Cursed Cleric

by Salvador Mercer

  Malik tilted his head, “What are you talking about? Did someone leave the Blackthorn or not and if so, is it Captain Moross’ wife?”

  The lich turned its head to face its human counterpart and its red eyes appeared to attempt to pierce the younger man’s words in search of sarcasm or mockery. Malik was becoming more and more immune to the creature’s influences, but it was unnerving at the least. With some finality Azor answered. “I can see much. What I can not see is dark to me. The darkness in and of itself is also telling.”

  “Go on,” Malik said during a pause in the lich’s explanation.

  “Someone, or a group of someones, has crossed this realm to the north.”

  “Which is it?” Malik asked, lacking in patience.

  “I told you, I do not know. The Arnen has specifically blocked the ability for anyone to pierce his defenses and he has endowed at least one person with the ability to obfuscate any divinator attempting to track his servants.”

  “But you suspect?”

  “Of course,” the lich turned to face his critir which now floated in front of him. The creature never bothered to bring the iron stand which held it not long ago. Using a bony finger, it caressed the outer edges causing the globe to swirl and fill with light. As it moved under the will power of the creature, it suddenly went dark and nothing was visible.

  “You turned it towards the north and now you can’t see?” Malik leaned forward, interested in such news for the first time today.

  “Exactly. Bring me something that belongs to the heir of Moross.”

  “You mean something of the Captain’s wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “It will take me a few minutes.”

  The lich laughed, its disembodied voice sounding hollow and distant despite being so close. “Time I have as do patience. Bring your companion as well.”

  Malik nodded and left trotting down the three-hundred and thirty-three steps to the ground level below. He didn’t have far to go to find Bran, though the Captain balked at such a request. When they speculated what it could be for, the man relented and fetched a simple brush that she had used to groom herself and had forgotten to take with her in haste to escape the initial attack by the Kesh.

  Climbing the tower again, the pair of living men, the only ones for leagues in any direction, stood face to face with the lich who appeared to have not moved since Malik left. “Here,” Malik said, offering the brush that he had taken in turn from Bran.

  “Set it on the parapet,” the lich said.

  Complying, Malik set it down in front of the creature and took a step back. The lich murmured words they could hear but there were no lips to move nor a tongue to utter the sounds. Its staff flashed a bright ebony hue of light and the critir pulsed as well. Once synched, the lich nodded.

  “That’s it?” Malik asked.

  “Take the brush.” The lich motioned with its staff.

  Malik took it and held it tentatively. “Now what?”

  “Do you not feel a pull in any direction?” Azor asked.

  “Nothing,” Malik said.

  “Interesting,” the lich responded. “Give it to her husband.”

  Handing the brush to Bran, the two men looked at it and then back at the creature. “So?” Bran asked.

  The creature tilted its head and stood unmoving for a long moment. Both living men stood silently as well unsure what was supposed to have happened. Whatever it was, it seemed to vex the lich as well. Finally, it spoke, “Close your eyes and think of your wife.”

  Bran narrowed his eyes at first and then took a step back ensuring he was out of striking range of the lich’s staff. Closing his eyes, he thought of his beloved Salina. The emotions rolled over him and he felt love and longing for her. What he wasn’t expecting was a sudden tug at his hand.

  “Did something just happen?” Malik asked Bran.

  The lich answered for him, “Yes, he feels her presence magnified by my spell. The real question now is in which direction is her spirit pulling him, east towards the forest or west towards the unknown?”

  Bran tried to refuse indicating in what direction he felt the brush pull, but the magic belonged to the lich and it was powerful. Bran was unable to resist. His hand, with the brush, shot out towards the west away from the Blackthorn Forest.

  “Go then and bring her to me.”

  Bran scowled, but Malik used his magically enhanced strength with the bracers he wore to grip the Captain securely and guide him to the stairwell. Once far below he released the man and hissed, “Get ready to go.”

