Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  “It’s also an easier way to get into the city, which is why most of the undead are crowded around it.” Kaitha nocked an enchanted arrow in her bow. “We’re trying to avoid being seen, for the moment.”

  A ghostly old sailor flew overhead. His blank eyes opened wider as he recognized the living women beneath him, but an arrow of silver light blasted him back to the afterlife before he could cry out.

  Kaitha readied another arrow as she watched the last traces of the spirit evaporate. “Are we almost ready?”

  “Hang on,” panted the mage. “We’re not all accustomed to scaling sheer surfaces.”

  Kaitha held her tongue as she shot another curious specter.

  The Wall had stood as the defining feature of Andarun’s eastern border since it was built by the Sten, and modern architects had been unwilling or unable to alter the great edifice’s stonework when adding a new, shorter wall to the southern limits of the Base. As such, the corner between the Wall and Andarun’s southern fortifications was marked by regular gaps and crannies. They made for a notoriously easy climb to the southern ramparts. Kaitha had scaled it one night on a dare while drunk.

  The Elf peered into the city. Hordes of zombies and skeletons rampaged through the lower tiers. Above the ruined streets she could see tiny, dark shapes attacking the sorcerous wards cast over the upper tiers. The crackling shields faded a little with each assault.

  “We need to hurry.” Kaitha obliterated a nearby banshee with another arrow. “The wards won’t last long.”

  “I know,” the mage said, bracing herself against the ramparts. “How many vampires are there?”

  “Two dozen or so.” The ranger squinted at the distant figures. “Thirty on the high side. It’s hard to tell with them moving through that light.”

  Laruna nodded. The solamancer’s fingers danced in complex patterns, wisps of flame and light dancing between them. Nearby torches flickered and leaned toward the mage. Embers and flames from the burning city danced toward the fiery nexus between her palms. The threads whirled and wove themselves tighter and tighter, bundling into a white-hot singularity.

  A nearby ghost noticed the light, but Kaitha eliminated it with a quick shot. “Any time now,” she told the mage.

  Laruna shifted her feet, and tendrils of light extended from the glowing ball between her palms. The strands of silvery luminescence drifted over the city as though blown by a billowing wind, finally snapping into place as their tips reached the shield. White light suddenly spread up the lower part of the ward, casting the Broad Steps in baroque shadows.

  “Are they coming?” the mage growled.

  “They’re starting to.” Kaitha readied her bow as several shadows detached themselves from the pack and drifted toward them. She took aim as they flew into range. “Keep weaving.”

  The ranger’s first shot downed the lead vampire in a cloud of shadow and ash. Her second silver bolt only grazed the next shadow in the pack, and it took another arrow to slay it. By the time she sighted on the third vampire, she could make out the bat-like creature flying toward her.

  “Time for some improvised dental work,” Kaitha muttered, then loosed the shot. Her enchanted arrow struck home, slamming the onrushing shadow between the gleam of its fangs. Kaitha felt a flash of pleasure at a perfect shot finding its mark, but her satisfaction faded when the vampire failed to react.

  The ranger grimaced and fired another bolt, and then another. The silvery lances slammed into the oncoming vampire again and again, but with no effect. Kaitha heard the hint of a laugh as the shadowy figure alighted on the edge of the ramparts, wrapped in leathery wings. When it stood, it had taken the form of shapely woman with jet-black hair, ruby lips, and a pair of pearly fangs peeking out from beneath her smile. “What was that about my teeth?” the vampire said in a voice like wind on silk.

  “I… Nothing. It was nothing,” said Kaitha, taking a step back.

  “It sounded like something about dental work?” said the vampire, tapping her chin. “Or perhaps you were making jokes?”

  “You know. It was a quip.” Kaitha shrugged.

  “A what?”

  “A quip. A joke,” the Elf mumbled. “You know. Everybody’s allowed to make just one.”

  “You’re allowed to make one joke in the middle of a fight to the death?” The vampire’s smile turned disdainful. “Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?”

  “I do!” Laruna growled, still sending strands of magic into the distant wards.

  “Just get the wards reinforced,” Kaitha snapped back. In one fluid movement, she drew another arrow, nocked it, and fired at the vampire. “I can handle this!”

