Lich Page 7

  The rogue’s head darted inside as he examined the room. Leaning back out, he gave a sly grin and walked inside.

  The rest of the company carefully crept into the room and stopped abruptly. The place was piled high with objects. Swords, gold, all manner of things one would call treasure. They searched the bounty, sorting through the heaps, looking for useful things and discarding useless articles such as clothes.

  Pinch held up a cloak, which seemed to shimmer. "There's magic here!" he almost shouted. "Be careful lads, lest we leave something valuable behind."

  They all dug deeper into the piles before them, searching out some prize for from the heaps.

  "Wahoo!" exclaimed the dwarf, holding a belt aloft. Emblazoned on the front was the image of a muscular arm.

  All Den could find seemed to be useless junk, tattered clothing, rusty weapons, and other miscellaneous stuff. Just as he was about to give up, he tossed a dry-rotted leather jerkin behind him and he heard a metallic tinkling. When he went to investigate, he found a ring.

  I don't know if you’re worth anything, he thought, but you're my treasure. He slipped it on a finger and it seemed to shrink to his finger’s size. It fit perfectly and sparkled a bit in the low light.

  The others were just about finished when Den noticed Hank holding a shield and just staring at it. The young mage glanced at the sparse remnants in his own pile, saw nothing interesting, and went to the knight's side.

  Hank didn't seem to notice him, so Den broke the silence. "What'd you find, Hank?”

  The cavalier jumped with a start. "Nothing!" he stammered. Following the young mage's eyes, he corrected. “Er… A shield."

  The shield was "V" shaped with a scallop out of each side of the top. It was black with a red skull on the front.

  "Where's your other one?" Den asked.

  At that, Hank looked about, confused. "I don't know? I had it a minute ago."

  "It's over there," Scree noted, gesturing to the far side of the room. Luckily, I'm not an inch taller or it would’ve taken my head off,” he said while sliding his hammer into his new belt. "What do you think of my new belt?” he asked proudly, arching his back in order to better display his find.

  Chapter 11

  The Interlopers

  Slowly, Skum gained control over his body. The compulsion of his master’s wishes could not be overridden, but if he accepted the silent orders, he could regain a measure of freedom over his movements. There were intruders in the baron’s tower. He could understand the silent command as if it were given to him face to face. As he flapped through the hallway, other undead folks joined him. Two skeletons, dressed in mismatched armor, followed in his wake. The pair were bearing shields and swords and looked like they’d seen better days. These were Marasmus's early attempts at raising undead. What they lacked in durability, they more than made up with their appearance. The horror of having to battle one of these fleshless monsters was enough to make even some experienced soldiers break into a run. The necromancer kept creating them because he thought they looked impressive.

  Skum was also joined by an ever-growing group of zombies. He felt a kinship to them. He was somewhat like these creatures, yet, he was different. He doubted they could reason. Do they think? he mused.

  Elbowing the one nearest him, a short, male human wearing a tunic which had lost most of its original blue coloring, Skum noticed it paid him no heed. The zombie just continued on its original course, oblivious to anything around it.

  The woman in front of him brought back a memory. He had snatched her from a caravan. He could remember dragging her by her waist-length hair. He remembered the sting of the missiles from the magic-user, who had chased them away just after they had gained the upper hand.

  He had captured most of the current zombies, but could rarely distinguish one from the other. They were all puny, pink-skinned animals. Sure, they could speak, but they had no idea how to live, always building and straightening things, never letting nature just take its course. A cave was nature’s house. If the gods wanted stones to be square, they would have made them that way in the first place. And the way they bathed, washing off a perfectly good smell, it was just terrible.

  They deserved their fate, he justified, but now he was sharing their undead demise and he questioned what he had done.

  The female creature moved in front of him in that slow, shuffling gate. Her feet slid across the ground, making a soft, swishing noise with each stride. He watched her long, greasy hair gently sway each time she shifted her weight, one clump sticking stubbornly to some dried piece of gore.