  “Kill me now,” Bran hissed back. “I will not bring her to it.”

  “Shut up and do as I say. Trust me on this, I’ll explain later.”

  Bran saw sincerity in the rebel scout’s face, and despite his anger he found himself gathering his things in order to begin another journey. In the end, the idea of finding his wife was appealing to him and even with those magic bracers, there would be other allies that could help him to resist including this Arnen fellow that seemed to upset the lich. Anyone who upset the undead creature was a friend and ally to Bran, or at least he felt so.

  After a quarter hour, the pair headed through the broken gate and left the city without another word. Once clear of the ruins of the town heading west, Malik asked, “Ready to run?”

  “I can trot,” Bran said, starting a slow run to keep pace with the quicker scout.

  “Remember,” Malik said to his companion as they quickly covered the ground outside of their hometown, “Once you bring your wife here, you don’t need to do anything else.”

  “That isn’t very reassuring,” Bran countered.

  “Think of it as covering the letter of the law,” Malik explained. “It’s been my experience with this creature, and the Kesh devils in general, that so long as an oath or vow meets what was carefully worded then the person pledging has fulfilled their duty. After that, its all open to interpretation.”

  “You are starting to sound like one of those old barristers that used to argue in the king’s court.”

  “I think not. I don’t have the training for it, but I do have experience in dealing with backstabbers, double dealers, deceitful rulers, and powerful entities in general. This seems to be the norm for doing business.”

  “I will take it under advisement,” Bran said, already starting to breath heavily and regretting his lack of conditioning during his recovery from his injuries. It would take a while to get back in shape enough to not slow the young scout down.

  “Be assured that Azor has done the same.”

  “Where is that Balarian friend of yours?” Bran asked, feeling as if he wouldn’t be able to ask more questions at the pace they were keeping.

  Malik smiled at him, “She’s been scouting, but I’m sure we’ll be meeting with her soon.”

  “She hasn’t been here for a few months, what makes you so sure she’ll be back?”

  “Because,” Malik said. “Her client is close to Azor.”

  “So?” Bran asked, not following the other man’s logic.

  “The lich,” Malik said, placing a hand for a moment on the Scepter of Death and using a term he didn’t normally use but one which Bran would understand better, “can’t take this from me, but she can.”

  Leaving Korwell far behind, they both resisted the urge to look back, but in the end they had to see and looking at the tower they could barely make out the ebony hued outline of the undead lich watching them from its vantage point and it appeared to have not changed its position a single inch.

  Chapter 6

  Kesh Death

  “Kill it.”

  “I tried, it’s dead already,” Hork said, hacking at the bloated corpse of what looked like one of their own troopers who had died months earlier.

  Hermes shook his head and then muttered as he held a lone dagger in front of him. He didn’t appear very deadly, especially without his staff. “Come get these things off me.”

  Hork finished with the undead with
which he was engaged, and then the commander ran a dozen paces to find himself face to face with a trio of dead looking barbarians. Their corpses were still covered in furs and they wielded the same weapons with which they had died weeks earlier. Their eyes had shriveled up and sunk back into their sockets while their skin dried and tore at key joints. Hork spoke, “They are also dead.”

  “I know that you fool,” Hermes said. “They are still trying to kill me.”

  “Then stab one of them,” Hork commanded. “I’ll take care of these two.”

  Hermes jabbed at the closest of the undead Northmen and found that the man’s club had a much longer reach. Despite its rather slow speed, it connected, and a solid sounding thump came from the wizard’s arm where the wood met flesh. “Damn!”

  “What now?” Hork asked from where he had cut one of the zombie barbarians in half at the waist.

  Hermes pointed with his good hand at the ground in front of him as he back pedaled. The dagger he was once armed with lay on the ground mocking him and his effort. “Do something.”