  The arrow flew straight and true for the vampire’s heart, until the undead woman’s hand snapped up and plucked it from the air. She held the sizzling bolt in a pale fist, her cruel smile unwavering. “Oh no, my dear,” she said. “I am Lady Devalla Carabae the Third, Mistress of a Thousand Thralls. I do not make jokes. I do not engage in idle banter. I do not show mercy. And you most certainly cannot ‘handle this.’”

  “All right, so it’s bad. Ye’ve made your point,” said Gorm. “We don’t know if all the army is gonna get through the waygate. I get it.”

  “I don’t think you do. We’re absolutely sure some of the army won’t make it across before the waygate closes.” Hibbirp watched Dwarves and Shadowkin marching through the crackling passage. “You do your best to calibrate things just so, but no matter how well you do it, sending stuff through the gate puts strain on the thaumite. At some point, that big crystal back at camp is going to have one heck of a fragmenting event. And sooner rather than later.”

  “Your workers should be able to reweave the sorcery matrix around the fissure,” Jynn told the Goblin. “Or even recalibrate the waygate attuned to a chunk of the shattered thaumite.”

  “Well, yeah, of course.” Hibbirp spoke with the wary condescension of a craftsman whose expertise has been challenged. “But reweaving or recalibrating is going to take hours. Maybe half a day.”

  “We do not have half a day,” said Asherzu, grimacing at the makeshift archway.

  “We ain’t got an hour,” said Gorm, looking at the smoke rising above Andarun. The warding spells shielding the inner tiers were glowing a worrying hue of white. “We’ll just have to hope that the waygate stays open long enough.”

  His statement was punctuated by a sound like a wine glass breaking, followed by a low twang akin to a bowstring. The Dwarves and Kobolds currently stepping through the gate were thrown forward as the waygate’s magic faded and the laws of physics reasserted themselves.

  Gorm found himself the target of damning stares from almost everyone within earshot. “Well, I mean, that’s…” His excuses withered and died in the heat of the collective gazes on him. “All right, I should have chosen my words better.”

  “It’s like you’ve never even heard of Nove’s principles of universal irony,” grumbled Burt.

  Gorm shook his head. “I know about Nove’s principles. I just—”

  “I mean, it’s right there,” said Burt. “First principle. Some things you just don’t say out loud.”

  “We call them the Teachings of Phrek,” offered Asherzu.

  “I know what I’m not supposed to say,” barked Gorm. “Can we just go see how many fighters made it through?”

  The troop count provided another opportunity for reality to deal a blow to expectations.

  “We already had less troops than we’d want to take on a horde of that size,” said Guildmaster Korgen, surveying the ranks. “And now half of them are stuck on the other side of the Ironbreakers.”

  “What do we do now?” asked Darak.

  “Get in formation anyway,” said Gorm. “Whatever we got has to be enough.”

  Korgen and Darak began bellowing orders, and the troops launched into motion. The Dwarves and Shadowkin began to form ranks quickly. Squads of Orcs and larger Demi-gnolls were supported by smaller teams of Goblins, Gnolls, and Dw
arves. A few Ogres and Naga attached themselves to squadrons, weapons at the ready.

  Burt hopped down from Gorm’s shoulder “So, uh, where should I go?” he asked. “I… I can fight. If I need to.”

  Gorm smiled at his friend. “Don’t ye know the average lifespan of a Kobold soldier? Ye’ve already survived your one battle.” He pointed to Burt’s mangled ear.

  The Kobold smiled. “Yeah, I suppose.”

  “Come on,” said Gorm. “Let’s connect ye with Lady Asherzu. Ye can work with the chieftain and her wise-ones in the healers’ tent.”

  Across the muddied road, they found Asherzu and her advisors in discussions with Commander Harak of the Dwarves and several Fathers.

  Asherzu shook her head. “I know this isn’t ideal—”

  “Not ideal?” the old Dwarf sputtered. “This thrice-cursed plan is fallin’ apart!”

  “Perhaps, but we must press on anyway.” Asherzu’s hand unconsciously played with the icon of Fulgen around her neck. “It’s our only chance at success.”

