Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  Darak said nothing. He just turned to stare at her with the eyes of a man run through, his jaw clenched to hide its quivering. “The beach,” he rasped, pointing his warhammer.

  Grignot’s lips twisted into a wicked grin. “To the beach!” he shrieked. “The great chieftain will defend his throne before he takes the heads of the barg’hegga spi’nix’hest!”

  Asherzu nodded, her eyes never leaving her brother’s. “So be it,” she said.

  “So, what happens now?” Kaitha muttered to Burt.

  “They fight it out,” said the Kobold from Gorm’s shoulder. He shifted and swayed to keep balance as the Dwarf negotiated the loose stones of the beach. “The winner gets to decide what happens to us.”

  “Of course it’s trial by combat,” said Kaitha. “It’s always trial by combat!”

  “And I suppose the Elves do it better?” The ember of Burt’s thin cigarette glowed brighter as he puffed at it. “Teach us savage Shadowkin the right way to settle a matter?”

  “I’m just saying there has to be better qualifications for leadership than a talent for killing people.”

  “Yeah? Like maybe whoever’s parents are a bigger deal? Or maybe whoever has the most money? Oh wait—those are almost always the same thing.” The Kobold clapped his paws to his cheeks in mock surprise.

  “Let’s just focus on surviving to our execution,” said Heraldin. The Red Horde soldiers around them leered and snarled.

  Orcs and Goblins were arranging a circle of barrels and logs down by the icy sea. Uncounted Orcs, Slaugh, Gnolls, and other Shadowkin gathered where the rocky beach’s slopes formed a natural amphitheater. The gnarled, sea-bleached trees that dotted the shore brimmed with Goblins, Kobolds, and Orcish children perched in neat rows like buzzards.

  From their vantage point near the front of the crowd, Gorm watched the Orc chieftain step over a log into the combat circle. The massive Orc carried a warhammer with a thick, rune-covered shaft and a head like a boulder. The crimson beads and painted skulls hanging from his long chinstrap beard swayed as he stalked into the ring. He screamed something in Shadowtongue over the crowd as Asherzu stepped forward.

  “What’s he saying?” Gorm whispered to Burt.

  “He’s angry she’s challenging him,” Burt hollered into Gorm’s ear. “He says she’s bringing dishonor to him and their name by standing against her brother.”

  Asherzu wore a flowing dress of lilac and golden yellow. Against her emerald skin, the silks reminded Gorm of a bouquet of spring lilies. Her braids were topped with yellow and orange beads, and her hands toyed with a holy symbol that she wore around her neck.

  “Is that an icon of Fulgen?” asked Laruna.

  “As much as I can tell.” Jynn shielded his eyes as he peered across the beach. “What do we know about Asherzu?”

  “She’s Zurthraka’s daughter. We met her back in Bloodroot,” said Gorm. “And now she’s standing up for us. That’s all that matters right now.”

  “That and the fact that she’s clearly outmatched,” said Heraldin.

  The slight Orcess was dwarfed by the massive warrior facing her. She raised her hand and spoke. Gorm couldn’t understand the Shadowtongue, but he could see that whatever she said was calm, level, and presumably upsetting—given her brother’s reaction.

  “What was that?” Gorm said to the Kobold.

  “She’s saying she doesn’t wish him dishonor, but the Guz’Varda Tribe and all the Red Horde need a new direction.” Burt’s ears perked up and twitched as he listened. “And that’s made him pretty angry because he’s saying—oh!”

  Darak launched into a spittle-streaked litany of guttural shouts as he gestured angrily at Gorm and his fellows.

  “Now he’s saying it’s your fault for turning her against him, and that when this foolishness is over he’s going to—wait, what?” Burt bounced to his feet and waved a fist at the Orc chieftain. “Yeah, come over here and say that, you overgrown lump of—”

  “Hush!” hissed Gorm. Kaitha and Jynn leapt to pull the agitated Kobold down from the Dwarf’s shoulder. “What do ye think you’re doing?”

  “He was talking about me!” snarled Burt. “Oh, I knew the doppelganger should have stayed disguised as an Orc! Now they think I’m one of you!”

  “That may be, but there’s too much at stake to go shooting off your mouth at every insult,” snapped Gorm, helping the Kobold step back up to his perch. “Wait a minute.”

