“I forgot how sharp a barbarian’s ears can be,” the Lich says with an amused sneer. “Though, you’re certainly as stupid as I always believed. If I let you go then you will return with an army to crush me. I’m not in the mood for such a battle.”
“We couldn’t get an army here even if we wanted to,” Luke admits from the metal coffin he has been locked in. Part of his face can be seen through the thin grating that allows him to breathe. “We’d have to get a group of casters and priests to magically cleanse the area. I’m sure your master wouldn’t mind us getting rid of you. It sounds like he doesn’t really want you around anymore.”
“Actually, it sounded more like one of his stronger allies hates him,” Nyx interrupts from a chair in the middle of the room. She struggles against the metal clasps around her major joints, throat, and forehead. “All this time we thought he was one of our strongest enemies, but it seems he’s the weakest. Honestly, we should have realized that months ago. I mean, you couldn’t even beat me when I lost my magic, Tyler. How do you expect to defeat me now?”
“You don’t think he thought that far ahead, do you?” Luke asks with a laugh. “He never thinks beyond actually catching us.”
“Good point,” Nyx agrees. She smiles at Timoran, who is staring down at her with a confused look on his face. “The closest the Lich has ever got to killing one of us was the first time Luke challenged him. I remember Luke saying the Lich could have easily killed him, but the idiot tried to steal his body instead. Even if that was his goal all along, the fool could have done something to prevent Luke from putting up a fight.”
“It was pretty sloppy,” Luke declares. The metal coffin magically rises into the air and slams the ground.
“Need I remind you about the time I tricked you into turning into a Sword Dragon?” the Lich proudly retorts, using a spell to spin Luke’s coffin. “That was my victory.”
Luke groans and coughs as the rapid movement makes him dizzy. “I should give you credit on that one, but nothing came of it. I’m still alive, I didn’t kill my friends, and I didn’t cause any damage to Haven. Honestly, you tricking me is what helped us figure out what Uli’s gift really was. Up until then, I thought it was a simple transformation power, but you showed me it was shamanistic channeling. I guess I owe you thanks.”
“Whose side are you on, Tyler?” Nyx mockingly asks as her left eyebrow arches in curiosity. “If you keep up your good work then Gabriel might have to make you an unofficial champion.”
The Lich snaps his fingers and the restraints around Nyx’s throat tightens, strangling her until she nearly passes out. He glides down the stairs to the half-elf’s chair, placing his hands on her forearms. She grimaces at the touch of his cold bones on her skin and tries to cast a spell. The krypters pound on the walls the moment her aura flares around her body, forcing her to let the magic fade away. A chunk of ceiling falls toward her and is effortlessly deflected by the Lich, who casts a magical barrier around them.
“You could cast your magic, but all it will do is enrage the krypters,” the Lich happily reminds her. With a wave of his hand, he drops the barrier and steps away. “I’m sure you could defend yourself and I would be inclined to protect you for my own uses. Sadly, your friends would be defenseless against the sickening creatures.”
“Let me out of here, you blight!” Tzefira screams from a cage suspended over a gaping hole in the floor. She can see the lake of acid far below her, but there are sharp blades along the sides of the shaft. The remains of previous cages can be seen hanging from some of the shining blades.
The Lich drifts over to the angry mercenary and circles her cage, staring at her with curiosity and caution. His body unnaturally stretches as he leans over the hole and gets his skeletal face near his prisoner. Tzefira kicks the bars with the intention of hitting him with the cage, but the violent strike causes the moldy rope to fray. Her prison dips an inch toward the hole, her heart nearly jumping into her mouth. The Lich pulls back and conjures a chair of blood-covered bones to sit on.
“I don’t think we’ve ever met,” the Lich calmly says. “I know you’re the commander of the Salamander Army. Yet, I haven’t done anything to earn this much hatred from you. Trust me when I tell you that a Lich telling you they’re confused by hatred directed toward them is a rare event. Maybe I’m misreading you, but I sense you have a personal grievance with me.”
