by David Cook
“If his sons rebelled and he was forced to kill them, he wanted you alive to continue the bloodline.”
“So he fathered me and kept it secret—”
“So you would not turn against him as he feared his sons would.”
The cold-blooded reasoning of it matched Manferic’s mind perfectly. “Why did he force me to leave? I don’t believe a word about making me stronger.” Unconsciously, Pinch talked as if Manferic were someone else, too.
“Manferic realized he could create me. Why should he try to continue his dynasty through the blood of others when he could live forever? You became a danger to making me,” the lich answered.
From the way the lich talked about itself, Pinch could only decide it was mad. The spells, the will, and the decay had destroyed something in Manferic’s mind. The lich might have the memories, the evil and the cunning, but it was no more Manferic than Pinch was. It was a transformation of souls, as the old king descended into something even viler and more grotesque than it had been in life. Pinch had seen fatherly love in all its forms—fathers who trained their sons in the highway law, fathers who sold their daughters to wealthy men, even those who turned in their own to the authorities for coin—but even these could not compare to the scale of reptilian cruelty that Manferic aspired to. An involuntary shudder seized him at the thought of such cruel manipulation.
“So Manferic tried to kill me and get rid of the problem,” Pinch said bitterly as he finished dressing. The heavy hand of the quaggoth forced him back into his seat. Meanwhile, the lich produced a gem from the folds of its robe and set it on the floor between them.
“No,” the undead thing sighed, “it was not Manferic. It was your half-brother, Prince Vargo. Manferic simply withdrew his protection from you. He did not want you dead, only gone. A good scare to send you away. There was always a chance he might need your bloodline, that his plans might fail.”
“Who was my mother?” Pinch was still stalling for time, but he truly wanted the answer to this.
“As you were told, the Lady Tulan, lady-in-waiting to the queen.”
“What happened to her?”
“Manferic hid her in the catacombs until the baby was born,” the lich answered with icy detachment. “Then he gave her to Ikrit.”
Pinch looked over his shoulder at the huge, hairy man-thing. “You guard the lady?”
The creature bared a fang and grunted, no confirmation or denial. It was as much as the creature would say before its master.
The lich’s burning gaze fixed on the dirty white creature. “Interesting …” it whispered.
Pinch sensed that he’d spoken more than he should. If it had been only Ikrit, he would have irked the two to conflict, but there was another at stake here he did not want to sacrifice—the lady in the tunnels. If she was his mother, Pinch wanted to protect her from harm. He needed her to prove his claim, he rationalized, forgetting that his chances of escape were slim. “So why drag me back?” he asked to quickly change the subject.
The lich’s fiendish gaze shifted to Pinch. “Does this look like success?” It snarled as it brushed its wormy cheek with a skeletal hand. “All the books, all the scrolls never promised anything like this! I need a new body … and you will provide it. Ikrit, hold him!”
The quaggoth clamped its paws on Pinch’s shoulders till the claws stabbed into the flesh. This was the last moment, he knew, so the rogue twisted and fought with all abandon. He kicked at Manferic, but the lich stayed well out of the way, and all his writhing only made the giant guardian press him down all the firmer. While he kicked and screamed, the lich coolly went about its preparations.
“Scream as you wish. No one will come.” Pinch gave it up, knowing the monster was right. No doubt Cleedis had ordered the guards to leave them undisturbed when he first came in. “Hold him, but don’t hurt him,” the creature warned. “I want my new body undamaged.” The lich seemed positively cheerful. “You see,” it explained as it arranged the gem between them, “I don’t intend to spend eternity looking like this. I want a strong body.”
“You could have had anyone. Just steal one off the streets,” Pinch protested between kicks.
“And walk through the halls wearing the husk of a street rat? The palace guards would never let me in.” The lich positioned itself opposite Pinch. “I was going to use Cleedis, but he’s so … old. The other princes are too well known. There was too much to learn to be one of them. Their friends would be suspicious. You are perfect. A place in the palace and no past to encumber me.”
“I have friends.”
