Hesketh Tolson
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Lich, Please 93: A Lich In Time
🕑 Added 2022-06-28 14:16:42 +0000 UTCChapter 93
A Lich In Time
(A Day Earlier)
Lord Phylas Listener, Beloved of the Dark God, Chief Necromancer of the Cult of the Seven Stars and secret phylactery hunter, crept through the gathering smoke. Downing Forest was well and truly ablaze, and the fires were well entrenched. They ate through both hardwood and the wet, in a magic fuelled frenzy.
When the king killed the upstart lich she would respawn by her phylactery.
Phylas wasn’t sure now, if his fires would be enough to destroy it, to send her blighted soul straight to the Whisperer. Her essence was not just in the trees, but had leached deep into the soil of the greenwood. He had never seen the like. He would have preferred to stop and study the phenomenon, to make notes, conduct some studies, but that was not wise. Not while he was in enemy territory.
Perhaps it would be enough to destroy her soul, if the fires were left to rage long enough. Or perhaps it would cause damage only. That was yet to be determined.
What the spreading wildfire did provide, however, was an excellent distraction. Phylas had traced the king’s phylactery to the wailing castle, and so his next mission was to steal it away. The idiot inhabitants of the keep might not know that the female lich’s soul was entwined with that essence of the forest, but they were canny enough to know their mistress would not look kindly on its wholesale destruction.
Upon the plumes of smoke rising to the heavens, an alarmed contingent of wights and draugr had ridden out of the keep on skeletal horses to attempt to beat out the flames. It would be an easy enough task, in theory. Snow still lay in drifts in sheltered spots, and the woods were dripping damp. But the fires were fuelled, not just by wood, but by the shrieking, curling flames of tortured souls. Phylas had expended much of his stash of soul gems to accomplish it, but the result had been worth it. He had instructed his own wights to keep moving, to keep lighting more. It should keep them busy. At least until the female lich’s minions killed his own wights.
No matter. They served their purpose. And while the undead were busy in the forest the fires would keep eyes off anyone attempting to sneak into the Keep itself.
Phylas frowned as his cloak snagged on a twig.
He was keen to return to less… uncivil parts of the country. To return to his books and scrolls. A pair of riders went past, whistling furiously, and he ducked behind a petrified tree stump. A clump of snow slipped off the blackened branches behind him and he cursed under his breath. When the riders were gone he continued on his way. He was nearly at the castle walls.
“Respice finem,” the elderly draugr whispered, just to be sure.
For a second every soul in the territory flared bright in his vision. Tiny gleaming motes for the plants, brighter for the trees and small creatures, and so on to the humans. Brightest of all flared the liches’ souls. The distressed forest soul, and the single glare of brightness from within the castle.
“Very well,” he muttered to himself. “Umbra.”
His staff gleamed momentarily bright, and his dwindling stash of soul crystals was depleted by one. Shadows thickened, clustering around him like old friends, which indeed they were.
Wrapped in a cloak of shifting darkness, Phylas headed for the gate.
The spell would not last long. He was not a lich. But it lasted long enough for him to hurry, unseen, across the drawbridge and into the wailing keep.
As he had hoped, the inhabitants were all on the battlements exclaiming at the forest fire, which to his great delight, continued to burn unabated. His cloak of shadows disappeared after he gained the stairs, but of the few people who were about, no one gave him a second glance. Just one draugr among many.
The thought irked him, but in truth he had chosen this body because it was uninteresting. Unexceptional. Suited for stealth. It still irked. But now was not the time to indulge in his pride. Hubris had been the undoing of many a lich. It would not be his. One of the reasons Phylas had lived such a long and successful life as a mere draugr was that he knew when to set pride aside. He could gloat once he had the king’s phylactery safely away.
“Respice finem,” he whispered, when he was alone on a quiet landing.
The king’s phylactery gleamed, shining through the walls in a brightness only Phylas could perceive.
He followed the whispers deep into the castle. Sometimes they aided as well as tormented. It was all the same, depending on the manner of listening.
The interior was a warren of crooked corridors, badly laid out rooms and lopsided turrets. The place was thick with spectres, and not a few wraiths. The inhabitants of the castle seemed to know their movements and timed their activities accordingly. Phylas, without any prior knowledge came close to running afoul of a wraith, not once, but twice.
