

  The weaponsmaster leapt aside with a flourish of his cloak. On the other side of the garment, the netherboar was doubtlessly surprised to see the hellhound, which itself gave a desperate yip at the sight of the oncoming avalanche of demonic pigflesh.

  The squeal of the netherboar and the shriek of its hooves on the stone both cut off with a hork as the hellhound lodged headfirst in the pig’s wide maw. Thus entangled, the infernal beasts tumbled end over end, choking and yelping until they crashed into the pile of rocks that had previously been known as Ratrup’s Fort.

  “Hey, watch it!” shouted Burt from wherever he was hiding. “That’s a historic site!”

  The infernal weasel ceased its assault when it saw the feebly twitching forms of its two companions, and a spark of comprehension appeared within its cute little eyes. With a peal of high-pitched, sinister laughter, the last of the infernal beasts leapt from the stricken bard, launched into the air, and flew away.

  “Ye think that did it?” Gorm asked Gaist, staring at the netherboar and hellhound.

  The weaponsmaster shrugged and watched Heraldin try to pat out his smoldering clothes.

  The prone beasts erupted in a mushroom cloud of flame and dust. Gorm ducked under a flying piece of shrapnel, and when he looked up there was nothing left of the beasts—or Ratrup’s Fort—save a scorch mark on the stone.

  “Aw, come on!” hollered Burt.

  A low rumble, dark and sinister, was audible amidst the sound of the mages’ battle. The charred stone began to bubble and bunch, and the smoke coagulated into two small forms, each no bigger than a cook’s pot. Gorm saw hints of red eyes and yellowed teeth before the pair flew off into the sky on leathery black wings, still rumbling with horrible laughter.

  “What are demons doing here?” asked Gorm, watching the retreating fiends.

  “And what is that?” said Heraldin, pointing.

  A brown and gray blur was streaking toward where the mages were still locked in sorcerous combat.

  “Whatever it is,” said Heraldin. “It’s headed straight for—”

  “Jynn!” Gorm shouted, already running.

  Yet his warning was too late. The creature leapt upon the noctomancer, tackling the wizard to the ground. Jynn waved his arms in futile panic as his assailant dove for his face.

  “Hang on, lad!” Gorm shouted, readying his axe. “It’s a—”

  “Dog?” said Laruna.

  The magical battle momentarily subsided as Jynn sat back up, a brown and gray mongrel licking his goatee.

  “Is… Is that… Patches?” Jynn tried to study the dog’s features in between vigorous slurps.

  Patches paused his slobbery assault and barked twice, his tail wagging furiously.

  “But, how? You were a puppy, and that was over twenty…” Insight flashed in Jynn’s eyes, preceding a dark storm cloud that rolled over his face. “You!” he snarled at the liche hovering in the air above him.

  “Well, this is… unexpected,” Detarr scratched the back of his skull with a bony hand. “And a bit awkward.”

  “This has something to do with the hellhound, doesn’t it?” The noctomancer pushed Patches aside and stood to confront the liche.

  “Yes, well, the demise of any soul-bound subject seems to give nearby matter the potential to reconstitute—”

  “Yes or no!” snapped Jynn. “Did you turn my dog into a hellhound?”

  “I knew you wouldn’t handle this well.” Detarr sighed. “Technically, I soul-bound Patches to a demon, and then a hellhound was born at some point decades later.”

  “Y-you killed my p-p-puppy. The pet that you gave me when M-M-Mother died.”

  The liche avoided the noctomancer’s eyes. “Well, I’m not proud of it. The Leviathan Project had run out of funding, you see, and I hadn’t any other test subjects, but we really felt we were near a breakthrough…”

  “You told me Patches ran away!”

  “In my defense, once the experiment began, he did try to—”

  “Y-y-you m-monster!” shouted Jynn, hurling a bolt of lightning at his father.

  “This reaction? This is why I had to hide things from you,” said the liche, dodging easily.

  “You a-always s-say I-I ruined this plan or that p-plan—”

  “It’s not about any one plan,” interrupted the liche. “It’s that it’s all part of a larger pattern.”

  “B-but you stole from me, k-k-killed my d-dog, and l-lied about it. T-to your own s-son!” Jynn snarled. “You’re evil! You always were!”

  “Oh, evil? Now you’re throwing around those outmoded labels as well?” said the liche, clearly offended. “Did you read any of my work since I was killed? Have you even been to Kesh? No?”

  “I-I d-don’t need to—”

  “That’s the problem!” yelled the liche. “You don’t listen! You don’t even know what you’re dealing with, but you still blunder in like any other ignoramus spouting off about old ideas without thinking them through! And that’s how you ruin my plans, over and over again!”