  "What have I done?“ he muttered softly, feeling pangs of anguish at the outcome of his previous actions. His soul ached, a feeling that he had never felt before, as he plodded forward.

  Further down the corridor, a distant light grew in intensity as the ascending intruders neared Skum's current level. His small band met them on the landing. The skeleton warriors were quickly dispatched by the interlopers’ wicked sword and crushing hammer. The blade had an unnatural glow. Probably magicked.

  Skum's band of zombies did better. Diseased hands, clawing at the foul humans, drove them down a few steps, but the momentum was short-lived. Once again, the weapons of the invaders began to prove themselves superior, yet, even in pieces, the undead kept coming. Hands pulling unattached arms grasped the enemies' legs. Torsos kept on battling from the ground. Zombies are hard to dispatch.

  As his comrades’ numbers diminished, the magically augmented goblin took action. His raised his left hand, pointing a ring at the trespassers. Lightning flew from the adornment, striking the armor-clad lead attacker in the chest.

  Chapter 12

  Roll for Initiative

  Den struggled to see what was happening as his comrades crowded the stairwell in front of him. He could hear weapons clashing together, and the smell of iron-rich blood filled the ascending passageway, but from his vantage, he could see nothing but the backs of his struggling friends.

  His mind went quickly through his mental spell list in order to find something that might aid in the desperate situation. Nothing seemed to be of help. He needed to see in order to cast his magic.

  Den's hand strayed to the wand at his belt, but he quickly dismissed the idea as being far too dangerous in this situation. He didn't know what would happen if he unleashed its random magic. It was too unpredictable. The Rod of Many Spells remained tucked securely in his belt.

  Spatters of blood and pieces of flesh arched through the air from the battle ahead. The gore rained down on the helpless, young mage, causing his inactivity to frustrate him even further.

  His attention was so focused on the top of the stairs, he didn't notice as the hand of doom approached from behind.

  *****

  The bolt crackled with power as it struck the knight, then fizzled as if quenched in a blacksmith’s bucket. Skum roared with frustration as he raised his gauntleted left hand. It was clad in a leather and metal gauntlet with the symbol of a ram’s head on its back. Uttering a few words, he unleashed its mighty magic. His outstretched fist recoiled as the power burst forth. The intruders, as well as the two remaining undead, were blown down the steps as if struck by some invisible force. Arms and legs spread wide as they crashed into one another before tumbling out of sight.

  The massive, undead goblin strode to the top of the stairs and peered into the gloom below. In the sputtering torchlight, he could see the forms at the bottom of the stairs, struggling with his remaining minions even as they attempted to untangle themselves from each other.

  Skum felt joy at his enemies' plight. He hated humans as much as any other race that led their lives in the light. Of all the humans, though, there was one he loathed the most. His master, Marasmus. So, he continued watching eagerly as more of the tower's denizens joined the fight from behind.

  ****************************

  A boot pushed roughly at the side of Den's face, his cheek stretching painfully as its owner searched for purc
hase.

  "Get this thing off of me," grumbled Scree as Den finally managed to grasp the offending leg and pull himself free of the tangled pile.

  Muttering an incantation, a globe of light appeared above the mass. He could see his companions were also rising, Hank pulling the glowing sword from the head of the zombie Scree had been trapped beneath. As Den looked back up to the form of the huge goblin at the top of the stairs, he felt a wave of recognition. In a rage, he forgot all of his mentor’s teachings and pulled his dagger from its sheath. Just as he was about to race forward, a familiar wave of cold grasped his neck.

  Whirling about, he saw a rotted mouth moving towards his face. His right hand shot forward, catching the thing’s jaw mere inches from his own. He pushed its clacking teeth back away, foul breath assailed him as its mouth snapped over and over in frustration. The freezing, claw-like hand was making breathing difficult.

