Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  Yet in all his years, he’d never encountered an ill omen as certain or forceful as a mechanical warrior smashing through the wall of his chambers.

  Dust and rubble fell around Gorm as he scrambled to his feet. Amid the smoke above him, he could see a single, glowing orb searching the abandoned office. The golem’s eye shifted from golden to red when it fell upon Gorm, and a series of chimes sounded from somewhere within its metal chest.

  “This is going to a bad day,” Gorm said to himself as he grabbed his axe. With a heavy sigh, he darted left just as a huge blade cleaved his bedroll in two.

  The combat golem lurched through the wall in pursuit. It looked like a giant’s suit of armor supported on four sturdy legs. One of the centaurian centurion’s arms ended in a massive sword, the other bore a thick shield crackling with enchantments. Worst of all, it was followed by at least five duplicate golems, their cyclopean eyes glowing red as they spotted Gorm through the dust.

  “A really, really bad day,” Gorm growled. The craftsmanship and ingenuity of the golems were recognizable as Barty Ficer’s work, and that meant that this was no random encounter. If Barty was sending golems, there was a lot of gold involved.

  “Assassins!” Gorm shouted a warning as he ran down the narrow passage to the main chamber of the guildhall. “We’ve got assassins!”

  “What tipped you off?” screamed Heraldin from somewhere ahead.

  Gorm dove through the door to the main hall moments before the pursuing golems smashed through it in a cloud of splinters. The great hall was a battlefield, illuminated by spreading flames and occasional gouts of sorcery. Jynn and Laruna fought back to back, surrounded by four of Barty’s constructs. A lithe Imperial woman in dark silks leapt among the feet of the golems, throwing daggers at the mages.

  Heraldin was locked in combat with a woman in dark purple robes. The bard threw down a glass grenade that exploded in a cloud of amber smoke, but the enemy noctomancer conjured a gust of wind to send the choking smoke screen back in Heraldin’s face, and followed it with a bolt of lightning.

  Gaist darted by, pursued by Gaist. The weaponsmaster and his double were locked in a deadly dance, wielding blades, maces, and handy pieces of furniture. One of the Gaists was clearly winning, but it was impossible to be sure which one it was.

  “They’ve got a thrice-cursed doppelganger!” Gorm yelled. He started to charge forward, but a sweep from a golem’s blade forced him to dodge, and he quickly found himself cornered by a squad of Barty’s soldiers. The warrior braced himself.

  Deep breaths. That was the key.

  For a berserker, the secret to successfully losing control was controlling when you lost it. Battle rage wouldn’t intimidate a golem, but it would inhibit Gorm’s pattern recognition, and pattern recognition was everything when fighting constructs.

  The lead golem’s head snapped forward. There was a flicker in its single eye-orb. Its elbow wound back with a ratcheting sound, and then the pistons in its arms and torso gasped as it swung its blade.

  Gorm leapt out of the way. He could already hear the next golem’s arm clicking into position for a strike. A couple more quick dodges, and he had the sequence.

  Snap. Flicker. Click-click-click. Jump.

  Gorm was in mid-air by the time the next golem’s blade embedded itself in the guildhall’s ancient floorboards. His legs were already pumping by the time his heavy boots clanked against the golem’s armored forearm. Before the mechanical warrior could react, Gorm launched himself onto its shoulder and put his axe through the glass orb in the center of its mechanical head. There was a flash of light as the sprites within the orb winked out of existence.

  Gorm didn’t pause. He dropped and slid down to hang from the reeling golem’s shoulders just as the next construct’s swing came. The blade passed through the air where Gorm had been a moment earlier, and then it passed through the distressed golem’s head with a shriek of steel on iron. Sparks flashed in the darkness, a few of which fell near a bright red bladder prominently placed between the mechanical giant’s shoulders.

  “Bones!” Gorm swore as he launched himself from the stricken golem. He danced off the head of the next centurion in line, but a swing of a third golem’s shield knocked him off course and sent him flying across the room. His landing was a tumbling, skidding affair that nearly crushed a diminutive figure.

  “Watch it!” barked Burt from the safety of an overturned desk.

