Lich, p.11
Lich, page 11
As the villagers around him attempted to bring down their foe, Hank stood motionless. Then, all at once, he flung the sword away from himself and sprinted into the darkness, away from town.
The ghost-like creature seemed to delight in the dismay of the defenders. Undeterred by the actions of the cavalier, they continued their struggle. As they rained blow after blow, she tilted back her head and laughed, the sound of which chilled the guardians to the bone. One of the men actually turned and fled.
As the monster prepared to strike one of the defenders, Den willed a blue globe of power into existence and hurled it at the specter. The undead woman screeched in pain as the ball exploded on her back.
Whirling about, the beautiful beast locked hate-filled eyes on the young mage. As she flew towards him, he managed to throw three more globes of power. Each impact caused an explosion, taking with it parts of the specter’s body and leaving ghost-like tendrils fluttering from her wounds. By the time she intercepted Den, the specter had little more than her upper torso.
Her vapory hands clamped onto either side of the young mage’s face, freezing his cheeks at their touch. Unable to concentrate, Den couldn’t summon any type of defense. Screaming out in pain, he fumbled at his belt for the Rod of Random Spells. His whole body, chilled by the touch of the specter, felt numb and unresponsive. His fingers clumsy, Den managed to pull the wand, only to drop it to the ground.
As hope faded from him, Den saw a dagger slam into the spectral woman’s forehead. She shrieked before puffing out of existence. A moment later, the dagger also seemed to disappear.
The mage dropped heavily to the ground. Nearly frozen, he curled into a ball and lay there, shaking uncontrollably, completely unaware of what was going on around him.
“Get him to the fire,” Pinch commanded as Scree and the other defenders finally made it to the scene of the specter’s demise. The dwarf nearly threw the wizard over his shoulder before sprinting back to the blaze.
Several cloaks were piled on Den’s shivering body as rough hands briskly rubbed his arms and back in an attempt the return his body's natural warmth. As the numbness departed, his fingers and cheeks felt like hundreds of needles were pricking his exposed skin as his nerves came back to life. As he lay there enduring the pain, he overheard his friends speaking in hushed tones.
“Hank’s gone,” Scree groaned.
“What do you mean, he’s gone?” asked Pinch.
The other paused before explaining, “He cast off his sword and ran away.”
“Where?”
“Into the woods,” the dwarf replied.
Pinch took a step toward the fallen sword. “How was he able to get rid of the sword? We tried ever since the mounds to lose that cursed weapon.”
“I wouldn’t touch it,” Scree warned. “If you do, the blade’s curse might attach to you.”
The thief paused and, ignoring his instincts, left the blade on the ground.
The warm blaze near Den tempted him into a sitting position. This way, he could move closer to the fire in order to drive the cold away faster. As he scooted forward, the wind shifted, blowing the smoke toward the young spell-caster. Den's face wrinkled at the stinging bite of the hot smoke.
"Are you ok?" Pinch asked, placing an inspecting hand on Den's chin and tilting it upward.
"I'll be fine," he answered. "I should be asking the same of you."
"Never better," the thief lied, a hand straying to his bandaged head. "As my old pap used to say, it’s a good thing I got hit on the head. Otherwise, I might've gotten hurt."
The rogue’s hand trailed to a stray lock of hair falling across Den's forehead. The follicles had turned pure white from the power of the specter's touch.
"It makes you look more distinguished," he commented.
"What does?"
"You'll see," he said before turning back to Scree. "We need to grab our stuff and go after him."
The sturdy dwarf shook his head, "I'm right behind ya."
Den lost track of the two as they raced off toward the Weary Wanderer. Still too weak and cold to follow his friends, he concentrated on regaining his strength. The fire popped and snapped, throwing sparks tumbling overhead as more wood was piled onto the blaze.
Several villagers stopped to thank him for defeating the specter. Many felt he'd saved their lives. He was proud of his part in the struggle. This feeling was completely new to him.
He'd always been plagued by doubts about his abilities, second-guessing the exact incantation of a spell or hesitating in mid-gesture. Most of those incidents merely caused the spell to fail, but occasionally, they brought on disastrous results.
This time, seeing Meg in danger had made him push any uncertainty aside. He cast spells as if by instinct. Even after he'd left her to help others, he continued to be effective. As he gained confidence, more and more memorized spells became clear in his mind.
As he sat shivering, a smile of pride curled the corners of his lips. He'd done it. He'd mastered his fear. He truly felt he was a wizard, at last.
As Den reveled in his accomplishments, he noticed a young man reaching for Hank's discarded sword. Before he could shout a warning, the lad had grasped the hilt and raised the softly glowing blade to his face.
Instead of admonishing the youth, Den watched as the young man came under the control of the powerful weapon's ego. The mage knew that it was already too late, but a morbid curiosity compelled him to watch as what his friends had called a curse took effect.
The only visible sign of anything abnormal was the youth’s fixation on the runes running along the blade. It was as if the symbols were speaking to him. There was no way the young man could decipher the ancient language of wizardry scrawled along its blade, so the sword must be establishing some sort of empathic bond with the youth.
