Lich Read online

  Lich

  By Doug Ward

  Copyright 2017 Doug Ward

  Smashwords Edition

  Introduction

  A lich is an undead magic user who through the use of various spells and components, transforms itself into an undead creature. This gives it a semblance of immortality. These creatures are very powerful and evil.

  This book will introduce you to one such being. Baron Marasmus Ebendoom and his twisted goblin Skum are building an army of undead. The two plan to harvest the peaceful villagers from the hamlet of Springdale to fatten up their horde. Sadly, Springdale’s local wizard is away. The only one left to stop this horrifying menace is an inexperienced, young wizard named Den. He and a group of adventurers will battle undead and monsters alike, as they gather the magic items they will need to defeat their foe.

  Author Cassidy Raine Wolters said of this book: “If you like Dungeons and Dragons, video games, or other role playing sword and sorcery adventures, you’ll love this book. It's got everything dwarves, goblins, and even the occasional elf.”

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Other Fine Books by Doug Ward:

  Ward's Laws

  Ward's Laws Part 2

  Ward's Laws Part 3

  Ward's Laws Part 4

  Saving Jebediah; Another True Story from the Zombie Apocalypse

  Parasite; The True Story of the Zombie Apocalypse

  Symbiote; The True Story of the Zombie Apocalypse

  Creator; The True Story of the Zombie Apocalypse

  Predator; The True Story of the Zombie Apocalypse

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Ethan Dodson, who is the eyes on the book cover. Scott Lee, who's inspired me to write a fantasy book; my wife, who is my inspiration, and a big, special thanks to my awesome editor, J.D. Reed, without whom I wouldn’t have a decent sentence in the book.

  Chapter 1

  Earlier

  His breath came in gasps as he rested for a moment against a wall in the dark tower of his liege, Baron Marasmus. The cool surface of the stone blocks drew the heat from his sweat-covered body. Skum didn't mind perspiring. Heck, being a goblin, his twisted, green body was covered with a stinky slime, as well as a multitude of bumps, lumps, and pockmarks. Besides, the dirty green rag of a tunic, which was clasped around his waist with a wide leather belt bearing a metal emblem of a giant on its clasp, absorbed most of the moisture. Closing his large, bulbous eyes for a moment, he let his rapid breathing start to slow. His hulking body sagged even more in his brief respite, the object held in one of his hands almost slipping from his grasp.

  "Skum!" came a shrieking voice from higher up in the tower. "Skum, you no good cave dweller! Where are you? I need that component for my spell right now!" the high-pitched voice commanded.

  Heaving a soft sigh, the goblin quickly pushed away from the wall and scurried off in the direction of the beckoning voice. “Hurrying, master," he croaked, drool spraying from his mouth. "I'm on my way." He sped toward the baron's door, his large feet slapping the floor like flippers.

  The tower’s halls were dimly lit, with sputtering torches spaced at sporadic intervals along the walls. Pools of darkness, punctuated by these dancing areas of light, made navigation possible, but hazardous. Skum didn't seem to mind, though. He knew these ways by heart now. Even though these periodically spaced lights ruined his night-vision, each twist and turn had been committed to memory through his countless passings.

  As he approached the door, the smell of rotten meat became even stronger. He grasped the pull ring in his leathery hand and yanked the large, wooden door open. The old, rusty hinges gave way with audible protest, allowing the scent of decay to amplify itself to a nearly unbearable degree, even for a goblin such as he.

  "There you are, you dolt!" croaked the old wizard, not taking his eyes from the tome before him. "Did you get the fairy’s eyes?"

  Skum displayed a toothy grin and held up the flask. In a reddish, glowing solution floated two small orbs. "Excellent," whispered the necromancer, almost shaking with delight. "My serum is almost complete. Tonight, I gain immortality and power beyond the feeble grasp of petty mortals." Gesturing with a long, bony finger toward a heap of human bodies near a table, the baron added, "Take those projects and dispose of them. They are of no further use to me."

  Skum turned toward the pile of dead vessels and shuddered. Insects and other vermin had already started the job of decomposing these bodies, their drying muscles pulling the figures into grotesque caricatures of their former selves. As he piled the dead into a nearby wheelbarrow, Skum snuck sideways glances at his master.

  The bent wizard was moving particularly slowly today and seemed to wince when lifting even small objects. His face, bearded in white, was drawn and gray where the color should have been. His end is near, Skum thought to himself. He looked around the room again and wondered how much the contents of the tower would be worth when his old master died. Then, maybe he'd retire to a nice little cave and live a quiet, uneventful life of gluttony.

  The wheelbarrow groaned under the weight of its burden. Arms and legs projected in random directions as he pushed the awkward load toward the door. "What did he need all these humans for?" the goblin wondered. How many farmers and peddlers had his clan ambushed for this dark mage? What had he done to them? Typically, the warped magic-user would convert the former humans into various undead. The old tower was full of them, roaming about and bumping into him at every turn. If Marasmus hadn't ordered them to leave Skum alone, well, he didn't want to think of that.