  Hork had to leave the third zombie and flank left to reach his newly reinstated master. The zombie almost hit him on his head as the club changed its angle of attack rather quickly and Hork found himself simply hacking at its still massive arm in order to neutralize the threat. “There, that should take care of it.”

  Hermes nodded in approval as the zombie Northman’s club wielding arm fell to the ground and the creature ambled about with red glowing eyes and palpable hate emanating from its soul. “Get my dagger for me.”

  “Get it yourself… Master,” Hork said, adding the title that he had taken away the last few weeks during his demotion to dungeon warden. He had to oversee the incarceration of Hermes during the man’s penance for their lack of success in keeping Korwell under Kesh control. The demotion was also a form of punishment for Hork though the thought of a proud Chieftain having to submit to such a menial task as guard duty was not something that really bothered him. He thought it an improvement to his life’s mortality. He would live longer in such a position. He felt as if the reinstatement to commander of a Kesh army may have well been a death sentence.

  “You dare to talk to me this way?” Hermes said, though the anger was muted.

  “Master,” Hork began, showing more deference to the magic-user, “I have an entire brigade I need to command, and we are fully engaged with the enemy. I have spent most of my time protecting you and not overseeing the battle.”

  Hermes nodded and said, “I think I see your point. I will recover my own weapon and you see to it that we make it to the front gate.”

  Hork nodded and then still decapitated the head of the armless barbarian zombie before engaging the third one which was the last that could pose a threat to their leader. Yelling loudly he ordered the final push for the main southern gate of Ulsthor. “Form ranks. Prepare to charge.”

  The order was relayed by his officers and the men finished with the zombie army that had blocked their advance on their westernmost city. Hermes finally picked up his dagger and waved it menacingly at the nearest undead a good stone’s throw away. Once ready, the army charged. As they neared the main gate of their key western town, an immense ball of fire swept out in front of them impacting several dozen undead that had congregated to meet the charge.

  “Now that’s a wizard,” One of the lieutenants yelled, urging their troops on.

  Fireball after fireball swept out igniting the undead and thinning the resistance. The charging troops cut down the surviving undead easily and found the gate being opened for them. More troops from within the city sallied forth and cut down more of the undead by taking their heads off their bodies. Once clear, the two groups met up and then entered the town with the gate shutting firmly behind them. More than half the undead had been permanently put to rest.

  “Hermes, come up quickly,” Zorcross ordered. The wizard had looked down inside the complex and saw his apprentice and addressed him.

  Hermes gave Hork a knowing look and then headed for the nearest tower where Kesh soldiers stood guard giving way to allow one of their ruling class to pass. It didn’t take long for Hermes to reach the top and cross over to the center of the gate where Zorcross stood casting one last ball of fire at a group of undead that had gotten too close.

  “Excellent work,” Hermes said, looking out at the burning bodies and thinned ranks of their enemy.

  Zorcross nodded in approval and looked at his old apprentice again. “Where is the army I was promised?”

  “They are on their way, Master.” Hermes said. “Hork left them a day back and took his fastest fighters when we received word that you were under attack again.”

  “We have been under attack for some time now.” Zorcross took a moment to look back on the battle field and convince himself that no further attack on the main gate was imminent. Content that everything was under control he turned back to Hermes saying, “Is it true, we have more Balarians?”

  “Yes, Master. The High Mage has some how convinced the Balarian governor to empty his realm of every last available fighter and send them to our aid.”

  Zorcross smiled, “Convinced is a politically astute word to use in this matter.”

  “Indeed,” Hermes said, feeling comfortable and even somewhat pleased at the recent change of events.

  His master’s scowl changed all that. “Where is your staff, fool?”

  “My staff?” Hermes feigned ignorance. “The High Mage informed me that my staff was waiting here under your care.”

  “Do not take me for one of those brigand fools, my young apprentice,” Zorcross began. “I am referring to the staff that I last gave you months ago.”

