King Pinch

by David Cook

  Vargo raised the Cup high and then set it to his lips. A collective gasp seized the audience as everyone waited for the sign.

  Nothing happened.

  With one breath a sigh of mass tension blew like a wind across the hall. Carried on it were the faint grumbles of those whose hopes were lost and the smug pleasure of those who’d won. Bors, they knew, would be the rightful king. Others, wiser perhaps, looked to the doors, mindful that what Vargo could not have by right he would claim by sword.

  Just as the Hierarch turned toward Bors, Vargo clutched at his throat, an expression of horror twisting his visage. His pallor changed to an icy blue. All at once he coughed up a gurgle of blood, his knees buckled, and he pitched to the floor.

  “Poison! Manferic’s cup is poisonous!” Pinch blurted, suddenly seeing the whole of the lich’s plan. There was a stunned silence of panic, and that the rogue knew was the perfect diversion. “Now, Lissa, now!”

  Jolted from her shock, the priestess unfurled the scroll and began to read. Pinch braced himself, though for what he didn’t know. Sprite struggled out of his costume, the gargantuan head ill suited to action. If Lissa’s spell worked, he’d be standing next to a confused and unhappy lich, not the safest place in the world.

  Lissa read the final word and immediately leapt to the side, expecting the worst.

  No waves of disorientation overwhelmed Pinch, no change of view came to his eyes. He was still trapped in Manferic’s body beneath the layers of the raven garb.

  “It didn’t work!” he snarled.

  A shriek from the audience broke his claim. “Look!” Lissa shouted, pointing toward the dais. There Pinch’s body stood, where Cleedis had once been. “It’s dropped his spell of disguise.”

  As if her words had been a sign, the Pinch on stage glared directly at them, pinpointed by the magic she’d used. “You!” he bellowed, seeing through their disguises. As the crowd erupted into a pandemonium of confusion and fear, the transformed lich raised his hands to work a spell. The energies began to form and swirl about him.

  For Pinch there was no time to run, for Lissa no time for a counter-spell. They could only brace themselves to endure what must come.

  Just as the lich reached the height of his casting, the energies dissipated, swirling away like wisps of smoke. The lich was left bare, uncloaked by his magic, staring in rage in the branded hand of the body it occupied.

  “My hand—it’s crippled. He can’t cast his spells,” Pinch shouted with glee. “Again, Lissa! Try again!”

  Now it was the priestess’s turn to conjure as the lich shrieked in frustrated rage. She wove the spell with rapid ease, and before Pinch was ready for the shock, she uttered the final prayer.

  The world lurched, shut off its light, and then flared back on. Suddenly Pinch was standing over everyone, looking down on the crowd, looking down on the threesome at the lonely center of cleared space.

  From the black-ravened one at the heart of that group rose a shriek of unholy rage. The mask flew off and the feathered cloak dropped aside to reveal the moldering fury that was Manferic.

  “Janol, you bastard son—you will die!” the true lich roared. With a sweep, magical might blazed from his now-unfettered hands.

  Pinch dove for the shield of a throne as a scorching burst of fire tore across the stage. Blinded by the orange-white heat, Pinch could hear the screams of the Hierarch and the princes caught in its blast.

  Crap, what to do? How to fight a lich? Pinch hadn’t a clue, and it was all he could do to stay alive. Trusting his survival instinct, the rogue darted from his thin shelter and sprinted for the main floor. The stage was too exposed for any chance of safety.

  As he ran, others reacted. Vargo’s swordsmen, to their credit, were charging for battle. The hall was a swirl of confusion—revelers stampeding for the doors, priests wailing on the dais for their fallen leader, and at the center of it all the single point of Manferic, a whirlwind of magical fury. In that confusion, Vargo’s loyalists latched on to the only obvious conclusion, that the thing on the floor was their enemy.

  If he had time, Pinch would have admired these warriors for their courage, as hopeless as their cause was. As the swordsmen broke through the crowd, Manferic struck them down almost as fast as they appeared. Magic flashed from his fingertips in a display of utter power. All Pinch had time for was a small amount of thankfulness that they occupied all of Manferic’s attention.

