Ginny grinned at having her speech thrown back to her.
“Damned straight,” she said. “So what’s the play?”
“We gots three main objectives, seems to me. Rescue the lad from that cage, interrupt the ritual and gets that crown offa the lich’s head.”
Ginny nodded. “Straight forward enough. Have a plan?”
“Nope,” Thud said, “but seems to me there’s a dozen and a half more dwarves around this place somewhere and that’s a whole lot of gremlins in the works for Alaham that he seems to have discounted. So, I thinks step one is to start coordinating the problems.” He reached into his pack and pulled out a rock and a small hammer.
The Dwarven race is largely known, by the non-Dwarves of the outside world, for their proficiency at mining. It is a well deserved reputation, as mining to Dwarves is akin to eating or talking for other races. Dwarven children receive their first rock hammer in the crib, along with stones to bang on with it. They receive interesting rocks to break apart on their birthdays and their own mineshaft when they come of age. Dwarven music is comprised almost entirely of the sound of things hitting stone in complex rhythms and many a happy adolescence is spent burrowing deep into the bones of the mountains, accompanied by the sounds of all of one’s peers doing the same. Over the centuries, the Dwarves built up a complex code comprised entirely of hammering, allowing them to chat and gossip through the bowels of the deep as they each dug ever deeper in their shafts. It was a language even more secret than the Dwarven language, a language so secret that most people didn’t even realize that it was anything other than the rhythm of metal on stone.
Thud began to tap the hammer against the rock, the clink of each impact ringing out, carrying through the halls of Alaham’s crypt, hoping there were others to hear.
After a minute, the tapping sounded back.
-19-
Something else had arrived at the bottom of the dais stairs. Durham squinted to try and make it out in the gloom. Four figures carrying an ornate chest on a litter. There was barely enough room for them to ascend the stairs amidst the throng waiting there and they moved slowly, those they passed reaching out with reverent hands to touch the chest as it went by. Alaham walked forward to stand next to the Durham’s cage.
“Most of what I told you was entirely true,” he said, a note of defensiveness in his voice.
Durham snorted.
“Really,” Alaham said. “If you hadn’t noticed, I have you in a cage, completely under my control. What cause would I have to lie to you now?”
Durham was silent. It wasn’t difficult to come to the conclusion that whatever was in store for him was going to be unpleasant. The cage made that pretty clear. The skull at the top looked down at him, grinning.
“You are indeed my only living descendant, and you are to be my sole benefactor. The nature of the, ah, inheritance, however, is perhaps where I gave the wrong impression. Rest assured, however, that this will be a moment of glory for you. You should feel greatly honored.”
“Which is why I’m in a cage?”
“Well, some reticence is anticipated, I suppose. Better safe than sorry, eh?”
The chest had reached the halfway point on the ascent. The drumming seemed to grow louder with each step that it rose and the tempo of the notes from the flutes had quickened. There was a new sound too—a high pitched rhythm of clinking that was almost lost amidst the other noise.
“An amazing feat of necromancy will occur here tonight,” Alaham said. “Something never accomplished before. A rite that previously only the Hermits could have achieved, had they even the will to do so.” He did not look at Durham as he spoke, his attention focused on the chest. “This body is old. It can no longer sustain me. I require a new one.”
Durham’s mind very rapidly filled in a lot of blanks with answers he wasn’t happy about.
“Switching bodies…well, nothing like this has been attempted before,” Alaham said. “So much of our identity is tied up in the form that carries us. The more similar the bodies, the better that chance of success.”
“And you think I’m similar to you?”
“More so than any other,” Alaham said. “You are my only living descendant. All that I was is carried within you and, during my life, we were not so dissimilar looking, you and I. You will be the new form of the continuance of my reign.”
“Your reign over a hole in the ground full of puppets made of bone?”
“Oh, no,” Alaham said. “This is but the beginning. The boneworks is the greatest thaumaturgic engine ever created. Its influence will sweep across the land, sucking life as it goes. We will stream forth and create a new world. A world of the dead and of their masters. A world of necromancers, each living like kings, waited on by their animated minions. All of the menial tasks, all of the farming, the building, all performed by the dead. Uncomplaining, never tiring. A world of endless luxury and ease and we shall rule over all of it, your body, my mind.”
