Chapter 338: One Lich |
One Lich
Healing Hall
It took more than twenty men to hold undead Hohendorf in check, driving spears into every patch of exposed flesh they could find. Even then, he still tried to rampage. He howled, wailed, raged, and thrashed, but with so many polearms pressed against him, the creature was going nowhere. Brave men stepped forward, climbed onto him, tore away parts of his crude armor, and lashed ropes around his limbs and torso.
As more flesh was exposed, more spears were driven into him. After seven more spears and every rope they could find hauled tight, the hulking creature was at last pulled crashing to the ground.
Most decisive of all was Sir Harold’s boar spear, driven so deep through the roof of his mouth that it did more than any other blow to pacify him.
As the creature was turned into a pincushion of polearms, the traitor cried out, “Y e l d.”
Again and again, he said it. “Y e l d.”
Undead Hohendorf still remembered the word, and that only enraged the crowd further.
“Yield my ass!” one man barked as he rammed his pike in deeper.
“Traitor,” a third spat, gripping his spear so hard his knuckles whitened.
The air was tense. There was no room for mercy.
When the punishment was revealed, a dozen men volunteered as executioners. Dame Jane, to whom the Lord had given authority, chose those who had lost kin to the undead. Breaking with tradition, they decided to carry out the sentence at once. Such a punishment was usually carried out in public to serve as a warning to others. But they dared not keep him alive, for none knew the full extent of the corrupted magic.
The silver-masked Dame then appointed Walter, a SAR member, to oversee the execution. She herself chose to rest, knowing trouble might arise again at any moment.
While Walter and the others carried out the gruesome sentence, the Dame spoke with the Hunter about the nature of fell creatures and corrupted magic. At her side, several men tended to her claymore upon a makeshift stand fashioned from broken pieces of tables. Working in teams of four, they used whetstones and buckets of water to sharpen its long edges.
After a lengthy ordeal, the betrayer was at last hanged, drawn, and quartered. His belly had been split open, and his oversized yet crude armor, clearly the work of no proper smith, lay scattered across the floor. The largest piece, the chest plate, had been turned over and used to burn his rotten innards, with pieces of broken wood serving as fuel.
Dark blood pooled across the hall. At last, the final axe blow severed the blackened leg bone and the hard, sinewy flesh, and the execution came to an end. All four limbs had been cut away.
To the executioners working at close quarters, it had become clear that many pieces of flesh had been stitched together to create this foul abomination.
What remained of the betrayer was his upper torso and head, kept upon a table, with a solid iron spear pinning his chest to the wood.
Yet even then, the undead was still animated.
They let him alive, though they knew a strike to the spine would finish him, because many felt that would be far too painless an end. It would also give them something to parade before the public, so all could see the evidence of corruption running within the Monastery.
Now the grotesque ruin of a once-living man looked upon Sister Anna, who stood before him, still recovering and leaning defiantly on a walking stick. Her reddened eyes were filled with hatred. She had shouted that the creature had taken her friend and many others. Now and then, she hurled whatever she found nearby at its face.
The creature’s only response was to keep calling in a weak, despairing tone, “A n g e l a.”
Sister Anna, her eyes already swollen from crying, threw more things at him. She had seen too much. When the executioners gutted the creature open, she saw faces she recognized stitched into the body. People who had still been alive, not corpses. The Saint had been making these creatures not only from the dead, but also from the living.
The bits of wood she hurled at him did nothing. They only seemed to confuse him.
Somewhere in what remained of him, the creature still recalled Sister Angela’s attire, though her face had become muddled in his mind. The Saint had separated them after promising to bless their marriage. He never saw Angela again. Instead came the tailors. The Brothers of Cloth kept dressing him in layer after layer of leather. He hated it. Wet. Sticky. Sickening. But they forced it onto him, and he could do nothing except endure.
“A n g e l a,” he repeated, the name of the woman who was key to his rise into the higher nobility. With her and the Monastery's support, the region of Krakusa was within reach, and his future secure.
Yet all he received was another piece of broken wood to the face. It did nothing. His brain had already rotted.
Undead Hohendorf could no longer understand what had been done to him, nor why he could not move his limbs. Corrupted blood still flowed through his veins and several hearts, but it was never meant to preserve his mind from ruin.
From his bed, Sir Harold quietly watched Sister Anna vent her anger on what remained of the undead while a physician and three infirmarians treated him. More stinging vinegar washes. More painful stitches. More wound dressings. It felt as though only Francisca's gemstone of strength kept him from fainting.
Not far from him, several men were cleaning his boar spear. The same was being done to the cauldron, which they wiped to perfection.
He suspected the men would come to treat them as something worthy of veneration when they had only been tools of desperate improvisation. Without realizing it, he let out a sigh.
“Is anything wrong, Sir?” the angelic-faced infirmarian asked attentively as she gently rubbed ointment onto his bruised hands.
