Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  “Which ones?”

  “I haven’t a clue. But she was two chapters’ worth of specific.” The high scribe grinned and shook his head. “They call her the Mad Queen for a reason.”

  “Then why bother bein’ an Al’Matran?”

  “Oh, the other temples are always sending their people on quests. Even Fulgen’s people are always getting divine tasks somehow, and their god doesn’t speak. The All Mother’s kind of lost in her own world up there. She doesn’t bother anyone much unless you stir her up, you see?”

  Gorm rubbed his bleary eyes. “Ye wanted an easy job.”

  “Not an easy job. The easiest job,” laughed the high scribe. “It’s mostly state banquets and relaxing in gardens, with a bit of writing here and there. And nobody even cares what you write because everybody knows the All Mother isn’t going to say anything of use. At least, that’s how it usually goes. Back when Scribe Niln was getting the goddess all excited, it was a real headache. Minus the axe, of course. Ha.”

  The Elf leaned back in his seat and stared up at the ceiling. “Niln almost knocked me out of the high scribe position, and at that point it was so busy I was almost ready to let him have the job. In a way, you did me a favor when you and your party… you know.”

  “No. I don’t know,” said Gorm flatly.

  “Oh, you know.” Pathalan drew his finger across his throat and made a choking sound.

  Gorm knew that he should feel angry at the implication, but any emotion and most of his coherent thoughts had spent the past few weeks pickling in despondent sorrow and cheap grog. He couldn’t muster so much as a growl when he said, “We didn’t kill Niln.”

  “No, of course not,” said Pathalan with a leering wink. “But if you did, it might have been a favor to, you know. Some people.”

  “We didn’t.”

  “Hey, nobody blames you,” said Pathalan. “Well, I suppose the palace and the bannermen do, but not the Al’Matrans. Don’t get me wrong; we loved Niln—great little guy. The high priestess even had a statue of him put in the sanctuary downstairs. But that was a suicide mission, and professional heroes kill to survive. You did what you had to do.”

  “We didn’t kill him,” said Gorm.

  “Right.” Pathalan tapped the side of his nose knowingly.

  “Ye know what? I’m just goin’ to keep this.” Gorm picked the book back up.

  “Oh? All right, yeah, why don’t you take it down to the ‘archives’ for me?” The high scribe pointed at his wastebasket with a wide grin. “Sound good?”

  Gorm only snorted in reply and stamped out of the room.

  He pulled the hood of his cloak up as he made his way through the Al’Matran temple. Most of Andarun’s citizens and bannermen were preoccupied with the coming undead horde and the turmoil in the markets, but he still tried to take some precautions when walking the city. It wasn’t wise to tempt fate, especially not when fate had seemed so prone to indulgence lately.

  He glanced into the All Mother’s sanctuary as he passed, and his breath caught in his throat. Near the edge of the room, amidst the murals depicting Al’Matra’s descent into madness, Gorm saw a familiar face cast in bronze. With quiet trepidation, Gorm stepped into the inner sanctum and approached the statue of Niln.

  The former high scribe was depicted in a long robe, holding a book in one hand, the other outstretched in greeting. He wore a small smile that was likely intended to look serene, but seemed sad and wistful.

  Something in the air felt sacred, holy. Gorm had been in the sanctuary a few times before, and experienced nothing beyond a morbid curiosity about the strange artwork on the walls. But now he could sense something else in the room, a quiet power much bigger than the architecture it occupied.

  It made Gorm shift uncomfortably. In the distant past, he’d been a devout follower of the Dwarven gods, but as his career progressed, he found it difficult to muster devotion to the governing powers of a universe that often seemed designed to kill adventurers in creatively horrible ways. After the dungeon of Az’Anon, the gods seemed to turn their backs on Gorm entirely, and he returned the favor.

  Ill at ease as he was, Gorm couldn’t pull himself away from the sculpture of his old friend. Trapped in his uncertainty, he sat down at the foot of the statue.

