Excerpt from Undercover Lich; Chapter Two!

Howdy folks!

Pardon the lack of TWR last week, lots of things popped up that delayed me but I’ve got the next two episodes sketched out after a bit of rewrites and change of pace! Did the same with Rogues Retinue, kept rewriting and not liking where I was going, second guessing etc but I’m trying to reevaluate my mentality and prioritize actually making something over postponing it in order to get it just right.

Speaking of tossing things out into the aether and not poking at it for too long:

Please enjoy the latest draft of the second chapter of Undercover Lich!

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UNDERCOVER LICH

Chapter II

Robertho DuBeau raced through the field of golden wheat, rapier clutched in an iron grip as he silently charged towards the doom that would soon rain down from the defenders massing on the wooden walls of Trellefort. The dramatic effect was somewhat ruined by the wobbly and uneven run caused by the zombie’s less-than-intact spinal column, the upper torso flopping around with each step. The Dwarf lumbered after him. I mean, I assume, the zombie was shorter than the wheat and I’d lost sight of it pretty much immediately after it had entered the field. The effect was further diminished when the DuBeau zombie reached a waist-high fence mid-way through the field, hit it full speed and flopped over it, sending a boot flying high into the air like a majestic water fowl. Both the boot and the zombie disappeared out of sight. To its credit, it swiftly got back to its feat and wobbled onwards. The zombie, not the boot. That one did not reappear. The Dwarf zombie briefly became visible as it crashed through the fence like a wrecking ball.

Now the zombies were clear of the wheat field and entered the two hundred feet or so of untilled land before the town walls. I could imagine the dismay of the town defenders. Seeing the same heroes they hired to rid me from “their” lands, turned into the very same undead that had plagued them for generations. Oh the delicious irony. Couldn't say for certain though as my eyesight is pretty poor and I was standing about eight hundred feet from the town (between two and two and a half Grivlian football fields for those who don’t subscribe to the Elradian measurement system). It was a damn shame I could only raise two of the adventuring party. The Elf had been burst apart all over my study and the Wizard lacked any intact bones, a classic result of speed running the deceleration-from-half-terminal-velocity-to-full-stop game . The latter could have been a suitably demoralizing sight to be sure but it would have taken ages for the thing to get here.

The two zombies made it roughly a third of the way before the hail of arrows did enough damage to the bodies to break the spell animating them. They flopped down on the ground, a good sight more pin-cushiony than before.

Thus endeth Robertho DuBeau, hero and would be slayer of the lich Galvar van Wildemaark (that’s me by the way, hello) and his companion… Whatever the Dwarf was called. Probably something something Stonehammer or some other similarly uninspired mineral plus weapon combination. Assuming he had been a Guldland Dwarf.

I frowned. Was I doing a racism? It felt like I was doing a racism.

Trying to dispel my internal struggle, I resorted to scowling even more balefully at the town. A good scowl is a great last resort, like my great-great grandfather Michail used to say. My gaze passed over my surroundings in a way I hoped gave off “general surveying his surroundings” and not “where did I park my wagon again” vibes.

The hill I was standing on had been green and luscious before the passage of a couple hundred skeletons, zombies and assorted undead had turned it into a muddy mess. Though still comfortably swaddled in my metaphorical blanket of unrestrained rage and hatred, I still felt some satisfaction in finally getting some use out of my knee high traveling boots. My “You’ve-Fucked-Around-And-I’m-Here-To-Aid-You-In-Finding-The-Fuck-Out-moccassins” would have been absolutely ruined by the mud. The hill sloped slowly downwards until it reached level ground, where lush fruit trees and verdant fields and farmhouses dotted the landscape until it reached the town of Trellefort. Last I beheld this cancer upon the land, it had been a little shithole with wooden huts surrounding a dilapidated wooden fort, surrounded by sharpened wooden stakes and ditches. Evidently, forty years is a long time city planning wise. The fort was still a shithole but now it was mostly made of stone, bright flags raised above its parapets. The small selection of cabins had been replaced by houses primarily made of stone though a couple sported some lovely thatched roofs, even a couple charmingly covered in moss. The outer walls were still made of wood, though they were three times the height of an ordinary sized man, meaning their height had quadrupled, several watchtowers, a large gate and portcullis. It even had a parapet behind it, assuming the defenders that had shot the two undead ex-heroes weren't simply hovering in the air behind the wall.