Sir Harold could feel that her hand was soft and warm, just like Clementine’s. “No, it’s nothing. You’re doing wonderful.”
The infirmarian smiled warmly and continued her work.
Sir Harold shifted his gaze toward Lady Audrey in disguise. The Dame appeared to be receiving many reports, which was only proper, as the Lich still lurked within the monastery.
He let his head sink back against the pillow while fighting the pain. With wounds such as his, he had to accept that it would not be his sword or spear that brought the Lich down. However, nothing would stop him from standing by his Lord.
“Let me know when you’re done,” he said to the physician.
“But of course,” the physician answered while concentrating on the stitches.
***
Lansius
The chamber adjoining the stairs to the lower floor was brightly lit. Dozens of men had already cleaned the stone, dragging away and sweeping up the corpses and bones left behind by the fighting. Some had even thought to burn incense, which Francisca had approved to further drive back the stench.
No fewer than sixty men stood guard behind a newly raised wooden barricade, set there against any fresh wave of undead.
Behind them, Lansius sat on a canvas chair his men had secured from somewhere. There, he received a steady stream of reports.
“There have been no further sightings of undead in the courtyard, My Lord. Lady Ingrid asks whether the wounded may be evacuated inside. Sister Emma also said she could arrange for the Inner Sanctum to receive the worst of them in exchange for your favor.”
“I’ll allow it, but take every precaution. Seek out Sir Stan and ask for his guidance.”
The messenger saluted and left.
Another stepped forward and quickly reported, “My Lord, we have taken the Monastery Caretaker Vice alive. He's being interrogated right now.”
The men around them murmured in approval.
“Good work,” Lansius responded. The more of the Monastery’s inner workings they uncovered, the easier it would be to punish those who were truly at fault.
Then another messenger came with a solemn face. “My Lord,” he greeted.
“Speak,” Lansius instructed.
“Lady Ingrid ordered me to return this to you.” He held out a familiar silver necklace with a single gemstone set into it.
Sir Sterling recognized it and took it on Lansius’ behalf, examining it first in case it had been tampered with.
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Lansius asked, “How is the lieutenant, then? Has he recovered well?”
The messenger hesitated, and Lansius knew to expect the worst. “My Lord,” he began, “the lieutenant succumbed to his wound.”
At that, Lansius and many others sighed. It was a heavy blow to them. Good talent was rare in their nascent army.
“He was still young,” the stalwart-looking veteran lamented.
“Korelia will shed tears for her lost son,” Sir Sterling added.
For Lansius, the blow was personal. Even the highest tier of Dwarven gemstone, able to grant sight in the dark, mend wounds, and lend great strength, could still fail.
“How did he die? Did you see his face?” he inquired, drawing all eyes to the messenger.
“In peace, My Lord. I saw his face. There was little sign of suffering.”
Lansius sighed in relief and allowed the messenger to leave.
Now there was only the sound of squires and men sharpening or repairing their gear. Other than that, there was the sound of men moving crates of shields and assorted weapons into place. Lansius had them carried from the camp outside by way of the siege stairs to the battlement. The siege stairs had found another use that night, for he was still reluctant to unseal the gate, fearing another undead outbreak.
He had put Big Ben in charge of the operation. In the dark, and with danger still lurking, he was a solid guarantee.
From the corridor, another group approached. Lansius turned and saw Sir Harold, Audrey, still under disguise, and the Hunter assigned to them.
“My Lord,” the group greeted.
“At ease,” Lansius replied, gladdened by their presence.
Sir Harold stepped forward. “My Lord, a report. The execution is over. The condemned has been hanged, drawn, and quartered. His remains, undead as he is, are still animate and ready to be put on public display.”
The report bothered him a little, but it did not make Lansius hesitate. “I trust your judgment. Then, is there anything else?”
Sir Harold turned first to Audrey, then to the other men.
Watching them with nothing further to report, Lansius said in a lighter, friendlier tone, “You gentlemen all right? I mean, I’ve never seen you this battered since our fight in Korelia.”
That drew a wave of chuckles.
“The rebellion outside Canardia was far worse, My Lord. I nearly lost a limb there,” one responded candidly.
“Aye. My brother and I nearly lost our lives there,” another added.
“Ah, I remember him. Old Bucktooth. How is he doing? He’s retiring, right?” Lansius replied without formality.
“Yes, My Lord,” the man said with a proud smile, pleased that the Lord remembered his brother. “He reckoned he had enough money and bought the neighboring land.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Lansius then gazed at his men. Many had fought beside him through many battles. “You lot should think about retiring too. What if I order all of you to go home and have a son or daughter?"
The men laughed again, freely and without any fear of reprisal.
“Did the Lord just order us to march to brothels?” one ventured loudly.
The laughter turned louder and more raucous. Even Lansius shook with laughter.