  “Hello, Niln,” he said, if only to fill the expectant silence. “I came to bring your books back to… to where they belong. Ye know. Wrappin’ things up.”

  The statue stared back at him with its sad, lifeless eyes.

  “I know ye gave them to me, but I ain’t… I ain’t the one in your prophecy. I know. I read it all, just as ye asked, and it ain’t talkin’ about me. I ain’t the sort.”

  Gorm shook his head. “Not that I didn’t want to be, mind ye. I’ve been tryin’ for a year to make things right. I need to… to atone for what happened to ye, and to poor Tib’rin, and all them Orcs of the Guz’Varda. But I only made a bigger mess of things.”

  Gorm had to look away from the statue’s silent stare. “Gods, this is like talkin’ to Gaist,” he muttered. “I guess I wasn’t so different from ye in the end. We both wanted to do more than we could. And, thrice curse it all, ye had me believing it was possible. Not that I was the Seventh Hero or anything, but… just that we were destined for somethin’. Believin’ we could save the world.”

  He glanced to the base of the statue, where Niln’s epitaph was engraved in the granite. Beneath the scribe’s name was a citation from Al’Matran scripture—the Book of Thyrus, chapter twelve, verse two. It could have been Niln’s favorite passage, or perhaps a common invocation for the Al’Matran dead. He looked up at the statue, and from where he sat Niln’s frozen gesture looked much like an invitation. With a resigned sigh, Gorm opened Niln’s leather tome to the notes on other prophets and flipped to the Book of Thyrus.

  As the sun cannot comforte thee in the dead of night,

  Knowledge cannot be thy only comforte, for there will always be questions.

  “Illuminatin’ as ever,” Gorm muttered with a deep scowl. He searched the margin for notes, and found one written in a small, tight script.

  It has been here all along. I see it now… Rahballa chapter 6, verse 3

  “What’s been here?” Gorm wondered. He flipped to the Book of Rahbella and found the cited verse. Next to it was another note, though it was written in a looser hand.

  For too long I sought to know my destiny. Epham, chapter 19, verse 22

  The thought sounded incomplete, so Gorm found the Book of Epham and looked for another note in the margins.

  I wished to take holde of the prophecy of the Seventh Hero. Pathilil, chapter 7, verse 1

  Now Niln’s handwriting was hurried and scrawling, and little gobbets of ink were hastily splattered below the note.

  “It’s one thought,” Gorm realized. “They’re all connected.” He could almost see the high scribe caught in the throes of epiphany, hastily scribbling notes and related verses down as he flipped back and forth through the scriptures, his handwriting getting faster and looser with every page. Gorm wondered what had excited the priest so.

  “Only one way to find out,” Gorm muttered as he pulled a stub of charcoal pencil from his pack and a loose sheaf of parchment from Niln’s notes. Sitting with his back to the statue, he diligently hunted down the fragments of Niln’s revelation and transcribed them in his own rigid, angular script, omitting the scriptural references.

  It has been here all along. I see it now.

  For too long I sought to know my destiny.

  I wished to take holde of the prophecy of the Seventh Hero.

  To wield fate as Man holds up his sword.

  It was all folly, and I a fool.

  Destiny is not wielded as a weapon.

  Destiny cannot be forced, or negotiated with, or convinced.

  Destiny cannot be known. And so I cannot find my answers.

  I have nothing but the All Mother’s prophecies.

  But is that not enough?


  “Don’t seem like much to me,” Gorm murmured.

  The Falcon Lady has said that her words will come to pass.

  The Dark Prince will rise, the Seventh Hero will appear, the world will be saved.

  This cannot be accomplished by mortal hands, least of all by mine.

  Her holy words are not a map that leads to a destination.

  They are signs, to show that we are in the right place.

  As we walk our own paths.

  They remind us that all will be as it should.

  Even when we cannot see how.

  Gorm thought that a novel idea. Most of the heroes he knew approached prophecy as a formula, a set of detailed instructions along the lines of “Place object of legend A into slot B on sacred altar C, and wait for the path to treasure D to appear.”

