by Tim Waggoner
Ghaji carried the cuirass to Diran, and when the priest saw it, he couldn’t help smiling.
“It seems our lich has a sense of humor. She stored her life force—her heart and soul—inside a human torso, albeit a metal one. Would you do the honors, Ghaji?”
The half-orc put the cuirass on the floor, placing it on its side so one of the welded seams was on top. Then he raised his axe and with a single blow split the front and back plates apart. Wisps of what looked like ebon smoke curled forth from inside the cuirass, filling the chamber with a foul smell like rotten eggs before finally dissipating
Diran said, “The lich is no more. Let us depart this place, seal the outer entrance, and …” He glanced down at his muck-covered boots.
“And find something to wipe this off,” Ghaji finished for him. Diran grinned. “Indeed.”
Chagai watched as Ghaji and his three companions exited the cleft in the hillside. They’d been gone for some time, and the orc mercenary had been starting to wonder if they were ever going to return. From what he’d overheard before they’d gone in, a lich laired within the hillside. He didn’t know if it was true. He rarely came to this part of the foothills, for the hunting was poor here. But after seeing the goblin appear from the cleft then be pulled back inside—not to mention witnessing the fiery exit of some wolf-like creature that dashed away trailing flame behind it—Chagai had no trouble believing the hillside was home to a lich. He did, however, have a great deal of trouble understanding why anyone, even a half-blood like Ghaji, would willingly enter a lich’s lair. He puzzled over the idea while he waited to see if the four would exit alive.
Though it was now full night, Chagai still crouched behind the outcropping. The moons shone bright this evening, and while he doubted the humans would spot him even if he stood up and waved his arms about, he knew Ghaji and the halfling both had better night-vision. Thus, Chagai kept still and watched as Ghaji and his companions moved well away from the cleft. The older human pointed a weapon of some sort at the opening in the hillside, and a bolt of lightning surged forth to strike the cleft. The air filled with the sizzle of released power and the stink of scorched rock, and the opening exploded in a shower of rock shards and dust. When the air cleared, Chagai could see that the cleft had been sealed. Whatever lay inside the hillside—lich or something else—it seemed Ghaji and his friends wanted it to remain there.
After that, the four began heading off in the direction they’d originally come from. Chagai guessed that they were bound for Perhata, if only because there was nowhere else for them to go. Chagai was torn about what he should do next. He knew what he wanted to do: follow Ghaji and the others into Perhata and wait for the right opportunity for him to become reacquainted with his old friend. He had been out hunting earlier that afternoon when Ghaji and the others had come near a place where Chagai often caught mountain goats. They hadn’t detected him. He was a full-blooded orc warrior, after all, and he was only seen when he wished to be. Still, they’d been close enough for him to catch and recognize Ghaji’s scent, and he had abandoned one hunt for another, careful to remain hidden as he followed their trail.
He hadn’t been out hunting goats for himself … at least, not only for himself. His employer had sent him out to bring back dinner, and while he was confident that Cathmore would understand why he’d allowed himself to become distracted, the man’s patience only extended so far. If Chagai followed Ghaji and his friends back to Perhata, it would be a day or more before he returned to Mount Luster, and Cathmore wouldn’t tolerate that long a delay.
“Go back to the city, Ghaji,” whispered Chagai, “and celebrate your victory with your friends. You and I will meet again soon enough.”
Chagai moved away from his hiding place and began heading in the direction of Mount Luster, hoping he’d come across a goat or two along the way.
Much later that night, Skarm padded back to the entrance to his mistress’s lair. His lupine body had healed much since the half-orc had set him afire, but he was still covered with suppurating blisters, and his fur—what there was of it—was scorched and blackened. The pain was excruciating, and the barghest whined softly with every step he took.