At last he found himself standing in front of a nondescript wooden door near the top of the castle. Phylas had expected to find Janvier’s phylactery in the female lich’s treasury. Guarded, and perhaps set about by traps. The tools and spells he had brought with him had been prepared with this eventuality in mind; spells of opening, spells of revealing. But the whispers did not lead him to a treasury, or a hidden hoard, nor to a tightly locked chest on an obsidian altar.
The whispers led him nowhere so respectful. They led him instead, to what appeared to be a tiny broom closet.
Pylas stared at the door for a long time, the whispers swirling around him muttering of treachery and wiles. He cast this spell and that. He searched for enchantments, for illusions, for hidden guardians, but found none.
Every sense declared it was a broom closet. Nothing more.
Phylas nudged open the door with the butt of his staff. It creaked open with a soft whine. Inside he could make out dim shapes, strange uneven shapes, and weird shapes swathed in darkness. As he peered closer they resolved themselves into buckets and brooms and a couple of barrels. In front of one of the barrels was a small wooden stool.
He poked the barrel. It was empty. Was the room a false entrance? No, his magic said not. It was a broom closet.
Feeling cheated, and still suspicious, Phylas entered the room, shutting the door softly behind him. He made haste to light a candle, and the flicker light threw the tiny space into an array of dancing shadows and uncanny lumps. Phylas groped around the shelving, and moved each item one by one. There was no false door. Stretching his hands into the darkness all he could find was brushes and pails.
Phylas cast once more for good measure. The whispers crowded above his head, rising to a suffocating crescendo. The light of the king’s soul nearly blinded him. After some poking around he discovered a loose stone, hiding a small hollow in the wall. Within it, lay a rag wrapped crown, bound in twine. Indignation flared as he realised the female lich had wrapped the king’s soul thus. Truly, she had no respect for anything. The whispers hissed in agreement.
Begrudgingly he had to admit no one with any sense would go looking for a phylactery in a pile of rags and secreted in a mouldy broom closet. No matter. It was in Phylas’ hands now. The king would be most pleased, and his position in his undead court would be assured.
Now he just needed to make his escape.
It should be easy enough, despite his dwindling supply of crystals. Smirking, Phylas ducked out of the closet.
Immediately he had cause to flatten himself against the wall.
A crowd of ghost children hurtled past, filling the passageway with frost and screams as they fled in terror. A leather clad woman with a fierce expression and a dripping meat cleaver appeared, outlined in the doorway. The wraith stalked forwards with slow menace. Glowing eyes met Phylas’, and she raised the cleaver overhead.
“Oh no you don’t,” he muttered, and his staff glowed, warding her away with a rush of whispers like water over rock.
Another gem burned.
He felt in his pocket. Only two left, but he was safe. The wraith turned from him, seeking easier prey, and continued along the passage after the shrieking children.
A reminder that he needed to progress with caution. Without full ceremony and access to the right equipment he could not easily harvest more souls. A pity, because the female lich seemed to keep an inordinate amount of live humans around, presumably for breeding purposes.
Eyes watchful. Phylas retraced his steps along the passageway. The whispers slipped and rustled around him, then fled as a door slapped open with a bang.
A young female face peered through. A draugr girl dressed in a rather lurid corset.
“She’s gone!” she yelled.
A gaggle of young women spilled out into the passage behind her.
Phylas briefly contemplated cloaking himself in shadows, but given the state of his gems, decided against it. After all he was just one more draugr among many.
He stepped forwards, walked confidently, shoulders thrown back, and nodded as if he saw them everyday. As if he belonged. This confidence trick had served him well many times before.
This time it did not.
All five girls, living and dead, pivoted to watch him pass, eyes narrowed.
“Oi,” shouted the tallest. Her arms were well muscled and she had a helmet of dark curls. “Who in the Whisperer’s name are you?”
Phylas bristled at the mention of his Master’s name, dropped so casually from insolent lips, but he kept walking, a little faster now, a pleasant smile plastered across his face.
“It’s him,” yelled another, this one small and red-haired. A staff in her hand flared. A fire mage then. A young one.
Phylas kept going. The door was only yards away.
“Who?” asked another, this one slight and wearing a green-witch’s robe. She was playing with a mess of yarn in her hands. The mess was knotted and twisted in a way that Phylas recognised as magical, in a peasantish, back-water sort of way.
“Him,” said the first, urgently, drawing a blade. “Look at the way he walks.”
“Who?”
“He’s got one of those robes, remember?”
“What?”
“Oh yeah! Look it's got the same weird little symbol-”
“How can you possibly forget, he tried to-”
“He looks completely different?”
“So? He’s a draugr. They can change bodies. You should know that. You are a draugr.”