  “Burt! What are ye doing, lad?” Gorm hollered, righting himself.

  Burt ducked as an errant spell seared the wall overhead. “Hey, what did I tell you about the average life expectancy of a Kobold in battle?”

  “Fine! Make yourself useful then.” Gorm watched the remaining combat golems realign on him. There were still more than half a dozen standing. “Go find help!”

  “Oh, right. I’ll just fetch someone, right?” Burt’s hackles rose. “You Lightlings all sound the same. ‘Oh, laddie, someone’s fallen and hurt themselves! Go find help, boy!’”

  “Get going!” Gorm roared, bracing himself as the golems charged.

  Whether it was the tone of the Dwarf’s voice or the onrushing wall of steel and death, Burt leapt out the window with a yip just before the lead golem brought its giant blade slamming down onto the floor.

  Gorm leapt atop the golem again. A quick blow from his axe shattered the golem’s glass eye before he vaulted off its shoulder, kicked off the next one’s head, and leapt over the next two. He landed on the pauldron of the last golem in his path and let the momentum of his flight carry his axe through its eye.

  “Ha!” Gorm barked, launching himself into the air once more. Any satisfaction he took in the successful maneuver faded when he noticed that his trajectory was on a collision course with Heraldin. Just beyond the bard, the assassins’ noctomancer was weaving crackling strands of lightning and shadow. Sudden inspiration struck. “Heraldin, get down!”

  Adventuring in the wilds of Arth had a few hard and fast rules: Always bring a rope. Never split the party. Don’t trust dark pools in remote locations with suspiciously still water and a dearth of wildlife nearby. And when your companion yells “get down,” drop as fast as gravity will take you.

  A year on the road had conditioned Heraldin well. He flopped onto the floor without hesitation, much to the surprise of the noctomancer attempting to assassinate him. She was likely even more surprised to see a flying Dwarf sailing toward her, though it couldn’t be said for certain, as she didn’t even have time to scream.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” the bard quipped, dusting himself off.

  “This ain’t the time for being clever,” Gorm growled, shaking bits of mage off his boots. He nodded at the pack of metal assassins trying to sort out how to maneuver around their blinded squad mates.

  “Right. I’ve got it,” said Heraldin, drawing a throwing dagger.

  “No!” Gorm reached out, but it was too late to stop the flick of Heraldin’s wrist.

  The dagger shot through the air, through the gap in the closest golem’s shoulder blades, through the red membrane of bulbous bladder hanging out of its back. The golem was instantly engulfed in noxious, olive-colored gas.

  “Get back!” Gorm roared, dragging the bard away from the billowing cloud. “Don’t breathe it in!”

  “What is it?” choked Heraldin, his arm over his face.

  “It’s thrice-cursed poison ye released with your bloody dagger,” snapped Gorm.

  “Why would it have poison gas in its weak spot?” Heraldin asked incredulously.

  “It ain’t a weak spot!” snapped Gorm. “It was a trap!”

  “Well, how was I to know?” Heraldin jerked his arm away from Gorm’s grip.

  “By using your bloody head!” snapped Gorm. “When an artificer finds a weak spot on a golem, they fix it or cover it in armor! They don’t paint the bloody thing red unless it’s a trap for thrice-cursed fools!”

  “Seriously?” hollered Laruna. One of the golems surrounding the m
ages had been reduced to molten slag, but the remaining three pressed in menacingly. “Are you seriously having this conversation right now?”

  “It seemed relevant!” Gorm shot back.

  “It’s not a matter of relevance!” Jynn unleashed a ball of conjured lightning that narrowly missed the assassin darting through the golems. “It’s about prioritization!”

  “Help us!” shouted Laruna. “Or Gaist!”

  Sudden inspiration lit up the bard’s face. “Or both!”

  “What are ye gettin’ at? We still haven’t escaped your last idea.” Gorm eyed the rolling green fog and the golems looming behind it.

  “Trust me.” Heraldin drew a small, folded slip of paper from one of his belt pouches. “Just get ready to help the mages.”

  Gorm exhaled through his teeth and trained his sights on the darting assassin dancing atop the golems facing Jynn and Laruna. “Fine. Just do it quick—them golems have almost sorted themselves out.”