My undead horde wasn't my best work. In my post-ruined-reading-moccassin-rage, I had simply stomped out of my study, grabbed every undead minion I passed on the way down to ground level and set out for Trellefort. It felt like if I hadn't set out immediately, my anger would subside and then I would just sulk in my bedroom for days and then I wouldn't get ANYTHING done. So the undeads toiling in the mines below my tower were left, the vast crypts, mass graves and other assorted depositories of remains that existed in the labyrinthine dungeons had been untouched. It would have taken days to raise even a fraction. So this warband would do. In fairness, there were a couple of hundred of them and while historical, fiction and historical fiction LOVE big numbers when describing famous battles and last stands, having an army of about three hundred is plenty. Maybe not “conquer a nation” plenty but “send a message about fucking up my Sunday” plenty or “make a memorable last stand against a vastly superior army, if you have a tactical terrain advantage, indominable spirit, supreme training plus the tinsie-tiny addition of over six thousand allied troops that future “historians” and comic book authors will convieniently ignore.

My gaze drifted to Gurv Man-Skinner. The Beastman was a hulking brute of a specimen, musculature like a farm animal with something to prove, forearms the size of small tree trunks and massive horns curling from his goat-like head. Definitely the type of specimen a certain group of authors would write a certain type of stories about, which the authors would widely circulate amongst like-minded folk but would rather die than show to their parents. He wasn't wearing much but what he did wear was made from what seemed to be tanned hide from the local non-Beastman population. In any sane genre, that’d kill the “type-of-story” metaphor from before but nope. In my mind, certain opinions were starting to form on Gurvs choice of apparel but then I looked down at my cow leather boots, thought for a minute and then decided to just file that particular ethical qualm under “not bothering with that” and moved on mentally.

Gurv and his band of Beastmen stood off to the side, close enough to show me and any onlookers that they were indeed here with me, but far enough to create some distance to the undead. Its nice to see that even mutant savages from the dark forrest The group of about fifty had joined my horde as we passed through the woods surrounding my tower. Apparently DuBeaus party had gone through one of the local Beastmen villages on their way to confront me, causing a bit of trouble. So Gurv had gathered up some of the locals, slapped on a suitably gruesome accoutrement and set out to send the locals the same message I was going to send. The gathering was a motley group. Everything from goatlike warriors, large bipedal bullfolk to squat pig-headed ones built like sacks of bricks.

Gurv must have sensed my gaze because he raised his two greataxes and gave a bestial roar of battle lust. His warband joined him, rattling weapons and headbutting shields to a cacophony of roars, bleatings and assorted animalistic noises. A sight to raise the hair on the back of any necks for sure. Though I couldn't help notice out of the corner of my eye that as soon as I looked away, the Beastmen subsided a bit and looked at each other in a certain “was that good”, “did we overdo it” or “we should have practiced more” kind of way.

Not to be overdone by a savage, I was suitably dressed for the occasion, opting for my purple and gold battle robes, with oversized gold pauldrons and a horned skull helmet atop my… skull. Very villainy. Personally, I had always appreciated gold when it comes to traditionally evil looking characters, it offers a nice dichotomy, since gold is usually reserved for the forces of ”Good”. The purple and the skull motif toned it down a bit but I was quite happy with the look. In my left hand I clutched my second favourite staff, Ich-Vhaer’Treech, an almost sentient affair shaped like a golden snake with a large ruby shoved into its mouth. The staff was clearly, as the kids say, cursed as fuck. It was said to have corrupted almost every wielder since it was made. Personally, had grown tired of the whispers and incessant badgering from the demonic entities trapped and left it upside down in the outhouse for a year, so it was pretty quiet now. There was a niggling feeling in the back of my head though but it mostly went “pwetty pwease can we kill something, if it’s not too much of a bother” nowdays.