  I will not pretend at fighting. That path is for Gorm and his fellows.

  I will not pursue a destiny that is not mine to command.

  I will play my own part.

  It struck Gorm that Niln must have scrawled this manifesto in the final days, or even hours, before he left the party and was murdered. It could have been the last thing he ever wrote. He bit back the sorrow rising in his throat and turned to the next verse.

  I will help the downtrodden in my way.

  I will remember the virtues.

  I will give strength to the weary. I will lift up the broken.

  I will be a hope in the darkness, because I know better than any

  There is not always a light at the end of the tunnel.

  That is why you must carry a torch.

  Gorm’s hands shook as he stared at the parchment. The only sound was the pounding of his heart and the low rumble of his universe quietly rearranging itself around the words on the page.

  There is not always a light at the end of the tunnel. That is why you must carry a torch.

  He’d almost let the darkness around him snuff him out completely, just because he couldn’t see a way out of his current predicament. But encroaching gloom was more of a reason to keep burning, to shine brighter, and a berserker didn’t need a torch to do it. A berserker was one with the fire.

  Deep in the cold void within Gorm, something sparked.

  He looked up at Niln, and now the statue’s permanent gesture seemed to extend a helping hand. Gorm took hold of the outstretched palm and hauled himself to his feet. “Thank ye,” he said. “I needed a reminder.”

  A plan was forming, forged in the bright and furious blaze of Gorm’s rekindled spirit. A wide grin spread over his face. Or perhaps he bared his teeth.

  Sometimes even he couldn’t tell which it was.

  Scribe Pathalan had just settled into his chair with a cup of honeyed tea when he heard a low thump from behind him. When he turned to find the source of the noise, he noticed that the window to his left was wide open, its curtains flapping in a spring breeze. The Elf paused to ponder that for a moment, then turned back to his tea just in time for a fist to slam into the right side of his jaw and send him sprawling to the floor.

  “Ye scream for the guards and they’re only gonna find your corpse. Nod if ye understand,” said Gorm Ingerson, pushing the high scribe’s chair out of the way as he advanced.

  Pathalan nodded as he propped himself up on his elbows, his eyes wide and watery.

  “I’m here to set the record straight.” The Dwarf stomped up to the prone scribe and pointed his axe at his face. “I don’t give a ratman’s arse what ye believe about your goddess and her writin’, but I’ll be thrice-cursed before I let ye go around spewin’ lies about me. So if ye like having a spine without any right angles, there’s two things ye better well understand.”

  Pathalan stared cross-eyed at the shining blade and whimpered something unintelligible.

  “First off, I’ve never killed a high scribe. And second, just because I ain’t killed one doesn’t mean I won’t. Ye understand?”

  “Esh,” said the high scribe, nodding vigorously.

  “Good,” said the Dwarf with a toothy smile. “Now, this here’s the Second Book of Niln, includin’ his collected notes and commentary on the other prophets. I’m lendin’ it to ye so ye can get it properly copied and archived and whatever else ye’d do for an important book. And ye can bet it’s important, because I’ll be back for it as soon as I’ve visited some old friends.”

  Barty Ficer stepped up to a small door in a side street of Lowly Heights. It was a simple oak door in a brick building, notable only for a few small, metal plates fixed to various parts of its surface. One of the plates, specifically the one in the middle of the door at eye level, was engraved with the words “BARTY FICER, ASSASSIN.”

  The plaque, Barty often remarked, was to keep away any wandering thieves or curious kids who might sneak into the workshop. Threats and deterrents were a crucial part of being an assassin. Of course, another important part of being an assassin was backing those threats up, which accounted for how cautiously Barty approached the door, even in his hurry.

  The old man carefully inserted a large, brass key into the lock, rotated it counterclockwise, counted to three under his ragged breath, and then twisted it again by half a turn. He withdrew his hand a second before a tiny blade snapped out above the keyhole, jabbing the air where his thumb had been a moment earlier. Then he pulled the key from the lock and hooked it over the exposed blade, which ratcheted down like a switch. Gears clanked into life within the door.