“Liches are supposed to have yellow eyes. It’s the color of their putrid aura,” Tzefira states, spitting at the Lich’s face. The small glob strikes his foot, but he does nothing to wipe it off. “When I had my magic, I made it a point to kill any Lich I learned about. I was one of the best Lich hunters before I retired. Then I faced a red-eyed Lich on the day I lost my magic, my village, and my daughter.”
The krypters screech as a surge of heat rolls across the floor, sending waves of distortion through the air. The Lich glances at Nyx, who is glowing with enough heat to melt the restraints on her chair. He sighs before making a series of half-hearted gestures in the air. A cocoon of ice grows around Nyx’s body and the chair, leaving only her head free. The sudden cold combined with the opposing magics makes Nyx’s body violently spasm, sending cracks rippling through the ice. Her frozen tomb shatters and she slumps to the side, the melted forehead restraint and frozen throat restraint falling to the floor.
“Now I’m even more confused than before,” the Lich admits as he watches Nyx’s shallow breathing. He carefully thinks back to what was said before Nyx lost control. Within seconds, his eyes glow bright enough to bathe Tzefira’s face in crimson light. “I get it now! I don’t see the resemblance, but I sense magic is involved. This girl is your daughter and you thought she was dead because you lost her during an attack on your village. It must have been a pretty big attack for a Lich killer to lose her magic and never recover. Still, I don’t know what this has to do with me.”
“It was an army of demons led by a red-eyed Lich,” Tzefira says, glaring at the necrocaster. “You’re the only red-eyed bastard I’ve ever met or heard of.”
“Then you’re mistaken,” the Lich confidently assures her, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve spent the majority of the last century in the Caster Swamp. Many of those years were as a disembodied spirit jumping from one temporary body to another because of that violent wench Selenia Hamilton. I couldn’t have been the one to destroy your village and tear your family apart. I’m honored you think I was responsible, but I have to deny your accusation.”
“I know it was you,” Tzefira stubbornly insists, resisting the urge to hit the cage. “You have the same face, the same smell, and the same voice as the creature I battled.”
Luke kicks at the metal coffin to get everyone’s attention. “I have to agree with the Lich on this. Selenia told me he was in the Caster Swamp when she arrived in Visindor Forest to build her academy. She destroyed his body and tore his castle down before the first year of classes. Kevin told me they checked in on the Lich once a year to see if there was any activity, but they stopped checking five years ago. If he returned before they gave up checking then Selenia would have gone after him.”
“Are you actually defending that monster?” Timoran asks in surprise.
“I’m not happy about it either, but I think he’s right,” Luke replies. He sighs in self-loathing when he hears the Lich chuckling. “Besides, the Lich could barely order around a Hellfire Elf, much less an army of demons. You’re giving this maggot far too much credit, Tzefira.”
The Lich points at the coffin and repeatedly slams it against the ground until he hears the sweet sound of Luke’s body going limp. The dull thud of Luke’s head hitting the side of the coffin a final time makes the Lich grin. He glances at Timoran, who is glaring at him, but he wisely decides to leave the barbarian alone. With his attention back on Tzefira, the Lich tries to think of a reason she might have seen him. Until recently, he has never been part of the large scale attacks that the Baron’s other agents commit.
“The
only one of us who could control an army of demons is-” the Lich quietly mutters to himself. The thought snaps into his mind like a cracked whip. “That evil bastard! He took my form and attacked villages! This way he could stay in obscurity and the survivors would blame a red-eyed Lich. I told Nyder that he is out to destroy me, but that gnome keeps thinking it’s my imagination.”
“Is someone in your organization trying to frame you?” Tzefira asks, only partially understanding the Lich’s high-pitched words. “You really are the scum at the bottom of the sewer. Even the trash you associate with has no respect for you. I’m betting you thought this person was a good friend.”