I was also sitting atop a large skeletal horse, which I knew made me more noticeable from afar. To be perfectly honest, I hadn't ridden there, I frankly despise horses, alive or dead. It’s just really good visuals, you know? So I walked there, raised the skeleton just below the lip of the hill and rode the last sixty paces or so. It was a dope looking horse though. It had once been a magnificent charger ridden by a magnificently bedecked paladin, a certain Helena Volantis, leading an army to smite me. She had been one of the more memorable attackers over the century I had occupied my tower, partly because of the amazing speech she made to her army with her cape and hair blowing magnificently in the air. Buuuut mostly because she made it six strides into the charge before she got an arrow to the forehead.

If there’s any message in these literary ramblings that I’d like to impart to future generations it is this:

Hey, kids. Does your hobby include the risk of serious physical harm via the medium of fast-moving sharp metal objects?

Wear.

A.

Damn.

HELMET.

But it all worked out for me, I thought as my gaze swept over to my Master of arms. The notched and battered golden armor glinted in the sun, the purple cloak gently shifting in the breeze. Helena nodded respectfully, her head now suitably encased in a helmet shaped like a winged skull. While her career as a paladin had gone so-and-so, her career as my bodyguard and master of my armed forces had gone considerably better. She had spent the last four decades protecting my bony ass from adventurers, heroes and the occasional jealous rival. It was fascinating how things stayed with an undead post-reanimation, that paladin sense of duty and honor had warped into a fanatical dedication to her new job. In fact, Helena had taken the attempted murder of me pretty hard. Generally speaking, I prefer to keep the named minions at the tower when I sally forth, in case some other asshole adventurer takes advantage of my absence to abscond with some loot, but I truly didn’t have the heart to have her stay behind. She wouldn't have said anything but man, those dead puppy dog eyes…

Plus it was nice to have another sentient undead with me. For what I couldn't really say. I felt a bit… frail? Emotionally speaking, my lich form was still as nigh-indestructible as before. So she was a bit of… emotional support?

“We are ready, my lord”, said the death knight with a raspy voice that echoed from within the armor. Her retinue of heavily armored skeleton, aptly named the Lichguard, slamming their fists on their shield to emphasize their leaders point.

With a nod I straightened in the saddle, struck a suitably dramatic pose and, after a suitable dramatic pause, raised my left hand. The world stopped in anticipation. The tension from the defenders was palpable, even from this distance and with my shit eyesight. If left by their own devices, mindless undead minions, like your everyday zombies and skeletons, move by themselves to various degrees. Small jerks as necromantic energies run along rotting tendons, the creaking of bones and ligaments as skeletal heads rotate or the occasional lurch. With a quick mental push, three hundred-ish individual soldiers went from slightly moving to rigid as statues, as if waiting for my command. The whole affair with the raised hand was completely needless of course, it would take me about the same effort to just telepathically order the undead to charge than it would to raise and lower my arm. Plus, over half of my army was facing away from me so they wouldn't see my hand. But it looked cool.

I made a chopping motion with my arm, ending with my hand menacingly pointing towards Trellefort. At the same time, I sent out a mental command for my minions to charge. Immediately, the entire undead army silently surged forward. Helena and the Lichguard stayed behind. Once the undead had a decent enough headstart so they would absorb most of the defenders arrows, the Beastmen charged after, considerably louder and with more enthusiasm. Also with a lot more speed, they had to slow down to a jog so they wouldn't overtake the undead.

Arrows fell among the undead. It seemed the walls were packed with defenders, because there was a LOT of arrows. Not enough to stop the army from reaching the base of the walls though. Here it became very apparent that, if I had hopes of making this an effective siege, I should have done a little bit more prep work. None of the undead had ladders, ropes, grapplers or even bows. There was a brief pause as the charge thumped into the wooden walls, most likely crushing the foremost rank between the walls and the mass of their fellow undead behind. Then they started to hack at the walls, determined to get in.

The anger within me was doused by a cold shower from a big bucket labelled “you dumbass”. I could feel the frustration from Helena nearby. Had I given her a simple “summon the troops”, it would have taken a bit longer but at least we’d have some grappling hooks. Frustration built within me.

”CLIMB”, I mentally commanded my troops.

The undead responded with gusto, skeletal fingers, knives and weapons dug into the wood. The undead slowly began to climb up the walls. A good chunk of them were destroyed on their way up, at the mercy of arrows and stones chucked down, even a couple of spells from mages sent zombie bits flying. But the sheer concentrated mass of undead eventually gave results as more and more of them made it to the top. Plus it was probably absolutely terrifying looking down to see a skeleton scrabbling up to get you.

