Firebrand

Hearing Martel’s words, Eleanor laughed, but she became silent noticing nobody else joined in. “What kind of jest is this?” she asked.

As for Leander, he became entirely still except that he slowly raised his eyes to gaze at Martel. “How did you know?” he asked quietly.

“Your consumption of herbs. The little girl, Greta, told me of everything she brought you, every summer. Enough foxglove to poison the entire village ten times over, but clearly, you don’t use it for that. Nor could I imagine they need such an endless supply of remedies to warrant the collection of so many plants.” Martel glanced at the worktable, containing the flacon Leander had just emptied, along with different ingredients, including the one Martel had mentioned. At the same time, as he looked away, Martel used his sense of heat to watch Leander’s movements, and he had a spell ready in his mind to be unleashed the moment their host turned hostile. “But it’s all for yourself. You drank one of your concoctions just as we arrived, and another just now. The only way you could survive drinking that much foxglove would be if you are already dead.”

The undead alchemist gave weary smile. “Foxglove to make my heart beat, lungwort to make me breathe, and coltsfoot to give me some semblance of warmth in my dead flesh. My own invention, of which I am rather proud. The moment I saw the signs of the fire spell you used on the unfortunate creature you brought to our village, I knew I had to be careful. Yet still not careful enough.” He suddenly laughed.

Eleanor, whose hand had crossed her waist to grasp the hilt of her sword, gave him a wary look. “You find this amusing?”

“Three hundred years, nobody has discovered my secret. The pair of you spend a few moments in my company, and you’ve guessed it already.”

Hearing the number of years mentioned, Eleanor frowned. “You are a wizard of Archen. Once from the nearby tower, I imagine.”

“My, the pair of you are astute! I have no secrets left to divulge now.” He sank into the remaining seat, looking resigned before he glanced at Eleanor’s sword by her side and Martel’s staff leaned against the wall. “I can’t help but notice neither of you have drawn weapons.”

“To the villagers, you seem a godsend. All the help you rendered them over the years has earned you the right to be heard, I reckon,” Martel declared.

Eleanor looked at him for the briefest of moments before returning her attention on Leander. “You are feeling generous these days,” she mumbled out of the corner of her mouth. “Why not? Whether or not these are to be my last moments, maybe especially if they are, I should like my story to be heard this once. Though I warn you, you may find it hard to believe.”

“On all the continent, you’ll find no better audience than us.” Martel thought back on the incredulous tale related to them by Atreus and suppressed a smile.

“Very well.” The lich sighed, and Martel wondered if it was an affectation or still the effects of his concoction, mimicking the signs of life. “I’ll tell you.”

“Leander is my real name – never had any reason to change it. Born under Glund in some forgotten village in the foothills of the Archean mountains. Some three hundred and odd years ago, I arrived at the nearby tower, one of our outposts. I was seventeen and apprenticed to Master Glaukos, the white mage of the tower. Together with the other senior wizards, he conducted various experiments.” Leander raised a hand to make a dismissive gesture. “Don’t bother asking me for details. I was the newest and least skilled of all the apprentices, barely more than a glorified servant. I wasn’t even allowed on the second floor or higher, nor in the basement, where everything of merit took place.”

Neither of his audience spoke but simply waited for him to continue.

“One fateful day – and it’s been so long, I can’t tell you if it was summer, winter, or in between – that terrible disaster struck our outpost. As I later learned, the same had happened to Archen itself, and indeed all of our outposts. Nothing remained intact.” The tight, wrinkled skin on his face did not allow Leander a lot of expressions, but he looked mournful as he spoke those words. “As for me, I thought at first I had been lucky. I was on the ground floor, and I came to after the explosion that destroyed the tower. I never learned what caused it – I suppose we’ll never know.”

Martel and Eleanor knew; the strife between the factions in Archen, the cult summoning the fiends into their world, and the resulting magical battle that rippled throughout the network of portals to destroy everything Archean.

“Anyway, as said, I thought I had been lucky, surviving with barely a bruise. It took me a surprising amount of time to realise I no longer drew breath, literally. Nor did I feel thirst or hunger.”

“The release of magical energy killed you and brought you back to life with soul, mind, and body intact,” Eleanor remarked.

Leander nodded. “Which, I suppose, you could consider lucky. I could have been one of the mindless undead you stumbled upon, or some soulless abomination, a source of evil upon the land. In addition, I retained my spellcasting abilities. I never learned much from my master – I was more or less truthful when introducing myself as a hedge mage. But I did learn some inklings of alchemy, and expanding on that, I found ways to stop the rapid decay of my body. Keep it from decomposing.” He gingerly placed his fingertips against his wrinkled cheek.