“Oi, I said go home. Get married if you’re single. Do it properly, men. I’m not paying you to fatten the brothel owners,” Lansius finally retorted.
Amid the laughter, Sir Harold spoke. “My Lord.”
Lansius turned his eyes to his champion. “Banneret. What do you wish of me?”
Sir Harold let out a faint smile. “We thought you were on your way to Korelia. How were you able to be here so fast?”
“Well, I was worried. Not about you, of course. I was worried about these fellows," Lansius answered candidly as he eyed his men.
The men snorted and grinned, while Sir Harold let out a sharp breath and gave a single nod.
“To tell you the truth, this monastery had been giving me unease from the start, especially with the Great Gemstone. I had suspicion that it might be breeding some fell beast or another. So I went to seek out the Hunters and secured their assistance. Four was the most they could spare. That should be enough to deal with any fell beast threat. But I never expected it to hold an army of undead.”
His words silenced the men, bringing the gravity of the situation back.
Lansius continued. “Now, the Hunters are dealing with it as we speak. Pray that they return victorious. With that said, I think it is best if you all get some rest while you can. We can handle the rest here.”
“I insist on seeing this through to the end, My Lord,” Sir Harold said.
Lansius gazed at the man before nodded. “Granted, but only if you sit, drink, eat, and be merry.”
The men chuckled merrily, and Sir Harold then asked, “Where should I sit?”
The squires and attendants quickly sorted that out, and Sir Harold settled in to wait for the Hunters that fought the Lich two floors below.
Lansius motioned for Audrey to stand by his side. Sir Sterling noticed at once and quietly stepped in front of them, arranging the men so the two could speak with a little more privacy.
“What do you think of the Hunters’ battle below?” he asked.
“Hard to tell. Isolte and I have never faced a Lich before," Audrey replied.
“But you know of it?”
She shook her head. “I mostly fight bears, and a few other fell beasts, but nothing to this degree.”
Lansius stroked his chin. “Do you think the Hunters can handle this?”
“They are highly experienced. But even so, we should not let our guard down. Such things, corrupted magic, are hard to predict.”
Lansius glanced toward the beautifully carved silver mask, longing to see her face, then asked in a more intimate tone, “Are you injured?”
She gave a muffled scoff. “Only my pride. I can’t believe I couldn’t stop that hulking beast even with the claymore.”
“I’ve always liked you more as rider and archer.”
She snorted. “You really want a nomadic wife, don’t you?”
Lansius didn’t answer. Hidden beneath their coats, he quietly extended his right hand, and Audrey took it, holding on tightly despite their gloves.
On the other side, Francisca was speaking with Sir Harold, telling him how the battle had unfolded between her and the other hulking undead. She told him how Sir Morton had faced it head-on and given her the chance to leap when the creature was off balance.
“I thought that once I was atop the creature’s shoulders, the rest would be easy work,” Francisca recounted. “But even when I clawed at its head and tore it clean off, it still moved.”
Her account made Sir Harold draw a long breath.
“I’m glad I didn’t try that,” he remarked. “How did it end?”
“Sir Morton tackled the body to the ground and pinned it. Then he took one of the men’s glaives and stabbed with all his might. I remember seeing the large body jerk like mad, even with me trying to hold it still. Then Sir Morton twisted the blade. I heard the spine break, and the fell creature moved no more.”
Sir Harold crossed his arms. This, without question, had been the greatest challenge of their lives. And now their hopes lay with the Hunters sent below.
His gaze turned to the only Hunter still present, then to the stairs leading below. It was plain enough what the Banneret wanted. Had his wounds allowed it, he would have gone down as well.
***
Hunters
Footsteps echoed through the stairway to the lowest floor, where the air reeked of burn marks and corpses. The place still smoldered from the shattered wood that littered the ground. There was not a single light, yet four men descended into the darkness with quiet confidence. Three of them were clad in heavy, long cloaks that scraped softly against the stone steps. If one looked closer, the hems bore a bright copper trim, though it had long since turned dusty from dragging across the floor and stairs.
There was no hesitation in them, only a careful approach as they set foot upon the monastery’s lowest floor.
Even in the dark, their eyes searched the ruined hall. A Hunter’s sight held no greater sharpness than a Mage’s in darkness, but they could perceive more. The gifted ones could see the aura of magic, even when a fell beast hid every other trace of itself.
They continued forward with measured steps, spreading out as their eyes moved across the ruin, strewn with mounds of skeletons, corpses, and broken caskets.
“Arnaut, take the front,” their senior said, twin heavy blades in hand.
Arnaut, armed more conservatively with a buckler and longsword, complied. The Guild Master had not joined them, as the risk was judged too great. Thus, the three of them were accompanied only by Sir Morton, who had seen the Lich in person.