“And what of my mind?”
“Not particularly relevant,” Alaham said. “A situation, I believe, which won’t exactly be a novelty for you, no?”
Durham clenched his teeth and fists. There was knot of fury deep inside of him that was twisting all of his thought into it. The chest arrived at the top of the stairs.
Alaham turned towards Ruby. “Getting all of this, I presume?”
“Yep.” She barely glanced up from her journal. “Do you prefer being described as crazed or mad?”
“Whichever you feel more likely to persuade me to keep you alive as my court scribe rather than as a desiccated hag corpse that licks the chamber pots clean.”
“Ah,” Ruby said, pausing to consider a moment. “That would be ‘batshit lunatic’ then.”
“I’d hoped that at least one of you would appreciate the majesty of this moment, but it shouldn’t surprise me. You will appreciate it in time, I’m sure.” The chest had been set to rest atop the altar. Alaham strolled slowly around it, looking at it. “It’s a very delicate procedure we’re attempting here. My phylactery resides within that chest, and within it, my heart. Within the heart, of course, lies my essence. My mind. My soul. We shall prepare a new phylactery and place a heart within it, still beating.” He cast a meaningful glance toward Durham, making it clear whose beating heart he was referring to. “Then I shall let this body drop to the dust it longs for, and my essence will rise free from my old heart, and take up residence in the new. And a new form shall be mine.”
Durham prodded at the ribs on the cage, testing their strength. It had occurred to him that the noble thing to do, were he to manage to escape the cage, might be to fling himself off of the dais, letting his body be crushed in the fall. Unfortunately, the noble route didn’t offer much personal incentive over Alaham’s alternative. Maybe he could bash his head against the side of the cage really hard? Unconsciousness probably wouldn’t be much of a hindrance for Alaham but might make the experience more personally endurable. Maybe he could try to pluck his own eyes out, out of sheer spite in order to stick Alaham with a blind form. None of the options were sounding particularly good.
Alaham gestured and two of the withermen raised the lid from the chest, then pulled at pins on the corners, allowing the sides to fall away, revealing an ornate vase, slender and filigreed with silver. Two of them reached out and lifted the vase while the others pulled the chest out from beneath it. They lowered the phylactery back down to rest on the altar.
Alaham stepped to the edge of the dais and raised his hands.
“Let it begin!”
The boneworks shuddered. Cascades of dust fell from the gears as they all began to spin. Huge sections of the bone machine began swinging into new positions, rotating, unfolding. The hallways of the maze, suspended within the machine, all began to move, spinning and raising, lowering, moving into new positions.
“They’re forming runes,” Ruby whispered next to him. Durham looked over to find that she’d crept up to the side of the cage
once Alaham’s back had turned. “That’s how the bastard’s going to do it. Form Hermit runes large enough to absorb the energies.”
“Is it really as easy as that?” Durham asked. “Won’t someone have thought of that before?”
“No, the ritual will still absolutely shatter him but runes that size will hold the energy long enough that he’ll have switched bodies before it happens.”
The chanting below was rising in crescendo and Alaham’s own voice was adding to it, rolling out through the cave as the halls began locking into their new positions. One of the hallways was moving into position directly in front of them, fifty yards out, rotating so that the hollow end of it was pointing directly at the dais. Within it stood more robed figures, between them another vase. The new phylactery. It was ornate, short, squat and ugly. Durham frowned. There was something oddly familiar about it.
The chanting and drumming was at near deafening levels now and arcs of purple light had begun flickering along the runes above. At the edge of the dais, Alaham collapsed, falling to the floor, breaking apart into a pile of rags and bones, spinning and clattering. Durham felt something move past him, something intangible and evil. The phylactery on the altar shimmered with the same energies that played over the runes. It began to shake and vibrate, skittering around on the altar top as if it were alive. Durham supposed that it was, in a way. The vibrations grew stronger and stronger until the vase shattered explosively, sending shard of pottery flying across the dais. One of them sliced across Durham’s cheek and he felt it go hot and wet. Ruby staggered back a step with a small cry and Durham saw a blossom of red on her shoulder. Another shard was embedded in the back of the journal she held in front of her, the thick pages possibly having saved her life.
