Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  “Some soldiers are concerned about meeting old colleagues after their initiation,” said Tyren, flipping open his magazine. “A little battle damage might help it look like they didn’t defect.”

  “Makes sense, in a way.” The old bannerman thought some more. “Still, I suspect that I can do a number on myself with a good blade, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “I’ve been hearing as much a lot today. Be sure to mark your preference on your entrance form,” said Tyren. A bell rang from one of the tables beyond the front of the line. “And on that note, it looks like Millicent is ready to assist you at table three. Don’t look her right in the eye, or you won’t get a chance to use a sword.” The last warning was called out as the bannerman shuffled off toward a table with a dark-robed wraith.

  Another bannerman shuffled up to the desk and mumbled a nervous greeting.

  “Welcome. You’ve made the right choice. If you’ve brought an advertisement, please put it on the corresponding pile.” Tyren flipped to the next page, and when he pulled his hand away, several strings of green goo hung from his bony fingers. He reflected on the downside of asking zombies to fetch your reading materials as he shook the gunk from his hand.

  The knight-commander was so preoccupied with the goop that he didn’t notice the Head of Marketing bobbing up, flanked by Ned and Ted. “How are we doing, sir?” asked the flaming skull, hovering eagerly around the piles of flyers on the desk.

  “Quite well, I’d say,” Tyren replied. A bell rang. “Table sixteen,” he said to the bannerman.

  “Good, good,” said the Head. “We’re estimating that over twenty percent of the garrison is joining us! We’re going to shave days off the siege.”

  Tyren nodded absently, still halfway through his welcome to the next bannerman in line. “You’ve made the right choice. If you’ve brought an advertisement—”

  “I’ll take it,” said Ned, snatching the paper from the young bannerman’s hands. The ghoul added it to the corresponding pile of flyers, which he and Ted were counting fastidiously. The ex-members of the demonic animal husbandry team had been eager to prove themselves after their wards were killed or driven off at the battle for Highwatch, and there was plenty of opportunity in marketing.

  “Which promotions are performing?” the Head of Marketing asked them.

  “‘All things perish. Not all do it well,’ seems to be doing quite well among the lesser nobility,” said Ted, shuffling through one of the larger stacks on the table.

  “A luxury play to an elitist market. Interesting!” The Head made a note on the clipboard bobbing near him.

  Ned rapped on another stack. “‘Quick and painless’ remains popular. Although I wonder, sir, if we’ve had any takers on the option for us ghouls to—”

  “Not a one,” said Tyren, looking back to his magazine.

  “Ah, a pity,” said the ghoul. “Some of the lads were thinking we might just take the other choices off the table for the stragglers, then? A sort of last-come-first-served arrangement?”

  “I don’t know that anybody is going to eat anyone else today,” Tyren muttered. “Still, a rousing success overall. Good work.”

  “Right…” The Head floated awkwardly nearby. “Uh, sir, not to question your judgment, but I thought you might be heading up the military action.”

  “Commander Genevieve is seeing to it,” said the knight-commander.

  “Of course, but I thought you might want her to have some oversight,” said the Head.

  “That’s why we established the committee for oversight,” said Tyren. “And the subcommittee for oversight review.”

  “But—”

  The knight-commander flipped the page. “Now, it’s important to make sure I don’t lose touch with the common corpse. Show that I’m not above any task.” A bell rang. “Table seven.”

  “Uh, very well, sir,” said the floating skull.

  Tyren settled back into his seat, savoring every moment.

  There was a point of equilibrium in any organization’s middle management, a fulcrum of responsibility that remained still while the upper and lower ranks of the bureaucracy moved around it. Tyren knew from experience that a shrewd official could find this pivot-point within the org chart and, once entrenched, enjoy near-complete autonomy with almost no responsibility. After nearly two months with the undead, he had once again managed to precisely calibrate his career for an optimal effort-to-authority ratio.