“That monster was never my friend!” the Lich angrily screams. He grips the arms of his chair until his bones crack. “I swear to the gods that I will find a way to destroy you-”
The instant he tries to say his hated ally’s name, the krypters screech and wail at the top of their rotting lungs. Clawed arms tear at the walls as they try to get inside, but something prevents them from getting through. As quickly as they began, the krypters calm down and return to their quiet, eerie waiting. The Lich attempts to say the name again and the krypters erupt into chaos once more. One krypter is enraged enough to transform into a furry bird. It sits in the window and shrieks loud enough to shatter the remaining glass windows. With an angry curse, the Lich launches a blast of lightning to fry the irritating creature. He waits for the krypters to stop and laughs hysterically, sending a cloud of bone dust into the air.
“He trained them to drown out his name,” the Lich whispers once he stops laughing. “Again, he will remain in the shadows until he feels it’s time to reveal himself. I’m sure our master is proud of his dear son.”
“You truly are a pathetic creature,” Tzefira states, reaching up to scratch her itchy scars until she draws blood. “Now that I look at you, I can barely believe I ever thought you were the monster that defeated me. Back then, I would have ripped your aura to pieces.”
“Why is it that captured warriors always mouth off when they get even the slightest sense of superiority? At least the wild man is quiet,” the Lich says, peering up at the restrained barbarian. He slowly lowers his gaze to look Tzefira in the eyes. “I think I’m going to teach you a lesson about respect. In fact, I’m going to teach everyone why I deserve respect. In order to earn respect, one must do something impressive and unheard of. For a creature of darkness like me, that means doing something deliciously horrible.”
“Try your best, monster. I can take a lot of pain,” Tzefira growls with a challenging grin.
“I’m sure you could,” the Lich agrees.
Tzefira’s grin fades when the Lich rises to his feet and throws the bone chair into the pit. She watches the bouncing chair get shredded by the blades and fall into the distant acid. By the time she looks up again, the Lich is walking toward Nyx. He reaches out to gently push the half-elf’s head to the side and examines her delicate features. His boney hand touches her ebony hair as if he is curious about her new style. Tzefira nervously watches him as she feels her fear grow with every second that he silently touches Nyx. Eventually, the Lich turns to Tzefira and strokes the arm of Nyx’s chair. The legs creak and lift from the floor as the chair comes to life and steps behind its master.
“It’s a shame,” the Lich calmly says with a melodic lilt to his voice. “You recently found your daughter and now you’re going to lose her again. I promise to give you what’s left of her when I’m done.”
“I’m going to kill you!” Tzefira screams. She pounds on her cage, which drops within a few inches of the gaping hole. “Bring my daughter back!”
The Lich mockingly waves to the mercenary before grinning at the roaring barbarian, who helplessly struggles against his chains. The necrocaster glances at the metal coffin, feeling a twinge of disappointment that Luke is unable to join in the screaming and cursing. The Lich walks to the stairs with the animated chair obediently waddling behind him. Nyx’s head flops from side to side, the young woman unaware that she is heading toward one of the most painful events of her life.
13
The mercenaries grumble and roll their eyes as Conrad shouts orders from a tall tower that has been erected in front of Tzefira’s tent. A few of the men risk glancing at the deathly pale calico, whose tail weakly flicks in the air as if it is swatting invisible flies. Seven bloody bodies lie at the foot of Conrad’s tower, the pile serving as a reminder of what happens to those who try to fight back. Nobody is sure what happened, but the seven warriors had dropped dead as soon as they rebelled against Conrad and his krypter bodyguards. The disguised krypters have yet to move a muscle or draw a weapon, so the mercenaries know the deaths have nothing to do with them. The rumors are that Conrad knows necromancy, which means the mercenaries are out of their league. Every member of Salamander Army is brave and fearless when faced with a caster who has to move and speak to cast spells. That type of magic can be understood and overcome with a carefully made plan. Whatever took the lives of their comrades happened without a signal or sound, which has put them on edge.
“Make sure that armor is polished to a flawless sheen!” Conrad screams, his voice getting hoarse. He carefully climbs down the tower, his movements slow and stiff. His grip falters and he nearly falls off the tower, saving himself with wild, panicky flailing. By the time he reaches the ground, Conrad is gasping and wheezing from exertion.
“Is everything okay, sir?” Tavris asks as he approaches the haggard calico.