“Ah, your three companions. I know about them. Cleedis informed me. He was quite thorough—right to the end.” Preparations finished, the lich sat at the edge of the bed. “No one will mourn their deaths. Just sewer scum the city is best rid of.”
Pinch winced at that. He had worked hard to protect himself and the others from that fate, and now his efforts would be to no avail.
“This will be interesting,” the lich continued. “A new experience. You see, I will replace you in your own body, while you will be trapped in this jewel.” It nodded to the stone between them. “And then, I will have Ikrit crush the jewel and your essence will vanish into the void. An interesting experience for you, though rather short-lived.”
The lich drew itself up, ready to utter the words that would close the spell. Hands raised, it parted its teeth and—
“Your plan is flawed!” Pinch blurted, trying to sound more confident than he felt.
The lich sensed his desperation. “It will work perfectly,” it sneered.
“Oh? What about Cleedis? How can you rule Ankhapur if your broker is dead? You needed him to be regent, and like a fool you killed him back there. No one in Ankhapur would tolerate me as their sovereign.” Pinch tried to sit himself up straight in support of his bluff.
The lich shook its moldering head. “Is this my only spell? Why should I be one person when I can be three? It is a simple thing to change a face with a single spell. I will be Janol or Cleedis as I choose, but I will always be Manferic in my soul. When all the princes fail the test, they will be forced to name me regent.
“Enough of this—Ikrit, don’t let him escape.”
Pinch lashed out wildly as the lich began the rite. He tried every foul move he could, aiming his elbow for the creature’s lower regions and stamping to break the beast’s foot. None of it worked. The lich droned through its litany, brittle voice rising in triumph as it reached the last syllables.
At the final phrase, the lich’s body collapsed like the dead body it truly was. The legs folded uselessly, the raised arms flopped, and the head lolled in meaningless directions as the carcass fell to the floor. A scattering of lice and worms spilled from the sack—the scattered pollen of death.
It didn’t work, Pinch exulted. The lich’s spell and his plan had failed. With burst of joyous strength that caught the baffled quaggoth off guard, Pinch broke from the beast’s corded grasp and dashed for the door. He would throw it open, the guards would come, and—
An invisible, intangible spike hammered right through Pinch’s brow. It was a heated nail of hateful ambition that cracked his skull and burrowed into the heart of his brain. It ripped at the lines of his self, the ties that anchored his being to his body. With swift cuts, Pinch’s body vanished from his psyche. He went blind first as something seized his eyes. The sounds of his crashing across the room vanished next, leaving only the rush of pain as his connection to the world. Pinch tried to fight this waylaying of his body, to concentrate on who he was, but his effort was crushed by a ferocious onslaught of hateful will. In a brief glimpse, he saw the form of it, the raw essence that had kept his father alive—even beyond death.
And then there was nothing.
Blind, mute, and disconnected from his nerves, Pinch was stripped of the weight of his flesh and cast into a void. There was no color, no darkness, not even the sense of seeing. There was no pain or absence of it, no stale smells of prison-tr
apped air. There was no body to breathe. All that remained of Pinch were the lessons life had given him, the bitter memories, the ambitions, and the uncertain belief that he still existed.
But just what was he? With ample time to consider, for time too was lost to him, Pinch arrayed the options that memory presented him. Manferic said he’d be trapped in the jewel, but also that he was going to crush it. So was he alive … or dead? He compared all the ends he’d ever heard described, but his bland, existenceless state was hardly the vile doom predicted by the thundering prophets who’d railed against his sins. None of them had ever said, “You shall spend your eternity in a colorless void.” Pinch rather wished they had; perhaps if he’d known he’d spend his eternity adrift in a blank, he would have amended his ways. The prospect of being trapped here—wherever here was—was not a promising prospect.
But what, it dawned on him, did he mean by the end of time? Cut loose from his moorings, what was now and what was then lost all meaning. He tried to guess the timed drops of a water clock or the sweep of a sundial’s shadow, but without his body to set the rhythm, it was no use. His second could be an hour, a day, or an eon someplace else.