  As he considered these questions, the cart became wedged in the door. After some struggling, Skum casually reached for the obstacle, which was a leg that stuck out too far. With a twist of his powerful arms, he snapped the limb in half. Breathing a satisfied sigh, he folded the now floppy leg and dropped one end on top of the rest.

  As the door closed behind the goblin, he could hear the laughter of the old man. The wizard’s cackling voice raised the few scattered hairs on the back of his wart-covered neck.

  Chapter 2

  A Day of Fun

  (For now)

  The bucket was overfull, sloshing its cold contents on Den's leggings as he hurried to the hut with his haul from the spring. "Never trust a well," his teacher had always told him. "Something may have drowned in it and tainted the water." Den gasped as he stumbled on a loose rock, spilling even more of the bucket’s contents on his already soaked clothes. "What if something had died upstream? Wizards are a weird sort,” he mumbled, mocking his master's voice as he slid sideways through the door.

  The inside of the dwelling was deceptively large. Viewing the hut from the exterior, it seemed like a tiny wattle and daub peasant home, but through the use of magic, his teacher had considerably enlarged the inside to the size of a small estate; something about extra-dimensional space was what the old man had called it. He'd neglected to explain the process, saying that Den would learn it in good time. You would think seven years would be time enough for the mage to impart the secret, but what could he do? Finnious was a cautious teacher for good r
eason. One wrong gesture or word could have dire results. He was also a man of great standing in the arcane community and had, at one time, been the head of his order. That was many years ago. Now, stooped with age, he seemed less the formidable magic-user his reputation bespoke of.

  Every room in the dwelling was stuffed full of old and unusual objects, stacked on shelves and in corners. There was little space to maneuver with his heavy bucket of water. Much of the stuff was still in the original boxes they had arrived in. Den had little doubt that Finnious had forgotten the contents of most of his unpackaged treasures. The only place where any semblance of order was maintained was the lab. That's where Finnious spent most of his time, involved in mysterious experiments, which sometimes ended with explosive results. He sat there now, absorbed in scrying a crystal ball.

  The remaining contents of the bucket careened wildly as Den put the container in its usual spot. The wizard looked up with a fond smile at the boy, and when he saw Den’s clothes, his smile deepened.

  "Anything else?" the youth inquired.

  The wizard's eyebrows rose inquisitively as he turned once again from his study to look questioningly at his apprentice.

  "You said I could go into town when my morning chores were finished," Den pleaded.

  Finnious seemed to consider for a moment, then nodded his head, the soft smile returning to his thin, dry lips. "On your way, lad, but don't forget the pouch of herbs for Bronwynn," he added with a gesture toward the door. He then turned to focus, once again, on the crystal ball before him.

  At that, Den sprinted from the room, skidding to a halt to grab the nearly forgotten pouch for the innkeeper. He quickly recovered and sped off through the opening. The oak door, slamming shut, went unnoticed as the ancient mage continued his study of the crystal ball. His brow wrinkled in concentration as distant events unfolded in the orb before him.

  The air outside seemed more exhilarating than before. The thrill of a day off and a trip to town seemed to make the very air more splendid than ever. Feet barely touching the ground, he raced along the short road to the small village.

  Springdale was a sleepy little cluster of homes a slight distance from the cottage of Finnious. At one time, the wizard had actually lived in the village. A few of his less than successful experiments, the last one involving his roof landing on the mayor's own home, improving neither of them in the process, had been reason enough to move Finnious a safe distance from the outskirts of town.

  The people liked having the wizard nearby. They enjoyed the protection of his magic when problems arose, such as a roaming monster or an unexpected outbreak of stink bugs in the small school, which could quite possibly have been prevented if Tully and Squid hadn't released them in the book cupboard.

  The road weaved through a short patch of woods and beside a freshly planted field as Den sprinted toward his destination. He passed a few small, mostly evaporated puddles that created tiny mirrors of the boy as he dodged around them. Some stubborn weeds grew between the cart tracks, reaching for the warm sunlight. At last, he could see the town coming into view. Gaining speed, he crossed the stone bridge spanning the Silver Fish River. The water flashed in the rays of light like the waterway's namesake.

  The small wattle and daub buildings looked much like the cottage he and Finnious lived in. Smoke rose lazily from the chimneys before being carried away on a gentle breeze to the surrounding hills.

  The inn was the largest building in the village. It even surpassed the home of the mayor, much to his chagrin. That was to be Den's first stop. "Take care of first things first, my pap always said," he rasped between heavy breaths. "That way, when all responsibilities are done, you are free to do as you may."

  The porch of the Weary Wanderer Inn had a wide slate roof, which covered the entire front of the building. Rocking chairs swayed slightly in the light breeze, as if to further entice those passing by to come for a sit. The entrance had massive double doors, richly carved with reliefs of the inn’s name and images of travelers of various races, walking a twisting road to an exact replica of the Weary Wanderer Inn. The doors’ handles were two shiny brass hands, reaching out as if to grasp and shake the hand of any who would want entrance.

