Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  “Now the hard work begins,” said Johan, the crown of the Freedlands resting amidst his golden locks. The paladin’s eyes swept over the crowd standing beneath the dais. “We’ve been through hard times, and harder times are coming. But now is a time for all of us to come together!”

  “Together,” echoed Queen Marja, still in her white wedding dress.

  The assembled nobles, businesspeople, and town criers gave the king a light smattering of applause.

  “Only together can we rally our defenses against the evils of Detarr Ur’Mayan.” Johan strutted about the stage, flashing his impeccable grin at the attendees. “Only together can we rebuild what we’ve lost. Only together can we keep our families safe. Which is why I hope this kingdom can do as my lovely bride and I have and unite despite our losses.”

  “Unity!” said Marja, clapping.

  “And on that note, my lovely bride has prepared a few remarks.” Johan turned and gestured to the queen.

  This announcement raised eyebrows around the throne room. It was widely known that in her previous marriage, Queen Marja had preferred to let King Handor see to the public speaking, along with all matters of diplomacy, policy, and ceremony. A popular joke within the halls of the castle was if you wanted Marja’s attention on a matter, the best course of action was to write it in frosting on a tea cake.

  The queen shuffled a pack of notecards as she stepped to the front of the dais. “Ahem. The undead are invading the Freedlands. We face a danger that… um…” Marja briefly stopped reading to flip to the next card. “That is unlike anything we have faced. I must ask that… that…” Flip. “That we put aside our differences and divisions, and unite behind our new—” Flip. “King.”

  Marja looked up from her notes with evident relief. Perhaps her relative success had given the queen a sudden rush of confidence, because she added some commentary of her own. “Now, I know you must have questions…”

  It was a rookie mistake. Most public figures with any experience in speeches avoided mentioning questions, or discussion, or anything that would give the town criers an excuse to begin shouting inquiries.

  Hands sprouted from the crowd like an impromptu forest, accompanied by a chorus of shouted questions.

  “Why marry so soon?”

  “Did you and Johan court before Handor’s death?”

  “Why was King Handor on the front lines at Highwatch?”

  “What’s become of the eagle that carried Handor and Johan?”

  “Ha ha!” King Johan’s laughter was booming as he stepped in front of Marja, but his grin seemed more brittle. “Friends, I hear your concerns, but we don’t have time to waste on these little details. We need to work together to save our nation. After all, isn’t that what King Handor would have wanted?”

  Chapter 21

  “I don’t care what Handor would have wanted!” snarled Detarr Ur’Mayan. “What I want is to ply him for information on Andarun’s defenses, to watch his face as he realizes what has befallen his kingdom, to laugh as he… he…”

  The liche seemed to remember himself and, more crucially, the audience of undead gathered around him in the ruined hall of Highwatch’s keep. He unclenched his fist and stood up straighter. “Well, it’s no matter. The point is, Handor’s wishes for his afterlife are irrelevant. He should be raised as a zombie for my army.”

  Tyren Ur’Thos watched Genevieve squirm under the liche’s steely glare.

  “Well, uh, right. Right.” The spectral woman fumbled over the words, trying to find the right way to say the wrong thing. “The thing is, we have our best vampires and wights looking at the king’s body. Good people. Great at necromancy. Really smart.”

  Detarr waved impatiently. “Yes, yes, out with it.”

  “He’s been thoroughly consecrated,” blurted Genevieve. “It’s like he was blessed by a high priest in death, or slain by a paladin. The ghouls wouldn’t even try taking a bite out of him. The vampires want to drop him down a deep pit, and even then, the hole will probably turn into a sacred site within a few years.”

  “Enough.” Detarr paused in a manner that suggested he would have taken a deep breath, were it possible. “Very well. It seems all of our effort to raise the old king has been a waste of time. I hope someone else has been more productive this week.”

  Tyren took his cue to step forward. “Lord Ur’Mayan,” he said, holding aloft a rune-encrusted shard of stone, about twice as long as his own hand.

  The liche’s face lit up at the sight of the stone. “The Dark Spire of Nephan!”

