Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  “Really? Because you—” Genevieve began, but then something behind Tyren caught her attention. “Look!”

  Tyren stepped into position next to her and turned mechanically. Viridian swirls of sorcery wreathed Detarr as he chanted in a forgotten tongue. The Wyrmwood Staff hovered in the air in front of him, the gem clutched in its carved claws glowing violet and red in turn. His hands worked furiously, weaving spells as a maestro directs an orchestra. The haunted Gnomish organ had noticed as well, and now the music was reaching its crescendo as Detarr’s unholy magic swirled to its zenith.

  That was when the closest ranks of undead exploded.

  The ghouls and zombies were blasted into to the air as a red and gold comet shot through them. A moment later, a supersonic laugh drowned out the wails of the re-dying soldiers.

  “Ha-HAAAAAA!”

  Tyren’s eyes flicked to Detarr. An armored paladin, shining with a golden light, seemed to materialize behind the liche. The man wore a manic grin as he raised a glowing sword for a definitive blow.

  “You,” said the liche drolly.

  “Me!” laughed the champion, swinging his blade. The enchanted sword cut a blazing trail through the liche. Or at least, through the place where Detarr should have been.

  But the dead wizard had darted away with a sudden speed that matched the paladin’s own unnatural velocity, and re-materialized in the air behind the confused paladin. With a wave of his staff, Detarr sent a blast of darkness into the warrior’s back. The hero screamed as hooks of shadow raked across him, knocking him down into the mud.

  The paladin wiped a clod of damp earth from his eye as he whirled to face the liche. “You!” he snarled.

  “Oh, come now, Johan.” Detarr floated back down to the field as lazily as a lord might descend a staircase. “This moment has been decades in the making. I think we can muster some polysyllabic banter for it, hm?”

  The king opted for an enraged snarl instead. He swept his sword in a wide arc, sending a luminous crescent blazing toward Detarr. The liche dodged easily and sent another blast of dark tendrils at Johan.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t be prepared for you?” Detarr watched calmly as the king danced through the shadowy projectiles slamming into the ground around him. “Did you think I don’t know what you’re capable of? You may have caught me off guard at our first meeting, but I can assure you that it won’t happen again.”

  Johan leapt away from the last strike of the spell and brandished his blade. “Ha! I’ll not be so quickly dispatched either, foul wizard!”

  “Oh, no, of course not,” said Detarr. He pointed at a small gash in the paladin’s cheek.

  Johan raised an uneasy hand to the cut and winced. A dark barb was embedded just above his jaw, and the flesh around it was already becoming discolored.

  “Slow and painful was always the plan,” said Detarr. “You will be exposed and broken before the end comes, and that is going to take a while.”

  Johan roared again and leapt, sword blazing. Detarr dodged the king’s shining counterattack by flying into the sky, then forced the paladin to leap away with another spell. The two darted, dodged, thrust, and parried their way over the battlefield. Eventually they looked like distant will-o-the-wisps—one green and violet, the other golden—dancing across the night sky.

  “Whoa,” said Genevieve, gawking with the Head of Marketing and Lady Carabae. “That was intense.”

  Tyren wasn’t paying attention any more. The Crown of Iron Thorns compelled him forward in a lurching, laborious march. He was so focused on not walking that he didn’t notice his hand involuntarily drawing his sword and raising it above his head.

  “The knight-commander is right! We’ve got a job to do while the master’s fighting!” said the Head of Marketing, floating up beside the knight-commander. The undead around him fell in step. “Now’s when the magic happens! Specifically, the necromancy. Am I right?”

  It took all of Tyren’s effort not to nod. “Right! We need to concentrate on the job!” said Genevieve, floating above them. “I can lead the spectral forces and fly over the eastern fortifications on the lower tiers. But they have wizards raising wards on the upper city.” As if for emphasis, blue light flared above the city as a distant ghost floated too close to the domes of protection shimmering over the ramparts.

  “Leave the wards to me,” said Lady Carabae. She pulled her cape up around herself and disappeared in a cloud of shadow. A moment later, Genevieve soared off, a flight of ghosts and wraiths behind her.