The Beastmen meanwhile had made remarkable headway, keeping defenders behind cover with bows and throwing speaes, allowing a couple of goatlike creatures to somehow bound up the vertical surface of the wall, kill some defenders and drop ropes down for their comrades. Fuck me. Even the savages were better prepared than I was.

My undead had taken a beating reaching the walls, then a further beating climbing up the damn thing and right now they were taking as well as they were giving atop the palisades. It was hard to see but I sensed that roughly half of my initial number was still kicking. It was hardly enough. Frustration started to pave way to helplessness, I was going to lose. Badly.

I tried to dissuade my frustration and panic to make room for my anger again. Anger was good. If I was angry, I didn’t think clearly. If I didn't think clearly, that empty feeling stayed away. The point wasn't to take over the town, the point was to punish this pitiful town for their audacity! If we could get beyond the walls, set fire to a couple of those lovely thatched roofs, kill a few locals, burn down a couple of inns, that’d still be a success. The fact that my minions made it to the walls and were killing defenders was enough when you thought about it! “Look what I can do with this small number, imagine what would happen if I came with everything I had”?

That’s right!

This’ll teach them a lesson! Sure, they’d cower for a bit until they grew a pair and sent for aid or set up a bounty with the Adventurer’s Guild. Or even sooner if another roaming band of heroes went through town, heard their woes and took it upon themselves to rid the land of my evil. Maybe even for free if they’re on the goody two-shoes side of the alignment chart.

But then I’ll kill them too! Raise their corpses and teach this town a lesson! Again.

Suddenly the thought struck me that I didn’t ACTUALLY know for certain that DuBeau and his crew were sent by Trellefort. I just… kind of assumed so?

My train of thought, heading predictably into a metaphorical stretch of tracks with a whole lot of warning signs, was interrupted by a cheer from the battlements. Weapons were raised as shouts of encouragement, and general mood improving noises, went up from the defenders when a small group of winged figures flew from beyond the battlements. The group surged over the horde but did not stop to attack the undead. Instead, the flyers went straight towards me atop the hill. Clearly someone thought a decapitation strike at the undead leader was in order. Helena and her Lichguard bristled, spreading out around me, shields raised and ready. It was a bit silly considering I was still towering over them on top of my undead steed but Helena was too doggedly adherent to traditional command structures to question my authority with a “how about you stop being an obvious target and sit your ass down on the ground please and thank you”. I wasn’t too worried though, for I sensed an opportunity to kill things, which usually improved my mood.

As the group of flyers drew closer, I saw that it consisted of a trio of Aviar, these particular ones were birdfolk of the winged variety. I dimly remembered reading about how that made these ones the upper cadre in birdfolk society, status being heavily reliant on ones ability to fly. Anyway, these specimens were clad in heavy armor and armed with spears and shields. I had time to reflect that some form of ranged weapons would have been a smart choice, when the spears lit up with magical energy and bolts of lighting shot out towards me. Summoning a quick shield spell, I managed to block the shots that would have hit me. A couple went wide, hitting Lychguard around me and doing a not inconsiderable amount of damage. Then the Aviar came in for the charge. This close I could see the well-maintained and intricate armor, the birdlike features and the beautiful wings sprouting from their backs. They were all snow-white with eagle-like heads, with silvery blue armor and helmets. Their yellow eyes burned with righteous fury. Aviar was rare in these parts of No’Adea, winged ones even more. Some form of travelling paladins perhaps?

I raised my staff, the demons within writhed in anticipation and began to glow an ominous red.

The Aviar tried to split up and evade but it was to no avail. The demonic spirite were unleqshed in the form of a cone of infernal red flames intermingled with roiling black smoke. Two of the flyers were caught in the storm, screeching in agony as their body and souls were flensed by the hungry demons. The third Aviar managed to dodge the blast by making a barrel-roll and flying below the attack, coming towards me with a triumphant “Ka-kaw”. Nicely done but unfortunately that put them within reach of Helenas ten-foot long halberd. A quick jab upwards and the spike atop the axe-head pierced right into the Aviars neck. They dropped their spear, clutched their bleeding neck and went down amongst the Lychguard, who promptly hacked the attacker to pieces with mechanical strikes of their blades.