“That’s ridiculous, how am I meant to-”
“Who is it? What are you all-”
“The necromancer! The one who tried to-”
“Ohhhhh.”
Phylas broke into a run. “Nigrum ignem.”
Black flames exploded from his staff. They rushed towards the advancing girls, who gazed up at them in a mixture of fascination and terror before bursting, like noxious balloons of ink, splattering them with void fire.
Phylas slammed the door shut behind him, not waiting to admire the damage.
Screams and shouts echoed from the passage behind, so loud they momentarily drowned out the whispers. He cursed. His quiet exit was ruined, but killing them all would have only drawn more attention to his presence. Down below a door slammed. Running feet in a room above. He needed to get out, and fast.
He broke into a sprint, the crown slapping against his thigh.
The ghost of an old woman burst through the wall, and swept towards him, arms outstretched, a manic expression filling her wrinkled face.
“Monster!” she screeched. “Roland! Roland! This way! Intruder! Intruder! Quickly before we all burn in our beds!”
That decided it. He would only have one crystal left but-
“Umbra.”
Once more the shadows answered his call. The darkness brought relief, and restored his calm. The whispers gathered around him, likewise, caressing his cheeks with a sibilant hiss.
“Where did you go!” shouted the old woman. “Mark my words you evil bastard-”
Phylas did not stay to mark them.
Wrapped tight in his darkness he continued away, sidestepping a small draugr man with a determined expression and vanishing down a stairwell. He chuckled under his breath, as more draugr, and not a few humans raced by. Perhaps the idiot girls’ demise would prove a fitting distraction after all.
He moved quickly through the castle, well aware that his darkness would leave him soon. Opening a door, he exited onto a rooftop and swore. Somehow he had got turned around in the labyrinthine interior. Retracing his steps, he took another turn into another winding corridor. Although he was fairly sure he had not seen it before, this was no time for indecision. He set off as fast as he could, searching for a stairwell down.
As he passed through an alcove, a shadow detached from the ceiling, landing on his head. Razor sharp claws sank into his unprotected skin. Phylas cried out, trying to wrestle himself free. What was it? A demon spirit? A tiny wraith? No it was dark and… fluffy. Cursing he hurled the cat away from him with all his might.
It landed nimbly, sprang up, spitting. Eyes gleamed with deadly intent as the small beast growled low and fierce, the rumble more akin to the noise of a lynx than a domestic. If it hadn’t ripped a goodly chunk of flesh from his face, Phylas would have laughed at the sight. Without a doubt it could see him.
How could it see him? Had his shadow cloak dissipated? No he was still concealed.
Phylas backed away, hand holding up the ruins of his face.
The old woman ghost burst through the wall. He could tell from the way her eyes moved that she, at least, could not see him. Phylas stumbled backwards. The demonic feline moved with him, black tail lashing back and forth.
“Jenkins has him!” she screeched. “Quickly, Roland! Quickly.”
The short determined draugr in workmanlike clothes rushed through the door.
“Where!” he demanded. Then his eyes slid to the cat and his expression hardened.
He hurled a container of liquid at Phylas, hitting him on one shoulder.
It exploded into clay fragments and the flesh on his chest started to bubble. Phylas screamed in rage and pain. The cloak of shadows dropped from him like sand from a shaken bow. Clenching his teeth through the agony, he drew his sword. The body was disposable. There were plenty around, after all. And nothing stood between him and freedom but an old woman, a cat and a single draugr.
“Phylas, I assume,” said the little draugr.
To his surprise the little draugr drew a sword of his own. It was short, and plain, much like the man himself. Phylas recognised him now. It was the female lich’s right hand man. And yet… here was another familiar face. Over the years there had been so many. So many faces he no longer paid attention. They all went to the Whisperer sooner or later, so what was the point?
“Get him Roland!” shouted the old ghost, making fists with her wizened old hands and pumping them aggressively into the air.
“How dare you come here,” hissed Roland. “And lay hands on my mistress’ forest.”
He charged Phylas who batted the blade away contemptuously. The little man sprang back, and Phylas followed him, pressing his advantage. Roland leapt forward once more, feinted left, and then stumbled back uncertinaly. Phylas moved forward to fill the space.
Roland had the same panache as a stable hand, but none of the vim or physicality of the labouring classes.
“You fight like a choir boy freshly arrived at the Wavewalker’s Temple,” he sneered. “Still wet behind the ears.”