  “I thought you were one of us!” demanded Laruna, giving voice to the revelation that was striking the other adventurers in turn.

  “Well, yeah, but to you,” said the Kobold, scrambling to gain purchase on Gorm’s pauldron again. “Not to them.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” said Kaitha.

  “Trust me, it does,” said Burt. “Now be quiet. They’re starting.”

  Asherzu planted her feet, and the crowd of Shadowkin fell silent. “I am Asherzu, sister to Char Guz’Varda, second daughter and fourth child of Zurthraka Guz’Varda…”

  “Why’s she talkin’ like that?” Gorm asked Burt.

  “She’s using her lineage to establish her right to lead—”

  “No, I mean why’s she talking in the Imperial tongue?”

  “Oh. The whole Red Horde’s watching the challenge. Most of them grew up as NPCs.” Burt waved a hand at the assembled Shadowkin. “The Guz’Varda Orcs may have kept their traditions well, but I’d bet half of the Horde doesn’t speak three words of Shadowtongue. Not to mention all the Goblin dialects and such.”

  “I challenge you for the right to wield the Guz’Varda Tribe,” Asherzu finished.

  Darak listened sullenly, his eyes avoiding her for the entire speech. Asherzu had barely finished speaking when he shouted, “I am Darak daz’Guz’Varda, son of Zurthraka, brother to Char. I am Chieftain of the Guz’Varda Tribe and leader of the Red Horde. All that wear crimson, in this camp or scattered across the land, bend their knee to me. No champion will stand for me!”

  Only then did the chieftain turn to his sister, staring her down with bloodshot eyes. “Now let your champion come forward, that we may end this farce.”

  “No champion will stand for me,” Asherzu shouted.

  There was a sound like a rushing wind as the assembled crowd gasped in unison.

  “Wait, what?” said Laruna.

  “What is she doing?” said Gorm.

  Nobody looked more surprised or dismayed by Asherzu’s announcement than her opponent. Darak’s face contorted in confusion and despair. “You must name a champion!” he shouted. “I will not fight you unarmed.”

  Asherzu deliberately drew a small knife, held it up for the crowd, and dropped her arm to hold the weapon at her hip. “It is done. I am your opponent. May honor choose the victor.”

  “No,” said Darak, shaking his head. He held his warhammer up like a shield, backing away from his sister as she approached. “No. I do not want to fight you. Do not make me do this.”

  “You do not have to fight me, Darak,” Asherzu said. “You never wished to grow the chieftain’s beard. You wanted to fight for Father, and then for Char.”

  “Do not make me do this,” groaned Darak.

  “Set aside your pride. Do what you know is best, and lay down your weapon,” Asherzu continued, striding toward him. “Remember the teachings of our father. Would Zurthraka Guz’Varda have wished this for his tribe?”

  “Ah, she’s doing the old ‘we don’t really have to fight’ routine,” said Laruna. “Appealing to his better side.”

  “She’s doing the old ‘get all of us killed’ routine, that’s what she’s doing,” said Burt.

  “The legends and histories are filled with tales of people talking down a foe in an arena, or ending a trial-by-combat by throwing down their arms,” said Kaitha.

  “Yes, but if it worked that often, we wouldn’t have trials by combat at all, would we?” said Jynn.

  “Aye, there’s a reason the old ‘we’re better than this’ rou
tine makes history when it works,” said Gorm.

  “Stop!” Darak lashed out with his warhammer, a side blow that caught Asherzu in the arm. The impact sent her sailing through the air, trailing long silks that rippled like flames after a comet. She crashed into a barrel at the edge of the ring. A cloud of dust and splinters bloomed at the point of impact.

  “Because we usually ain’t, and it usually doesn’t,” Gorm finished sadly.

  ”Spug,” said Burt.

  A great cacophony of voices rose from the crowd, though it was impossible to sort the despairing screams from the cheers. But as Asherzu stirred, the crowd fell silent once more.

  “Ra tazo rug! Tazo rug!” Notes of desperation rang in Darak’s screams. “Da go’bola rarbargfeeba ra gi’tazo rug!”

  “He’s telling her to stay down. Says he’ll show mercy if she does,” Burt said.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” said Heraldin.

  “Just to be clear, he’s talkin’ about Asherzu,” the Kobold said. “He’s still going to murder us.”

