The Lich Without a Soul Vessel

The building looked shabby from the outside, as though it hadn't seen repairs in years, but the interior told a different story entirely — lavish and grand, the floor laid with prized carpets woven from the wool of eastern magic camels. Above the fireplace hung an oil painting by one of Norma's most celebrated artists, The Death of Marat, and a scattering of rocking chairs sat with studied casualness before the hearth. A long dining table stood at the center of the room, surrounded by fine porcelain shipped in from the distant East.

A temperature-regulating array kept the room comfortable. "Wine, or coffee?" James asked. "This damned weather's been strange all year — it's autumn, and the temperature's acting like it's still summer. Rained yesterday, and today's clear enough, but it's still muggy."

James pulled cups down from the mantel above the fireplace, grumbling about the season the whole time.

Evan asked for wine; the other three requested coffee. Mages generally didn't drink much, though it wasn't an absolute rule — James was clearly an exception. A sixth-tier mage, he poured himself a glass as well.

Evan got straight to business. "We're here for what might turn out to be two tasks, or just one. Tell me what happened with the gathering team."

James gave a wry smile. "Honestly, I don't know myself. The day before they were due, I got a magical message saying they'd arrive here the next day. I told Tess — my servant — to have dinner ready for them. Then the day came, and they never showed. I waited two more days, and finally sent an inquiry signal to the school myself. That's how I learned they'd gone missing."

It seemed, just as the report had said, that James genuinely didn't know the details. Evan pressed on. "Where's the gamekeeper's cabin? We'd like to see it, if possible."

"I was going to suggest that myself," James said. "It's west of town — no one lives there now. The roads are muddy, and it faces the Gael Mountains, which actually makes it a relatively safe spot. By the way, the mountains are currently divided into three tiers by danger level, and the cabin doesn't even qualify for the outermost tier. Though that's not entirely settled — it sits somewhere between safe and dangerous."

Evan's eyes sharpened with interest. "I hadn't heard of that. Tell me more about how the mountains are divided."

James didn't seem surprised by the question. "Danger in the Gael Mountains is generally split into three levels, though there's no hard boundary between them — it's more a consensus that's built up over time from adventurers who've gone in and come back, or haven't. The innermost tier — no one's ever heard of an adventurer coming out of it. Go in there, and you're basically dead. That's within about a hundred miles of the center. The next ring out is the second tier, where only three or four out of ten adventurers make it back — roughly three hundred miles out. Beyond that is the outer tier, the area most adventurers actually work in, about five hundred miles from the center, where seven or eight out of ten survive. The gamekeeper's cabin sits outside all of that. Sometimes something strays out that far and things go wrong, but by and large, it should be safe."

Jessica asked, "Was there any trace of the last shipment of goods?"

The last time the gathering team had traded with the Druids, the Druids claimed the exchange had gone through cleanly. And yet the team had vanished all the same — along with the goods, apparently near the gamekeeper's cabin as well, which was why the two incidents were now being investigated together.

"Not a word," James said. "After it happened, I sent my servants out to listen for any news. There was nothing on the streets at all. It's as if the whole thing vanished into thin air."

Evan swirled the red wine in his glass, took a sip, and held it in his mouth, savoring it slowly before finally swallowing. A faint fragrance bloomed across his palate — his taste buds seemed to be waking up bit by bit — and he found himself noticing the alcohol seeping into the cells of his mouth, along with a wealth of aromatic compounds. Since his sense of taste hadn't fully recovered, the whole experience carried a flavor all its own. He couldn't help but remark, "Fine wine. Most mages who abstain are missing out on something good. Tell me, James — when did you develop a taste for this?"

James blinked, then answered. "Well, spending so long stuck at sixth tier, and ending up out here besides — a man drinks alone from time to time. With no real hope of advancing further, I suppose I just grew fond of it."