“But you’ve had three hundred years to improve your magic,” Martel pointed out. He found it hard to believe that the lich was as weak as he portended to be.

“When my body died, so did ambition. Honestly, I would have laid down and allowed myself to die, if only I knew how,” Leander claimed. “I can’t suffocate nor die from thirst or hunger. I still feel pain, so while I’m sure one of your fire spells would deal with me handily, I have no desire to die in agony. Your sword can probably cut my head off clean,” he continued with a glance at Eleanor, “but would my head continue to live on, disembodied? There’s even less dignity in that.”

“But you went to great lengths disguising yourself as one of the living. Not to mention, you provide aid and remedies to these people,” Eleanor argued.

The old alchemist shrugged. “It’s what I did in life, and so I’ve continued in undeath. And I’m not entirely emotionless. More like – subdued. If you decide to kill me, however horrible a death I would suffer, I don’t care enough to resist. In the same way, while the death of all these villagers would not particularly sadden me, I do feel a faint sense of satisfaction when I am helpful to them and I experience their gratitude.” He fell silent briefly, looking contemplative. “Or perhaps I simply cling to my last vestige of humanity, watching them be born, grow up, and die, even as I am excluded from that rhythm of life.”

“What about the undead we encountered in the forest? Do you claim he is not one of your creations?”

Subdued emotions or not, Leander was able to convey a sense of indignation. “Just because I’m a lich doesn’t mean I actually know how to do necromancy. I have no idea why those who die in or near the tower return as undead. I assume some kind of unintentional effects of the disaster that destroyed the tower,” he speculated. “Residual magic of a malevolent nature. Whatever affected me also affects them, albeit in a more degrading manner.”

“What can you tell us of the tower?” Martel asked. “You lived there. You must know something.”

“You’d think so, but not really. The place has an enormous underground level, but the way is barred by magic, and I don’t know how to get past it. I was never allowed. The remaining research was done on the second floor and higher, which the explosion tore to shreds, leaving nothing left.” Leander shrugged. “Ground floor had our living quarters, while the masters lived on the upper floor. That’s all I can tell you. I don’t know what awaits you in the ruins.”

“You have never been back?” Eleanor regarded him sharply. “You must have been curious.”

“Curiosity,” the lich said patiently, “is the domain of the living.”

“I think we’ve heard enough.” Martel looked at his companion. “We should get going. If we make good speed, we’ll reach the tower before nightfall.”

She gave him a pointed look. “If you are sure. After you.” Ever the protector, Eleanor wanted Martel to leave first with herself placed between him and the potential threat.

Martel saw no need to disagree with her tactics, but something about the strange creature’s tale had moved him, staying him for a moment; the being in front of him was far removed from the tales told by Master Fenrick of liches and their dreadful powers. This was no abominable sorcerer bent on destruction; he had been a young lad, scarcely older than Martel arriving at the Lyceum, and the actions of others had left him in this pitiful state. And while Leander might claim to have lost his curiosity, Martel decided to provide him with some satisfaction.

Martel got on his feet, as did Eleanor, but before they left, he gave the old alchemist a final look. “Your masters, both here and back in Archen, experimented with portals. They linked these places across vast distances with powerful magic, but some of them had nefarious motives, and a terrible battle ensued in Archen itself, unleashing enormous amounts of magical energy. Because of the portal connections, it not only destroyed the city, but also every outpost like yours. Now you know.” Leaving a speechless lich behind, the two travellers walked out of his hut.

Once outside, the pale morning light greeting them again, Eleanor turned toward Martel with crossed arms. “Are you sure we should turn our backs to him? For all we know, he is a necromancer intent on making us all his undead slaves. He might be hurrying to the tower as soon as we are out of sight to ambush us. Who knows what terrible magic he might be capable of?”

Martel slowly struck his head. “If he had such intentions, he would have attacked us the moment I revealed his secret. He’d never allow us to leave and risk us telling others. In some way, he has shown us trust already.” Nᴇw novel chapters are publɪshed on novelfire(.)net

“Unless he told the truth that his powers are actually feeble, and he’s hoping to poison us rather than force an open confrontation,” Eleanor retorted.

“If that’s the case, we’ve got nothing to fear from him. Just don’t accept anything to drink from him.”

Eleanor still did not seem mollified, her arms remaining crossed. “What about the villagers? Should we tell them? They deserve to know who lives among them.”

Martel shrugged. “Why? He has done no harm to us or them. On the contrary. What right do we have to cause him harm in turn?”

“He might wake up tomorrow and decide they should all join him in undeath,” she hissed, though she kept her voice quiet.

“To tell you the truth, I don’t think he sleeps at all.”