Lazybones
Adventurer
Chapter 487
“You bastard!” Eldren yelled, attacking the lich in an all-out assault. The baelnorn barely seemed to acknowledge him, even as the elf-forged blade tore into his ragged garments and the withered flesh and ancient bones beneath. The ranger’s blows lifted small puffs of dust from the creature’s body that swirled around it from the force of the impacts, but otherwise it was like hacking at one of the marble pillars they’d encountered in the ruin outside.
An arrow caught the lich in the chest, sticking into a bone. Aymie’s hands shook as she reached for another missile. Ellene drew her swords and came at the lich from the side opposite Eldren, using tactics designed against living foes, trying to flank it. The lich did not even turn as her blades caromed uselessly against its torso. Despite its apparent frailty, the lich was insanely durable.
Dannel saw his companions attacking the lich, knew he should be joining them, however futile the assault was. But his gaze was drawn to Jannae, lying broken at his feet. The priestess was still conscious, somehow, and her gaze fixed the arcane archer, drew him to her.
“Take… Weave… only… hope…” she managed to gasp, as he knelt at her side. Her face was a deathly white, and Dannel could see the blue scars where the lich’s fingers had grasped her. Her eyes drifted down, and Dannel followed them to the open pouch she’d dropped when it had struck her down.
He reached for it, but then Jannae screamed, her body contorting as a fountain of bright red blood erupted from her mouth, splattering Dannel’s chest and face with scarlet droplets. Dannel felt to his knees as he felt like something was exploding inside of him, and as he looked up, he saw that the others had been hit equally hard. Eldren staggered back, blood oozing from his nostrils and the corners of his eyes, clutching his gut with his off hand. Aymie had fallen, her hands spasming as she clawed at the stone, her body arched. And Ellene had dropped to one knee, her face clenched as the injuries she’d suffered in the desperate battle against the mohrgs violently reopened, the healing spells undone by the lich’s mass inflict critical wounds spell. Maximized by the mythal, the spell had been devastating.
With a roar, Eldren hurled himself at the lich once more. This time he held his sword reversed, his gloved hands wrapped around the blade, and he drove the heavy pommel down into the center of the lich’s skull. There was a flare of silver light and the lich shifted—slightly, but something ugly burned in the red glow of its eyes as it turned to face the ranger.
Dannel reached out and grabbed the pouch. Jannae was dead… that much was instantly obvious, but they would all join her within moments if he did not act. He drew out the Weave, the device the priestess had spoken of. It felt as light as air, sparkling softly in his hand, like a web of shimmering lace. The entirety of it was small enough to conceal in both of his hands.
Staggering back as the pain shrieked mercilessly through his body, he rushed toward the mythal.
Eldren, his face a gory red mask, lifted his sword to strike again. Ellene had resumed her attacks from the opposite side, hacking at its body. The lich opened its mouth and whispered something, a deadly benediction. The mythal flared, the black tendrils squirmed eagerly, and the two warriors were hurled back as a new wave of agony exploded out from the undead lord, strengthening it even as it stole life from the invaders of its sanctum.
Dannel felt the new surge and nearly crumpled. This one wasn’t as strong as the first, but in his weakened state it was still almost enough to finish him. He wouldn’t survive one more mass inflict, he knew. He heard metal clattering on stone and knew that he was now alone against the lich. But did not turn, leaping forward, letting the Weave come open in his hands as he rushed at the mythal.
“NO!” came a voice, sepulchral, filling his mind. But he defied it, and swept the diaphanous blanket over the surface of the artifact.
Something hard slammed into him from behind. He was blasted roughly across the room, his flight interrupted by the sudden arrival of the far wall. He hit hard, and slumped down, only partially conscious. Later, he would not be able to clearly distinguish what had been real, and what had been an illusion of his battered mind.
The light from the mythal had brightened, but filtered by the Weave, it was now a soft golden glow that filled the vault with warmth. The lich was still there, standing like a grim harbinger of death over the motionless bodies of his friends.
But they were no longer alone.
The golden light shone on the translucent forms of at least a dozen elves, standing close along the walls of the chamber, the ancient reliefs showing through their insubstantial bodies. They were of varied gender, all showing the signs of age that for an elf meant they were truly venerable. They wore elaborate robes that drifted around their bodies, as though a faint wind stirred in whatever reality they existed.
The lich looked upon them, something flashing in its burning eyes—grief? Regret? Anger? Dannel could not tell, the baelnorn’s emotions unreadable in the alien nature of its eternal existence.
“I have failed,” it said, its voice scratching through its desiccated throat.
