Chapter 3: A Tax Crisis
All magicians rigged their grounds with traps, lethal or otherwise, to deter thieves.
After all, magicians' towers were littered with small objects of enormous value: rare reagents, priceless notes, arcane tomes, and so on. They were the first things that thieves would go after.
This scenario, in which one side set traps and the other disarmed them, had been ongoing for millennia. No magician nor thief could escape this fate. Yet the group of intruders didn't look like thieves at all. None of them had even managed to get past the most basic outer warning wards of the castle.
Ambrose emerged from the doorway in a full-body robe and found a young couple huddled on the lawn. Their clothes were little more than rags. The young man lay in a pool of blood, with several barbed spikes driven through his thigh. His leg was all but ruined. The girl strained to drag him away but couldn't move him an inch.
At the sight of Ambrose, she screamed in pure panic.
Ambrose flicked his finger. A sleep spell shot from his hand. The girl's shout trailed off as she instantly slumped into a deep sleep.
Ambrose walked slowly to the injured man and asked, "Why did you barge into my manor? Didn't you see the sign warning you of magical traps?"
The man trembled. Few mortals could see a lich without being unnerved. Legendary liches naturally had an aura of dread about them. It wasn't quite at the level of a knightmare, but was still much more than ordinary humans could bear.
He gritted his teeth through the pain. "I… can't read," he managed.