  Jynn was about to holler a reply when a bang sounded behind Detarr, not unlike the firewo
rks that Scribkin often peddled at big celebrations. In the distance, a pinpoint of violet light was ascending from the ranks of the dead into the sky.

  “Case in point!” said Detarr, waving a hand at the rising spark. “Now they’ve had to start without me! Do you know how long I’ve been planning this moment? And now I’m going to miss it!”

  “Y-y-you d-don’t… y-you c-can’t… y-you—argh!” Jynn couldn’t manage more than an unintelligible snarl as he loosed another spell at his father. The liche dodged the weave of black shadows and blue lightning, but Jynn corrected the blast’s trajectory with a twist of his wrist. The searing spell raked across his father’s robes.

  Detarr shrieked in pain and floated to a higher altitude, clutching his side. The fires in the sockets of his eyes blazed as he glared down at his son. “Well, boy, it seems you’ve managed to learn some skill after all.”

  Jynn sputtered in fury, trying to answer. “Y-y-your f-fight is h-h-here, with m-me!”

  “No, you fool,” snarled the liche. “There is no fight. I’ve already won.”

  Chapter 16

  Ferra of House Lleweryn lobbed a fireball over the edge of Highwatch’s ramparts. It fell until it was nothing but a glowing speck. A moment later its descent was punctuated with a distant flash and rumble. The solamancer nodded in satisfaction.

  “Ye are not to attack yet,” said Jedik. The burly Dwarf glared up at the Elf.

  Ferra snorted. “Tell that to whoever cast the massive light spell,” she said. “They took at least a quarter of the kills in one shot. And they weren’t even the first to fire.”

  “They won’t get points for the kills,” said Jedik. “The guild shan’t reward those who ignore the contracts.”

  “Oh, look around you. Everyone’s ignoring the contracts.” Ferra waved her arm across the fortress. Along the eastern ramparts, professional heroes wove spells, tossed exploding vials of phosphorescent liquid, slung enchanted stones, loosed arrows, and in one instance, fired blasts of glittering dust from an elaborate Gnomish steam cannon.

  “Even the Silverfire Six are attacking,” Ferra pointed to the famous crew, already weaving another fireball in her off-hand. “Besides, it’s only a matter of time before they fire up those big orbs and annihilate the whole undead army.” She nodded at the luminous sphere a short way up the rampart. Strange Umbraxian workers scuttled around its base, clad in their body-length coats and crimson goggles. “And nobody gets the points for all those kills.”

  “T’isn’t right,” said Jedik. “The contracts say we’re to go in order.”

  “The contracts are for the lawyers to sort out,” Ferra said, hurling the fireball over the rampart. “At the end of the day, there are going to be two groups of heroes walking out of Highwatch. Those who got enough kills to earn some points or a spot of loot, and those who forgot to bring a ranged weapon.”

  Jedik only snorted and turned back to the battlefield, his warhammer slung impotently over his shoulder. “T’isn’t right.”

  “A travesty,” Ferra murmured, looking over the ramparts. “How many do you suppose I hit with that last fireball?”

  “What’s that dancin’ light?” Jedik asked.

  “A flaming zombie, I think,” said Ferra, squinting down at the crater left by her spell. “Must have been close to the blast.”

  “T’isn’t a zombie,” said Jedik.

  “A ghoul, maybe? But look at the way it staggers—well, who can say from this distance? It looks like a drunken firefly from up here.”

  “I’m talkin’ about the glow in the sky,” said Jedik, pointing.

  Ferra looked up and saw a faint purple spark rising toward the clouds. Just short of its zenith, the spark burst into a starburst of amethyst light. The heroes on the ramparts ducked behind the wall, but the expected blast of sorcerous nastiness never reached them. When Ferra peeked over the edge of the fortification, she saw strange writing emblazoned in glowing violet trails across the sky. They read:

  ‘YUTANI ARM TRADERS’

  “Is that some kind of advertisement?” asked Jedik.

  Ferra felt a sinking feeling in her gut. She turned to stare at the great glowing orbs being set up across the ramparts. “Isn’t that the Umbraxian company that built the—”

  “Look, they’re movin’,” Jedik interrupted.

  The letters slid around in the sky like tiles from a Gnomish printing press. The blood froze in Ferra’s veins as they found their final place.

  IT’S DETARR UR’MAYAN

  “Bones,” swore Jedik. It looked like he was saying something else, but his voice was drowned out by the screams erupting around the ramparts.

  The Umbraxian attendants around the great orbs had thrown aside their long coats, revealing rotten, pitted torsos. Azure flames sprang from their hands, setting the bannermen about them alight.

  “Revenants,” gasped Ferra.

