Master Rogue: Mage Tome

by Rod Walker

  The door swung open, I stepped inside, and I saw the corpse of the naked woman on the metal table.

  The stink of rotting meat hit me in the face. The woman looked to have been dead for some time, her skin grayish-green, the face hollowed and gaunt. Despite the decay, I recognized the corpse at once.

  It was the half-elf woman who had carried the book.

  “Her corpse told a most interesting tale.”

  The Surgeon stood in a doorway on the other side of the metal table. The filthy blue robe still draped his bony form, and purple eyes blazed in his mottled, piebald face.

  “You found her, learned one?” I said. “I thought the corpse would lie in a pauper’s grave by now. I must applaud your unequaled ability to unravel a mystery.”

  “It seems,” said the Surgeon, stepping away from the door, “that this mongrel was part of an expedition sent to the Ruined Lands, commissioned by one of this wretched city’s petty magelings. The expedition was hired to retrieve an artifact of surpassing arcane power, a relic from the ancient world. They were slaughtered to a man, and only the woman survived to reach the city, still bearing the artifact. Whereupon the relic’s guardians slaughtered the woman, and it fell into your hands.” His voice remained flat and cold as ever, but I didn’t like the look in his eyes. “Give the artifact to me.”

  “What is it?” I said, taking a step back towards the door.

  “A book.”

  “I’m already aware of that, thank you kindly,” I said.

  “Give me the book now,” said the Surgeon, extending a hand. “Ah…you don’t have it with you. A prudent measure.”

  “If you want to buy the book,” I said, “I would be more than happy to accept your bid.” I cursed myself as a fool. I should have just sold the damned book to Marcolio. He might have been greedy and corrupt, but at least he was sane. Mostly.

  “Negotiations are unnecessary,” said the Surgeon, “as your corpse can furnish the necessary information with greater efficiency.”

  And with that, he began chanting.

  I flung a dagger at his face. It struck an invisible shield and bounced away, burying itself in the wall. I whirled and sprang for the door just as the Surgeon gestured, a blue light flaring into existence around the doorway. I could pick any physical lock, but I could do nothing against an arcane lock.

  “A grievous error,” I said, drawing sword in my right hand and a dagger in my left. “You should have fled when you had the chance.”

  “Take him,” said the Surgeon, glancing into the doorway behind him. “Leave his corpse mostly intact.”

  A hulking, stinking shape lumbered into the room, leaving a trail of grease on the splintered floorboards. The thing looked as if it had sown together from corpses, crude black stitches crisscrossing its naked limbs. The creature was a flesh golem, a construct of dead flesh and arcane spells. I might be able to wound it with my enchanted sword, but the golem would tear me to shreds long before I could land a killing blow.

  “Are all your friends so comely?” I said, circling around the metal table. The golem plodded after me, white eyes narrowed. The Surgeon lifted his hands and began chanting again, a wicked green light flaring around his fingers. I had little chance of survival against the Surgeon or the flesh golem. Together, they would kill me without difficulty.

  I feinted backwards, ducked, and slammed my shoulder into the metal table. The heavy metal slab toppled backwards and struck the flesh golem across the legs. The creature grunted, stumbled, and struck the shelves. Wood splintered and glass shattered, preserved organs flopping across the floor, and the chemical reek in the room redoubled. The golem growled and tried to rise, but the dead half-elf tangled in its arms.

  I whirled just as the Surgeon finished his spell and pointed at me.

  A bolt of shadow-laced green light burst from his finger and plunged into my chest. A terrible chill exploded through me, and for an agonizing moment my heart stopped. But it began to beat again, and I regained my balance, even though my head still swam.

  “Interesting,” said the Surgeon, almost to himself. “That spell is almost invariably fatal.” He began to cast again, and the flesh golem shoved the metal table away. I doubted I could survive another spell, and I certainly couldn’t survive the flesh golem.

  I couldn’t escape through the front door, so I dashed through the doorway behind the Surgeon. I stumbled into a room filled with strange equipment, the tables laden with desiccated organs. Rusty iron hooks and chains dangled from the ceiling, stained with blood.