He wasn’t surprised to discover that the hillside entrance had been destroyed, nor was he dismayed. His mistress had long ago prepared for such an eventuality. Skarm climbed up the hillside, picking his way through the rubble that covered the main entrance, moving past it, going higher and higher until he was close to the summit. The ground sloped more sharply here, and it took an effort for Skarm to maintain his footing, injured as he was. He reached a rocky ledge and climbed onto it, then stretched out a clawed hand and pressed the blistered palm against a section of stone in front of him that was slightly darker than what surrounded it. The dark spot subsided with an audible click, and a small doorway opened inward, just large enough for a lupine creature—or perhaps a small goblin—to squeeze through. Skarm wriggled through the entrance, hissing in pain as his injured sides scraped stone, massive blisters popping, clear serum trickling down his burnt skin. Once he was all the way inside, the door closed behind him.
Skarm padded along the narrow, cramped passageway as it spiraled downward. He came to another opening no wider than the first, and he was forced to squeeze through again, gritting wolfish teeth against the pain. The serum from his running blisters helped him slide through the opening, but it still hurt like blazes.
He stood inside a chamber lit by the flickering blue light of mystic gems set into the smooth stone walls at regular intervals. The light was dim, but it was enough for the barghest to see by, and surely it was more than enough for his mistress, whom he suspected had no need for illumination to see in darkness. This chamber was smaller than either of the other two, but then those were just for show. This was where Nathifa actually lived—if such a word could be applied to a lich. There were plush chairs upholstered with fine silk, a highly polished cherry wood table, several mahogany bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes, and a large canopy bed stuffed with soft down and covered in satin sheets. Skarm wondered why she had the latter, for as far as he knew, his mistress had no need of rest. There were other ornate and elegant objects displayed in Nathifa’s living chamber—masterful paintings and tapestries, detailed sculptures, and trunks filled with gold and jewels, but all of this finery, beautiful as it was, displayed the taint of age and rot. The leather covering Nathifa’s books was cracked, the pages yellowed at the edges. The colors of the paintings had grown dull, and the sculptures had lost definition. The cherry wood table was warped, as was the bookcase, and the upholstery of the chairs and the sheets on the bed showed signs of fraying. One object alone seemed to have escaped the corruption that affected all the rest. Sitting atop the table, mounted on an obsidian pedestal so it would be at eye level, was Nathifa’s most prized possession: an obsidian skull.
The lich sat at the table now, elbows on the wood, chin resting on fists, as she stared into the smooth hollow sockets of the skull. The intertwining strands of shadow that served as her robe undulated like black kelp stirred by the motion of a slow current. Skarm knew they did this whenever his mistress was lost in thought.
Skarm forsook his natural form and assumed his goblin aspect. While he could also become a true wolf when he wished, the goblin was his favorite persona. Not only could he more effectively communicate while wearing this body, it was also much easier to stir up mischief. Though it had been his barghest form that had been burned, his goblin body was marked by the same injuries. Because it was physically weaker than either of his others forms, Skarm now experienced the pain of his burns far more intensely. He took in a hissing breath; he might have screamed but he didn’t wish to disturb Nathifa. He stood there for a moment, gritting his teeth as he struggled to adjust to the pain. Only when he thought he had it under some measure of control did he allow himself to speak.
“I am glad to see that you are unharmed, my mistress.”
Nathifa didn’t take her gaze
from the ebon skull as she answered. “It’s not for lack of trying on that priest’s part, I assure you. He’s stronger than I would have given him credit for. Stronger, perhaps, than even he knows …”
Her voice trailed off, her manner dreamy and distracted. If he didn’t keep her talking, she might well drift away into her own thoughts, not emerging for hours, perhaps even days, for she was undead and did not experience time the same way mortals did.
“Did they find the false phylactery?” the barghest asked.
“Hmmm? Oh, yes, they did.”
Nathifa often said the skull, which she called Espial, spoke to her. Skarm had never heard the obsidian sculpture do so clearly, but he believed it, for sometimes he thought he detected a faint whispering coming from the thing, a sibilant voice muttering darkly in a language he didn’t recognize. Like now.