  It didn’t last long. Once the first rush of the boldest fell, so fell the enthusiasm of those remaining. The lich was quicker than death, but he did not stop there. With a quick gesture, commanded chaos descended on the ranks that remained. Strong men dropped to their knees in confusion, and friends turned on friends in a bloodlust of killing. The company was caught up in itself, men slaughtering each other or wandering aimlessly, their weapons limp at their sides.

  The next to try was Lissa. Just as Manferic broke the wave of swordsmen, she lunged forward and clapped her hands on his shoulders. Pinch couldn’t hear the prayer she mouthed; it was drowned out by the screams and moans of those around him. Suddenly the lich stiffened with rage, its dead body insensitive to the pain, as Lissa’s spell flowed through it. Its death mask contorted by rage, the lich whirled about and uttered a spell directly into her face. Between them materialized a titan’s hand, as large as Lissa was tall. Its skin was puffy and smooth, and there were even rings on its fingers. The priestess gaped in astonishment and, in that stunned moment, the great digits closed about her and grasped her firm. Lissa twisted and squirmed but there was no escaping.

  Manferic barely gave his prisoner notice, confident that she was trapped. “Janol!” he shouted, scanning the hall for Pinch. “Stand by me, my son. Together we can rule Ankhapur!”

  Pinch, on the main floor, paused in his mad rush for the shelter of a pillar. Manferic’s offer didn’t stop him; he knew that was a lie. Now was the time to run, get to cover, and get away, but he wasn’t moving. When the constables were coming, you didn’t stay to gather more loot. You ran, and that’s just what he knew he should do now.

  He couldn’t. Lissa was in trouble and he could not abandon her. It was against every pragmatic, self-serving precept of his being, but Pinch was determined to rescue her. In her own naive and honest way, she was as much a part of his gang as Sprite, Maeve, and Therin.

  The chance of success was dismal. Juricale and a dozen of his priests were sprawled and broken on the dais, caught unprepared by Manferic’s attack. The floor was slick with the blood of swordsmen. The doorways were choked with revelers pressing out while the royal guard helplessly struggled to get in. Even those able within the mass were rendered useless by the seething panic.

  Without waiting for Pinch’s answer, the lich conjured up another spell. Waves of sickly green smoke billowed from the monster’s fingertips, swirling into a roiling cloud bank. Even well away from the cloud, the air was filled with an ammonia tang that bit and burned. Slowly the cloud began to sweep forward, rolling toward the arched doorway and the floundering mass of people. As the gases passed over the wounded and the dazed, their screams and babble changed to choking gurgles and then silence. The bodies that emerged from the cloud were blistered yellow and still, blood oozing from poison-scalded skin.

  When the former revellers saw the cloud, a unified scream rose from the hysterical mass. Decorum and nobility were lost as rich men trampled their consorts and pushed back others as futile sacrifices to the uncaring death that closed on them. The sides broke and fled back into the hall before the toxic haze could envelop them, but the blind press at the front was a locked mass. Steadily the deadly vapors flowed through them. The nerve of the leading guardsmen broke and they tried to flee, turning their swords on any who stood in their way. This only added to the confusion, the blood, and the death.

  Over it all, Manferic laughed, a harsh, mocking laugh that ridiculed the weakness of the living. It was a laugh of calculated terror. Boldly the lich strode up the steps of the dais and
turned to face the hall. “Nobles of Ankhapur, acknowledge your king, Manferic the Undying!”

  While Manferic presented himself to the guests who huddled in fear along the walls, listening to the screams of those dying at the doorway, Pinch ran to Lissa. The massive hand still clutched her. He sliced the unreal flesh with his dagger. A great gash opened that did not bleed and the hand held firm.

  “No time,” gasped Lissa, straining against the construct’s might. “Take this—use it.” She wriggled and twisted a hand through the fingers. “Take it!” In her hand she waved the amulet of the Dawnbreaker.

  “You’re mad! I’m not touching it. It ruined me!”

  “Death will do worse—thief,” Lissa spat back.