  Marketing was getting results. The army had been restructured and was well positioned. Operations were running smoothly. Everyone oversaw and reported to each other in an inscrutable web of accountability that left Tyren blameless for failure and ready to share any success. He’d been planning for this position, working toward it since his untimely death removed him from his last job. Now that he’d reached it, there was nothing to do but sit back, wait for accolades, and pass the time ostensibly reading articles.

  Something nagged at the back of Tyren’s mind, an uneasy notion that perhaps he had anticipated this moment too much. His thoughts drifted to Nove’s second principle of universal irony, and he was still ill at ease and distracted when the next in line stepped up to his table.

  “Welcome. You’ve made the right choice,” the knight-commander said automatically. “If you’ve brought an advertisement—”

  A pamphlet was shoved into Tyren’s face. “Hi. I’m here to become a vampire,” said a young voice.

  Tyren started and looked up. Instead of a bannerman or adventurer, a teenage girl stood at the table. The black dress that she’d draped over herself threatened to fall off her bony frame. Her skin was undoubtedly pale even before she applied copious amounts of powder, contrasting with the colorful makeup she’d liberally applied.

  “Excuse me?” he asked.

  “My name is Betelle Ur’Parde, and I’m here to become a vampire,” the young woman said, pointing to the flyer.

  Tyren looked down at the paper. It was printed in thick, blocky letters and had woodcuts of smiling skulls set around the border.

  YOUNG MEN AND WOMEN

  Is your life UNFAIR?

  Do the authorities NOT UNDERSTAND YOU?

  Are you tired of doing as THEY tell you?

  Because SOCIETY says THEY are IN CHARGE?

  ALL ARE EQUAL IN DEATH.

  Rich and poor, young and old, all must die.

  And then the UNDEAD enjoy IMMORTALITY.

  YOU can JOIN THE UNDEAD.

  Together, we will REMAKE SOCIETY and enjoy worldly pleasures FOREVER.

  Bring this pamphlet to an Undead Officer before sundown on the 15th of Bloomtide.

  Join early for PREFERRED TREATMENT.

  Elves need not apply.

  “Ah, right, but… er…” Tyren fumbled for the right words.

  “Wait. Vampires are the ones that dress in tight lace and sneak into people’s bedrooms late at night, right?” said the young woman.

  “That sounds like vampires,” Ted said.

  “That’s for me, then,” said Betelle.

  “But… but you’re so young,” Tyren said. The girl couldn’t have reached her eighteenth year yet. Perhaps it was her proud posture as she stood, and the way her makeup obscured most of her features, but something about her put him in mind of little Aubey.

  “Oh, don’t you start with me, too. You sound just like my father!” The young woman launched into an unflattering impression of an older man. “‘Betelle, don’t go running around the stables after dark.’ ‘Betelle, you’re too young for making off with squires!’ ‘Betelle, don’t go making an unholy pact with the dead!’”

  Something ancient and paternal welled up from Tyren’s depths. “Now, listen for just a moment—”

  “I don’t have to! That’s the point, isn’t it?” Betelle thrust the flyer in her hand forward again. “I get to choose, right? And I choose to die, and to help make a society where we’re all equal!”

  “Some creative license there,” said Ted, looking back a
t the Head of Marketing.

  “And you, and mum, and dad, and the headmaster won’t tell me what to do!” said the teenager. “Nobody will get to boss me around!”

  “Some exceptions may apply,” chimed the Head of Marketing.

  It was becoming clearer to Tyren why the young woman might bring back memories of his five-year-old daughter. He tried a different approach. “Listen, I appreciate your independence, but you could do so much more than join our army. You could finish up at an Academy, take up a trade, join a guild or industry—so many of the things I used to want to do. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

  “Well, not really.” Betelle smirked back at Aberreth, surrounded by a thick and rotting siege line. “I mean, you are going to kill us all, right?”

  “Well, er, technically,” Tyren said. “But you could flee and join the refugees in Andarun.”

  Betelle’s face was the blend of exasperation and contempt typical of an adolescent educating a parental figure. She plucked another flyer off the table and held it up in reply. Its headline proclaimed in bold block letters:

  EVEN ANDARUN WILL FALL.