A shriveled black mass of wet tissue was all that remained on the altar. The necromancer’s heart. The essence of the lich. It pulsated with the slow rhythm of a heartbeat. It split open with a splatter, exposing its rotted brown interior and a wave of nausea hit Durham as the soul of the lich king rose free in a black swirl of bloated flies. The swarm hung in the air over the altar, waves of stench rolling away from it, then began moving slowly through the air towards the second phylactery. Four of the withermen advanced on Durham’s cage and he knew that the time had come.
Durham crouched and clenched his fists. He knew it was futile but he was determined to put up as much of a fight as he could. He had no intention of just standing around while someone ripped his heart from his chest. The withermen reached the cage and stopped, seemingly puzzled. The cage hadn’t opened for them. The cloud of flies had stopped midway along the walkway in an angry buzzing swarm.
Alaham’s voice rang out as a hideous buzzing noise, as if the flies themselves called out in a chorus of rage.
“SOMEONE SHAT IN MY PHYLACTERY.”
Realization dawned on Durham like a sunrise. He recognized the pot now. It was the same one he’d found—and used—in Alaham’s chambers far below.
“Aye! And we got another surprise or two for ya!” cried a distinctly dwarven voice. The figures around the soiled phlyactery cast off their robes, revealing dwarves sitting atop each other’s shoulders. Nibbly hopped down from Rasp’s shoulders and nonchalantly gave the phylactery a kick, sending it off the end of the hallway. It spun through the air as it fell, disappearing with a crash into the clustered masses of skeletons below.
The cavern reverberated with Alaham’s buzzing roar of rage.
The dwarves in the hallway stepped aside, revealing the ballista and a grinning Leery. “Duck!” she yelled and stomped on the release lever. Durham hit the floor of his cage as the bolts flew. It was one of the chain bolts the dwarves had used at the crypt entrance—four bolts with a lattice of chain between them. It hit the cage above Durham’s head, the chains catching against the ribs, swinging the bolts in with shattering force. Broken bits of bone rained down on him and the great grinning skull crashed down onto the floor next to him as the remnants of the ribs were thrown and scattered across the dais.
He was free.
Most of the withermen were still in their ritual pose, still kneeling, still chanting. Durham had the notion that no matter what happened on the dais that they couldn’t stop—once the ritual had begun they needed to keep the chant going, keep the magical energies in control. That still left the four surrounding him, the four who had come for his heart. They advanced on him
There was a nice length of broken rib laying next to him, its broken end jagged and pointy. Just about the size of a city guard truncheon. Durham grabbed it and stood. He favored the withermen with his most charming smile.
His first swing shattered the knee of the one in front of him, sending it hopping backward. Then the back-swing, catching the one to his right a smart crack alongside the head. Durham’s smile felt like it would split his face. The shriveled old men were necromancers. Close quarters fighting wasn’t in their skill set. He swung the rib forward, feeling like the conductor of a bone-crack orchestra, thumping the third alongside his hood, sending it into a spinning stagger. The fourth had stopped his advance, raising spindly arms in what might might have been an attempt at a placating gesture. Durham brought the rib truncheon down hard, relishing the hollow thonk noise it made on the thing’s forehead. It pawed briefly at the impact point then fell backwards like a rigid plank. The witherman with the broken knee was hobbling towards him, arms outstretched. His hood had fallen away, revealing his face, eyes glowing with fierce pinpoints of light, a ropy tangled mass of braided hair and a thick thatch of beard framing a snarl of teeth. The framed teeth looked a likely target to Durham and he aimed the pointy end of the truncheon and thrust. The witherman made a curious gargling noise clutching at the rib jammed down his throat. Durham raised his leg and shoved hard with his foot, planting it squarely in the thing’s chest. It staggered backwards and disappeared off the edge of the dais. Durham knelt next to Ruby.
“I’m ok,” she said. Her voice was weak. Her hand was clutched to her shoulder, the fabric of her robe dark and wet between her fingers. “Keep yourself alive.”
“No. Here,” he said. He ripped the sleeve from his tunic and made a fumbling try at getting it around her shoulder. She batted at him with her free hand.
“You’re already missing enough clothing. I’ll manage it. Go do something more useful.”