  “Yes, lord. I personally retrieved it,” said Tyren. This was true, although technically he’d retrieved it from the charred remains of several members of Rudge’s relic recovery team. Relatively few of the skeletons had survived the deep, trap-laden vaults beneath Highwatch.

  Detarr waved the Wyrmwood Staff, and the stone lifted from Tyren’s grasp. It floated through the air and into Detarr’s skeletal hand. “Excellent,” said the liche, staring at the Dark Spire. “Once again, Knight-Commander, you’ve proven yourself most useful. I must say that it’s a pleasant novelty to have such competent help. Which brings to mind, where is my son?”

  Tyren took his cue to step back and, thinking ahead, sidled behind a pillar.

  “Well?” demanded the liche. “I want my son seated here at my side, where he can’t ruin anything.”

  “We’ve had… less success there,” said Genevieve, floating forward with a curtsy.

  “More bad news?” Detarr’s eyes glowed with a red-hot light. “Surely your troops have had enough time to locate six dead heroes. I was very clear about where I killed him and his companions, was I not?”

  “Yeees.” The spectral woman drew out her concession. “We found the site of the battle, lord. But your son wasn’t there. Nobody was.”

  “And you’re sure that he hasn’t, you know, joined the ranks of the zombies and just neglected to let me know?” pressed the liche. “Skulking with the ghouls out in the courtyard without thinking to tell anyone? That’s just the sort of thing my son would do.”

  Genevieve shook her head. “We’ve searched everywhere. We think that… we think your son survived.”

  Detarr Ur’Mayan sat back as though struck. “It can’t be,” he said. “I would have thought… I mean, I just assumed…”

  “I’m so sorry, lord.”

  “No. Perhaps this is my fault for being careless,” said Detarr.

  “Nobody has to be at fault,” offered Lady Carabae. “Sometimes these things just happen.”

  “I know. You just always assume they’ll happen to somebody else.” The liche rapped bony fingers against his jawbone. “I wonder what has become of my son and his companions?”

  The undead minions around Detarr were silent. It was best not to interfere when the master’s mood seemed to be improving on its own.

  “Well, I’m sure we’ll figure it out sooner or later. My son does pop up at inconvenient moments,” said Detarr. “For now, we must press on toward our goal.”

  “Andarun.”

  The name of the city loosed Gorm from the depths of blackness, and he slowly drifted up toward consciousness.

  “Greatest city on Arth, they say,” said the same voice, masculine and familiar, though only vaguely so on both counts.

  “Have they been here?” asked another, more feminine voice. It also seemed familiar. “Gods, the smell alone is enough to make you long for a dungeon. I can already get a whiff of it out here.”

  Gorm inhaled and the acrid, earthy smells of Andarun’s Base wafted over him, though mostly he smelled horse. That explained the furry shoulder his face was pressed against, and the gentle rocking beneath him.

  “Well, you won’t have to endure it long,” said the man. “Once we get our gold, I’m leaving town. We’ve tarried too long as it is.”

  “We didn’t tarry. Our cargo slowed us down.”

  “Of course, but that doesn’t do us much good now, does it?”

  “It�
��s not like we could have done better! He kept falling off the horse!” the woman complained. “And you’re the one who let him slip off to that tavern in East Upshore.”

  “You tell that to the undead when they catch us, and see if they treat you any better for it.”

  “Assuming they’re coming this way,” said the woman.

  “They are,” the man replied. “Everyone said Ur’Mayan must be out for revenge on Johan the Mighty for killing him in the first place, and that was before they made Johan king. Why would the liche take Highwatch unless he’s coming into the Freedlands?”

  Gorm’s brow furrowed under the weight of pressing questions. Johan was king now? What happened to Handor? He tried to remember and came up blank.

  The man continued. “He wants to settle the score after Johan chopped off his head all those years ago. You know, closure.”

  “Closure.” The woman’s voice dripped skepticism.

  “Closure! Mark my words: before spring is out, the undead will be on Johan’s doorstep.”

  “Well, undead threatening a city sounds like a job to me,” said the woman. “Not that we’ll need it after this.”

  “I wouldn’t take that quest if I didn’t have a copper to my name,” said the man. “The kingdom isn’t offering any premiums.”