  Heraldin nodded and readied himself. “Just say when.”

  “Now!” barked Gorm.

  The bard flipped the slip open and looked at the rune inside.

  The Creative Destruction Anti-Magic Rune flashed briefly. A gentle explosion emanated from the symbol like faint whispers in the fabric of reality. Gorm watched the world ripple behind the shockwave, leaving everything but the magic intact.

  Jynn and Laruna’s spells died in their hands. The light in the golems’ eyes flickered out, and they froze in place. The constructs’ sudden stop was doubly unfortunate for the Imperial woman leaping between them. She sailed through the spot where a golem’s shoulder should have been and, finding it empty, dropped to the floor.

  Gorm was waiting for her.

  There was a common adage that a successful assassin strikes first, strikes fast, and strikes hard. Perhaps it was professional pride, but it was left unspoken that assassins should avoid being struck back at all costs. Gorm had often found that those who carried a poison dagger often had a glass jaw as well.

  It only took one punch. The Imperial woman squealed as she flew through the air with much more force and considerably less grace than usual. Her head cracked against a stationary golem’s leg, and she dropped twitching to the floor

  “Ha! That worked, lad!” beamed Gorm, turning back to his companions.

  They didn’t respond. Instead, they were all agape as they stared at the far corner of the room.

  “What are ye lookin’…” Gorm dropped the sentence as his jaw fell open.

  The rune had forced the doppelganger fighting Gaist to revert to its natural form: a lithe figure with ashen skin and a face that was featureless save a pair of bulbous, dusk-colored eyes. It stood in bewilderment with Gaist’s signature black leather armor and crimson scarf dangling from its thin frame.

  Across from it, looking equally bewildered, stood another doppelganger, also draped in Gaist’s armor.

  Burt scuttled through the ruined town of Haertswood, sticking to the back streets and alleys. The rain had subsided, and now the full moon peered from between the remnants of the clouds. This far from the battle in the guildhall, the town was eerily quiet.

  “Hello? Can anybody help us?” Burt’s shout was more of a throaty whisper or a hushed yell. It was enough to give the pretense of searching for help without actually being heard.

  “Help. We need help.”

  It wasn’t that the Kobold didn’t want to send aid to his companions. He did, but he also wanted to live to see the sun rise. Burt doubted anyone within earshot could help, but he was certain that a gang of bloodthirsty assassins had recently infiltrated the city. There was only so much one Kobold could do. At least, that was what he kept reminding himself.

  “Nobody? Nobody wants to help?” he said, ducking into a small alley filled with the debris of battle.

  There was no response. Given the circumstances, he had mixed feelings about this. There was a disproportionate amount of guilt in the mix no matter how determinedly he convinced himself that he was doing all he could.

  “Yeah, I didn’t think so.” The Kobold produced a cigarette from his vest and struck a match on a nearby stone wall. He leaned against the wall, took a long drag, and nearly choked to death as the entrance to the alleyway was suddenly eclipsed by a hairy figure.

  “Burt?” Thane stepped into the alley. In his arms, he cradled Kaitha, still in her filthy nightclothes, holding her bow and quiver as a sleeping child clings to a doll. “What’s wrong?”

  The Kobold dropped to his knees. He could only manage a barking cough as he tried to dislodge a lit cigarette from his throat. “Argh! Arph!”

  “Is it Gorm and the others?” asked Thane.

  “Ark! Ack!” Burt waved a paw toward the guildhall.

  The Troll looked back over his shoulder, worried. “Are they in trouble?” asked Thane.

  “Arf! Aargh!”

  “Is there danger? Do they need help?” The Troll squatted down next to the Kobold. “Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  With a final cough, Burt spat the cigarette onto the cobblestones. “Bleah! Gods, yes, they need help! Of course that’s what I was trying to say! They’ve run into a team of assassins and murder golems. And also, I couldn’t breathe, if anyone cares!”

  Thane looked to the guildhall. “All right,” he said. “I’ll go and help them. You watch over Kaitha.”

