Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  “It’s going to eat ye, that’s what it’ll do!” roared the Dwarf. “What is it with ye wizards naming everything?”

  The great construct took a scything swing at the heroes’ front lines, sending Orcs and Dwarves crashing back. The zombies and more traditionally-sized skeletons around its feet swarmed forward, pressing their newfound advantage. Slavering ghouls and howling specters emerged from the ruined buildings around them, springing the trap.

  “I know, I know. Corpse-taker?” Jynn tried to calm his panicking horse while rattling off possible names for the bony giant. “Fleshreaper. No, that’s it! A Bonereaper! He called it a—oh.”

  Gorm had given up on the taxonomy of the dead, instead opting to launch a pre-emptive strike on the Bonereaper’s knee. Years of professional monster slaying had taught the Dwarf that the trick to fighting any giant creature was to get underfoot without getting caught under its feet. The berserker ducked under one of the abomination’s giant claws and deflected another with the back of his shield in a quick maneuver that brought him to a point that was both beneath the great construct’s rib cage and out of its reach.

  The Bonereaper howled and tried to back up quickly, but Gorm was on the offensive now. He hacked at legs and ribs with reckless abandon, cracking joints and protruding bones with rapid punches from his shield. With a roar and a heave, Gorm launched himself through its weakening frame and into its torso.

  Tiny fingers of bone and old teeth clawed at his skin as he bounced around the inner chamber of the construct, but they only spurred him to lash out with more fury. With a final cry of triumph, Gorm chopped off an arm near its unnatural connection to the hellish torso, severed a piece of internal scaffolding, and used the creature’s spine as a point of leverage to launch out of the Bonereaper’s chest cavity.

  A moment later he landed next to Jynn, covered in bone dust and wearing a grin that spread from ear to ear. Behind him, the Bonereaper groaned and stumbled. “And that’s how ye do it!”

  “I wish that was true,” said Jynn, nodding at something behind them.

  Gorm turned and watched as the stricken Bonereaper scooped three wailing skeletons into the Dwarf-sized hole in its chest. The joint bones and fingers that made up its innards quickly dismantled the undead troops and passed their various components throughout its wounded body. Broken bones were replaced, skeletal scaffolding was reinforced, and gaps were closed with cadaverous replacements. Moments later, the Bonereaper stood back up again, three new skulls emerging amongst the chittering mass at the construct’s center.

  “It just took their bones,” said Gorm as Dwarves and Shadowkin fell back into formation around them.

  “The name may lack subtlety, but it does convey the right idea.” Jynn took a step back as the creature gave an unholy howl, only to be drowned out moments later by another cry echoing through the burning city.

  There was a buzzing shriek, almost like the air itself was screaming, as a fusion of flame and metal roared through Gorm’s field of vision. The bizarre contraption sent a scintillating stream of glass and metal into the ranks of the dead.

  An explosion of pale green smoke enveloped the Bonereaper, followed by a more typically fiery explosion. A few skeletal soldiers near the front lines froze solid. A zombie transformed into an undead frog. A pair of undead bannermen were overcome by a suffusion of yellow.

  Despite all that, Gorm was more focused on the strange vehicle skidding to a halt on the far side of the makeshift thoroughfare. “Heraldin?” he shouted.

  The bard flashed Gorm a grin from astride the back of the iron sleigh he rode, but kept his hands on the mouth of a small velvet satchel. The bag vomited forth a steady shower of glass vials and small charms that exploded, ignited, froze, transformed, shrank, or otherwise afflicted whatever they broke on. Heraldin sprayed the magical knickknacks across the ranks of the undead with devastating effect.

  Gorm caught a glimpse of Gaist leaping from behind the bard, a blade in each hand. The doppelganger hit the flanks of the panicked undead and quickly set about a weaponsmaster’s work with grim stoicism.

  “Ho there, Ingerson!” shouted Boomer, waving from the pilot’s seat of the contraption. “We got our jet-steed working, and we thought you might need some Creative Destruction brand consumables!”

  “All of them!” added Buster, who clung to the back of the jet-steed.

  “I’m out!” yelled Heraldin, holding the bag back. Buster darted forward, tapped two silvery objects together, and dropped them in. The bard closed the bag quickly, aimed again, and loosed another blast of wind and consumables.

  “What is that thing?” Gorm shouted as the bard reloaded.