“Did it take them long to find it?” Skarm asked, a hint of eagerness in his voice.
Nathifa finally turned away from the ebon skull to fix Skarm with an irritated glance. “I didn’t remain behind to observe them as they searched. Suffice it to say that your deception fulfilled its purpose.”
Skarm smiled but then grimaced as his burnt lips cracked and began bleeding. “I thought the cuirass was a nice touch. I hope they weren’t too rough with it. We can make use of it again after we … I mean I repair the main entrance.”
“There is no need. Our false lair has done its work.” Nathifa turned away from Skarm to look once more into Espial’s empty sockets. At least they were empty to Skarm. Who knew what Nathifa saw in their black depths?
“But that would make you vulnerable, my mistress!” the barghest objected. “A false phylactery is the perfect way to ensure that your true phylactery is safe!”
What Skarm didn’t add was that if they didn’t repair the main entrance, they wouldn’t have any more visitors, and if they didn’t have any visitors, he would be deprived of sustenance. Barghests survived by devouring both the flesh and souls of the living. No entrance, no foolish treasure-seekers. No treasure-seekers, no food for Skarm.
“Your concern for me is touching,” the lich said, her voice dripping sarcasm, “though I wager your true concern is your perpetually empty belly. You forget the reason I built the false chambers in the first place.”
“Of course I haven’t. You built them—” Though I did most of the work, Skarm added mentally—“in order to draw adventurers to you because the skull told you to do so.”
Nathifa reached out and gently stroked the smooth surface of Espial’s skull with dead-white fingers. “Do you remember why Espial so advised?”
Skarm could feel the chamber growing colder: a sure sign that Nathifa was beginning to become irritated with him. “Because one day a certain man would come, a man bearing a golden dragon’s head.” Skarm’s eyes widened in realization. “The old man! He carried such an object!”
Nathifa continued stroking Espial’s gleaming black surface. “Indeed.”
Skarm frowned and winced as the blisters on his brow burst. He wiped away the serum that threatened to drip into his eyes. “But if the man was here and he had the dragonhead, why didn’t you take it from him?”
The temperature took a sudden sharp drop, and Skarm could see his breath mist in the air.
“The old man had companions. I … wished to take their measure before I acted.”
Skarm understood. Nathifa hadn’t expected one of those companions to be a priest and such a powerful one at that. She hadn’t taken the dragonhead because she couldn’t. It seemed that Espial didn’t know—or at least didn’t tell Nathifa—everything. Skarm would’ve smiled if he hadn’t feared it would anger Nathifa further.
“What do we do now?” he asked.
“We don’t do anything. Espial says the old man and his friends are bound for Perhata. You will go there and keep watch on them for me, learn what you can about them, and if the opportunity presents itself for you to take the Amahau—the dragonhead—do it and bring it directly to me.”
Skarm didn’t relish the prospect of trekking to Perhata—especially in his current condition. “I would be most happy to do as you bid, Mistress, but the old man and the others have already seen me. I fear they will recognize me if I attempt to spy on them.”
“They saw you because they were distracted by the orc watching from the western mountainside. I sent you out to lure them in before they could head off to investigate who was tracking them.” She glanced at the barghest. “And might I add that your performance was clumsy at best.”
Skarm bristled. “But you must admit it was sufficient to draw them in.”
Nathifa waved Skarm’s words away. “Yes, yes.” She sighed, the sound like winter wind whistling through hollow bone. “It’s not like the orc to venture this close to our domain. Our neighbors on Mount Luster must be up to something. The question is, will it interfere with my plans?”
Skarm smiled, revealing teeth larger and sharper than a goblin should possess. “If it does, I am certain you will make them regret it, my mistress.”
Nathifa placed her hands on either side of the ebon skull before her, cradling Espial’s face in her hands as if it belonged to a loved one, and her dry dead lips slowly stretched into a bloodless smile.