  “I don’t even know what to do with it!”

  “Neither do I, but it’s marked you. You have to use it.” She jingled the chain.

  “Janol—away from her!” Manferic rasped, finally spotting his bastard son.

  Pinch dove to the side but not quite in time. An icy blast seized his leg and he skidded to the stone floor as his muscles went numb. Lissa shrieked as the blast struck her full. Frost coated his hose and the chill sliced to his bones. Pinch knew he couldn’t survive another attack like the last.

  “Use it!” Lissa gasped as she weakly flipped the amulet his way. It skidded across the floor and Pinch grabbed it up, knowing there was no choice. He expected it to burn with pain and flame, but it did nothing.

  From the dais, the lich looked at his son with a contemptuous sneer. “I blame you for all their deaths, Janol,” he said, sweeping a rotting arm toward the carnage that covered the floor. The hysterical screaming had stopped; the poisonous cloud had seen to that. The survivors huddled dazed near the walls. Those still able to fight in both strength and spirit stood wary, waiting for someone else to make the first move. At the lich’s words, all attention turned toward the thief.

  Pinch held the amulet aloft, like he had the last time. It did not flare in his grasp and he despaired. Then he saw a small shadow moving slowly behind the thrones. “The deaths are on your hands—Father,” he shouted back, keeping the lich focused on him.

  “I should never have fathered you,” the thing sneered. The shadow lunged forward and Sprite appeared behind the lich with his short sword poised high.

  Perhaps it was a footfall or a hopeful glance, but the lich wasn’t surprised. It stepped to the side just as Sprite lunged forward. The halfling had thrown his weight into the blow, and now there was nothing to strike. As he staggered forward, Manferic easily caught him around the neck and lifted the little one before him. “Fool!” Pointing his finger inches from Sprite’s face, the lich uttered a single phrase of spell. A deadly barb of light flashed from the lich’s fingertip and sliced into the halfling’s face. Sprite screamed but there was no release. Another deadly flare flashed and then more in a steady stream. Sprite’s screams were unrelenting as the magical darts sliced his face to ribbons.

  “Damn you, do something!” Pinch swore as he held the amulet high. It was inert. What did he need to do? What was he missing? Pinch felt his utter helplessness as Sprite writhed in the lich’s grasp.

  And then he knew, he understood what truly mattered to him. It wasn’t wealth or wine, it wasn’t even the thrill of defying the law as he leapt from rooftop to rooftop. It was Sprite, Maeve, and the others. Pinch knew he wasn’t brave or noble, but his gang was all he had. If Manferic wanted Ankhapur, he could have it, but not his friends. Pinch could not leave them to this cruel lich. He was fighting for them.

  Pinch focused everything in him—his hate, passion, ambition, even his greed—toward the one goal of saving his friends. In his heart, he was willing even to sacrifice his last good hand.

  As if hearing that, the amulet began to glow. At first it was the golden gleam of dawn’s aura, lighting up the room. The shadows of the hall fled with the rising of this false day.

  Bathed in the glow, the lich’s skin began to smolder. The creature hurled aside the shattered ruin in its grasp and turned its deadly finger on Pinch. The magical missiles rocketed across the gap, each one striking him dead on. These arrows of mystical force ripped jagged punctures into his flesh and rocked his body back. The pain staggered him, but Pinch did not relent. He didn’t even try to dodge or hide. All his faith was in the amulet.

  The glow’s intensity swelled in his grasp. Now it was the sun rising over the horizon. The flare bleached the colors from the hall, until it dazzled all eyes. Figures became silhouettes cloaked in a luminous haze.

  On the dais, in the heart of the light, an inhuman shriek drowned out all other sound. Against the white brilliance, a single torch of gold-red fire competed as Manferic the Undying was consumed. The lich reeled as the flames scoured past its frail flesh and blazed with the colors of its uncaged will. Tongues of gold, red, and blue leapt heavenward as the death that was denied reclaimed its due.

  And still the intensity grew. The world became light beyond light, a brilliance so great that eyes open or closed barely made a difference. Voices tinged with fear and wonder whimpered in the void.