With an evil chuckle, I raised my staff and summoned back the demonic spirits into the jewel. A quick mental command summoned my spellbook from its holster at my hip, hovering a chest level to my left. Now, I do hope you’ll allow me the opportunity to gush a bit over the magnificence that was my spellbook, my totally terrific tome, my grandiose grimoire of glory! It was the culmination of my entire wizarding career. A purple leather cover, etched in gold letters, runes and arcane sigils from every conceivable culture that had mastered the arcane arts at the very least to the point of boiling an egg. I was very happy with the writing, I spent a year figuring out how to make the text change whenever nobody was looking at it! Its spine was a solid gold with a singular ruby carved like an eye. I had spent a literal fortune tracking this little relic down, I won't bore you with the details but let’s just say that should anyone try to attack me while reading the tome, they’d be in for a surprise. And by surprise I mean, of course, surprise laser beams! The levitation enchantment was something I was quite proud of too, I had actually mastered it in my university days! Tremendously useful when your spellbook weighs about the same as a brick and your wizarding arms are ill-suited for lifting anything heavier than a teacup.

I waved my hand and the book flew open, its pages flitting across by themselves in response to my mental command, until coming to a stop at the appropriate spell. The red ink within lit up with a sickly greenish-purple light as I recited the spell, written in a language long dead. Similar light flared up the eyes of my staff, acting as a focus for the summoned arcane energies. All the Aviar corpses twitched and were raised from the grounds as if by strings. They twisted in the air, muscles spasming and jerking as the necromantic energies flowing into the corpses. Then they suddenly stood still. Light shone in their eyes as they regarded me expectantly.

I nodded towards the town. The undead Aviar flew away back to where they came from. The defenders reacted differently to their arrival than their departure, understandable, since their would be heroes opened fire with their lightning spears as soon as they got into range. This proved to be a demoralizer for the defenders and quite a few sections seemed to empty as soldiers fled down stairs or ladders. Once again, so I assume, it’s either that or they had way too much faith in their ankles and just jumped down.

The glowing letters of the spellbook slowly stopped smoldering. Hulderson's Third Reiteration of the old Khermetric Reanimation Spell. One of the more complex and powerful spells that allows one to reanimate the dead. I could have used a basic reanimation spell and not wasted so much of my mana reserves but this particular spell allows the reanimated corpse to retain more of its former power and skill. This is great, partly because it gives the zombie a bit more “oomph” but, most importantly, leaves the undead with the skill to use magic items and the like. Plus, a regular reanimation spell would have left the zombies with not enough mental faculties to figure out the wings, flight not just being a case of “flap wings then go fly-fly”.

My spellbook hovered before me expectantly. Running my hand across it I thought of all the spells I had gathered over the century of lichdom. Well, to be fair… Most of the spells were gathered before I became a lich and in the ensuing three decades. The remaining seven decades I’d not spent much time researching arcane mysteries that I’d liked, I’d been quite busy with… Um…

I frowned.

What had I done for the past seventy years?

As I stared across the destroyed fields towards the carnage at the walls, I reviewed the past century after my ascension to lichdom. Initially I’d spent a lot of time tending to my tower. As soon as a Wizard reaches lichdom, word tends to spread and adventurers start showing up. So you gotta get your defenses up, so I could get to spend time researching undisturbed. Raising more minions, stocking up on corpses, ordering traps via catalogue, waiting for the delivery and spending an inordinate amount of time trying to assemble a ”Taggig” spike trap with nothing but an inadequate manual and an Allen wrench. And once thats done, you need to relax a bit, you know? Recharge. Because you KNOW as soon as you’re done building traps, some schmuck just waltzes in and sets them off!

So looking back, what had I ACTUALLY achieved? No big leaps in necromantic studies. No towns conquered. No countries subjugated. A whole fucking century of lichdom mostly spent killing adventurers and slacking off. Nothing.

What is the point of lichdom? All that effort to get here. The rituals. The sacrifices. All those Friday nights I said I was too busy to go out with my classmates. Power and immortality, sure, but what had I actually done with it?

Nothing.

