Hesketh Tolson
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Lich, Please 89: The Board Is Set
🕑 Added 2022-06-02 18:45:10 +0000 UTCChapter 89
The Board Is Set
Fey lights flicker across the sky. A few early stars peek through the shifting curtain of green and blue. Over my head a smudge of purple radiance drifts, lazily. Colours dance on the ice fields, reflecting across the glacial mound of death that is all that remains of the once great city of Fairhaven. My broomstick, the light, and the powder dry wind is the only movement.
The city is a crystal tomb.
Even in Downing Forest there are signs of spring. Over the land I have traversed with my army the rivers are gushing, and the snow is melting. The scent of mud hangs in the air like a golden promise of growing things, of life to come. None of that here. In Fairhaven it is deep midwinter, and I suspect if the current monarch cannot be dethroned, it will stay that way.
Alongside the huge snow mount, the sea is a choppy frozen waste. Waves caught in crystalised suspended animation. Jagged ice teeth gnaw fitfully at the surface. Fog curls off the edges, while below, the dim shapes of ships and buildings are partially visible, obscured through multiple layers of thick ice. Around the city’s edge, mammoth walls rise from the mists like frozen glass sentinels. Crystal battlements line diamond walkways. Each one deserted, but for the lines of viscous shards. The ice barricades bristle outwards. The half light glints off silvering edges, each worked to a fine needle point.
On top of it all, at the very peak of the domed iced city, sits the self-proclaimed monarch of Einheath; a frozen giant, the frost king on his throne. Janvier rests atop what was once the highest tower of Castle Rock and is now a misshapen lump of white. As still as the grave, the lich king watches the wastes, brooding and solitary.
From my seat high in the clouds, I can see the silver sword lying across Janivier’s knees. His chin is cupped on one gleaming gauntleted hand.
He is alone.
No. On closer inspection the mound of snow at his feet is in the the form of a sinuous lindwurm. Two white dragons rest on either side of his throne, the lumps of their scales and ivory bones hard to distinguish, white on white. No doubt other surprises are hidden in the snow. I’m beginning to recognise Janvier’s style.
The wind skitters over the ice-bound city like nervous breath.
I braved a broomstick to scout for my underwater siege engines—my reasoning being that the broom is significantly less visible than the enormous beastie. This might have been a mistake.
My seagoing army is nowhere in sight and the figure on the throne turns his face upwards. The horned helmet glints silver in the half light. Beneath the slit, I can just make out twin flames of sapphire blue fire, staring straight at me.
“I see you, little lich,” Janvier whispers.
Far away, he is far away below me and yet I can hear him as clearly as if his lips are pressed against my ear. I shrug one shoulder, to brush away the insidious words. It seems I no longer have the element of surprise. No matter. He does not understand what I am capable of. He does not understand the rage that burns cold in my breast.
“Did you think you could sneak up on me, Maud? I’ve been waiting for you.”
The dragons at his feet uncoil with reptilian menace. Long snouts point skywards, their teeth bare revealing blackeden maws, and desiccated throats crackling blue fire. Janvier does not move, his frosty derriere remaining stuck to his throne. He lifts one lazy finger and his beasts leap hungrily into the sky.
I urge my broomstick around, but not before dropping a large and messy bomb on top of Janvier’s smug, borish face. My aim is good. I have been practising with bags of flour. The trail from Downing to Fairhaven is peppered with smears of white, and startled, flour dusted peasants. Common sense, and the speeding dragons, mean that I do not dally to admire the result. Janvier’s roar chases after me as I race away, grinning from ear to ear.
I mixed in some colourful paint with the potion bases, and added a few ghost marigolds for personal satisfaction. The yellow and pink dye does not do anything, not really. But I have noticed that Janvier puts great stock in appearances. Some colour should cheer up his armour a bit, and help him take the last remaining moments of his life less seriously. The colours and blossoms are also an excellent diversion from the real threat; the holy water, wight herb, draugr honey concoction which is likely right now eating through flesh and steel plate alike.
A pretty, seemingly frivolous distraction with deadly intent. Just like me.
Ribbons streaming, I careen through fluffy mounds of cloud. A sliver of crescent moon is rising to the west, and each bulbous ridge a pass is limned in pastel light. The broom is so insubstantial that it feels almost like I am flying unaided. My body sings in anticipation of the fight to come, my axe banging against my thigh. Everything is glorious.
The undead dragons chase me out over the sea, past the ice and over the black unfrozen waves. I dart here and there, narrowly avoiding their snapping jaws. Ducking under a claw, a lucky swipe sends me spinning towards the dark waters. I regain control but it is a near thing. Clinging with two hands I urge the broom faster, faster. It is only just enough to keep me ahead of the dragons. I knew I would make excellent bait.
Slathering teeth snap over empty air as I vanish with a whoop into a fog bank. They screech after me without a thought; straight into the ambush that lies within.