“I’m retiring for the rest of the morning. Ordering these dolts around has wasted what little energy I have,” Conrad declares. He clears his throat and spits a glob of thick, white mucus onto the grass. “I trust you to handle everything while I’m resting. I would hate to feed you to my personal guards, Tavris.”
“There’s no need for threats, sir,” the large mercenary says with a friendly smile. “I promise to keep things under control.”
Conrad takes some comfort from the sight of the towering krypters guarding the tent, their powerful arms folded across their chests. All of them are in the form of tattooed warriors like the one Luke defeated, but they are carrying serrated swords instead of tonfas. They hiss at Tavris when he stares at them for too long, so he cautiously backs away and returns to keeping the mercenaries calm.
With a tired sigh, Conrad enters Tzefira’s tent and closes the flap behind him. He looks around the tent, figuring out where he should sleep. The thought of sleeping on the bed of his former leader fills him with disgust and a brief flicker of guilt. It is a glimmer of his lost humanity that he quickly pushes away, replacing it with more hate. His attention is drawn to a large pile of pillows that looks invitingly comfortable. Emitting a low purr, Conrad groggily stumbles toward the makeshift bed, shedding his boots and sword along the way. He crawls onto the pile and lies face down on the soft cushions. The tired warrior is about to fall asleep when he feels a sudden tug on his shirt collar and the touch of metal against his throat.
“Hey, pussycat,” Sari whispers, her grinning face barely visible beneath the top layer of pillows. “I wouldn’t yell or make any sudden movements if I were you. Even if your krypters are called, they won’t be fast enough to stop me from slitting your throat. It would be a real shame for you to die so soon after earning your rightful throne, mercenary king.”
“How did you get in here?” he asks, hoping to stall and find a way out. He tries to pull free, but her dainty fingers are like unbreakable vices.
“I snuck in,” Sari casually answers. She runs her dagger along Conrad’s throat a few times to make him stop struggling. “I have a surprisingly powerful grip, so you’re wasting your energy. Speaking of energy, why do you look like something that got run over by an ox-drawn wagon and dragged by the nose for a few miles?”
“It isn’t easy being in charge,” he says, never breaking contact with her emerald eyes. “I’m very powerful now. Maybe I can convince you to join me.”
“You’re falling apart, Co
nrad, and you didn’t have a chance with me when you were attractive,” Sari bluntly replies. She presses her dagger against his throat as she rolls out of the pillows, putting Conrad on his back. The gypsy straddles his stomach where she can get a better look at him. “What happened to you?”
Conrad opens his mouth to respond, but suddenly kicks Sari in the back of the head with both feet. It feels like he kicked a castle wall and he hears the snapping of several toes. Sari’s eyes rapidly blink from the pain in her skull, dropping her immovability long enough for Conrad to slip from her grasp. He scrambles to his feet and tries to run for the tent flap until Sari pins his foot to the ground with a well-aimed dagger. She is already behind him and covering his mouth with her hand when he screams in pain. A swift kick to his groin sends him crumpling to his knees, his shin driving the dagger even further through his foot.
“Let me make the situation clear, Conrad,” Sari says with a voice full of threatening malice. “My friends . . . no . . . my family has gone missing. They were last seen hunting you and nobody knows where they went. We both know they’re wandering around the swamp, so you’re going to bring me to them.”
“A girl can’t threaten me,” he proudly declares in a wounded voice. “I’m a warrior who has taken countless lives and endured many injuries. You don’t scare me with your daggers and charms. I dare you to do your worst.”
“I’m a gypsy,” Sari quietly states, covering his mouth again. She yanks the dagger out of Conrad’s foot and slams her booted heel onto the wound. “We don’t take kindly to our loved ones being in danger. My people have a tendency to forget their sense of humor when someone stands in the way of saving our loved ones.” She calmly stares at Conrad, her eyes sparkling with a cold fury. “I wonder how long you can last before you pass out.”
“My screams will bring the krypters here,” Conrad points out after she drops her hand from his mouth. “You aren’t strong enough to take them on and the mercenaries won’t come to your aid.”
Legends of Windemere: 03 - Family of the Tri-Rune Page 34