  “I heard they raised up these strange corpses down by the bottom of that huge wall,” said the Head of Marketing. “I’m betting I can make something terrifying out of that bunch. You’ll handle the troops, right?”

  Tyren’s inner monologue was laden with profanity, but his mostly-corporeal form marched forward wordlessly, weapon outstretched.

  The Head of Marketing, unsurprisingly, took silence for assent. “Yeah, you’ve got this!” he said to Tyren as he bobbed away toward the walls of Andarun.

  Chapter 29

  “What I’ve got is about half the materials I need, a crew that’s been riding hard all night, an army of walking corpses that’s uncomfortably close to my work site, and two thrice-cursed trees that I’m supposed to turn into a stone arch. In the dark!” snapped Hibbirp. The rotund Goblin’s headdress shook as he jabbed a meaty finger toward Gorm. “So how about I go back to trying to calibrate an ancient artifact across time and space, and you stop bothering the workers with your questions?”

  “It’s just one question,” Gorm countered. “When are ye gonna be done?”

  “Wouldn’t we all like to know?” The shaman jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the small crew of Goblins and Gremlins working to lash two large trees together at the top. “But that’s the thing about tinkering with the fabric of the universe: it’s hard to plan for. Also, it takes concentration.”

  “How easy do ye suppose it’ll be to focus with a pack of ghouls and zombies tryin’ to pick your brains? ‘Cause they do that bit more literally,” snapped Gorm. “It’s only a matter of time afore some of ‘em take notice of us.”

  “Well, who decided to set up an extra-planar gateway this close to the undead, huh?” said the Goblin. “Because it certainly wasn’t my crew!”

  “Do ye want to explain to Asherzu why her troops had to ford the Tarapin River to get to a fight?” Gorm shot back. “Because if not, this is the farthest we could get from the undead.”

  “Well then, it’s a good thing we’ve got professionals protecting us, ain’t it?” said Hibbirp. “How about you do your job and let me do mine?”

  Gorm watched the Goblin stalk off.

  “How much longer?” Burt stuck his head out of Gorm’s rucksack, a cigarette dangling from his muzzle.

  “He doesn’t know,” said Gorm, turning to join the others. “And some help ye were. I thought ye came along to help me negotiate with the Goblins.”

  The Kobold shrugged. “Not much to negotiate. You both want to get that waygate running as fast as possible. Follow my lead and keep quiet, and he just might do it.”

  Gorm snorted. “And didn’t I ask ye not to smoke in my bag?”

  “Probably,” said Burt. “But you’re also the one who said I had to leave Patches back with the Orcs.”

  “Ye know a dog would have a hard time keepin’ up with the horses all night,” said Gorm.

  “Yeah, a pity.” The Kobold tapped the loose ash from the end of his cigarette.

  Laruna stood as they approached the edge of the worksite. “How much longer until—”

  “He doesn’t know,” Gorm interrupted. “But judgin’ from what I see, they’re hours away.”

  “We don’t have hours,” said Kaitha. She pointed toward the mountain, where Andarun was falling.

  The great gates of the city had been rent apart by some unimaginable force, and undead of every foul variety pressed through the hole in the walls. Fires were burning throughout the Base, and some
had even moved up to the second tier. Ghosts and specters wove through the plumes of black smoke that rose up to join the spiraling, thundering clouds that loomed over Mount Wynspar.

  “The wards won’t hold much longer,” said Jynn. “The Academy’s mages can’t keep them up.”

  The shimmering domes of azure magic that hung over the upper tiers were beginning to flicker and fade, save for the point closest to the Wallward side of the third tier. There, the sorcerous shields flashed and crackled as a cluster of dark figures attacked them.

  “Looks like vampires,” said Kaitha. “They’re weakening the shields.”

  “I should be on those ramparts,” said Laruna, shaking her head. “I could keep the wards up.”

  “It won’t matter much if the ground troops take Malcolm’s Gate,” said Burt. “They’ll just go under the shields. And we don’t have a way to stop them.”

  “Not until the thrice-cursed waygate is ready, anyway,” Gorm grumbled.

  “No, but we might have a way to slow them down.” Heraldin looked at Gaist.