  Three walking corpses shuffled around the table, reaching for me. The flesh golem stomped into the room, followed by the Surgeon, who had drawn a slim black wand. I put my shoulder to the door in the far wall and half-ran, half-fell into a study. Books and papers filled a pair of desks and both bookshelves.

  Two windows looked into the alleyway below. I wondered if the Surgeon had bothered to ward them.

  “Not another window,” I muttered, looking over my shoulder. I saw the Surgeon leveling the wand, his creatures shambling towards me. I could either go through the window, or stay here and die.

  I chose the window.

  As it turned out, the Surgeon had bothered to ward it.

  Lightning stabbed into me as I fell through the glass. I felt my heart stop again, then things went black.

  When my vision swam back into focus, I was lying on my back in the alley, smoke rising from my clothes. I felt like nine kinds of hell, and doubted I could move, let alone stand.

  Seeing the Surgeon lean out the window, wand in hand, proved excellent motivation. I had just enough wit left to snatch up my sword before I broke into a drunken run. There was a flash and an explosion behind me, hot splinters digging into the back of my neck. Then I was dashing through the alley, running as if the hounds of hell were on my heels.

  “No, not the hounds,” I wheezed, “just the undead.”

  I found an inn, since the wraiths knew where I lived, paid the innkeeper, and passed out.

  I awoke the next morning with a pounding headache and stiff limbs. The ward had left small burns on my arms and legs, and my chest still felt numb from the Surgeon’s spell. I tended the burns as best as I could, and drank quite a lot of ale.

  Just what was this damned book? Some magical relic of ancient times, the Surgeon had said. But what did the blasted thing do? Warrick and the Surgeon had been willing to kill for it, and Marcolio would pay a fortune to find it. No doubt he would have tried to kill me, had he known that I had it. And the wraiths? Why were they hunting for it? Had the previous owner sent them out?

  I decided I really didn’t want to know who, or what, had owned the book.

  But as it happened, I was going to find out.

  Chapter 8: A Dead Man

  I met the book’s owner (or caretaker) later that night.

  I had given the matter some thought, and decided to return to my apartment. My chest and arms still hurt, and I had a cache of healing potions hidden in the floor. I also had a small supply of gold, secure in my locked and trapped chest, and I’d almost decided to take it and depart the city. While I am of course fearless in the face of mortal peril, I only put myself at risk for a good reason. That damned book had almost killed me several times over. Best to just pitch it into the harbor and flee.

  One hundred thousand golden coins is a lot of money, but you can’t spend it if you’re dead.

  I climbed up the grimy stairs to my door and listened. No sound, but competent assassins wouldn’t make any noise, and the wraiths were silent. In one smooth motion, I undid the traps and the lock, kicked the door open, and rolled into the room. I came up with my sword in guard, ready to skewer any enemies.

  The place was dark and empty and silent. A cool night breeze, reeking of the harbor, blew through the shattered window. I shut the door behind me and walked to the chest. It held only a few hundred gold coins, but that was enough to get established in a new city, one preferably a thousand miles from Kalderon. I
scooped up the coins, along with a few other valuable oddments.

  “You will not be able to run.”

  I whirled, sword coming up.

  A dead man sat motionless at my table. His head was little more than a skull draped in mottled skin, a few wisps of greasy yellow hair dangling from his temples. Unblinking eyes of onyx stared at me, glazed with red light. The corpse wore a red-bordered black robe, rings of red gold glittering on its bony fingers. It did not move, did not breathe, did not even blink.

  Yet power seemed to mantle that dead figure, as it were armored in invisible force, and the weight of its unblinking gaze made the hair on my arms stand up. I had heard of such entities, though I had never wanted to meet one. Living wizards are dangerous enough.

  Dead ones are even worse.

  “Remarkable,” said the lich, its voice a withered whisper. “You have no arcane talent at all. Most adepts of power cannot withstand my servants, let alone a common man.”