  “An extra-dimensional satchel, a set of wind chimes, and every other offensive consumable in our warehouse,” said Buster.

  “Most expensive weapon you’ll ever see!” laughed Boomer.

  A chorus of screams rang out from the cloud of emerald and flame that had engulfed the Bonereaper. The massive construct loomed up from the flames, its faces pocked and charred by the corrosive gas. Yet it still raised its scything arms and staggered forward for another attack. Its scythes made short work of the unfortunate Dwarven soldier in front of Gorm.

  This renewed assault of the undead monstrosity was the final straw for Jynn’s horse. The Elven steed reared to its full height as it turned to bolt, throwing the unfortunate wizard. The omnimancer kicked up clouds of dust as he tumbled across the ground, coming to rest directly in front of the rather incensed Bonereaper. It raised its monstrous arms and leapt for a final strike before Jynn could right himself.

  And then Gaist was there, a blur of shadow and steel. The weaponsmaster caught the Bonereaper’s foremost arm and sliced it neatly in twain, his enchanted blade leaving a burning nub where a scythe had been. Whirling and striking, the doppelganger then leapt onto the monstrosity. Its many skulls squealed and shrieked as it reared back.

  “Incoming!” yelled Heraldin, swiveling the extra-dimensional bag at the cluster of skulls that served as the monster’s head.

  Gaist kicked away from the Bonereaper just as a spray of glass vials caught it in all of its faces. It gave a horrible, garbled scream as its heads shrunk and grew, petrified and melted, froze and caught fire. Waving its remaining limbs in agony, the construct lost its balance and pitched over backward into the pooled remnants and byproducts of the magical oils and potions.

  Cheers erupted from the army of the Old Kingdoms when the abomination fell, and they charged forward once more as the Bonereaper’s horrible screaming faded. Swirling clouds of colorful gas rose from the putrid pool as the magical byproduct dissolved, burned, transmuted, and otherwise broke down the pile of inert bones.

  “Ye all right, lad?” Gorm asked, helping Jynn to his feet.

  Jynn nodded impatiently. “Yes, but you should be worried about—”

  “Gaist!” cried Heraldin. The bard leapt from the jet-steed and dashed to the spot where the weaponsmaster crouched, still clutching his side. Gorm and Jynn arrived just as Gaist slumped over, a dark dampness spreading from his wounds.

  “Salve!” Heraldin yelled, propping the doppelganger up. “We need elixir! Now!”

  “Pull up his armor,” said Jynn, skidding into the dirt beside the stricken weaponsmaster. Faint threads of solamancy danced around the fingers of his black-gloved hand. “I need to see the wound if I’m to treat it.”

  The wizard reached over the stricken fighter’s wound as Heraldin moved to unbuckle the armor, but Gaist reached up with sudden determination and grabbed the wizard’s gauntleted hand in his own fist.

  “What are you doing?” Heraldin demanded. “Let the man weave a spell.”

  “I need this hand to heal you,” Jynn said, looking the weaponsmaster in the eye. “I cannot weave water from my other arm.”

  Gaist only returned the stare, squeezing Jynn’s gauntlet so hard the leather crumpled and buckled around his fist. Gorm thought it a marvel that the wizard didn’t cry out.

 
After a moment, the weaponsmaster broke the gaze and stared up at Heraldin, laboring to take each breath.

  “No, my friend,” said Heraldin. “I see what you are thinking, and I’m saying no.”

  Gaist stared at him, unblinking.

  “I won’t!” shouted the bard. “It’s senseless! I don’t care how perfect the moment is!”

  “What are they arguing about?” Gorm asked Jynn.

  “Are they arguing?” the wizard asked. “Is that what this is?”

  “Fine,” the bard hissed through clenched teeth. He turned to Jynn and Gorm and spoke in the measured cadence of a messenger who loathes the message. “You two need to go on.”

  Jynn shook his head. “But I can—”

  “You can’t waste magic and time healing.” Heraldin’s face was set in determination. “We came and fought and bled so that you could confront your father. All that matters is that you reach Detarr, Jynn. That is what is most important.”

  Gaist nodded.

  Gorm shook his head. “But—”

  “All that matters,” Heraldin repeated loudly, “is that you reach the liche. But if you and Gorm can make it on your own, if you can go the rest of the way without me, then I can get our friend here back to the healers’ tent and see to his wounds. Can you reach the liche without me?”