  “Come on, come on,” Barty muttered impatiently.

  The other metal panes in the door slid open, each revealing a unique mechanism. Barty attacked them with tempered impatience. He rotated the left dial to the number sixteen, pulled three levers in precise succession, tapped out a specific sequence on three glowing stones, and rotated the right dial to four. He took a step back as another mechanical blade stabbed out of the door, this one at eye level, and then flicked a switch that retracted both of the weapons. Finally, he set the dials back to zero, tapped the central glowing stone, waited for the lock to click open, and slammed his face into the door three times.

  The last step was involuntary, and entirely due to the meaty hand that gripped the back of Barty’s head as though trying to crush a ripening melon. The assassin choked back a sob.

  “Hello, Barty,” said his assailant.

  “Gorm Ingerson,” Barty fumbled, feebly struggling against the Dwarf’s grip. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

  “Oh? I’d assumed ye heard.” Gorm spoke in a casual, almost friendly tone, but he didn’t loosen his grip. “Why else would ye be tryin’ to scamper off like a rat down a hole?”

  “Well, you know,” said Barty limply. “The new king says we should do everything we can to keep the city safe. In my line of work, that’s easiest done by vacating it.”

  “Speaking of your line of work, what do ye know about this?” Gorm held up a flat piece of metal that he immediately recognized as a small armor plate from a mechanical assassin.

  “Wouldn’t know anything about that,” said Barty, avoiding looking directly at the plate.

  “Really? I would if I was ye.” The Dwarf pushed the door open with the assassin’s face. “Let’s have a chat inside.”

  Barty renewed his struggles with frantic desperation. “No! Stop! There’s more—” He was cut off, nearly literally, by a massive blade that swung in a wide arc in front of them. A few of Barty’s silver whiskers drifted down to the dusty floor.

  “Bones, that was a big one,” laughed Gorm. “What’s next? Well, I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”

  “Stop!” shrieked Barty. “You don’t understand what will happen if I don’t disarm the system!”

  “True enough,” growled the Dwarf. “But I’m fairly certain whatever it is will happen to ye first.”

  “All right, all right! I did it! The pay was good, and you don’t say no to Mr. Flinn!” Barty cried, his hands flailing feebly. “Just let me get to that panel over there, and I swear I’ll confess. I’ll do anyt
hing!”

  “It’s good of ye to say as much, Barty,” said Gorm. “As it happens, I’m in need of a favor.”

  Chapter 22

  The mechanical gazer vibrated with excitement as it bobbed down the hall, its steel tentacles weaving intricate patterns. A soft chattering emanated from within its metallic shell, the constant, muffled conversations of the various sprites that animated Barty Ficer’s creation.

  Gorm stamped along behind it. The floorboards of the Red Sow creaked beneath his heavy boots. His limbs were stiff and aching, the price of prolonged riding on an Elven steed. Everybody knew they moved half again as fast as a normal horse, but nobody talked about how doing so made you twice as saddle sore in a third of the time.

  The mechanical gazer seemed enamored with one room near the back of the hall. It hovered back and forth around the door, squeaking softly to itself. As Gorm approached, the construct swiveled around, opened its jaw with a mechanical snap, and loosed a chorus of erratic, excited jibbering. “She’s in there! … In there! … Behind the door! … Open the door!”

  “Fine, fine, I heard ye. Shut your trap.” Gorm grumbled, flipping the gazer’s jaw closed as he stepped up to the door. He paused for a deep breath before knocking three times.

  “Come in,” said a tired voice.

  Gorm pushed the door open and stepped into the modest room, helm in his hands. “Hello, lass.”

  “I didn’t expect to see you again.” Kaitha was curled up on an old mattress, her left arm and both legs wrapped in long bandages. She looked frail, a weak shade of herself. A withered blossom.

  “Well, I ain’t the sort for quittin’,” said Gorm as he approached the bed.