  “Oh, that staff,” Hermes said, releasing his free hands from his chest where he had melodramatically clutched at his chest as in disbelief. “The evil lich destroyed it during my one on one combat with the undead king. I was able to disarm the villain as well and secure the retreat and escape of our forces from their evil plans.”

  “I am sure you did,” Zorcross said, his sarcasm hardly subtle. “I suppose you owe me again.”

  “You, my Lord?”

  “Yes, Hermes. It was I who convinced the High Mage to release you for one more task as well as our former commander.”

  Nodding, Hermes said, “Thank you, Master. I will endeavor to serve you and Kesh to the best of my ability.”

  “See to it that you do not forget your words today,” Zorcross said.

  Both men knew that this was how the magocracy worked. The wizards were rivals, but they assisted one another from time to time. Not from a sense of altruism, but rather from the idea that once aided, a debt or bond was owed from the assisted wizard to the assisting wizard. By helping his old apprentice, Zorcross was helping himself. A wizard who reneged on any pledge of aid would not last long as other wizards would mark the individual as dangerous and too ambitious. Back stabbing, lying and deceit were a way of life, but there were boundaries and rules and some of these were broken only at great risk.

  Hermes could hardly contain himself. “You have something for me, Master?”

  Zorcross smiled and turned to watch his handiwork as it continued to burn. The man allowed his apprentice torturous seconds in which to ponder his fate. When satisfied that his point was made he motioned at the far tower and a neophyte apprentice ran out with something in his arms held horizontally and covered in a black cloak. “Here.”

  Hermes accepted the staff as Zorcross uncovered it and took it handing it to his apprentice and giving it one last tug to ensure that Hermes understood from whom the gift was being given. “Thank you, Master. I will serve you well.”

  “We shall see,” Zorcross said, seriously doubting if Hermes could fulfil his vow. “You will need to spend a day reconditioning the staff.”

  “Understood,” Hermes said. They both knew that when a staff belonged to a wizard prior to being passed along, it had imprinted with that wizard to such a degree that an entire day, if no
t a week, would be needed to reset the staff and allow the new owner to imprint his own magical aura onto the staff. Since the former staff’s owner was a recent apprentice, the reconditioning would take only a day. A staff that belonged to a full-blown wizard or arch mage could take a week if not a month, such was the power and imprint left behind by the deceased magic-user.

  “I have quarters arrange for you this week, but you will be leaving soon so do not become too comfortable there.” Zorcross resumed looking south from the gate tower wall at the mass of undead that remained.

  “Understood,” Hermes said. “I know I must leave soon for the north and attempt a diplomatic mission with one or more of the barbarian clans there.”

  “Yes,” Zorcross said. “First we will clear Kesh of these creatures and put them to rest for good. Then you will depart and secure us reinforcements. I trust your mastery of the brutish language that they speak is still fluent and sufficient?”

  “I can communicate more than adequately in order to secure Kesh a powerful ally from the north.”

  “I understand you will have compensation with you when you travel?”

  “Yes,” Hermes said. “There is a small chest of silver with some small gold items along with an entire caravan of domestic goods to be used as payment with any clan willing to work with us.”

  “Your staff will ensure that there is a healthy level of respect as well for those who refuse.” Zorcross stated for the record. “I am somewhat surprised that the High Mage has been able to secure such rewards in his short tenure as our leader.”

  “A most able and capable High Mage he is,” Hermes said, the pandering evident to even those who only heard his tone and inflection if not his words.

  “Enough then. Gather your things and see to it that you are ready for our first counter attack tomorrow morning.”

  “Right away,” Hermes said, moving off towards his quarters and then realizing that he had no idea where to go. The neophyte that had brought his staff to him, was right behind him and led him to the main governmental complex within the fortified town near the Akun temple. Once situation in a room off the main building, Hermes pulled out an old book that acted as a guide for the Northmen language. Hermes would perfect his mastery of their language and secure the needed resources for his master and the High Mage.