  Den's vision was blurring. He couldn’t breathe. Just as his despair was about to overwhelm him, a dagger appeared in the foul thing’s forehead. Den collapsed with the now-dispatched undead. Falling to his hands and knees, he crawled away from the zombie’s still-moving body. At a safe distance, he struggled to regain his footing, but the passage pitched before him, his head spinning from his ordeal. He could hear the battle continuing as new arrivals joined the fight. His comrades took positions around him, giving him time to recover.

  Still woozy, he stood, taking stock of the situation. With one last sweep of his magicked blade, Hank cleaved the only remaining zombie in two. Undead limbs and mouths still tried unsuccessfully to attack their foes, but their feeble efforts went mostly unnoticed. The cavalier spun and began moving toward the stairs again as the thief and dwarf blocked him from both sides. Dragging the struggling Hank, Pinch barked, "We gotta get out of here!"

  Den, looking up at the goblin, also moved toward the stairs.

  "This is not the time, boy!" Scree bellowed, grabbing the young mage with his free hand. "We can't fight anymore."

  Turning to look down into the dwarf's bloodied face, he merely nodded. Stealing one last glance at the figure at the top of the stairs, he made a silent promise that he would be back, and resolutely turned and helped haul the still-struggling cavalier away.

  Hank seemed to regain his composure as they got further from the goblin. The three were quietly relieved that their foe had not followed them. After a few turns, they were able to release their friend. Pinch assumed his usual place as the scout, slipping ahead into the shadows.

  As they neared the hall where they had battled the statues, the company heard a familiar clacking sound from behind. Hank spun, but Scree and Den were ready and restrained the fighter. Dragging their companion, they entered the room, a group of skeletons nearly at their heels.

  "Get a grip on yourself, Hank," demanded the dwarf.

  "I can't! It's like I have no control."

  They quickly crossed the room, and as they were about to enter the corridor, Den slipped on a stone fragment from one of the statues and lost his grip on Hank. The cavalier broke free of Scree and started toward the evil undead. The skeletons continued forward, now halfway across the room.

  Den raised his hands and was about to yell, when the lead skeleton fell to pieces, creating a small pile of bones and armor. Hank, still closing on them, watched as each, in turn, fell to pieces upon reaching that same spot. The last one crumbled just as Hank’s sword swished through where it had stood moments ago.

  Scree patted the young mage on the back. "Good job. Why didn't you do that earlier?"

  Den froze for a moment. He hadn't done anything. Then, it dawned on him. That was the place where the magic dust had spilled out of the pouch. It must have undone the spell that animated the skeletons.

  In some small In some small measure, it appeared, he HAD done something, although inadvertently. Although inadvertently.

  “I… er... robbed them of their magic," he stammered. “That’s what was keeping them alive.”

  "Well, you kept Hank safe. So that was an awesome feat of magic, I'd say," Scree congratulated, slapping the youth on his still sore shoulder.

  "Nice work," added Pinch, rejoining them, “but we gotta get out of here. The way's clear ahead."

  The group collected Hank and slipped through the dimly lit passageways to the exit. The thief lead them through the woods to the spot where they had stashed their packs. As they shouldered their burdens, Den asked, "Now what will we do?"

  "What will we do?" answered Pinch. "We'll go away, sleep in a soft bed and heal up, and after we are whole again, we will hopefully forget this ever happened!"

  “What?!" Den replied sharply.

  "What did you think we'd do, boy? Storm the tower again?"

  “But, we have to stop them!" the young mage pleaded.

  "I don't know if you noticed, boy, but we got our hides handed to us," Scree said matter-of-factly. "We almost died inside those walls."

  Absently rubbing his neck where his newly acquired burns itched, Den spat, "What about your precious treasure? I'm sure there's more of that inside."

  "You can't spend treasure when you're dead, Den." Pinch adjusted his shoulder pack a final time. "And that's what we'll be if we stay. You can do as you like, but we're leaving."

  That said, Pinch and Scree began to slowly walk away. Hank, however, remained standing, pack hanging from one shoulder. The two stopped and turned toward their frozen friend.