  “Should we help her then?” asked Jynn.

  “You can’t help her now,” said Burt. “Getting aid would only make her look weak.”

  “Then what do we do?” said Heraldin. “Because if this goes bad for her, we’re all going to be decorating someone’s beard.”

  Gorm took a deep breath. “Hold fast,” he said. “It’s all we can do.”

  The shattered timbers of the barrel twitched. Splintered planks shifted and fell as Asherzu pushed herself to her knees. Dark red stains spread slowly across her dress from several points of impact, and she clutched her side as she pushed herself to her feet.

  “Tazo rug!” Darak shrieked.

  “I will not stay down.” Asherzu trembled with every step, but her voice still reverberated with power and certainty. “I will be Chieftain of the Guz’Varda. I will lead the Red Horde.”

  “Why do you stand against me?” said Darak, backing away slowly. “How could you dishonor me so?”

  “I do not stand against you!” Asherzu yelled, and now there was pleading in her voice as well. She walked toward the chief, her arms held out in supplication. “I stand for our tribe, for our people. If you had taken any other path, I would have followed you to the ends of Arth. If you truly wished to lead, I would have fought for you ’til my last breath. But a chieftain’s beard weighs heavy on you, and you have lent your ear to dogs and snakes—”

  “Be silent!” shouted Darak, lashing out with his warhammer. It was clearly a half-hearted swing, a slow arc to keep a foe back, but if Asherzu had the instincts to dodge, she didn’t have the energy. The massive hammer caught her leg, spinning her around and bending her knee in the opposite direction. She collapsed with a small cry.

  Darak looked in horror at his bloodied hammer and backed away. “Da… da go’bola rarbargfeeba,” he said, his voice cracking and choked. “Tazo rug!”

  “I will not!” Asherzu snarled. Slowly, laboriously, the young Orcess pushed herself to her feet. Despite the blood dampening her dress and the useless, broken leg she dragged behind her, Asherzu’s voice was as strong and clear as ever. “I will take this tribe on Father’s path, or I will die. You cannot take that from me.”

  “Do not make me do this!” Darak cried.

  “I cannot make you do anything, my brother, my chieftain. You have a choice! Let me free you from your burden, let me lead the tribe in the way of Zurthraka Guz’Varda. Or kill me, and lead the Red Horde in the way of violence and death.” Asherzu delivered the ultimatum gently, kindly. “But you must choose.”

  The Orc chieftain’s face twisted with rage, flushing to a deep brown as he stepped up to her. “Then you bring this upon yourself!” he bellowed, raising his hammer high.

  “The choice is yours alone.” Asherzu stood unwavering in the shadow of Darak’s weapon. “Whatever you decide, you are my brother, Kib’hestzuggo.”

  They stood frozen there for a moment, the towering Orc holding a hammer high above his sister. The assembled Shadowkin waited silently, breathlessly. Gorm couldn’t hear anything but the pounding of his own heart.

  Darak’s eyes were the first to change, softening like melting ice, squinting as they welled up with tears. His snarl broke as a ragged sob ripped from his throat. A moment later, the chieftain crumbled like a toppling colossus, his warhammer falling uselessly to the grass as he dropped to his knees. “Da nubgra,” he gasped. “Da nubgra. Make it swift, my sister. End my shame.”

  Asherzu stumbled forward wordlessly, hunting knife in hand. She reached under Darak’s chin with both hands and made a quick motion. Then she kissed her brother’s forehead and whispered something in his ear. He slumped forward, face down in the grass as she stepped back.

  “I can’t believe that worked,” said Burt.

  “I can’t believe she just cut his throat,” said Laruna.

  “She didn’t.” Kaitha shook her head. “Look!”

  Darak had fallen, but he wasn’t still. His shoulders shook and his whole body heaved as he was wracked by long, silent sobs.

  Gorm could see the knife Asherzu held glittering in the sunlight, still stainless. In her other hand, she held a long tuft of Darak’s beard. The severed hairs whipped in a cold wind as she lifted her trophy above her head. She found the strength to raise her voice above the crashing waves once more. “I am Asherzu daz’Guz’Varda, daughter of Zurthraka, sister to Char and to Darak, Chieftain of the Guz’Varda Tribe, leader of the Red Horde!”