My anger started to drain faster and faster, replaced by a behemoth of melancholic despair blended in with a swirl of frustration. Desperate for some form of distraction or outlet, I looked towards Trellefort.

This was all their fault!

Dark ripples of energy gathered around me as my mind raced through my arsenal of spells that I could unleash upon this shithole of a town. My minions might be just able to take the wall and a bit more but if I joined the fray? If I really gave it my all? Barring any surprise mages at the fort, adventurers chilling at the pub instead of being on the walls or some peasant realising their birthmark is shaped like a crown and finding some lost sword in a puddle in there, I could really mess this place up. There was already quite a bit of corpses on the walls to be raised. I had plenty of mana to blast the walls to splinters and replenish my little army and then some. Plus I had enough magic rings and amulets on me to replenish my mana after that too.

Fuck, now that I really thought about it, I could take this town! Kill the defenders, raise their corpses, round up the townsfolk and raise them all one by one. Go back to my tower and empty it of skeletons and I’d have a proper army! This could just be the beginning! After this town, I could take the next one, and the next!

Helena and her Lichguard had evidently noticed my demeanour and were all ready to charge in. With them by my side, I felt even more confident. Fuck whatever hero or mage that might hide beyond the walls. Laughter burst out from my undead throat. A good and proper evil mohahaha laugh too.

“Oh, this is going to be GOOD!” I shouted while leafing through my spellbook looking for the fireball section. Always good to start off a proper sacking with a couple of fireballs!

But what's the point?

The pages stopped flipping.

I could take this entire kingdom. But there’d still be heroes, adventurers, mercenaries, treasure hunters, holy warriors. Plenty of do-gooders and treasure seekers to come for me. Even more than before. Sure, I could take them. But the more I killed, the more would come. And the more territory I’d take, I’d start to become not just a regional problem but an international issue. Then there would be actual armies to contend with. Nobles feeling threatened and banding together, monarchs getting antsy and summoning their levies, religious leaders summoning whole ass crusades…

Going through all that, there was the Empress too…

I’d be doing the same thing I’d been doing for the past century, just MORE. There’d be even less time to pur up new traps. Even less time to research new spells. Even less time to put on my moccasins and read some light hearted romcom novel about a big town business woman falling in love with a scruffy small town Yuletide tree vendor.

And once again, DuBeau and his merry band of pincushions and extra chunky fertilizer could have been sent by a town a bit further on or a rival. Or maybe they just saw the tower and said “let’s go mug a lich shall we, chip chip cheerio”.

So. What. Was. The. Fucking. Point.

I deflated. All the energies swirling around me blew away like smoke in a breeze. My gaze fixed on a point somewhere between an arms length from my face and over the horizon.

Beside me, Helena broke the metaphorical spell with an uncertain “My lord?”

I blinked at her. The moment stretched like a cat shouldn't.

“I’m going home”, I said, swung my leg over the saddle and dismounted from my horse. Well, I TRIED to dismount. Okay, to be fair, I did successfully dismount in the sense that I wasn’t mounted anymore. I just ended up a lot more horizontal and muddy once I hit the ground than was probably considered a success by more experienced equestrians.

Helena rushed forward to help me up but I waved her off dismissively as I scrabbled up with a palpble lack of dignity. The Lichguard, evidently having a lot more sentience than I previously gave them credit for, seemed to exchange unsure glances. Or maybe that was just my imagination. In either case, I refused to meet anyone’s gaze and started walking back in the rough direction of my study.

“What of the siege, my lord?” asked Helena, the Death Knights' tone was very hard to read.

I looked back at the fight. The walls looked a lot less packed than before and the plumes of smoke rising beyond suggesting at least some of my minions had made it beyond and were setting fire to things. There was no sign of Ghurv, so I assume he and his warband made it beyond the walls too. They’d probably muck about in there, set a few fires, take a few prisoners to sacrifice to their dark gods or whatever. They’d be fine. It perplexed me quite a bit why I gave a shit about them.

I shrugged, turned and started slugging my way back. After a brief pause, Helena and the Lichguard followed me at a trot.

The skeletal horse stood where I left it.

Eventually it started contemplating the nature of its existence. When dawn broke, it tried nibbling on some grass that had escaped the trampling of undead feet. It found the experience unsatisfying.