A panic roiled his thoughts—that alone was curious. His thoughts fled in all directions and refused to be marshaled, but he never felt the clutch of jolted nerves that would normally signal his desperation. It was fear on ice, intellectually there but unacknowledged by the primal signals that made it live.
What if there is no end to time? What if time ends, but I live on? If one can’t feel its passing then how can it end—or start? Without time, is there a forever?
Pinch knew that whatever the answer was, he would go mad in this empty hell.
A glare of brilliant light brought the end of his speculations, followed by a rush of sensation that overwhelmed his mind. Sight, scent, feeling, and sound—the echoing crack of a shattering. Pinch’s sight was all skewed. He was too close to the floor and everything was brighter than it should have been; even the darkest corners the room were well lit. I must have passed out and this is where I fell, he thought. How much time has passed? was his second thought.
With great care he tried to look around, barely turning his head just in case Manferic and Ikrit were watching. He must have fallen harder than he thought and banged his head, because his joints were stiffer than they ought to be. He noticed that, except for his sight, all his senses were curiously dulled. His mouth was salt-dry, too.
From where he lay, Pinch caught sight of Ikrit just at the unfocused rim of his vision. The big creature was pulling on something. At first Pinch couldn’t tell what, but then the grate of stone made it clear. The quaggoth was going through the secret door, leaving him alone.
The rogue didn’t understand. According to Manferic, he was supposed to be trapped in a gem or dead, his spirit dissipated throughout the universe. He certainly did feel like either, not that he regretted the lich’s error. Something must have gone wrong, ruined the spell, and driven Manferic away. Maybe the cavalry had arrived just in time. There had been more incredible strains of luck in his time.
Half-expecting and hoping to see his friends waiting behind him, Pinch started to rise. He set his bony, half-rotted hand—
A squirming maggot plopped to the floor by his thumb.
It couldn’t be his thumb, not this gray-green, decaying thing. It was Manferic’s hand, it was …
Slowly Pinch raised his gaze and looked about the floor. There it was, the source of the cracking noise that had greeted him when he woke: a scattering of crystalline shards and razorlike powder. It was the remains of Manferic’s stone. It had trapped him, and Ikrit had crushed it, just as the lich had promised.
But now he was in Manferic’s rotting body and that wasn’t supposed to happen.
The regulator stumbled to his feet, struggling in the unfamiliar body. Everything about it was the wrong length, with the wrong play of muscles. He lurched to the great mirror that hung over traveling chest. The light that was painfully bright to his eyes was a gloom in the glass and barely enough to reflect his features. After one look, Pinch was thankful for that.
Pinch calculated himself only mildly vain, but such an estimate was impossible when a man couldn’t look truly outside of himself. Intentionally or no, Manferic had give the rogue that opportunity. The mirror reflected a horror—the wriggle and twitch of the things that lived under the skin, the peeling patches of the scalp, the black shredded ruins that were once lips; even the tongue was a swollen, oozing mass. A grave worm wriggled through a small gap in his teeth.
Pinch choked. He wanted to throw up, but his body wouldn’t obey. There was nothing inside him, not even breath on which he could gasp. Liches didn’t eat, didn’t breath. They had no blood in their veins.
Now he knew the level of his vanity. If condemned to remain like this, he would rather die. His face and his hair, no amount of fine clothes would ever hide these. This was more than just a branding of his hand. He had railed against that, but when it was over he knew he would live—even keep his old trade. This compared not at all to that. He wasn’t Pinch anymore; he wasn’t even a man. Life as a monster was intolerable.
Perhaps Pinch had inherited more from his father than he ever knew, for when he finally pulled himself away from the horror that faced him, he did not give up. The choice came to him—to end it, though he was uncertain just how a lich might die—but he rejected that plan in favor of another. So long as Manferic walked, there was hope that he could force the creature to reverse what it had done. If he died trying, he could certainly be no worse than he was now.
Determination filled him, gave him a glint of the light that had filled Manferic’s eyes. Holding back the disgust that it filled him with, the rogue tested his new body, rose to his feet, and resolved to repay the monster for what it had done.