  At last the light faded, although it was minutes before Pinch or any of the others could see clearly again. He stood blinking against the painful darkness, trying to see what had happened. Manferic stood no more. Where he had been was a crumbled heap of white ash, still holding the tracery of bone. When Pinch staggered up the steps, it fell away like snow swept away by the wind.

  After the rush and roar of battle, the still of the aftermath was haunting. It was as a soft symphony of sobs and moans, the pathetic cries for help mixed with the weeping for the dead. From what seemed like far away drifted the urgent shouts of rescuers.

  As quick as he could, Pinch stumbled over the bodies of princes and priests to find his friend. He found the halfling propped against a throne, raggedly breathing through his ruined face.

  “Sprite!”

  “Pinch—that you?” the little thief whispered. A little foam of blood bubbled on his lips. “What happened?”

  “Manferic’s dead. We won, I think.”

  “That’s good.” The halfling weakly groped until his hand found the regulator’s. “Pinch, I can’t see.”

  “It’s just the light. Your sight’ll come back.”

  “No, Pinch. It’s my eyes. He ruined my eyes. I’m blind.”

  It was true and the rogue knew it. The halfling’s eye sockets were bloody hollows. There was nothing he could say.

  He turned away as Lissa came up. The giant hand had vanished with Manferic’s death. It had only held her, not harmed her. “Tend to him,” he asked, filled with exhaustion.

  Lissa nodded and gave a weak grin. “It seems I’m always fixing you up.”

  “It seems I’m always saving your hide.”

  Voices came from the body-choked hall as the first reinforcements tentatively ventured into the realm of destruction. Guardsmen and a palace wizard picked their way through the bodies, fearfully peering into the hall. Among them the exhausted rogue saw Therin, Maeve, and the woman from the tunnels, Lady Tulan, his mother. She was thin, pale, and trembling, overwhelmed by the wonder and terror of the surface world she had lost so long ago.

  “Pinch?” Therin and Maeve hailed suspiciously and in unison, spotting the form of their leader where he sat on the steps.

  “It’s me, you gallows cheat,” Pinch groaned. “Manferic’s dead. Maeve, you can read me, unless drink’s muddled your mind.”

  “That’s Pinch,” Maeve confirmed, not even bothering with the spell.

  “Who’s king? What happened?” they demanded to know as they hurried to his side.

  Pinch looked to the thrones. Vargo was poisoned. Throdus and Bors were charred corpses. Marac’s chest was split open by some magical blast. “No more princes,” he mumbled with exhaustion.

  Therin, blunt-minded and practical, looked over the hall. “Well, Pinch, someone’s got to be king.”

  Pinch looked up. The Gur was smiling at the purely l
arcenous outcome of it all. “You’re right,” the regulator nodded, “someone needs to be king.” He got to his feet, retrieved the bag from Sprite’s side, and in the center of the dais unwrapped the Cup and Knife.

  “Citizens of Ankhapur, I present myself, son of King Manferic III and Lady Tulan, as candidate for the Cup! Let all who see know!”

  Eyes turned in wonder at this new development as an upstart stood before them all with the royal regalia. Whispers and twitters overwhelmed the somber tones of death as even the most dazed could not resist the temptation of gossip.

  With all the solemnity he could muster, Pinch wetted the cup with blood from his wounds while Therin mixed the wine. Pinch drained the cup.

  The tittering stopped. To the amazement of the onlookers, the golden halo, the crown of kingship, formed on Pinch’s brow.

  “All hail King Pinch!” Therin bellowed.

  “All hail King Pinch,” came the reply, weak at first but growing over and over until it was a lusty cry.

  “All hail King Pinch, indeed.”

  About the Author

  David Cook has avoided real jobs for more than ten years by designing games and writing books, which he doesn’t consider such a bad deal. He has written four other novels—including Horselords, Beyond the Moons, and Soldiers of Ice—and a host of role-playing materials. He has a family, a passion for giant monsters, and other things he’s not going to tell you about, except that the micro-zoo is smaller since he wrote one of these books.

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