  “What?” Burt danced out of the way as the Troll gingerly laid the Elf down amid the debris. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Just keep her safe.” Thane smiled as the Elf scowled and shifted at the touch of cool stone. “I think she’ll finally wake soon.”

  “She’s been asleep this whole time?” said Burt.

  “Since I found her, yes,” said Thane. “I’ve been worried, but she’s stirred more lately. Watch over her until she wakes up.”

  “Well, yeah, but… I mean, there’s assassins out there,” said Burt. “I’m a handbag performer by trade, right? And the average lifespan of a Kobold soldier is one… one…” The Kobold fell silent as Thane leaned down.

  Burt stared into the Troll’s giant, weary eyes. Eyes that said their owner hadn’t had enough sleep lately. Eyes that didn’t have time for excuses. A meaty finger pressed against the Kobold’s chest. “Keep. Her. Safe,” said Thane.

  “Yeah,” said Burt. “Yeah, okay.”

  Thane snorted and stood. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  The Kobold nodded, but as the Troll turned, he called out. “Hey, Thane.”

  “Yes?”

  “You ever, you know, get tired of saving them? Of being the one that has to fix everything from the background, and still get none of the credit?”

  The Troll bared his fangs in a weary grin. “It beats the alternative,” he said.

  “Yeah,” said Burt. “I guess it does.”

  With that, Thane was away. Burt turned his attention to searching the debris around where the sleeping Elf lay. He found an old kitchen knife amid the rubble that fit his paws like an oversized sword. With his new weapon resting easily on his shoulder, he clambered up to a perch on an overturned barrel and took up his watch.

  Chapter 18

  Gorm watched the two doppelgangers circle each other warily, blades still in hand. “Still can’t tell ‘em apart,” he muttered.

  “They’re both imposters!” sputtered Heraldin.

  “I guess that depends on how long our Gaist has been the Gaist traveling with us,” said Jynn, running to join them from beneath the frozen golems.

  “This is another one of those discussions that needs to wait for a better time,” Laruna growled as she stalked over to them.

  “We need to figure out which one’s the doppelganger,” said Gorm.

  “The new doppelganger,” added Jynn.

  “I mean, this whole time?” said Heraldin, who was participating in a tangential conversation.

  “Later,” said the solamancer. “Look!”

  The pair of doppelgang
ers, still facing off in a wide circle, charged one another. Their skin shifted back to a rich brown. Noses pulled away from their blank faces. Their frames expanded, bulging with new muscles.

  “They’re turning back to their true forms… I mean, the ones we’re used to,” said Gorm.

  “Right.” Laruna conjured flames in her palm. “The magic’s coming back.”

  Iron and steel groaned behind them, like the creaking of a frozen lake under a boot.

  “Thrice-cursed bones.” Gorm turned back to the remaining golems. The lights in their glass orbs winked back on as the constructs looked around. Gorm imagined they were suffering from the mechanical equivalent of a hangover.

  “Jynn and Laruna, ye take the ones to my left. I’ll—” His instructions cut off at the familiar pop of a crossbow bolt embedding itself in the floorboards behind him. “Down! Get to cover!” he shouted, diving for an overturned desk.

  The rest of the party followed him, but whoever fired the shot had a repeater crossbow. Another bolt pocked into the floor, followed by a cry from the solamancer.

  “Laruna!” cried Jynn, pulling the mage behind the desk with Gorm.

  “I’m fine! I’m fine,” she growled, clutching at her arm. “It just grazed me.”

  Cursing himself for forgetting his shield, Gorm looked around him. The best he could find was a small, silver spoon amidst the shards of a crushed teacup. Maneuvering the spoon into position at the edge of the desk, he could make out a crouching, black-clad form in the reflection of the third window on the far wall.

  Gorm turned to Heraldin, who had sheltered behind a large cabinet a short distance away. “Smoke bombs,” Gorm mouthed, holding up three fingers.

  “The golems,” Heraldin mouthed, pointing to the main room. Gorm could hear the clicks and clanks of the golems restarting their protocols.

  “Smoke bombs!” Gorm pantomimed with extra emphasis, and the bard relented with a shrug. Heraldin produced three glass orbs from his belt pouches.