The hallway with the dwarves in it began moving forward, the great bone gears spinning it along its way. The movement seemed in discord with the rest of the machine’s part in the ritual. Purple lightning crackled against the sides, sending chips and chunks raining down. The close end advanced over the stairs, skeletons and necromancers alike scrambling both up and down to get clear, some of them falling into the darkness, the skeletons with silent grins, the withermen with reedy screams. Ginny stood atop the hall, a tangle of tendon ropes clutched in her fists, yanking and tugging on them to redirect the supporting gears. Eight of the dwarves were advancing down the walkway, Thud at their head, maces in their hands. They looked like they weren’t quite sure how to deal with a cloud of flies. The fly column billowed and swirled, the buzzing forming again into Alaham’s voice.
“Do you think you’ve won? Do you really think that, after centuries of planning that I wouldn’t have accounted for all contingencies? Prepare the alternate phylactery!”
Durham felt himself grabbed from behind by strong, wiry fingers. Some of the withermen, at least, had left the chant. They began dragging him backwards. An alternate phylactery? Durham’s mind raced. There had been other vases in the chamber pot room, hadn’t there? He struggled enough to half turn and look ahead. He was being dragged by two of the withermen, a third and fourth to either side. They were taking him toward the lift that led to Alaham’s rooms below.
The cloud of flies dispersed, separating out in all directions, up and out, amongst the bones. And the boneworks ground to a shuddering halt. The sudden absence of its noise was startling. The drumming and the chanting continued but the the ticking and wh
irring, so constant that it almost faded below perception, had ceased. The machine shuddered and gave a deep creaking groan as if hundreds of gears strained against each other, wanting to move.
Thud barely paused. “Make for the dais! Get offa this bridge!” The dwarves charged forward.
Behind them the boneworks began to move again. No longer spinning, no longer a machine. Huge bits of it began uncurling and unfolding, sections reaching out and connecting to each other in new ways. Dust fell from it like waterfalls as the bones ground together, taking a new, massive shape. Thousands of skeletons, clutching together to bind themselves into great limbs and a massive torso. A huge head formed at one end as the bones melded into their new places. The dwarves reached the dais, looking back over their shoulders as they ran. They formed up on the edge, in the space left by the withermen Durham had defeated. Gong crouched behind his shield at the center, Thud, Ginny and Mungo to his right, Clink, Goin, Cardamon and Leery to his left. Alaham filled the cave before them, a gargantuan wickerman of bones, crouching in the great emptiness. Each step forward it made crushed a half dozen skeletons beneath its feet. Others raced toward it and clambered on, adding themselves to the massive bonetangle nightmare.
The withermen tossed Durham onto the lift and crowded around him. He got one last glimpse of the dwarves, could just hear Thud’s call. “Brace lads,” his voice rang. “Gonna be a bumpy one!” The lift began to descend, the dwarves replaced by leathery crazed faces looming over him. They raised him up onto their shoulders as the lift reached the cavern floor. Alaham towered above, great crashes echoing through the cavern as its massive arms began raining blows on the dais. Durham’s back was to the ground and he was being carried feet first, his view now an upside-down look at where they’d been. Nonetheless he spotted something familiar at the base of the massive stalagmite that made up the dais. Durham whistled.
Squitters was bounding at full speed when he barreled into the withermen. It wasn’t so much an attack as an amazingly enthusiastic, tail wagging attempt to get to Durham. The withermen were completely unprepared for it however and the lot of them went down in a tangle of scrawny limbs, Squitters scampering about happily on top of them. He had the skull Ruby had thrown for him clamped in his mouth. Durham scrambled to his feet and gave Squitters a quick pat on the head. Then he ran. He was headed in the same direction that the withermen had been carrying him but now was on his own two feet and accompanied by a friendly dog-thing rather than four unfriendly necromancer things determined to rip his heart out. Things were looking up. The skeletons surrounding him ignored him, continuing to stream toward the bone colossus. No orders had been given to them regarding Durham and he ran past them as if invisible. He spared a glance up. The massive thing that Alaham had become was still pounding at the dais, telling Durham that at least one of the dwarves was still alive up there. His stomach clenched at the thought of Ruby, laying out in the open, wounded. He ran faster. He hadn’t the slightest idea of where he was going or what to do.
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