  As the huge doors opened, it gave way to a large dining area with a variety of different sized tables. Some of the tables were already occupied. One, in particular, was surrounded by five very boisterous beings. These had to be the ugliest group of beast-looking men Den had ever seen. Others gathered in twos and threes. At the far end of the room, a massive fireplace sat cold, no need for a fire on a day such as today. Behind the bar, wiping sparkling glasses with a nearly clean towel, stood Bronwynn. She was a large woman with a very well-proportioned body, covered with muscles, which were, themselves, crisscrossed with scars. Usually very neat in appearance, today Bronwynn looked tired and worn. As Den approached the bar, he glanced up at the great sword, which hung there on two wooden pegs. Many tales surrounded the blade and Bronwynn, herself; the most likely one spoke of her being a first-rate swordswoman. She and a team of adventurers had stormed the hall of the Goblin King and raided his treasure room. The sword, it was said, was an enchanted blade, made by dwarven smiths. The spidery runes running down its length seemed to give credence to the story.

  "Are you ok, Bronwynn?" he inquired, genuine concern showing on his face. "You don't look so well."

  The swordswoman sighed while pushing a stray shock of hair from in front of her green eyes. "Ah, I'll be all right, Den. Those half-orcs over there have had me up since last night. I haven't seen drinking like this since that caravan of dwarves came through last year." Bronwynn set a rag on the bar and started scrubbing at some imaginary stain on its surface. "They're getting kind of rowdy now, and with no sleep, I'm losing what little patience I still have. But I'm being rude. Is there something you would like, Den?" she asked with a somewhat forced smile.

  As Den looked into her beautiful, chiseled face, framed with dark curly hair, he lost all track of where he was or what he was about. He quickly looked away from her and swallowed. Then, remembering his purpose, he clumsily untied the pouch Finnious had given him and tossed it toward the bar.

  "Sorry," Den apologized, his cheeks turning crimson. Before the bag could hit the bar, the ex- swordswoman's hand shot out, caught the sack, and placed it in her belt. Still in motion, her hand flew to her pouch and slipped two coins out, only to slam them soundly on the counter.

  Den stood motionless, staring at the woman, his jaw hanging slack. "Still got it," she said with a satisfied smile.

  The young apprentice gingerly scooped up the coins, never taking his eyes off the woman. "I'll be back in a second," Bronwynn said. "It seems our rowdy guests want another round, as if they need it." Picking up a tray, she went to see about the five half-orc’s needs.

  Chapter 3

  A Slight Altercation At the Weary Wanderer

  A dwarf quaffed the rest of his drink and elbowed the thief next to him. "I think he's gonna start something again!" he said quietly to the shady-looking man. He gestured with his empty tankard to the well-armed and armored knight sitting to his left. The thief, considering his own drink, knowingly winced. The cavalier was watching a scene unfold with great interest. It seemed the beautiful and well-muscled barmaid was bringing even more drinks to the table of drunken half-orcs. The group was starting to become more than just a bit forward with the woman.

  Even as the thief reached over to get his companion's attention, it was too late. One of the bigger half-orcs let his hand snake out and pinched the barmaid on her bottom. She quickly whirled around, and was about to deal with the matter, when another pulled her by the waist onto his lap. As she struggled, the others roared with laughter, adding further encouragement. Then, the cavalier was there, sword flying from his scabbard and hissing through the air. The half-orc holding the woman howled with pain as his hand was lopped from his arm, blood and gore arcing through the air.

  "Here we go again," the dwarf declaired,
quickly pulling the hammer from his belt and charging into the fray.

  "I hate this part," muttered the thief. He turned the table on its side and cowered there, watching equally for any sign that they would need a hasty way out, or an unconscious person to victimize.

  The larger of the half-orcs rose from his seat and pulled his sword from its sheath, but before he could completely clear the weapon, Bronwynn slid within arm’s reach and bashed his nose in and upward, cartilage slipping neatly into his brains. Before the towering oaf could begin to fall, she lithely batted his hand from the hilt of his blade and replaced it with hers. As he dropped to the floor, she spun to face another opponent, sword clearing the scabbard as the dead orc hit the floor.

  The fight had quickly grown in size. The bar’s inhabitants, pairing off in twos and threes, battled each other. Liquor, mixed with testosterone, lured most of the patrons into the fray. As the struggling customers saw drawn weapons, they, in turn, drew their own. The sound of tables and chairs breaking, along with the occasional mug flying by and spraying its contents across the room, added to the chaos.

  The cavalier, with a mighty heave, finally managed to pull his sword from the hardwood floor, where it had stuck after the wild swing that had separated the first half-orc from his hand. Staggering back from the effort, he quickly regained his footing and ran forward, shield first, pinning a struggling half-orc against a wall.

  "Cast down your weapon, knave!" he shouted over the building noise of the brawl. The beast continued to flail about, trying to reach the fighter with his own rusty sword. Suddenly, the cavalier heard a loud crunch nearby. Glancing over his shoulder, while maintaining adequate pressure on his trapped foe, he saw the dwarf grinning over the form of the fifth half-orc.