The beastie latches lands on the lead dragon with the enthusiasm of a toddler seeking candy. Lightning crackles, bones crack. The dragon is momentarily stunned and the beastie’s tendrils plunge deep into its skull. Flesh rips. Whatever is left of the creature's brain is sucked out in seconds. A shower of bones and rotten flesh pelts the flyers beneath, before dropping into the waves.
The lindwurm is peppered with arrows before it can turn. Moments later it greatly resembles a long stringy porcupine. The beastie finishes the job with savage glee and it goes the same way as its fellow. The last dragon is blown to smithereens by the enthusiastic application of potion bombs. Unfortunately one or two of the adventurer’s are caught in the blast.
“Don’t use all the bombs at once!” I bellow. “And take care!”
Spirits high, my army wheels towards the frozen city.
I scan the dark ocean below. I need those siege weapons, where are they?
Out on the ice mound, serpents are coiling out of the snow. Lumps shift and stir. The citizens of Fairhaven, the ones I was unable to save, rise from their graves to defend their lich king and line the walls.
“Careful!” I shout. “This is just the beginning!”
Janvier will not have neglected aerial defence. On cue, row after row of catapults emerge from the white drifts. They are not beautiful, like mine, but they look efficient.
“Maud!” bellows Janvier. He glares up at me, his silver gauntleted hand closing into a frustrated fist. I mean I can’t actually see that level of detail, he is too far away, but I imagine him doing that.
His throne is rocking and bucking. A sharp CRACK rings through the air.
Ice detaches, shards fall away, snow slides and slips as the giant chair rises vertically. It seems the king has been busy with toys of his own. Now I see it is a chunk of ice carved into the shape of an enormous sleigh; a dread chariot lifted by straining, white winged bats. Each bat is the size of a wagon wheel. Dragons land heavily, knights in tarnished armour rush to attach harnesses in gleaming silver. Void knights, Janvier has a platoon of his own void knights. I should have guessed what had happened to the missing Fairhaven paladins. Here they are in tarnished plate, joints oozing black ichor, black eyes staring balefully up at me. Hopefully they are just as idiotic in death as they were in life.
The great bats strain to keep the dread chariot aloft. Janvier’s evil eyed vulture perches on his mantle as he snaps the harnesses. The dragons buck. Belching blue fire they roar into the sky, towing the chariot behind them. Straight towards me.
I speed away, but not before seeing the void knights clambering on dragonback. This is about to get sticky.
I am still on my broomstick, which wasn’t part of my initial plan. Until the underwater army arrives the beastie is encumbered with the dry ammunition. Where are my siege towers? Without the sea portion of my army it is difficult for me to go on the offensive. The human part of my army is at a great disadvantage. I cannot steal the souls of Janvier’s troops but he can steal theirs.
This I have explained to them, laying out the danger in brutal, minute detail, even going so far as to demonstrate the process on a vocal doubter, back in Downing. As a result they know to stay high, to stay out of range, to flee before putting themselves in danger. Any humans that die will just feed Janvier’s ranks.
Janvier chases me ineffectually for five minutes. I enjoy it immensely, waggling the twigs just out of dragons’ reach, and then zipping under or over them in unexpected turns. He curses and goes after my witches instead. They scatter like a flock of startled sparrows. Good. They know to stay away, not just from Janvier, but from each other.
The lich king whispers: “Glacies tempestas.”
A glacial storm blast shoots from his hands, spraying in an arc, but the brooms are out of reach.
The battle progresses strangely.
My forces are like a flock of tiny birds pursued by much larger predators. Janvier’s chariot is impressive but does not manoeuvre as tightly as my forces. A couple of adventurers get too close and Janvier takes their souls with a lazy flick of his wrist and a whispered word. Now there are two dead adventurers on brooms fighting our own. I take them out with a series of vicious chops.
Janvier’s forces have been successfully lured away from the city, this time I purposely lead everyone away from the water, over land. This means I can’t keep watch myself. But at last I manage to tear my eye away for a moment, peering into the seeing glass one of the alchemists has made me for just such an occasion.
There is a disturbance, far out to sea. At last!
My siege towers emerge from the black waters, water pouring from their beams, the skellies stringy with kelp. The corpse balls are straining to heave them over the jagged edges of the ice flows. But they make it!
I redouble my efforts to keep Janvier’s attention away from the shore.
Swooping and gliding, I yell, chucking bombs, and curses in equal measure. My forces take their cue from me and the sky is full of noise and paint and flying bones. However it is only minutes before the screaming of the corpse balls can no longer be ignored. The jeering of the decorative skellies floats on the breeze. Those precious minutes have allowed the second half of my army to exit the frigid waters unencumbered. A great shout goes up as Janvier spots them, and the battle is joined in full.