On closer inspection, Den could see the glowing runes reflecting in the young man's eyes. The image seemed less a reflection than a connection between the two. It was the mark of a bond between the two that would last a lifetime. The young human's lifetime, to be exact.
Just then, a sudden weight struck Den from behind. Two arms wrapped around his neck and squeezed a tight embrace.
"Are you alright?" Meg asked, her lips brushing his ear.
The unexpected hug brought the young mage out of his stupor. He turned his head, bringing his face near hers. "I'll be fine."
Meg gave him another squeeze before releasing him to plop down at his side. "You were amazing," she stated.
"I was just doing my job," he countered. "You were amazing. The way you handled that frying pan was nothing short of astounding."
Meg struck him playfully in the chest. “No, I wasn't," she remarked coyly.
"You truly were," Den said with all earnest. "You could've taken them all down without any help from me."
Her grin spoke volumes. His words filled her with the same pride he felt for himself. She had risen to the challenge of defending her home. Without hesitation, she'd picked up the first weapon at hand and had smitten her enemy with a powerful blow. Meg had every reason to feel proud of her actions this night. She'd been both brave and strong in the face of a fearful foe.
The heat from her body and her proximity was exactly what Den needed. He didn't notice as the cloaks slid free from his torso. His body was already regaining the warmth it had lost but his mind was still a bit addled.
Meg's hand trailed to the stray lock of hair illuminated by the firelight. She seemed to pause for a moment.
"I like it," she said softly.
"What?" he asked. His level of concern had grown since the thief had said something similar earlier that evening.
Meg sighed contentedly. "This stray lock," she said. "It seems to have turned white."
Both of Den’s hands shot to his hair. His fingers combed through the strands as if to rid himself of the offending tone. Repeatedly raking through the now gray locks, the mage made a vain attempt to rid his hair of some unwanted material. It was all for naught. The change in hue was permanent.
Meg squished him even harder and Den gave in to the ministrations. Laying back into her embrace, he let himself live in the moment. It was then that his friend’s words sunk in.
"Hank's in trouble," he said with a start. Quickly sitting upright, he threw Meg's arms wide and sprung to his feet. She rose with him, a look of bewilderment crossing her face.
"What's wrong?"
Torn between his heart and his friends, Den stammered, "My friend's in trouble. I have to go."
Meg didn't know what to do. She shrugged and said, "Go where?"
Den froze for a moment. With his mind still foggy from the effects of the specter, it took him a few moments to think of where they'd gone. To get their stuff, he remembered before running into the darkness, toward the Weary Wanderer Inn, with all haste.
Chapter 20
They're Gone
Den wove his way around the dark forms of people. In his haste, he couldn't tell if they were friend or foe. He just didn't care. Hank was missing and the other two were in need.
He couldn't hear any more sounds of struggle. The only noise he noticed was the crackle of the numerous bonfires and the bragging of the men gathered attending them.
Feet pounding the turf, Den sped onto the porch of the Weary Wanderer Inn and through the double doors. Inside, he skidded to a halt. Between breathless gasps, he scanned the room. I hope they're still in their room, he thought while rushing for the stairs. A moment later, it dawned on the young mage that he didn't know which room was theirs.
Pounding furiously at the first door he encountered yielded no response. The next several brought similar results. It wasn't until a scared, old man peered out of a slightly cracked opening that he realized his zeal to find his companions was probably frightening the already scared patrons.
"Excuse me," he said to the wide-eyed man on the other side of the door. "I'm looking for my friends. You may have seen them. Two were human and one was a dwarf."
A shaking hand poked through the opening and pointed to the door across the hall. Before Den could thank him, the hand withdrew and the door slammed closed.
His breathing now steady, the mage said a soft thank you to the closed door before turning to the one the stranger had indicated. It was no use. No one was inside. They must've had their packs ready and just grabbed them on the run.
He hadn't thought of that. Now, he had no frame of reference for where they'd gone. He took a heavy step towards the stairwell, when the stranger's door cracked opened once again.
"He talked to it," the man said in a barely audible voice.
"What?" Den asked, not sure what the old man meant.
"The shield," he said in a higher register. "He spoke to it. I saw him do it. It didn't say anything back."
The young mage hesitated.
"I'm not crazy," the man justified his sanity. "I saw him do it several times. The dwarf would glare at me, as if in warning, but I heard him talking to his shield. Dark matters he did speak of."
"I believe you," Den stated. "I know you're perfectly sane."
The old man had no reason to lie, but what he said added another piece to the puzzle that Den had been struggling with. Pinch and Scree had unwittingly mentioned that Hank was having troubles. They had said something about a barrow mound and his sword, but Scree mentioned that Hank had thrown his sword down on the battlefield. It just didn't make sense.
Den thanked the old man and returned to the tavern downstairs. As he was stepping off the porch, Bronwynn met him.
"You left this," she said, offering him his staff.
"Thanks," he said, somewhat sheepishly, while taking the lost weapon. "It was more for show than to fight with. I forgot I even had it."
The huge warrior smiled at his comment. "It shows. At some point, you really need to use all of the weapons that you have at hand."