  Gorm and his companions’ shouts were lost in the roaring of the crowd. Cheers and jeers crashed over Asherzu as she stood in front of the sea, fist still in the air.

  “She did it!” Gorm cried.

  “It ain’t over yet,” said Burt.

  Among the cries and shouts, one voice rang higher than the others, shrill to the point of madness. “What is this nonsense!” screeched an Orc, vaulting over the makeshift fence to enter the ring. Gorm recognized the pale wise-one in red war paint as former advisor to Darak.

  “Grignot Gabuk’mug.” Asherzu’s voice was shaking as the blood from her wounded side ran down her leg, but she didn’t waver as she stared at her new adversary.

  “Does the blood of the Guz’Varda flow so thin?” snarled Grignot. “Do you really think the Red Horde will follow the likes of you, traitor queen? You are weak, and your path is weaker. I am Grignot Gabuk’mug, son of Hurdak Gabuk’mug, and I challenge you for the right to wield your tribe, and with it, the Red Horde!”

  Asherzu starred at him dispassionately. “So be it. I accept your challenge, Grignot Gabuk’mug.” She turned to the stunned crowd. “Who will stand for me?”

  “Should we offer to fight?” Gorm muttered to Burt.

  “The tribes would never accept a leader who needed a Lightling to fight for ’em.” Burt pointed at the crowd around them. “Besides, doesn’t look like she’ll need us.”

  A huge Orcess shouldered her way to the front of the ring. “I am Gizardu, called the Mountain. I would stand for you, Chieftain Asherzu.”

  “As would I, Nibbrok of the Gut’lab!” shouted a menacing looking Gnoll.

  Another cry rang out, and then another, and Shadowkin across the beach raised their weapons as they called out pledges of loyalty.

  Asherzu smiled at the outpouring of support, but she didn’t accept any of the offers. She wobbled on her one good leg, waiting until the shouts faded away and her would-be champions lowered their weapons.

  A silence fell over the crowd as a shadow fell over Grignot.

  Darak Guz’Varda cracked his neck as he drew himself to his full height. “I will stand for you,” he said levelly.

  “May you find victory, Darak of the Guz’Varda,” said Asherzu. She touched her brother on the arm as she limped back to the edge of the ring.

  “And who will stand for me?” asked Grignot, notes of fear cracking his voice.

  The crowd was silent as Darak retrieved his warhammer.

  “Who will stand for our o
ld ways? Who will help me lead us to glory?” said Grignot.

  The warriors of the Red Horde watched as Darak approached the center of the ring with the ominous certainty of a storm cloud. The former chieftain was a giant among Orcs, the sort that you would follow into any battle solely for the sake of not being in front of him. There’s a fine line between martyrdom and suicide, and public opinion clearly held that Grignot was on the wrong side of it.

  “Is there no one? Nobody?” Desperation crept into Grignot’s pleas as his warriors studied the beach and the sky with sudden, acute interest.

  “It appears not,” Asherzu said to Grignot. “May honor choose the victor.”

  “Come on,” said Burt, nudging Gorm. “Now it’s over, and everyone’s going to want to talk with the new chieftain. Let’s beat the crowd.”

  “But the duel’s just startin’,” said Gorm.

  “Maybe, but it’s just ending too,” said Burt. “And we’ve got a lot to talk about with Her Majesticness.”

  As if to prove the Kobold’s point, Grignot let out a piercing squeal. The cry was cut off with a sickening crunch followed by a collective “oooh” as the assembled Shadowkin winced in unison.

  Chapter 27

  A broken skull cracked and clattered as it fell to the stone floor of the crypt. Tyren didn’t look up from a small, bronze plaque on the wall above a dusty alcove. “Go away,” he said to whatever intruder had disturbed the ancient bones.

  “Um, right, well I would, sir, but some of the lads were asking after you,” Ned offered. The ghoul shuffled farther into the crypt, wearing a toadying smile that looked more desperate than ingratiating.

  Tyren said nothing. According to the thin and tarnished engraving, the young woman whose grave preoccupied him had died during the Sixth Age. The exact date was impossible to read, as time had corroded away the year. Her mortal remains had long decayed; there was nothing left of her but dust and chunks of brittle bone. Yet most of her sad epitaph was still legible, noting that she had died at sixteen years of age. Tyren recalled that Little Aubey would be almost sixteen by now, assuming she was still alive.