  Gaist reached up with his bloody gauntlet and grabbed weakly at the bard’s wrist.

  Heraldin ignored the doppelganger’s protest. “Can you make it?” he said again.

  Gorm took a deep breath. Amid the chaos of the battlefield, a tiny fire flickered a little brighter at his core. “Aye,” he said. “I can get him there.”

  “Good.” The bard grabbed the weaponsmaster’s arm and slung it over his shoulder. “You see, my friend? They will be fine. Let’s get you back to the healers’ tent.”

  Gaist didn’t look happy with the decision, but he didn’t look strong enough to offer much in the way of protest either.

  “Stop pouting,” said the bard. “It was a valiant stand! It doesn’t have to be your last one.”

  “Come on, Jynn.” Gorm put his hand on the wizard’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  “Yes, hurry,” said Heraldin, helping Gaist to his feet. “And kill a few extra of those ugly rotters for us, will you?”

  “Well, that’s hurtful,” said the skeleton with a club.

  “We prefer the term ‘differently-existing,’” said the skeleton with a spear, with more than a little reproach in her hollow voice.

  Feista Hrurk tried to back farther up, but a wall was behind her, and the pair of skeletons in front of her blocked the only exit from the small alleyway. She clutched little Rex closer and bared her fangs. “I don’t see much difference, undead monsters,” she snarled.

  “You’ll get it soon enough,” said the spear-wielder.

  Her partner raised his club. “Once you’ve walked a mile in our shoes. Metaphorically.”

  The ill-fitting metaphor, however, was the last sentence the skeleton ever spoke. The undead stopped in place, weapons raised, frozen like the bizarre experiment of a mad taxidermist. Aubren and Mrs. Hrurk exchanged a quizzical glance before violent tremors overtook the bony assailants, flinging ribs and bones in all directions. Within moments, whatever dark force animated the corpses had left them, and they collapsed into a pile.

  As Mrs. Hrurk watched, two orbs of crimson light rose from the inert skulls and retreated back into the waiting hand of a dark figure hobbling down the alley. He was doubled over from the weight of the chainmail he wore over his midnight robes, and a silver beard spilled out from the base of his dark, skull-faced helmet. In one hand he dragged a brutal-looking cudgel, and the two red lights swirled about his other like drunken fireflies.

  “Two more!” the dark warrior laughed, watching intently as the wisps in his hand winked out. “Two more for the master. And here, three more…” He turned his horrible gaze on Mrs. Hrurk and Aubren. Feista held little Rex closer and cowered back against Aubren’s legs.

  The warrior’s scrutiny lasted only for a moment. “Nope! Not time. Yet.” The dark warrior added the last word with a small laugh and retreated out of the alleyway.

  “Was that a… priest?” Aubren asked.

  “It was a lucky break, that’s what it was,” said Mrs. Hrurk, checking on her son.

  Aubren stared after the armored figure. “It’s just that he had robes and a holy symbol, but I’ve never seen a priest of Mordo Ogg do that sort of thing.”

  “And we likely won’t see it again, so let’s get out of here before more undead come. Let’s go!” barked Feista.

  They dodged packs of zombies and the odd ghoul as they ran, taking shelter under awnings to avoid the notice of low-flying ghosts. They finally found their way to Mycen Avenue, then made it to the edge of Sculpin Down, moving toward the old gate that led to the third tier.

  They were halfway across the tier when they saw a group of Humans and Gnomes running toward them, back toward the Base. “No! Hey! Make for the upper tier!” hollered Feista, pointing back over the approaching mobs’ heads.

  “Run!” shouted an oncoming Human.

  “Zombie bankers!” screamed a Gnome.

  Feista’s heart leapt. Behind the oncoming mob, a grotesque, ursine form rose up and let out a gurgling roar. She recognized the risen corpse of Mr. Stearn, frozen forever in his werebear form. On either side of him, a pair of undead Naga moved in a strange, shambling slither—the Lamia sisters, no doubt. They were surrounded by a pack of zombies in fine suits; the broken remains of the clerks and accountants who had gone over the Wall.

  “That’s right! Zombie bankers!” A flaming skull floated along beside the ghastly businessmen, howling like a hellish carnival barker. “Which is more terrifying: their eternal hunger for the flesh of the living? Or their reckless fiscal irresponsibility? No, seriously. Your input is valuable!”