The ghostly elves spoke, their voices sounding in Dannel’s mind. He could not tell which of them was speaking at any given moment, but the voices sounded slightly different, though all of the words resonated with power and ancient wisdom.
Yes, Aladir Ardan.
But not through a lack of dedication to your task.
You have been led astray, corrupted by the faltering of the power you warded.
But your line has remained true.
Your error has been redeemed by sacrifice.
Now is the time for your long service to come to an end. Your rest has been well-earned.
Two of the elven spirits detached from the wall and approached the lich. The undead creature did not react to them, but as their ephemeral fingers brushed its face, the unholy glow of its eyes softened, replaced by a soft gray light that felt like the sadness of a rainy day. Dannel felt a pang as the lich’s head turned slowly to face him.
“I am sorry,” it said. “I…”
Dannel managed to shake his head. Tears streamed down his cheeks. What could he say? He thought of the death he’d seen since returning to the Wealdath, of his companions, torn to pieces. All for—a mistake?
The lich nodded, as if sensing the elf’s feelings, knowing that forgiveness could not be granted, accepting what could not be changed.
The spirits drew back, and the baelnorn’s body began to grow insubstantial. “Wait!” Dannel said. “Jannae… the others…”
Your kinsmen and the other warriors yet live, and shall go on.
The priestess has been accepted to the bosom of the goddess.
Dannel had known the truth of Jannae’s fate, but he still could not stifle a sob that clenched at his chest at the spirit’s words.
We are not the gods, child. We can only shape what is, what not was, or will be.
Dannel lowered his head, overcome, his battered body fighting him as he struggled to remain above the crest of the black wave that threatened to overcome his awareness.
What now, then? he thought.
You will go on, the voice said in his mind, gently, he thought.
A loud crack surprised him, drew him back to full awareness, and his head shot up.
The vault was again quiet, dark. The spirits, and the baelnorn, were gone, and he could just make out the shadowy outlines of his prone companions—and the body of Jannae—in the near darkness. But his attention was drawn to the middle of the room. He knew what he would see there even as his eyes adjusted to the dark sufficiently to make out the altered outline of the mythal, now lying broken between the two pedestals, the remains of the elven weave still draped over it.
Grimacing at the pain that shot through his body at the movement, he started to crawl toward his fallen companions.
“You bastard!” Eldren yelled, attacking the lich in an all-out assault. The baelnorn barely seemed to acknowledge him, even as the elf-forged blade tore into his ragged garments and the withered flesh and ancient bones beneath. The ranger’s blows lifted small puffs of dust from the creature’s body that swirled around it from the force of the impacts, but otherwise it was like hacking at one of the marble pillars they’d encountered in the ruin outside.
An arrow caught the lich in the chest, sticking into a bone. Aymie’s hands shook as she reached for another missile. Ellene drew her swords and came at the lich from the side opposite Eldren, using tactics designed against living foes, trying to flank it. The lich did not even turn as her blades caromed uselessly against its torso. Despite its apparent frailty, the lich was insanely durable.
Dannel saw his companions attacking the lich, knew he should be joining them, however futile the assault was. But his gaze was drawn to Jannae, lying broken at his feet. The priestess was still conscious, somehow, and her gaze fixed the arcane archer, drew him to her.
“Take… Weave… only… hope…” she managed to gasp, as he knelt at her side. Her face was a deathly white, and Dannel could see the blue scars where the lich’s fingers had grasped her. Her eyes drifted down, and Dannel followed them to the open pouch she’d dropped when it had struck her down.
He reached for it, but then Jannae screamed, her body contorting as a fountain of bright red blood erupted from her mouth, splattering Dannel’s chest and face with scarlet droplets. Dannel felt to his knees as he felt like something was exploding inside of him, and as he looked up, he saw that the others had been hit equally hard. Eldren staggered back, blood oozing from his nostrils and the corners of his eyes, clutching his gut with his off hand. Aymie had fallen, her hands spasming as she clawed at the stone, her body arched. And Ellene had dropped to one knee, her face clenched as the injuries she’d suffered in the desperate battle against the mohrgs violently reopened, the healing spells undone by the lich’s mass inflict critical wounds spell. Maximized by the mythal, the spell had been devastating.
With a roar, Eldren hurled himself at the lich once more. This time he held his sword reversed, his gloved hands wrapped around the blade, and he drove the heavy pommel down into the center of the lich’s skull. There was a flare of silver light and the lich shifted—slightly, but something ugly burned in the red glow of its eyes as it turned to face the ranger.