  “Coming, Hank?" Pinch asked pointedly.

  The cavalier snapped out of his trance. "Yeah, sure," he replied uncertainly. Absently, he shrugged the rest of the way into his pack and woodenly followed his companions.

  Den, with his belongings still on the ground, looked hurriedly about for some solution, desperately searching for some reason they should try again. As the trio began to disappear into the woods, he realized that there was no reason to stay. He couldn't attempt the tower alone. He had no choice. He would have to go home and wait for his master to return. Finnious would know what to do. Hastily, Den gathered his things and ran after the small band.

  The group trod in silence the rest of the day. That night, they sat silently around a small fire, speaking only when necessary and with no cheer.

  Chapter 13

  Enter the Onyx

  Skum stood at the top of the stairs and watched the humans escape. Although he wanted to pursue the hapless creatures, his body would not respond. He had stood motionless at the top of the stairs, a spectator to the final struggle below.

  His instincts to kill the foul humans drove him to fight his paralysis, but a growing feeling inside the magically augmented goblin didn't care. He wanted anything but this non-living existence. Permanent death wouldn't be such a bad thing. His dreams of having his very own cave seemed so distant. No self-respecting female would want anything to do with him, especially with him being undead and under Marasmus's control.

  He felt his master's urgings and turned to attend the old baron. As he thought of his master, he felt true anger. Rage. If he could kill the old human, maybe he could make himself whole again. Maybe it was reversible. His spirit rose as he thought of the possibilities.

  He saw no other beings as he climbed the stairs of the tower. Passing doorways for rooms on different levels, Skum continued his ascent. Torches sputtering, they cast little light. The undead mage had magically created the torches in the tower to give this effect. He said it made the place feel more forbidding. Most undead didn’t need light to see, at least not a lot, so they were mostly for show.

  As he reached the topmost room in the tower, Skum rapped lightly on the door.

  "Get in here, you cave dweller."

  Pulling on the door's ring caused the rusty hinges to squeal in protest. The room was brightly lit as his feet flapped dryly into the room. The necromancer was busy at one of the experiment tables with his back to the entrance. Skum bared his teeth as he softened his stride and quietly continued towards the distracted baron.

  H
is clawed fingers opened and closed as the neared the old man. This is it, he thought as he crept ever closer to his nemesis.

  Marasmus's robes swayed as he reached for a component causing the goblin sudden panic, but the lich remained oblivious of the approaching attacker. Now, within range, Skum's huge hands shot forward with blinding speed toward his master’s throat.

  At the last second, they stopped. Frantically, the goblin pushed with all of his brute strength. Nothing. There was no barrier. They just wouldn't respond.

  Marasmus chuckled, a low mirthless sound. "You cannot harm me, goblin," he spat. Turning from the corpse on the table, he locked his dull eyes on the towering monster. "You can never hurt me, because I compelled that into you. You will serve my needs until your end, and in your current condition… that could be a very long time."

  Skum averted his gaze, not wanting to continue looking into those cold, dead eyes. He noticed his feet looked even grayer than they had before. The covering of slime was totally gone, leaving his skin dull and unprotected.

  "Why did you let them go?” he asked, changing the subject.

  "They killed most of my undead. When I realized they were formidable, I let them escape. That's why I held you back."

  "There were more undead than that,” Skum objected.

  "Were," the Baron enunciated. "My earlier creations grew too numerous for me to control and some wandered away, but now that I found this," he said, fondly patting a huge, onyx stone mounted in a silver base depicting a mountain of skulls holding up the stone, ”I can amass an army."

  Chapter 14

  Not a Very Cheery Welcome Home

  The disgruntled troupe arrived in town late the second day. Most townspeople were already fast asleep. Smoke from banked fires curled lazily from stone chimneys. The Weary Wanderer Inn still had a few lights on, so the companions thought they would try their luck and see if they might be able to stay just one more night.