  “I am hardly a common man,” I said.

  “Your courage is irrelevant.” The lich’s dead eyes never wavered. “The odds stacked against you are too great. You will pass into the realm of death within a fortnight.”

  “All men die,” I said.

  “Some of them sooner than others,” said the lich.

  “You’re not really here,” I said, looking at the lich’s chair. Moonlight streamed through the window, yet the lich cast no shadow. “A projection, an image. Phantasms cannot threaten.”

  “A phantom can kill a man.” The lich pointed and whispered.

  The table blasted apart, spraying shattered debris in all directions. The shockwave knocked me hard into the wall, and I slumped to the floor, the breath blasted from my lungs. I staggered back to my feet, sword raised.

  “A phantom can kill a man,” said the lich, “but a man cannot kill a mere phantom.”

  “How terribly convenient for you,” I said. “I suppose you’re another rogue wizard come to steal the book?” Then I remembered his remark about the servants. “No…the wraiths…you sent the wraiths after the book.” The grim head inclined. “So. Marcolio’s expedition. They stole the book from you.”

  “Marcolio thought my crypt empty,” said the lich. “He sent his men to their deaths. I slaughtered them all, though the swordsmen distracted me long enough for the wizards to abscond with the book. My servants hunted the survivors to their deaths. The last just managed to reach this city before she perished, and the book passed into your hands. Then both you and the book disappeared from my scrying spells.” The red-glazed eyes shifted to my chest. “Ah. A talisman against divination. And no doubt you secured the book in some holy place.”

  “All this for some damned spell book?” I said, gesturing with the sword.

  “Some spell book?” The lich’s dead voice sounded almost amused. “You have no idea what passed into your hands, do you?”

  “Every time I meet someone who knows what the book is, I almost get killed,” I said. “So, will you pit your arts against my steel, or will you share your wisdom?” It was an empty threat, and I knew it. The smoldering ashes of my table proved it. If the lich could project a spell of such power through an illusion, what chance did I have? I had killed Warrick, deceived Marcolio, and eluded the Surgeon, but I could do little against a creature with the lich’s arcane might.

  “It is not a book, but a relic, an artifact of surpassing power,” said the lich. “It was fashioned by the warlocks of the Mad Elves eons ago, long before mortal men ever came to this world. Their name for it has not survived the passage of time, but among wizards today it is known as the Codex Ars Arcanum.”

  “A splendid title. It seems of little value, though. The words change upon the page even as you look at them.”

  “That is because the Codex transcends time itself,” said the lich. “Written upon its pages is every magical spell that has even been created or ever will be created.”

  I blinked, once.

  The lich gestured. I saw that the movement of its wrist had shredded the brittle skin, exposing the knobby yellowed bones to light. “Do you understand the power of such a thing? It holds spells with the power to shatter worlds, to ignite and extinguish the stars, to give a man mastery over the very hells themselves. In time, a wizard who masters the Codex can even surpass the gods.”

  And I had held this thing in my hands. No wonder Warrick and the Surgeon had been willing to kill for it. No wonder Marcolio would pay a fortune for it. What was wealth to a man who hoped to rule over the gods?

  “And yet,” I said, eyes narrowed, “you are the book’s owner, and however potent your spells, you are not a god.”

  “I am not the book’s owner,” said the lich. “I am its guardian.” It gestured at itself, at the gaunt face and the mummified skin. “Look at me, mortal. My heart has been dead for a thousand years. Had I still a heart, I would envy you. I have known the neither the taste of food, nor the night air upon my face, nor the embrace of a woman for years beyond count. When some nameless pirate lord built the fortress that would become Kalderon, I had already been dead a millennium. I have power beyond your ability to imagine. I could kill you with a thought, I could raze this city and sweep the rubble into the ocean, and men would never know that Kalderon had once stood here. Yet what comfort does that bring me? Power is a cold and empty thing, as is my very existence.” The red glow in the black eyes brightened. “I took the curse of undeath upon myself for one reason, one reason only; to guard the Codex for all eternity.”