Den's head lowered at her comment. "You did really well out there," she added, seeing his discomfort.
Even though his head remained bowed, she could tell her words had a positive effect. She placed a hand on his shoulder and added, "It was an honor to fight at your side."
His eyes rose in pride, but he remained reserved. "They're gone," he stammered.
"Those rats snuck off?!" Bronwynn barked. "I knew it. Those no good-"
"They didn't sneak off. They went after their friend. He is under some sort of spell."
"They better return," she growled. "If they don't return soon, I'll sell off their stuff."
"They'll be back!" Den said in a hurt voice. "Besides, I think they took their packs."
Bronwynn shook her head. They'd been his first company, his first brothers-in-arms. It was only natural for him to hold them in such high esteem. Even though she viewed them in a less than favorable light, she understood his point of view, so she let it drop.
Den walked back out into the field of battle. In its aftermath, the scene took on a totally different light. Instead of the honor and glory he'd anticipated, what he found was a place of horror. Wounded cried, in some cases for their mothers, while narcissists bragged of their valor. Some men comforted their friends while others died alone, in agony.
The illusions Den had dreamed about a battlefield were a far cry from what one actually looked like. Even though some men thanked him for his part, the reality of what had transpired was more a caricature of the tales old warriors told.
He found himself wandering the field, asking if any had seen where his companions had gone. No one knew. It was as if the battle had all been a blur. The tales most told were, more than likely, an exaggeration of the true events.
All Den remembered was the feeling of fear. It was all-encompassing. The only thing that had torn him from its paralyzing grip was Meg. When he'd seen her in danger he had lost all inhibitions. Nothing mattered more than ensuring her safety. It was at that moment that he admitted to himself that he was in love with her.
Before this, he had second-guessed his spells. Den had doubted his abilities and questioned his decisions. When he saw his love in danger, that was all replaced with need. Necessity drove his words. His spells became instinctual. He no longer questioned anything and was in control of his abilities.
It was a turning point. Until this instance, he'd relied on the powers of his master, Finnious. The old mage was famous throughout the realm. He had lived in the shadow of this mentor. It was safe there. No one demanded much of him. He didn't need to perform. He only had to exist.
Now that he'd proven his worth, he felt different. He felt his value. He was a wizard of his own right.
He stalked the battlefield, staff thudding against the ground at his side, his gaze more appraising than it was before. He was in charge.
Chapter 21
Chasing a Friend
There was no time. Hank had thrown his sword onto the field of battle and run off into the woods. It was unbelievable that he had been able to rid himself of his weapon. What we had thought was impossible had happened so casually.
Scree ran to the edge of the woods and, without hesitation, plunged into the darkness of the trees. Pinch followed without question. The safety of his comrade was more important than his own.
The two barreled after their friend, heedless of their own safety. Branches, hidden by the dark, slashed at any exposed flesh as they continued in the direction of their quarry.
At one point, the duo stopped. Pinch, checking their surroundings for a moment, found Hank's trail and hurried in that direction. The pursuit lasted through the remainder of the night, the two pushing the limits of their endurance. As the first light of dawn tinted the eastern horizon, the travelers finally succumbed. Their weary limbs could push no further, and they collapsed, nearly falling asleep before they hit the ground.
Although exhausted, neither of the two slept long. The sounds of the awakening animals roused them from their brief slumber. Their purpose drove them on, even though both were soon spent again.
The two pursuers felt their hopes waning, but neither would give into despair. The feeling of need from their friend drove them on through the day and into the night.
The skills of the thief were stretched beyond their limits. His tracking ability was narrowly able to keep them on their course as they traversed the dense woodlands.
Scrapes, cuts, and skinned knees did little to dampen the spirit of pursuit the duo maintained. Throughout the day and into the night, they doggedly tracked their quarry. Neither discussing their descent, they kept focused and pushed on.
That was, until they came upon the bodies. They were peasants, mostly women. It looked like they had been out picking berries when they were assaulted, as evidenced by their spilled buckets. The two knew immediately that it was their friend who'd done the killing.
A great sadness fell over the two, draining them of any energy reserves they had. In the midst of the carnage, they both dropped and fell into a deep sleep, undisturbed by the death surrounding them.
Chapter 22
A Hero's Welcome
That night, Den slept in an empty room at the inn. After the initial assault, the incursion of the undead came to an abrupt halt. Those on guard were relieved by others, who quickly heard the sobering news of the battle. The entire village was abuzz with the fact that the undead had risen and were prowling the nearby area.
Mayor Blackthorn hid in his expansive home, avoiding the accusing voices of his constituents. His former assurances were revealed as hollow words. He feared to appear in public because he felt he'd seem foolish. His drapes drawn, he stayed inside to avoid controversy.
Throughout the day, townsfolk rapped at his door to ask for advice, but he left the door closed and their queries unanswered, not even daring to poke his nose outside for a second in fear that he might be discovered.
Rising late, the young mage descended to the lower level of the inn. Bronwynn was there, looking like nothing had happened, but Meg was very bleary-eyed. The night’s struggle, having obviously worn on her constitution, showed on her face.