  Tyren nodded and waved in reluctant assent. “All right, yes, fine. Not Andarun. You could flee somewhere else.”

  The young woman grabbed up another flyer from the table. It read:

  THERE IS NOWHERE SAFE FROM THE UNDEAD.

  “I see your point,” Tyren conceded, “but I’m sure there’s something you could—”

  Exuding triumph—so much so that it almost warranted a smile—Betelle picked up yet another flyer.

  THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN DO TO SAVE YOURSELF.

  Tyren shot an incredulous look at the Head of Marketing, who bobbed and tilted to one side in an approximation of a shrug. “Targeted messaging,” said the floating skull.

  A bell rang behind them.

  “The point is that it’s my choice!” snapped Betelle. “And I choose to be a dark seductress of the night.”

  “And we’re glad you made it,” interjected the Head of Marketing, swooping down to the front of the table. “Now, if you’re ready, it looks like Millicent is ready at table three. Ha! She’s a fast one. Good luck, Betelle, and welcome aboard!”

  Betelle shot Tyren one last smirk before sauntering off toward the line of tables.

  She wasn’t out of earshot before the Head of Marketing spun around and shot a baleful glare at Tyren. “Sir, if I may, advertising generally works better when you don’t try to talk people out of your product.”

  Tyren, however, was just as angry. He grabbed the flyer that Betelle had brought and shook it at the floating skull. “You were marketing to children?” he snarled.

  “Well, teenagers,” said the Head. “Any younger and you really have to target the parents—”

  “Why would you advertise death to children?” demanded the knight-commander.

  “Why?” The Head pivoted back, surprised by the question. “Why wouldn’t I? I told you that I’d be hitting every demographic, and you said that’d be great!”

  “I… I didn’t… I didn’t think…” Tyren’s vocabulary failed him again. She was so young. So much life ahead of her.

  “I’m selling the geriatric on reanimation as a cure for joint pain! I’m reminding unhappy wives that their wedding vows don’t extend past death!” said the Head of Marketing. “What do you think is going to happen to the kids, anyway? That we’ll just orphan all the little wretches and then leave them alone?”

  “I… I don’t…” Tyren’s vocabulary failed him again as an image of little Aubey flashed in his mind. He could still hear Betelle’s voice in his mind. A moment later, the flashing was much more external, and Betelle’s voice rose into a high-pitched scream.

  The undead turned to look at a small, sad pile of ashes in front of table three.

  “Ahh, you forgot to mention the bit about not looking Millicent in the eye,” said Ted.

  “Wraiths are tricky that way,” said Ned.

  “Ohhh, right. Right,” said the Head of Marketing.

  “She’s gone?” asked Tyren.

  “Well, for a bit,” said the ghoul. “Should be back along any moment.”

  “Here she comes now.” Ted pointed to a wisp of darkness forming over the ashes, smoke and shadow running together.

  “I don’t see what the problem is anyway, sir,” said the Head, turning back to the knight-commander. “She was going to be dead soon enough.”

  A low moan was rising, growing louder and more intense as the darkness coalesced into the form of a young woman draped in shadow. As the shade of Betelle took shape, her groaning turned into an angry roar. “The problem?” she snarled. “The problem is that I was supposed to be a vampire!”

  A sudden sense of loss overwhelmed the knight-commander when he looked at the dead girl. He clutched his forehead with a skeletal hand. “If we could all quiet down for a moment,” he said.

  “Oh, we’d all like to be vampires,” Ted told the approaching shade of the young woman. “But I’m afraid there are no special requests accommodated, miss.”

  “Yeah,” chuckled Ned. “Don’t suppose old Rudge would’ve turned out the way he did if he could’ve asked to be different.”

  From somewhere in the crowd, Rudge called out, “It’s true!”

  Bells were ringing from the empty tables. The bannermen closest to the front of the line muttered nervously to one another.

  “As I was saying, if we want to get the numbers up, we can’t ignore any markets,” said the Head of Marketing.