  “Go!” Mrs. Hrurk yelled to Aubren, joining the fleeing crowd. Rex shifted and moaned in her arms. They ran back toward the gate down to the Base, where they stopped short.

  Another mob of zombies and ghouls shambled toward them on the second tier, led by a skeletal warrior in black, warped armor.

  “Go back!” shrieked Aubren.

  “We can’t!” shouted a desperate Tinderkin from the rear. Behind them, Feista could see the crowd of zombie bankers lurching down the road. She felt panic rising as she searched for some escape, but the nearby alleys and side streets were blocked by rubble and debris. Between the two groups of approaching undead there was nothing but stone walls and a cluster of terrified civilians.

  “Mrs. Hrurk,” said Aubren, taking her paw.

  “I know, child.” The Gnoll gave the girl’s hand a long squeeze.

  “They’re right behind us.” Jynn looked over his shoulder as he and Gorm ran up the dirt path recently plowed up the Base. He couldn’t see much in the ash-choked streets, but he didn’t like what he saw. There were too many bodies in his field of vision, and too many of them were ambulatory, and way too many had broken away from fighting with the Shadowkin and Dwarves to give chase.

  “All that matters is that ye reach the liche,” breathed Gorm, pumping his stout legs to keep pace. The Dwarf banged his axe on his shield as if to emphasize the point.

  “Well, yes,” breathed Jynn. “That’s why I’m concerned about the—argh!”

  A Halfling-turned-ghoul leapt from the gutters of a ruined building, claws outstretched and maw dripping green ooze. Jynn didn’t have time to weave a spell. Yet he didn’t need to.

  Calmly, almost lazily, Gorm dismembered the airborne undead with a few strokes of his axe. The Dwarf didn’t even seem to break stride; one moment he was on Jynn’s left, and the next he was on the right, banging his axe on his shield as ghastly bits rained down around them.

  “Thanks,” said Jynn.

  “All that matters is that ye reach the liche.”

  “So you’ve said.” Jynn cast a sidelong glance at the Dwarf. “Look, we’r
e almost there.”

  Now that they were approaching Fafnir’s Gate, Jynn could begin to grasp the magnitude of the stone that had shattered Andarun’s gates. Even lying on its side, the pillar was taller than the gatehouse of Fafnir’s Gate had been before it was reduced to the scattered rubble before him. Great grooves were carved into the stone, a huge design that covered the entirety of the projectile. The wizard recognized several runes of noctomancy amid the patterns, though they were on a much larger scale than he had ever encountered before.

  A groan from behind them drew Jynn’s attention away from the massive runes. Dark figures were shambling from the haze around them.

  “The undead are almost upon us. Why are you laughing?” Jynn looked irritably at the Dwarf.

  “All… all that matters… all that matters,” cackled Gorm, his eyes wide and his teeth flashing amidst the tangle of his beard.

  It occurred to Jynn that the banging of the Dwarf’s axe on his shield had adopted a particular rhythm, while the tenor of his voice had lost a certain presence. Veins stood out on Gorm’s arms and forehead, and his skin had become almost as red as the fiery beard from which he had once derived his professional name.

  “This is that berserk, Pyrebeard thing you do, isn’t it?” said Jynn.

  Yet Gorm was only listening to a singular refrain from somewhere deep within. “All that matters is that ye reach the liche!” he shouted, and then he was gone.

  Jynn blinked at the cloud of dust where the berserker had stood. The screams of nearby zombies snapped his attention back to the present, but by the time he looked up, the nearest undead were already re-dead. Somewhere in the gloom beyond the slumping corpses, more zombies and ghouls shrieked in terror amidst the horrible, rattling laugh of Gorm unleashed.

  “Yes, well it also matters that we defeat the liche!” Jynn shouted after the Dwarf.

  The mad cackling was growing more distant. Ghosts and specters floated high overhead.

  “I’ll just… I’ll get s-started m-m-myself then,” said Jynn. Fear and self-loathing welled up inside him as he looked at the heights above, where his father flew in the height of his power. Staring at the flashes of necromantic magic crackling through the purple haze, all of his planning and preparation seemed woefully inadequate. It took the entirety of his will to cram the swirling terror and doubt into a tiny box and stuff it in the back corner of his mind.