They walked past the cascading mounds of caskets when, suddenly, Arnaut halted and raised his shield to cover his body. At once, the others stopped with him.
Ahead, from beyond the edge of their vision, came the sound of a disdainful snort. A woman sat upon a mound of corpses, wrapped in layers of leather and linen. At the flick of her finger, the great gemstone upon her back slowly kindled, bathing the vast hall in an eerie light. Yet, she did not allow the gemstone’s light to rise to its full, radiant white.
Clad in a coarse robe of yellowing white linen, the figure spoke while seated sideways, a crystal goblet dangling from her right hand, half-filled with wine. “To what pleasure do I owe your visit to my humble abode?”
“Come. It will be over painlessly. Retain your human dignity and meet your end gracefully,” the senior answered without mincing words.
The Lich merely snorted. She took a sip from her goblet, then let out a playful sigh.
Sir Morton cast his gaze around the hall but found nothing for his eyes to catch. Yet the Lich’s confidence was disturbing. He did not need to voice it to the others. They knew it by instinct.
Arnaut grew impatient. “Lich, it’s over. We outnumber you.”
At that, the Lich chuckled like an innocent girl and replied, “Then come and get me.”
Arnaut glanced at their senior, who gave him a knowing look. He then turned to the Mage Knight and said, “Three is better.”
Sir Morton knew it was not a suggestion, but a tactical decision. He nodded. “I’ll watch your back.”
“Gratitude,” the senior Hunter said, and the three advanced toward the Lich, who had taken up a golden scepter from her lap and risen to meet them.
Calmly, the three Hunters inched closer. They needed to close the distance before rushing her in a single dash.
The Lich did not remain still. She took up a sword from one of the undead, and from her left and right, the dead began to rise. Nearly two dozen of them. Even so, they were unlikely to stop the Hunters.
But just as the trio reached the distance from which they could spring forward, the Lich raised her scepter toward them, and it began to glow gold.
At once, they knew it was a trap.
[Static Shock]
The air turned charged. In less than a blink, blue-white sparks crawled over the three Hunters, snapping and hissing through the dark like living things. Then a blinding thunderstrike engulfed them. The spell struck with violent force, enough to blacken a man where he stood.
Even Sir Morton flinched and raised his arms to shield his eyes.
The Lich laughed, pleased with herself. “Fool, let that teach you not to besmirch anyone. I am an honorable Mage, not some fallen creature.”
Yet her lips suddenly stopped moving as the three Hunters flexed their limbs and began to move again.
“H-how?” she stuttered, taking a step back.
The three gave no answer and launched themselves toward her. She shrieked, and her undead rushed to intercept them. Arnaut and one other blasted through the small group, while their senior fixed himself on the Lich alone.
Bashing through the undead with fierce momentum, they broke through. Arnaut slammed aside four undead in a single charge, opening a clean window of attack toward the Lich. The senior Hunter surged past, intent on delivering two consecutive strikes. Yet the Lich’s lips curled into a smirk.
Eleven solid iron spears shot toward the Hunter from nowhere. He could only throw himself into a block, then twist into a high somersault to avoid the rest. Only then did he glimpse silhouettes hidden even from a Hunter’s eyes.
“Arnaut!” he warned.
The two Hunters fell back at once, knowing that something far beyond their expectations had been brought into the fight.
As the two Hunters fought their way back, Sir Morton charged forward, severing and beheading undead as he went with his sharpened flamberge. Then, beyond the thinning herd of undead, he saw more than a dozen new faces surrounding the Lich.
Only then did they learn where her loyal Saint Candidates had been. They had all become something else. Their skin and faces showed no rot, only pallor, but their eyes had turned milky like those of the undead.
Undeterred, Sir Morton stood firm and raised his flamberge toward the new threat. “Your brute is dead. They too will die.”
“The big fool? The Lich Saint laughed hoarsely. "He was only the foolish Caretaker. A nuisance. My gratitude for sending him away for good.” She then sat again, and a calm, maiden-like lady gracefully refilled her crystal goblet with wine. Her face and skin likewise untouched by rot, though her eyes were milky.
Bisecting the last of the undead, Sir Morton stood like a lone bulwark.
Without any other undead around them, the Lich Saint casually said to Sir Morton and the Hunters, “Meet my beloved sons and daughters. They’ll take good care of you.”
More creatures appeared as if out of thin air. Their forms were misty and drenched, as though they had risen from deep water. The Hunters could not tell whether their magical sight had deceived them, or whether the Great Gemstone’s light had played a nasty trick on their eyes.
Half of the creatures raised solid iron spears, and the senior Hunter swept a sharp look across the twenty-seven. Realizing that all of them were corporeal and not illusion, he warned grimly, “Liches and Wraiths.”
At once, a chill ran through his brothers’ bones. They were not facing one Lich. It was a fatal mistake.
The twenty-seven shrieked.
***