  Gaist nodded.

  “We’ll do a reconnaissance mission,” said Heraldin. “A tiny group, deployed to just the right point, can have an outsized impact.”

  Gorm shook his head. “I see where you’re going, but we can’t leave Hibbirp and his workers undefended.”

  “We won’t,” said Heraldin. “You stay behind to protect the waygate while Gaist and I go to the tiers by the Ridge.”

  “And Kaitha and I head for the walls to bolster the wards near the Wall,” Laruna added. She turned to the Elf. “Right?”

  “Right,” said the ranger, unslinging her bow.

  “Wrong,” said Gorm. “We have to stick together.”

  “We have to buy the army of the Old Dwarven Kingdoms time to get here,” said Jynn. “And their plan might work.”

  “It might not! It might get us all killed!” said Gorm. “After all we’ve been through, ye should know ye can’t split the party!”

  “Exactly!” said Heraldin. “No matter what happens or what distance separates us, you can’t split this party.”

  Kaitha grinned. “We might tactically reconfigure our proximity, but we can never be split.”

  “We should know,” said Laruna. “We tried. Multiple times.”

  “It never works,” added Jynn.

  “But—” Gorm cut off as a heavy hand dropped on his shoulder. He looked up at Gaist.

  The weaponsmaster nodded.

  “Aye.” Gorm’s shoulders fell. “You’re right. No matter what happens, we’re in this together.” Gorm stuck his fist into the center of the group.

  “Always.” Kaitha stepped up to press her fist against Gorm’s. One by one, the other heroes did the same, shaping their huddle into a six-spoked wagon wheel.

  Burt scampered up Gorm’s arm. “What… what are you doing? What is this?” he muttered in Gorm’s ear.

  “We’re doing the hands in the circle thing,” Gorm murmured.

  “Yeah, but why do you do it?” asked Burt. “Why’s everybody looking at each other like that? This is weird, right? Is this not weird for Lightlings?”

  “We’re just… it’s just a thing we do,” Gorm whispered harshly. “We’re… we’re part of the team. We’re in this together.”

  “Well, why don’t you just say it? I mean, you just did say it!” said Burt.

  “We all know what it means. It’s culture,” said Laruna.

  “Shared experience and all that,” added Jynn.

  “Oh. Yeah, I guess.” After a moment’s thought, the Kobold scampered along the Dwarf’s arm to extend his own paw into the center. “Still weird, though.”

  “You’ve really stuck your paw in it now, Rex,” Mrs. Hrurk muttered to her missing son. All her thoughts were on him. She couldn’t tell if she wanted to hold him close or wring his furry neck for bringing her down to the second tier in the middle of a siege, but either way she ached to have him in her arms. The only thing that helped was talking to him under her breath.

  “Just look at it out here,” she murmured. “This is no place for a child.”

  It was no place for anyone. Whatever calamity had shaken the city occasionally brought debris raining down around her and Aubren, and Mrs. Hrurk’s shoulder had been battered by a falling shingle. Every scream of Rex’s name brought ash and stone dust into her burning lungs. Each corner, each side street, brought a new vision of flames and death.

  “Now what are we to do, Rex? It doesn’t get much worse than this,” she mumbled, giving the cosmos an invitation to demonstrate Nove’s second principle of universal irony.

  Aubren screamed for Mrs. Hrurk, and everything got worse.

  Little Rex was folded up amid the rubble of a burning storefront like a broken toy. One of his paws was wrapped around the wooden sword he’d brought to fight the zombies; the other had been crushed and mangled by falling stones. He didn’t move when Feista lifted him, didn’t hug her back as she clutched his tiny frame to her heaving chest.

  She couldn’t hear anything but her own howling, could barely feel anything but the void in her heart. All other sensations were distant, like they were happening to someone else. Someone was grabbing her shoulders. Someone was screaming her name. Someone was yelling that he was still breathing.

  “What?” Mrs. Hrurk started and looked down at the bundle of fur in her arms. Rex’s eyes were firmly shut, but now she could see his tiny ribs rising and falling slowly, too slowly. She looked up into Aubren’s eyes. “We have to get out of here!” she gasped.