  “Quiet,” said Tyren. He could see little Aubey running to him through the fields, curls bouncing around her big smile, laughter in those big brown eyes. He felt he could have heard her laugh, were it not for the commotion around him.

  “I was going to sneak through Dustin Ur’Fronen’s window and make him my thrall,” wailed the spirit of Betelle. “We were going to have an eternity of dark pleasures together! And now look at me! How am I supposed to seduce anyone without a body?”

  “I can see that being difficult,” said Ned.

  “Oh, I’m not so sure,” offered Ted. “The art of seduction is really more about attitude and perception than—”

  “Silence!” roared Tyren.

  Absolute stillness fell over the undead in an instant. Jaws snapped shut, words died in rotting throats, hands dropped to the sides of rigid torsos, and all eyes, corporeal or otherwise, turned to the knight-commander.

  “I… I’m sorry,” said Tyren, looking around at the frozen undead. “I just… I just need time to think. Uh, as you were.”

  The other undead began moving once more, although now it was to simultaneously take a cautious step back from the knight-commander.

  “All right, yeah,” said the Head of Marketing. His one eye looked around fearfully, and the flames around his skull had died down a bit. “Yeah. We’re going to go around to the other tables before the invasion gets going. Come on, guys.”

  Ned and Ted shuffled after the skull, glancing back at Tyren with reproachful eyes. Betelle floated off as well, guided by a helpful ghost toward orientation. Even the skeletal torso bearing the sign to start the line slunk away.

  Eventually, the other undead at the recruiting center resumed work, and the skittish bannermen nervously approached Tyren’s table once more, dropping off their flyers before stepping up to open booths. The knight-commander didn’t notice any of the activity. His magazine lay in the mud at his feet. He was held fast by the sounds of Betelle’s final screams, by the face that could have been what his daughter looked like now, by the laughter of a child he knew he’d never hear again.

  Ghastly horns and trumpets sounded, followed by the swelling notes of a Gnomish pipe organ. The undead army assembled and advanced. The city’s defenders fell and, after a brief interlude, got back up again. Tyren sat in silence through all of it, as motionless as a more typical corpse, haunted by his memories.

  Chapter 24

  Many people go to the tavern to
forget their troubles. Lidda’s Pipe was a tavern where troubles went to be forgotten. The common room had plenty of hidden nooks and crannies, poor lighting, and a clientele that largely kept to themselves—at least until the heat died down. It was a good place to find people who had secrets they were willing to part with—for a modest price.

  At least, it usually was. “It’s a seller’s market,” Gorm grumbled, slumping onto the bench next to Laruna. “Barely anybody here, and everyone’s lookin’ for information.”

  “Well, some are also interested in procuring services,” said the solamancer. “I’ve had two people offer me gold to do assassin work.”

  “Better than the proposition I got,” said Kaitha, nodding to a table set in a dark alcove in the wall.

  “That’d explain the crashing a while back then.” Gorm peered back at the nook and the wreckage contained therein. “Did ye have to break two chairs?”

  “I told the server he’d pay for the damages.” Kaitha shrugged. “When he’s conscious again.”

  “I’d say that’s more of an ‘if’ than a ‘when.’” Jynn winced at the mess.

  “Anyway, we’re no closer to finding either Heraldin or Gaist,” said Laruna.

  “Or Thane,” added Kaitha.

  “Aye.” Gorm turned back to his ale. “We need to—oh.” A small, folded slip of paper sat in front of him, leaning conspicuously against his tankard.

  Laruna cast him a sidelong glance as she took a long pull from her tankard of ale. “Where’d that come from?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.” Gorm opened the paper and found a message stamped out in the blocky lettering that one might expect from a Gnomish printing press. All the letters were slightly askew, as though the words had been vigorously shaken. He read:

  YOU HAVE BEENE ASKING FOR HERALDIN STRUMMONS. WE CAN HELPE EACH OTHER. MEET IN THE ALLEY BEHIND LIDDA’S PIPE. COME ALONE.

  “What is it?” asked Kaitha.

  “A sign from the gods,” said Gorm, standing. “They’ve decided to start being useful.”