  “Ye know she’s right, sir,” Gorm added.

  Harak looked at the resolve in the faces around him, and his shoulders fell. “Aye, you’re right. But burn the ashes, the gods have led us down a dark shaft on this one.”

  Asherzu nodded. “The gods do as they will.”

  “The bastards,” Burt muttered under his breath.

  “And we do as we must,” the chieftain finished, looking back at the burning city of Andarun.

  “Well, looks like we’re all done for,” said the elderly bannerman. “Them walking bones got us trapped, and the king don’t seem to be doin’ too well neither.”

  General Gurgen allowed herself to glance across the second tier to the ruins of Fafnir’s Gate, now little more than a pile of rubble. Atop the fallen stones, King Johan and the liche remained locked in a fierce duel. Yet in the mounting twilight, the general could see that the golden aura surrounding the paladin was fading, and the king’s breaths were visibly labored.

  “Focus on what we can do, Guine,” she told the leathery old soldier.

  “Ain’t much,” said Guine, scratching at his snowy beard. “Men been fightin’ hard all night, and the second tier’s all but overrun. The Base never had a chance. Captain Federan ain’t sure how much longer he can hold Malcolm’s Gate, and the wards look like they’ll come down any minute.”

  “Take heart, friends,” said Cedric. The young bannerman was starry-eyed as he stared out over the carnage. “I’ve heard it said that it is always darkest just before the dawn.”

  “That’s the spirit, Cedric.” General Gurgen nocked an arrow in her Bow of Unrelenting Flames, sighted, and set a distant ghoul alight.

  “That’s daft,” said Guine. “It’s always darkest in the middle of the night.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I mean, you can see all them skeletons and ghosts pressing in on us now, can’t you? It’s light enough to shoot them, ain’t it?” The old soldier pointed at a pack of encroaching undead below them.

  “It certainly is,” said General Gurgen pointedly. She immolated another zombie with a well-aimed shot.

  “Three, four hours ago it was darker than a River Hag’s breeches out there,” said Guine with certainty. “Definitely darker than now.”

  “It’s an expression,” said Cedric, finally notching an arrow. “But look!”

  He pointed. The clouds broke beyond the Wall, and the first warm light of dawn spilled over the plains. Celestial rays of golden sun blazed across the sky and fell impotently on the empty horizon.

  “Yep, that’s a sunrise,” said Guine, clearly unimpressed.

  Cedric’s shoulders fell. “I just thought, you know, maybe the gods would have some miraculous way to save us with the coming of the dawn.”

  Guine snorted and spit over the edge of the ramparts. “Don’t seem as much.”

  “You know, the noble heroes, or a big army, or a powerful wizard of light… They always come with the dawn to save the beleaguered defenders.” Cedric peered into the distance, still hopeful.

  “Well, clearly not always,” said Guine.

  “It just seems like a thematically appropriate moment to—”

  “We’re all there is now, Cedric,” barked General Gurgen. “Stop making burning wishes and start shooting thrice-cursed arrows!”

  “But—”

  “No arguments, soldier!”

  “But General, look closer!”

  General Gurgen squinted at the horizon and then shifted her gaze closer to the ruined walls of Andarun. A small army had arrived from nowhere, as if it had materialized somewhere near the Riverdowns. They weren’t many, but they were forming ranks and preparing a charge.

  “Is that… the Dwarves?” Cedric wondered aloud, looking at the banners carried by the army. “It’s the banner of the Old Kingdoms.”

  “They look too tall for that. Or short. And green,” puzzled Guine, scratching his chin. “If’n I didn’t know better, I’d say they was Orcs and Goblins.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” breathed General Gurgen. “They’re reinforcements.”

  Chapter 30

  The air vibrated around Gorm as he rode across the muddy field toward the ruins of the Great South Gate. There was a rhythm to the sounds of the battlefield, a familiar drumming in harmony with the pounding of his own heart. He swung his axe in time to the song. It hummed through the air and rang out as he decapitated an unfortunate skeletal archer. A moment later, his horse smashed into the rearmost ranks of the undead army near the ruined gates of the city.