  “Yes! Exactly! We have to get out of here!” The girl pointed down the street, where ghoulish creatures were battling a squad of bannermen. “The undead are in the second tier!”

  Andarun’s second tier was the highest point on Andarun accessible from the Ridgeward side of the city. The treacherous drops and sharp edges of Mount Wynspar’s western slope deterred all but the most determined climber. Near the higher tiers, the mountainside was pocked with caves and chasms that could send an unwitting climber to the depths of the dungeons beneath the mountain. If the fall didn’t finish off such a foolish climber, the darkness below was filled with horrors eager to do so.

  Yet a climber with enough skill and dexterity could brave the lower slopes to bypass the southern walls and reach the Base or the second tier. It was difficult, and the bannermen on the southern wall would quickly notice anyone scaling the mountain, but the biggest deterrent from entering the city by this surreptitious route was the destination: the climb was a lot of trouble just to wind up a two-story drop from the Underdim or Darkridge.

  “As far as I’m concerned, the only difference between dropping into the Darkridge and falling into Mount Wynspar’s dungeon is the color of the cobblestones,” Heraldin muttered to Gaist as they crept down ramshackle roofs to the ash-choked streets. “And that was before the zombies and walking skeletons.”

  Gaist nodded and pointed a sword at a wandering band of ghouls and zombies shambling up the street.

  “I see them, my friend. This calls for a stealthy approach.” Heraldin scanned the street. “If we wait a moment, we should be able to sneak past them to that alleyway, hide behind the trash bins, and then climb the gutter to the rooftops. From there we… Gaist?”

  Heraldin was surprised to see that the weaponsmaster was already in the thick of the dead. The doppelganger moved with an alien fluidity; his limbs almost seemed to stretch and snap as he wove through his foes. Every swing of his blade sent another limb or head flying into the air, like grim popped corn in a circus vending cart.

  A moment later, it was done. Gaist glided back to the bard, his face characteristically stoic and yet somehow intolerably self-satisfied.

  “Yes, well, impressive as that was, perhaps we should prioritize not getting noticed,” Heraldin said. “We need to get across the tier as quickly as possible.”

  Gaist shrugged as he sheathed his weapons.

  They made their way through the ruined neighb
orhoods of Andarun’s second tier, sneaking, lurking, and occasionally butchering small packs of the dead. They passed by the projectile that had destroyed the Great South Gate, a pillar of stone and earth that had torn the streets and leveled buildings in its path. Eventually, they came to a familiar warehouse.

  “You’ll recall that there are all sorts of useful tools and devices inside,” Heraldin explained to Gaist as they approached the main doors of Creative Destruction Incorporated. He tested the doorway and practically giggled when he found it locked. The bard’s hands trembled with anticipation as he produced a set of intricate lock picks from his belt pouch. “All that remains is to get inside.”

  He selected the first pick and moved to insert it into the keyhole, but before he touched the lock it clicked and unlatched. A moment later, the door swung open.

  “Heraldin? Gaist?” said Boomer. “Well, if you aren’t a sight for sore eyes!”

  “Come in, come in!” added Buster. The Gremlin ushered them inside hurriedly, where Heraldin could see several workers armed with crossbows stationed in the windows. “What are you two doing here?”

  “I could ask the same.” The bard hid his disappointment as he discreetly put away his lock picks. “It looked like they evacuated the lower tiers.”

  “They did, of course!” said Boomer. The stout Scribkin pushed the doors shut behind them. “But there’s no way we’re abandoning all our gear and equipment to these rotters! We’ve got some brave men on hazard pay, a warehouse full of supplies, and enough potions, runes, and gadgets to make those walking stiffs pay for every inch they take.”

  “If we’re going to go out, we’ll go out fighting,” said Buster.

  “And preferably several days from now,” laughed Boomer.

  Heraldin raised a finger. “A noble approach, to be sure,” he said with a grin. “But may I suggest an alternative?”

  “There must be a better way,” gasped Laruna, doubled over and holding the edge of the rampart. “There’s a huge hole in the Great South Gate. It would have been an easier spot to climb up than here.”