Dannel reached out and grabbed the pouch. Jannae was dead… that much was instantly obvious, but they would all join her within moments if he did not act. He drew out the Weave, the device the priestess had spoken of. It felt as light as air, sparkling softly in his hand, like a web of shimmering lace. The entirety of it was small enough to conceal in both of his hands.
Staggering back as the pain shrieked mercilessly through his body, he rushed toward the mythal.
Eldren, his face a gory red mask, lifted his sword to strike again. Ellene had resumed her attacks from the opposite side, hacking at its body. The lich opened its mouth and whispered something, a deadly benediction. The mythal flared, the black tendrils squirmed eagerly, and the two warriors were hurled back as a new wave of agony exploded out from the undead lord, strengthening it even as it stole life from the invaders of its sanctum.
Dannel felt the new surge and nearly crumpled. This one wasn’t as strong as the first, but in his weakened state it was still almost enough to finish him. He wouldn’t survive one more mass inflict, he knew. He heard metal clattering on stone and knew that he was now alone against the lich. But did not turn, leaping forward, letting the Weave come open in his hands as he rushed at the mythal.
“NO!” came a voice, sepulchral, filling his mind. But he defied it, and swept the diaphanous blanket over the surface of the artifact.
Something hard slammed into him from behind. He was blasted roughly across the room, his flight interrupted by the sudden arrival of the far wall. He hit hard, and slumped down, only partially conscious. Later, he would not be able to clearly distinguish what had been real, and what had been an illusion of his battered mind.
The light from the mythal had brightened, but filtered by the Weave, it was now a soft golden glow that filled the vault with warmth. The lich was still there, standing like a grim harbinger of death over the motionless bodies of his friends.
But they were no longer alone.
The golden light shone on the translucent forms of at least a dozen elves, standing close along the walls of the chamber, the ancient reliefs showing through their insubstantial bodies. They were of varied gender, all showing the signs of age that for an elf meant they were truly venerable. They wore elaborate robes that drifted around their bodies, as though a faint wind stirred in whatever reality they existed.
The lich looked upon them, something flashing in its burning eyes—grief? Regret? Anger? Dannel could not tell, the baelnorn’s emotions unreadable in the alien nature of its eternal existence.
“I have failed,” it said, its voice scratching through its desiccated throat.
The ghostly elves spoke, their voices sounding in Dannel’s mind. He could not tell which of them was speaking at any given moment, but the voices sounded slightly different, though all of the words resonated with power and ancient wisdom.
Yes, Aladir Ardan.
But not through a lack of dedication to your task.
You have been led astray, corrupted by the faltering of the power you warded.
But your line has remained true.
Your error has been redeemed by sacrifice.
Now is the time for your long service to come to an end. Your rest has been well-earned.
Two of the elven spirits detached from the wall and approached the lich. The undead creature did not react to them, but as their ephemeral fingers brushed its face, the unholy glow of its eyes softened, replaced by a soft gray light that felt like the sadness of a rainy day. Dannel felt a pang as the lich’s head turned slowly to face him.
“I am sorry,” it said. “I…”
Dannel managed to shake his head. Tears streamed down his cheeks. What could he say? He thought of the death he’d seen since returning to the Wealdath, of his companions, torn to pieces. All for—a mistake?
The lich nodded, as if sensing the elf’s feelings, knowing that forgiveness could not be granted, accepting what could not be changed.
The spirits drew back, and the baelnorn’s body began to grow insubstantial. “Wait!” Dannel said. “Jannae… the others…”
Your kinsmen and the other warriors yet live, and shall go on.
The priestess has been accepted to the bosom of the goddess.
Dannel had known the truth of Jannae’s fate, but he still could not stifle a sob that clenched at his chest at the spirit’s words.
We are not the gods, child. We can only shape what is, what not was, or will be.
Dannel lowered his head, overcome, his battered body fighting him as he struggled to remain above the crest of the black wave that threatened to overcome his awareness.
What now, then? he thought.
You will go on, the voice said in his mind, gently, he thought.
A loud crack surprised him, drew him back to full awareness, and his head shot up.
The vault was again quiet, dark. The spirits, and the baelnorn, were gone, and he could just make out the shadowy outlines of his prone companions—and the body of Jannae—in the near darkness. But his attention was drawn to the middle of the room. He knew what he would see there even as his eyes adjusted to the dark sufficiently to make out the altered outline of the mythal, now lying broken between the two pedestals, the remains of the elven weave still draped over it.
Grimacing at the pain that shot through his body at the movement, he started to crawl toward his fallen companions.