Clayton Emery - Sword Play

The king's palace was a madhouse. Three stories tall and flat-roofed, it was one story higher than the city wall, and this third story was reinforced along that side with ramparts and stations for ballistae and catapults. An orcish general waved his arms and shouted frantically for soldiers to arm a ballista, a giant crossbow. The oncoming Wrathburn watched the activity with bored detachment, as a boy might study ants. At a shout, the ballista's restrainer was cut. A tremendous pung-clack resounded, and an arrow nine feet long slashed the air, glanced off Wrathburn's shoulder, and plunged half its length into stony soil.

Hissing, the dragon reared upright like a bear, planted giant talons on the ramparts of the third story, scattering the defenders like teacups, and blasted hellfire in one sweep across the roof.

Sunbright watched all this while peering around the corner of a house that was still standing, for he didn't want Wrathburn to glimpse him. There wasn't even a scream or whimper from the palace roof. If that had been the king's main defense, the battle was over. People and soldiers raced and shoved their way out of the wide doors of the palace, and Sunbright had to wait until the flood stemmed. Sword cocked over his shoulder, the barbarian slipped inside.

Compared to the chaotic streets, the interior of the castle was quiet, most of the defenders on the roof dead. Someone must have left a trapdoor open, for the stink of scorched death wafted down the stairs as Sunbright ran up.

The second floor held the main hall and throne room. As always, the One King occupied the throne. Sunbright wondered if it would be burned from under him. The king calmly addressed a tiny knot of sweating courtiers and orc commanders. Behind the throne, Sunbright glimpsed the rainbow shimmer of a familiar gown.

On his left hand, Sunbright heard a rustling of papers from a clerks' alcove, where Angriman gathered paper and parchment to his bosom as if they'd form a shield against an angry dragon. Sunbright padded into the room as silent as a leopard, yet the minister whirled. Gray-faced and pouchy, he demanded, "What have you done? What have you done?"

"Brought you something," said the barbarian evenly. Reaching behind his back, he snapped the rawhide whangs that tied a bundle to his scabbard. Onto the table he tossed a thick book crammed with lumpy vellum pages. It landed with a thump. The ancient, cracked cover sported a ruby as big and evil as a dragon's eye. He added, "Though it's more of a trade, really. Wrathburn wants the king's crown-with his head mounted inside."

The angry man shook all over, spilling papers. "You weren't to bring the dragon here!"

"The king commanded I enter the dragon's lair and retrieve the book. So I have. So I shall take Greenwillow and go." And Ruellana, he added mentally. "Now stand aside or die."

"You'll destroy the dream! You'll leave the world to wallow in chaos and disharmony!"

This was blather taken from the king's speech, and could go on for days. Unwilling to kill an unarmed man, Sunbright edged the minister aside with his sword and strode toward the throne. Courtiers and soldiers parted, some hurrying to the door. Ruellana was not in sight, but Greenwillow rose from her bench, golden shackles still chained to it, and smiled when she saw him. The barbarian nodded formally, both a greeting and a command to wait.

The One King also rose and, for the first time, departed his throne to step onto the flagstones and block the barbarian's path. He was taller than Sunbright had reckoned, especially with his heavy, gaudy crown with backswept wings of silver.

The barbarian held his sword by the pommel and blade. "I fetched your book; now free Greenwillow." And be quick, he thought. Grinding, tearing, stone-rending noises were increasing by the second. The dragon was ripping through the castle as if it were a stale cake, and this was his destination.

Calm as a pillar of ice, the monarch proclaimed, "None may command the One King. Your offense must be punished."

"A real king honors his bargains," spat Sunbright. "Defend yourself!"

The king stood still, hands by his side.

Sunbright didn't know what to think. He hated to kill an unarmed man, but the king had access to any number of weapons in the hands of the nearby courtiers who watched the contest of wills. And Sunbright had given more than fair warning, been overly generous with this oath-breaking snake.

Rearing back, slinging his sword behind him, Sunbright sucked wind, gave a mighty battle cry, and slashed Harvester in a great, glittering arc at the king's neck.

The sharp sword with the arched and hooked tip slammed to a halt against the king's cheek and bounced off, as if Sunbright had hacked at an iron-wood tree.

Hurled off balance by the force of his blow, the barbarian staggered, shuffled his feet, and brought Harvester up in automatic defense. Aghast, Sunbright prayed. What in the name of Mystryl's mysteries…?

The One King had barely moved. No blood appeared at the long cut on his cheek. Instead, dark gray smoke flowed outward.

Courtiers gasped. Soldiers dropped swords.

In the dragged-out silence, with only the rending and booming of falling stone in the background, there came a slow, soft chuckle, as dry as last year's dead leaves.

For the first time, the One King exhibited emotion.

He was laughing. But not properly, head back and shaking, but with the same deadly calm as always. The mouth was like a black slit from which issued the slithering chuckles.

Then, more horror. The king reached strong, corded hands to his face, and dug thick fingernails into his eyebrows below the shining crown. Smoke swirled faster from the wound that was not a wound. People groaned involuntarily as the monarch tugged, then tore the skin from his own face.

Shreds of false skin hung limp from his hands like taffy. But no one noticed, for they stared, pop-eyed, at the smoke-wreathed face.

It was dark gray, shriveled like an old leaf, with wrinkled pits for eyes and mouth, and only slits for a nose… and a parchment-wrapped skull.

"Lich!" grunted an orc.

"Lord of the undead!" rasped another.

Fiend, monster, Sunbright's mind reeled off the names. And master trickster and schemer, plying the patience of the dead to work its evil ways amid living men.

Gripped by terror, Sunbright backed involuntarily, his feet clumsy and heavy. Harvester's tip dragged on black marble to strike sparks. There seemed to be only one thought in his mind, and that was to run, hard and fast.

Then all present turned as the rear wall of the castle broke and crumbled. Great blocks of stone crashed down into the hall or fell to clatter outside. Weak sunlight illuminated the room.

Then it was blocked completely by a scaly face and glaring yellow eyes. Smoke spilled from Wrathburn's nostrils as he rumbled, "King! I want you!"

Sunbright backed farther away from the lich king. Fearsome as it was, the threat of the dragon receded. The beast could only destroy his body. A lord of the undead could destroy him utterly, body and soul and being.

The lich that had been the One King seemed to revel in the humans' terror. It raised healthy-looking hands above its hideous, rotted visage and shrilled a mad, screeching laugh. Smoke continued to dribble from the deep cut in the parchment skin of its cheek, but a single swipe of the man-hand sealed the wound.

This was nothing he could fight, Sunbright knew. There was no way to kill something undead. And a lich was the most powerful undead thing of all, it was rumored, an indomitable spirit wedded to an indestructible body, centuries or eons old, perhaps once a true and mighty sorcerer-king in the dim, distant past.

Whatever, attacking the lich would have the same result as attacking the dragon: a senseless and painful death, or worse. In the superstitious turmoil of the barbarian's mind, he feared the lich might simply will him to death with sheer terror.