It did not matter where it had gone wearing his own shell; there was only one place he could go in its. That was back underground. If Manferic was wandering the halls of the place, he could not follow. His last hope lay in Ikrit. If Tymora spun her wheel and it favored him, the rogue knew he just might be able to track Manferic’s brute servant back to the dead king’s lair.
Shuffling to the secret passage and shedding soft blobs of his borrowed body, Pinch forced the wall open and set off in search of his prey. As he descended the steps, his mind eagerly sought out the grandest punishment for vile Manferic it could devise.
Walking Dead
The first thing the regulator noticed as he eased himself down the narrow staircase was the uncanny brightness of the place. Then he realized he hadn’t brought candle or lantern with him. There was at least one advantage to having the lich’s body, though it hardly compensated for the crime wrought upon him.
The next thing Pinch noticed was how much easier it was to track. He understood now how the quaggoth moved through the tunnels so easily. The dark passages had the appearance of an overcast day.
The question was, where had the beast gone? The creature had a considerable head start and could have chosen any number of paths. The rogue’s only resource, the dust-laden floor, was a useless guide now. It was all churned and muddied by comings and goings till it was far beyond his ability to read anything in it.
In this the rogue’s luck held, for the quaggoth was just in sight. The great white beast was ambling down the passage, not imagining it was being followed.
The second fortunate thing was that being dead had not robbed Pinch of all his skills. He still knew to creep and skulk about, though knowing was not the same as doing. It was one thing to know how to step lightly, but the rogue wasn’t sure he could get the rotting hulk that was his prison to cooperate. There was only one way to know, and that was by trying. He set out as light-footed as he could, but in his desire for stealth every noise was agonizingly magnified. There was no time to gain a proper body sense of the lich, so every move was accompanied by a cluster of scrapes and bumps even the dullest novice could have avoided—and Pinch es
pecially if he had been in his own flesh. His bone-bare feet went scritch-scritch over the hard stone. Little bits of his body splashed softly splashed into the puddles at the wet spots. They weren’t loud noises, but they were loud enough to Pinch’s ear and pride.
Nor did they pass unnoticed. Several times Ikrit stopped and eyed his back trail suspiciously, even at moments when Pinch swore he made no noise. The beast wrinkled his broad nose, and that’s when Pinch realized he had another complication.
The corpse stank. It was “the corpse” and not himself—the rogue refused to accept Manferic’s body as his new identity. He remembered that Manferic’s body could foul the air of a perfumery. The body’s nose was apparently immune to its own fetor, for he could not catch a whiff of it, but apparently the quaggoth was not immune. Now not only did he have to be stealthy, he apparently also had to remain upwind of his prey. If not, he’d be the first thief ever discovered by his stench. Not the epitaph he wanted on his grave, that was for certain!
The stalking game of cat and mouse continued, although it was never clear who was the cat and who the rodent. Ikrit stopped far too frequently to suit Pinch yet never seemed to tumble to the rogue’s presence. It was almost as if the quaggoth were hearing something else that eluded Pinch’s dulled ears. The result was a maddeningly slow pace for the thief. He was of the utter conviction that time counted for everything, that his body had to be regained by the coronation. After that, reaching Manferic/Janol/Cleedis—it was impossible to choose a single name for the lich—would be well-nigh impossible. The privileges of the palace would surround the creature, and between the guards and the lich’s spells it would be impossible to get close to the dread lord. Pinch’s mind had already plotted that the best hope lay in the sheltering confusion of the festival. The lich was most apt to be distracted now before its triumph was complete.
But what then? Assuming he found Manferic, how was Pinch supposed to get his body back? The rogue had no idea. Manferic certainly wasn’t going to give it up easily, not after all the trouble he’d gone to just to collect it, and Pinch had no spells to force the issue. Damnation, he wasn’t even sure what had happened to him! All he had was his faith in improvisation, the belief that if somehow he saw his way through, something would give him a chance.