  Even through the haze of a descending hangover, that sounded wrong to Gorm.

  It must have sounded equally appalling to the woman. “No premiums? To face a liche? Are they mad?”

  “That or broke,” said the man. “That ranger from the tavern last night was telling me all about it. Whatever’s gone wrong with the quest, they won’t see many heroes take it. I’m making for the coast and buying passage down to the Empire, myself.”

  Gorm shifted his arms, with mixed results. On the downside, he discovered that they were chained together with some cheap manacles. On the upside, there was a flask already clutched in his hands. With some effort, he pulled the bottle to his lips and found it empty.

  The Dwarf sighed. It was going to be that sort of day.

  He opened one eye and immediately squinted at the harsh sunlight beating down on him. He recognized some of the hovels and farms near the road. They were just outside the city, headed through the hamlets and farmsteads that would eventually thicken into the Riverdowns.

  The people riding with him were still locked in conversation.

  “They’ll need a massive army to take on the undead without heroes, and they lost half of the bannermen at Highwatch,” the man opined. “I hear the remainder can hardly keep the peace in their cities.”

  “Maybe the Old Dwarven Kingdoms will send troops,” suggested the woman.

  “The Dwarves won’t leave their clanhomes undefended if there’s no profit in it. Especially as the Old Kingdoms are even more destitute than the Freedlands these days. You’d need a lot of gold to tempt them to face a liche.”

  Gorm had to acknowledge that the man’s characterization of his people was harsh but true. He patted at his pouches and pockets in search of another flask, but came up empty.

  “Well how about Daellan or Ruskan?”

  “After Handor abandoned Parald to bait the liche to Highwatch? I doubt Ruskan will send a sympathy card. And Knifevale doesn’t think much better of Andarun. Even if either of ‘em could send an army in time, I doubt they would.”

  “So, there’s no sizable army left in the Freedlands?” the woman asked.

  “Maybe the Red Horde,” chortled the man.

  Regret washed over Gorm like a wave at the mention of the Red Horde. He thought of the Guz’Varda, and Zurthraka’s death, and Tib’rin, and soon all of the memories that he’d tried to drown bobbed to the surface. They swirled around his skull freely now that his recent sobriety had unleashed them.

  “Well, if the gods are kind perhaps we are wrong and the liche will spare Andarun,” said the woman.

  The man just chuckled darkly. “Closure,” he said ominously. “Trust me. Nobody likes to leave things unresolved.”

  Closure. Amid the roiling memories, Gorm suddenly found purchase on the idea. He couldn’t make things right, but at least he wouldn’t leave them unresolved.

  He opened his eyes again, and he could see his rucksack swinging from his horse’s side. Niln’s life’s work was swaying inside it. He could return the scriptures to the Al’Matrans and make sure the young high scribe and his work were remembered by the Temple. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  “Right,” said Gorm, heaving to a seated position and nearly startling the riders ahead of him out of their saddles.

  “Oh! Oh, you’re awake!” said a young Human with sandy hair and a broad nose. He wore mismatched armor and a cheap sword on his belt. A low-rank warrior if Gorm ever saw one.

  Gorm sniffed and looked around. His shield was tied to the other side of his saddlebags, but he couldn’t see his weapon on his own horse. “Where’s me axe?”

  “Ahaha. He… he wants his axe, Matina! Probably because his bottle is empty.” The warrior growled the last statement at another Human, a slight cleric in the raiments of Musana’s clergy. She looked even greener than the warrior; Gorm would have shaved his beard if they had five ranks between them.

  “So strange.” The cleric twisted round in her saddle and spoke through a forced smile. “Because I filled the bottle just this morning.”

  As the woman turned, Gorm caught a glimpse of his axe hanging by her saddle. “Ah, there it is. Give it here,” he said, scratching himself. “I need to be off.”

  “No!” the young heroes shouted in unison.

  “I… I mean, we should travel together,” added the warrior.

  “Don’t see why,” said Gorm. “I don’t know ye from a hole in the ground, and while I appreciate any drinks ye may have treated me to, it also looks like ye tried to chain me.” He held up his hands and inspected the manacles.