CHAPTER
THREE
The four companions—their boots now relatively clean—sat around a small fire, huddled in their heavy cloaks against the cold night air. They ate a supper of tasteless trail rations while they debated whether to make camp for the evening or continue on to Perhata. Since they were no longer searching through the foothills, they could head directly to the city and reach it in a few hours’ time. The moons were bright, and though the area was draped in shadows cast by the hills and small mountains all around them, both Ghaji and Hinto would be able to guide the other two with little trouble. Fatigue wasn’t an issue, either, for since Diran had dispelled Tresslar’s weariness, the older man was fresh and full of energy. Hinto didn’t care one way or another, but the way the halfling kept gazing nervously into the darkness, as if he expected some terrible monster to come roaring out of the night, told a different story.
“I’m inclined to make camp,” Diran said, “if for no other reason than that we haven’t located the body of the barghest that Ghaji set aflame. It’s possible the foul creature survived, and if so, it would need to feed right away in order to begin healing its injuries. If we remain here in the foothills, there’s a good chance the barghest might attack our camp during the night, giving us an opportunity to finish it off.”
Diran waited for the others to react, but no one said anything right away. Hinto kept his gaze cast downward as he nibbled without enthusiasm on a biscuit. Tresslar stared into the fire, his lips pressed together tight as if he were fighting to hold back words. Only Ghaji looked directly at him, and the half-orc was scowling. Of course, a scowl was Ghaji’s most common facial expression, but even for him, this was an especially angry one.
Ghaji rose to his feet. “Before we decide one way or the other, we should check the area to make certain it’s a suitable campsite, and by we, I mean you and I, Diran.”
Without waiting for Diran to respond, Ghaji turned and walked away from the fire.
Diran waited a moment before standing. He looked at Tresslar and Hinto and said, “We’ll be back soon.”
Neither of them responded, and they still pointedly avoided meeting the priest’s gaze. Something was obviously wrong, but Diran had no idea what it might be. He followed after Ghaji, who by now was only a silhouette in the darkness. Diran caught up with his friend, but Ghaji continued apace, saying nothing. He just kept walking. Diran fell into step beside the half-orc, knowing that his friend would speak when he was ready and not before.
When they had walked far enough that the campfire seemed but a candle flame on the horizon, Ghaji stopped and turned to Diran.
“You’re driving them too hard, Diran. Tresslar and Hinto … especially Hinto.”
Diran fr
owned. “What do you mean? We took periodic rest breaks throughout the day, and when Tresslar grew too weary, I restored his strength.”
“I’m not talking about today, at least, not just about it. You’ve always been dedicated to combating evil, but ever since Grimwall, you’ve become almost obsessed with it. In these last few months, I think we’ve slain more undead creatures and fought more than in all the time I traveled with you before we battled Erdis Cai. I’m not complaining, mind you. Who likes a good fight more than me? But the constant traveling and ceaseless slaying have taken a toll on Tresslar and Hinto. It’s affected the halfling even more than the artificer. At least Tresslar was an adventurer in his youth, but as you’ve pointed out to me on more than one occasion, Hinto was mentally scarred by his time shipwrecked in the Mire, and he’s traveled with us ever since. He’s had no time to rest and recover from his ordeal—how can he when we’re always racing to kill one monster after another?”
Diran felt anger rising within him, and he struggled to keep an even tone as he replied. “Neither Tresslar nor Hinto has been forced to accompany us. They’ve done so of their own free will.”
“They’ve done so because they believe in you, Diran … in what you do. Hinto most of all.” Ghaji’s voice softened. “He practically worships you. He’d follow you anywhere, do whatever you ask of him, regardless of the price to his mind and soul.”
Diran thought about the way the halfling had fallen to the floor in the lich’s chamber, how he’d lain there shivering, unable to fight, unable even to defend himself. If Diran and the others hadn’t been able to draw the attention of both the barghest and the lich, Hinto would’ve been easy pickings for either of the foul creatures. This hadn’t been the first time that Hinto’s fear had gotten the better of him at a dangerous moment. Far from it.