  “Why?” I said. “Why not bury it, place it beyond the reach of anyone, and end your wretched existence?”

  “When I was still a living man,” said the lich, “I imprisoned a demon lord, a mighty prince of the hells. He almost claimed the Codex for his own use. Think upon the sort of tyrant Marcolio would become, should he wield the Codex. Now ponder the kind of nightmare god a demon prince could become.”

  “If this demon prince is imprisoned,” I said, “why worry about him?”

  “Because he can project an image of himself from his prison,” said the lich, “an avatar of sorts, much as I have cast an image of myself to speak with you. He can wield but a fraction of his power through the avatar, but even then he is a match for most mortal wizards. Should he obtain the Codex, he can free himself, and unleash his wrath upon the world.”

  “Well,” I said after a moment, “I could have gotten more gold out of Marcolio.”

  “Wealth will be meaningless, if the demon obtains the Codex,” said the lich.

  “You have been dead a very long time,” I said, “so you must have forgotten that living men need to eat and drink and sleep. And a hundred thousand gold coins can buy quite a lot of food and drink, and a fine house in which to wine and dine.”

  “You will retrieve the Codex for me immediately,” said the lich. “This is not a negotiation.”

  But I thought it might be.

  The lich knew I had secreted the Codex in a holy place, but it must not have known exactly where. Else the dead wizard could have killed me and dispatched a minion or a dupe to retrieve the book. I wondered why it simply didn’t kill me and speak with my corpse. The Surgeon had said such necromancy took at least two days. Maybe the lich was pressed for time. But why would an immortal need to hurry?

  Maybe this demon was close to the Codex. Now that was an unpleasant notion. Fleeing from the Surgeon and the lich was bad enough. The thought of a prince of the hells following my trail was downright terrifying.

  “I could pry its location from your corpse,” said the lich, “or rip the secret from your thoughts.”

  “Or,” I said, “we could come to a mutually beneficial agreement.”

  The red glimmer in the lich’s dead eyes brightened to a glow. It raised its right hand, pointed two fingers at my chest, and began to chant. I felt the lich’s will strike my mind like a hammer. I staggered back a step, and the amulet under my shirt chest blazed with blue light, and began to grow hot. The lich hissed
its spell, and I could see the amulet’s glow through my shirt.

  Then the lich dropped its hand. “Interesting. In addition to turning my divinations, that talisman of yours also seems to ward your mind from outside force.” The amulet flared once more, and began to cool. “So. Despite the imminent peril to the world from the Codex’s theft and the demon’s hunt, it seems I must stoop to bargaining with you. What will you require?”

  “One hundred and fifty thousand gold coins,” I said, “or precious gems worth an equivalent amount, should that prove easier to transport.”

  The lich said nothing.

  “Come now.” I made a show of sheathing my sword. “That is not doubt just a tiny fraction of the wealth you have accumulated during your…ah, life. And, as you said at such length, you have no need of food or drink or comforts, and therefore no need of wealth.”

  “Yes. A dead man has little need of wealth,” said the lich. The glow in its eyes dimmed. “And you will join me in death, once the others seeking the Codex find you.”

  “Perhaps.” I shrugged. “Death comes to us all. Or most of us, anyway. And with all your arcane arts, even you cannot know what will come to pass tomorrow.”

  “Maybe,” said the lich. “But I have more potent methods of affecting tomorrow than you.”

  “Certainly,” I said, “but all are governed by random chance. You could arise tomorrow morning, only to have a dragon swoop down and devour you.”

  The lich said nothing.

  Then something beneath the lich’s dead face twitched. Its withered lips trembled, and the bones of its shoulders vibrated, and a strange, wheezing noise came from its mouth. For a moment I thought the lich had gone into a seizure, or that the necromancy maintaining its desiccated form had failed.

  The lich was laughing.

  “A dragon!” Puffs of dust rose from its mouth. “A dragon! I have never heard anything more absurd.” Its shaking subsided. “I have not laughed…not laughed for a very long time.”