  Every stench that death had to offer assailed Gorm’s nostrils in waves: the dry mustiness of a crypt; the nauseating odor of decaying flesh; the faint, burnt fragrance of spectral essence. Undead troops pressed in close behind their own stink, surrounding the horses and clawing for the heroes atop them.

  Gorm chopped off reaching limbs and careless heads as he tried to maneuver his mount around the leering dead and Jynn’s indiscriminate blasts of sorcery. “Push on!” he hollered to the wizard. “Keep pushin’ until—”

  The first wave of the Old Dwarven Kingdoms’ new army crashed into the undead, sending up a spray of ichor and spare parts. Dwarves pounded skeletons into dust with massive warhammers. Orcs and Gnolls hacked at zombies with axes and cleavers. Goblins and Gremlins scuttled underfoot, jabbing at rotting flesh with short spears, while Slaugh launched stones from their slings at a safe distance.

  Gorm was in the heart of the violence, and he reveled at the violence in his heart. At some point early on, he decided that fighting on horseback was too cumbersome and had dismounted. So unsaddled, he was a tempest of axe and shield, chopping and battering any undead that couldn’t scramble out of his way. “Press on,” he shouted, in tune with the rhythm. “Keep pushin’ ‘em!”

  Caught off guard by the sudden assault, the undead ranks were beginning to fall apart, often in more than one sense of the word. The army of the Old Kingdom carved a path to the ruined gates. The undead on the other side of the outer wall weren’t any more prepared for a sudden assault on their flanks, and the Dwarves and Shadowkin ground them down as they pressed into the streets of the city.

  Gorm and Jynn regrouped just inside the ruined wall, falling back from the front lines for a moment. “Any sign of the others?” Gorm asked the wizard.

  “No.” Jynn tried to calm his horse amid the rush of troops pouring into the city. “But they’re expecting us to go after my father.”

  The wizard pointed toward the upper tiers. Some massive chunk of stone had carved a deep scar across Andarun’s base, a channel of torn-up streets and knocked-down buildings. At the end of the trail of destruction, the great stone projectile protruded from the wreckage of Fafnir’s Gate. And atop the ruined gatehouse, Gorm saw a tiny figure wreathed in purple flame.

  “Well, it’d be a shame to let ‘em down.” Gorm’s lips pulled back from his teeth. “Come on!”

  The various neighborhoods and markets crowded u
p against Andarun’s main gate had been a warren of winding streets and hidden alleys, but the channel cut by the undead’s siege weapon made for a convenient thoroughfare up the middle of the Base. Gorm and Jynn made their way north, flanked by a couple squadrons of Dwarves and Shadowkin. They encountered little resistance at first, but after a few blocks Gorm could see ranks of zombies and skeletons forming up in the channel ahead.

  “They’re going to make a stand!” shouted Jynn.

  “If’n they want a second funeral, who are we to deny ‘em?” said Gorm.

  The vanguard of Dwarves and Orcs slammed into the zombies at the front of the undead formation, and at first the heroes of the Old Kingdom pressed forward with typical ferocity. Their progress slowed to a halt, however, as the crowd of skeletons behind the zombies began to rise up like a wave ready to crash over the fight.

  “I think this is one of them Skull-taker things!” Gorm shouted at Jynn.

  Now it was clear that the bones weren’t a crowd of skeletons at all, but instead one sinister construct. It rose to its full height with the jerking, stilted movements of a golem, but instead of wood or metal, it had been constructed entirely from an intricate lattice of bones and ribs. Each of its four arms ended in a long, scythe-like blade of fused bone. Its head was fashioned from a cluster of Human and animal skulls, all of which chattered menacingly as the abomination stared down at the fighters below it.

  “A what?” shouted Jynn.

  “A Skull-taker!” shouted Gorm. “Remember? Your father had one at the Tower of Ashes. I told ye Thane killed it.”

  Jynn’s brow furrowed. “I thought he called it a Rib-taker. Fleshmonger. Corpsethresher? Something garish like that.”

  A bestial roar chorused from the monstrosity’s collection of grotesque faces.

  “Who cares what it’s bloody called?” snorted Gorm.

  Jynn snapped his fingers. “I’m sorry, it’s going to drive me crazy.”