  The cleric cleared her throat. “Well, we may have—”

  “I’d have taken it personally,” Gorm added loudly, “if ye used real chains. Like a Durham Brothers or Steel Golems. But a pair of old Hickmans? These things are as flimsy as they are cheap. Never knew why the tall folk buy ‘em.” He flexed and twisted, and the shoddy manacles cracked open.

  “You don’t say,” said the warrior, giving the cleric a dark look.

  Gorm tossed the broken manacles away. “Ye gave me drinks, but ye brought me to Andarun. Ye chained me hands, but ye made it easy to get out. Ye brought along me horse and gear, but ye still haven’t handed me my axe. I can’t tell if’n you’re trying to help me or turn me in for a reward, but it doesn’t matter, because either way you’re really bad at it. And either way, I’ve a matter to attend to elsewhere. The only question is how I’m going to leave things here.”

  He held out his hand. “I’d prefer ‘still alive,’ but it’s up to ye.”

  The two young heroes had gone as pale as ghosts. They stared at him in mute terror for a moment before the cleric reached back and retrieved Gorm’s axe. After some fumbling with the straps, she handed it to the Dwarf.

  “A wise choice,” said Gorm with a wink. He patted his rucksack to make sure it was still full, then set off for Andarun with a wave to the pale newbloods. Up on the fourth tier of the city, at the Temple of Al’Matra, he could return the works of Niln to their rightful place. He could leave things where they’d started.

  He could find closure.

  “And that’s why you came here? To bring Niln’s books back?” High Scribe Pathalan tried to hide a smirk as he dropped into his chair. The office of Al’Matra’s high scribe was small but well-furnished. The walls were lined with long shelves, all of them brimming with rolls of parchment—some blank, some full.

  Gorm’s brow furrowed as he stepped into the high scribe’s office. “Aye. It’s the work of your old high scribe, ain’t it?”

  “Well, yeah, sure.” The high scribe gestured for Gorm to sit in one of the chairs on the other side of his ancient oak desk.

  G
orm remained standing.

  Pathalan shrugged and put his feet up. “But, look, this is all unexpected. I mean, when the acolytes told me there was a Dwarf here for me, I assumed it was someone from the Old Dwarven Kingdom begging for gold. King Forder’s been asking everyone in the city for a handout for the Old Kingdoms. They’d do almost anything for some gold at this point. More than usual for a Dwarf. Uh, no offense.”

  Gorm shrugged.

  The scribe grinned. “Still, I never would have dreamed it was you. And not just because of the wanted criminal thing, you know.”

  “The city watch is already short on bannermen,” said Gorm. “Most of ‘em ain’t got time for a washed-up hero drinkin’ in peace, and those that do don’t want the headache of dealin’ with me.”

  “I’d think it’d be more of a prestigious honor to bring you in than a headache,” said the high scribe.

  “Pretty much everything’s a headache when ye’ve taken an axe to the skull,” said Gorm. “But it doesn’t matter. None of ‘em have cared or been foolish enough to try me, and I won’t be in the city long, anyway. Just long enough to give ye Niln’s book.”

  “Right. That.” The Elf scratched at his long, silver hair. “Thing is, we already have the Book of Niln in the library.”

  “Aye. But this here’s the Second Book of Niln.” Gorm pulled the leather-bound tome from his rucksack and dropped it on the desk. “Plus select scriptures from the other prophets and all his notes on them.”

  “An anthology then. Wonderful,” sighed Pathalan. “Well, thank you. I’ll… I’ll take care of this.”

  “Ain’t ye going to read it?”

  “Oh, gods no,” laughed the high scribe. “The last thing I need is more scripture to read. Especially not Niln’s. He always took this stuff so seriously.”

  “But… why wouldn’t ye take it seriously? Ain’t readin’ scriptures your job?”

  “Okay, yes, technically,” said the high scribe. “But look, nobody joins the Temple of Al’Matra looking for deep insights into the meaning of the universe, right? I mean, her latest scriptures are a rambling manifesto about the weasel and the marmot. Not the species, mind you. A very specific weasel and a very specific marmot.”