  Jedik brushed past her, charging toward the cackling undead. Ferra followed him, already readying a spell. Ahead of them, other heroes rushed toward the orbs to mount a counter-offensive against the revenants. A golden spear impaled one abomination, and a noctomancer’s lightning reduced another to a twitching mass of charred flesh. Ferra wondered if there would be any left to kill by the time she reached the base of the glowing, green orb.

  Then she heard the crack.

  The wretched sound rent the air, leaving a high-pitched whine at the corner of hearing. Then there was another crack, and then a snap, and she could see deep fissures winding up the side of the great emerald orb.

  “Run!” Ferra yelled amid a chorus of similar warnings, but they were all too late. The orb exploded in a tide of vile, viscous fluid. The cries of the heroes and bannermen closest to the epicenter cut off as the green wave rolled over them. Ferra watched the entire Silverfire Six fall under the noxious wave in an instant. Moments later, their oozing remains stood back up and shambled toward the survivors.

  Ferra turned and fled. Behind her, the ooze was creeping along with sinister purpose, winding its way along the ramparts in a grim river. Any bannermen or hero caught in the viscous mass was sucked under the surface, only to emerge as another undead soldier trying to pull the living into the slime. The remaining defenders pushed each other out of the way to flee.

  Ferra turned her attention to retreat and then stopped short. Ahead of her, another orb had already completed its grim task. Her path was blocked by a horde of shambling corpses and a chartreuse pool of bubbling death. There was no escape.

  The solamancer grit her teeth and began to weave a fireball. “I’ll just have to fight my way—”

  The words were knocked from her, along with the rest of her breath, as something heavy slammed into her ribcage. She stumbled and turned to see Jedik looming over her. The remnants of the Dwarf’s black beard barely clung to his green and shriveled flesh, but his gaunt frame was imbued with a supernatural strength. The second swing of his warhammer swept her over the edge of the ramparts and into oblivion.

  “An anagram.” Jynn was stone-faced as he stared at the glowing letters in the sky over the battlefield. “The big r-reveal of your m-master plan was an anagram.”

  Gorm and the other combatants stared at the message in the air above Highwatch. Screams rang out along the ramparts.

  “Perhaps the wordplay was a little indulgent,” conceded Detarr. “But I needed a good line to ensure the living will grasp the full scope of my plans.”

  “It’s just… It’s just so v-vulgar!” spat Jynn. “People are dying, and you’re worried about how it looks!”

  “I take pride in my work!” said the liche. “And there’s nothing wrong with a good quip. They say you’re allowed to make one.”

  “Are you s-serious?” Jynn hurled a spell at his father. “It’s a m-maladroit, tacky joke punctuating a tr-travesty!”

  “Tacky?” The liche made a rapid series of precise gestures, and an intricate web of darkness and stone sprang up from the plateau to intercept the spell. “How dare y
ou?”

  “Y-you have the subtlety of a-a-a warhammer!” shouted the noctomancer. “You always d-do everything so g-garishly over-the-top! E-even those oh-ov-overcomplicated wards you’re w-weaving are just meant t-to im-im-impress us!”

  “As usual, you are mistaken, boy.” Detarr shrugged and flexed his fingers, sending the glowing wards around him into an intricate dance. “I might have strong aesthetic sensibilities, but there’s always a purpose to my work. These weaves are a perfect example. They weren’t for your benefit.”

  Jynn shook his head. “Then who?”

  “Why not ask the solamancer?” The skeletal wizard nodded to Laruna.

  Gorm and the other heroes turned to look at the mage. The solamancer leaned back as though wrestling an invisible opponent. Her face and knuckles blanched as she gripped the Wyrmwood Staff. “I can’t!” she wheezed, her voice strained to the breaking point. “Jynn, I can’t…”

  “You can’t what, girl?” mused Detarr as his son rushed to the mage. “Fight? Weave? Or even hang on? It looks like that staff you’re holding is proving uncooperative.”

  Gorm swore under his breath, but then he realized that all eyes were on the solamancer. It was as close to a chance as the berserker would ever have. He charged, rapidly closing the distance between himself and the distracted liche.

  A shard of stone erupted from the rock in front of him, catching his shoulder. Another ripped through the spot where he landed, forcing him to pivot awkwardly into the path of a third lance of stone. Cursing, the Dwarf scrambled back in retreat.

  The liche turned and caught his eye, and Gorm felt his stomach drop. The window of opportunity to attack the liche was gone. It had never really been an opportunity at all.

  “Come on,” Jynn said, rushing to Laruna’s side. “You can do this.”

  “Can’t hold… it,” gasped Laruna. “It… doesn’t… want to be used.”

  “Close!” Glee was evident in Detarr’s voice. “It doesn’t want you to use it.”

  “And this is why you never trust a sentient weapon,” said Heraldin.