“How dare you-” Roland tripped over his own feet, and Phylas leapt to pin him down. The little draugr rolled away nimbly, scooting backwards through a doorway with an alarmed squeak. Phylas followed him through, his sword held high. The room inside was some sort of turret, with a single obsidian door opening off it.
“If you put the same energy into your sword play as you did into running,” said Phylas, “you might make this fight interesting.”
Their swords clashed. The damned cat wove between Phylas’ feet trying to trip him, and he kicked it away. Phylas was growing increasingly irritated. While he was clearly the superior fighter, Roland was surprisingly slippery.
He slashed at Roland, slicing a long gash into his chest, and ripping away a chunk of shirt.
“Stalling for time will do you no good,” he said. “Come on, man, fight with some spirit and let me send you to the Whisperer like a warrior.”
Roland’s lip twisted. Instead of listening to Phylas, he backed up a couple of steps.
Suddenly, Phylas remembered who he was. Years ago, his pupil Atticus had had a manservant, who was short and servile. A snivelling little man. Yes he was sure of it. It was the same draugr. Which raised an interesting question.
“Why do you serve her?” he asked with genuine curiosity. “You are not bound to the female lich. You could do anything you want. You could live like a baron instead of-” Phylas pointed his sword at Roland’s body. “-being whatever this is. Look at the state of you. Have you no pride?”
He slashed off one of Roland’s ears. Long and drooping, it looked like it came from some sort of dog. Maybe a wolf, but that was being generous.
“Why do you serve Janvier?” Roland shot back, dodging a blow.
They wheeled around a pillar. Something crunched underfoot. A femur. Strange, but not unusual for a lich’s castle.
“For power, and to please my master.”
“Your master?”
“My master,” said Phylas, “and yours. The dark god. Do you really think he isn't listening? Right now? Listening and judging us both. Everything we do and say?” His eyes whirled, his shoulder blades twitched. Sometimes he could hear the whispers even when he wasn’t listening.
Roland took advantage of his momentary distraction, and attempted a clumsy cut. Phylas parried, slicing at the pathetic little man’s shirt, revealing his chest, bare and held together by a motley collection of darns and stitches.
“Just look at you,” he said in disgust. “Look at the state of you. Worn like an old rag doll. What has she done to your ears? Do you have no dignity?”
“A fine thing for you to say,” yelled the old woman. She threw a vase at him. He dodged, and it shattered on the wall behind him. “Sneaking about, setting fire to people’s gardens! Your mother would be ashamed!”
“I serve Lady Maud,” said Roland, “Because she cares about me. Many times she has offered me a new body, but she knows I love this one, and has worked tirelessly to keep it whole.” He ran a gentle finger over one of the many stitches.
The door to the turret banged open, and a group of faces crowded through, anxious and pale. They were looking not at Phylas but at the door beyond him. The obsidian door. Fine, certainly but nothing unusual in a lich’s lair. Perhaps it was the door to the female lich’s altar.
“Stay back,” yelled Roland, flapping his hand.
Even his wrist had stitching on it, Phylas noted with a sneer.
Roland sprang forward. The move was unexpectedly competent after so much ducking and diving.
Phylas parried, knocking him aside, but was forced to back up.
His foot crunched on another bone. The blasted cat leapt for his face, and he slammed back against a door. Swearing, he shielded his face. No razor sharp claws came for his flesh. Dropping his hands he saw the cat was gone. So was Roland.
The door to the passageway shut with a soft click.
“Bah,” said Phylas, wiping his blade clean. Did the fools think he could be trapped so easily?
He sniffed. There was a strange smell, and a gentle creak.
The obsidian door eased open.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder. A large hand, larger than a human’s should be, a hand as large as a dinner plate. A hand attached to an arm as thick as a treetrunk. Phylas gasped and stabbed at it with his sword, leaving a long gash in the unwholesome flesh.
From within the interior room came a high pitched wail, as if a thousand mouths cried out in pain.
The castle shook.
The stones rattled.
Phylas fell over, scrabbling backwards through a scattering of white bones. The screaming intensified and Phylas’ eardrums shattered. The whispers stopped. They stopped. The pain of his ears was nothing. Nothing compared to the pain of losing his master’s guiding voice. Panic filled him, washing over him in a wave. He sank to his knees, covering his ruined ears, rocking backward and forward on his heels.
His grief was so all consuming that Phylas didn’t notice the enormous hands fastening around his limbs in a multitude of vice-like grips. He didn’t notice when they hoisted him high into the air, but he did notice when the hands tore him apart like a rag doll.