"Wine's a bit weak, though — not much of a kick to it. Don't tell me you've nothing stronger on hand," Evan said. Jessica looked at him with some surprise; she hadn't pegged Evan as someone with a taste for drink.

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"Of course I do," James said, brightening as though he'd found a kindred spirit. "I've got mead, whiskey, rum. What'll it be?"

"Whiskey," Evan said with a smile. James brought out two fresh glasses and poured. Evan snapped his fingers, and two small blocks of clear ice materialized out of the air, dropping into the glasses — startling everyone else in the room. "Try it," Evan said. "Whiskey on ice."

James took a hurried sip, smacked his lips, and his eyes lit up. "Not bad at all — really good, in fact. I never would have thought to drink it this way."

"Of course. Alcohol's got a fiery bite to it, and a bit of ice tempers it into something else entirely. This is how a mage ought to drink — an ordinary man wanting to drink like this wouldn't even have the ice for it." Evan smiled, pleased with himself, though something else glinted deep in his eyes.

While James entertained his guests, word had already reached several gangs across town. Holred, the boss of the local Burk Protectors, had been enjoying a massage from one of his women when a man hurried in and murmured something in his ear. Holred sat bolt upright at once, a sharp glint flashing in his eyes, the fat on his face trembling. "Understood. Keep a close watch on them. That business from last time was too strange to ignore."

"Yes, sir. I'll put more men on it," the messenger said, and withdrew. Holred yanked the woman giving him her massage down into his lap, groped at her a few times until she moaned, gazing up at him with wet eyes — then slapped her plump backside hard and shoved her aside, rising to his feet. She looked back at him, wounded, but he didn't spare her a glance as he strode off into another room.

Holred settled his irritation and murmured an incantation. A hole opened in the wall; he stepped through it, and the opening closed behind him, sealing him inside the Mage's Secret Room. There, a woman in her late twenties hung bound, her features fine despite her ragged clothes, iron spikes driven through her waist and spine, each one glowing faintly with an anti-magic light. At the sight of him, her eyes burned with fury — but with her magic sealed by the anti-magic spikes, fury was all she could manage.

"Lidis, have you thought it over? Where's the Fallen Angel's Tear? Don't hold out hope for a rescue — even if someone comes, they'll never find where you're being kept." Holred's fleshy face wore a pleasant smile as he asked.

"I told you already, I don't know! We never even saw the item before you people showed up," Lidis shouted back.

"Still won't talk?" Holred reached out with one thick hand and twisted her breast hard. Lidis screamed. "Seems you haven't been broken in properly yet."

Holred was growing frustrated. He'd seen with his own eyes that they'd collected the item that day, and yet this woman refused to admit a thing, no matter what he tried. And now another party from Hollingburton had arrived. He was confident enough in himself — worst case, he could simply kill them all — but he couldn't keep this up forever without drawing Hollingburton's suspicion, and he had no illusions about how much trouble that would bring. He was already in too deep to back out now, and he cursed himself for his own carelessness in starting this.

Women, he thought, were nothing but trouble — having her body hadn't gotten him anywhere at all. "Keep this up," he snarled, "and I'll sell you into a brothel. I imagine plenty of men would get a thrill out of having a mage underneath them."

"You animal. You won't escape Hollingburton's hunt for you," Lidis said, her face expressionless.

At the same time, over at the Gael Advance Corps, the gang's leader, Fiat, was in conversation with his second-in-command when a subordinate came to report that Hollingburton's people had arrived. Fiat waved a hand. "Get some eyes on them. Keep close watch on where they go."

The man left, and Fiat sank into thought before turning to his deputy. "Still nothing out of Raight about where the Fallen Angel's Tear is?"

"Nothing," said Wilbur, the deputy. "No matter how we've worked him over, he hasn't given it up. It's starting to feel less like defiance and more like he actually doesn't know."

"If we hadn't seen it with our own eyes, I wouldn't believe it either. Something's gone wrong somewhere," Fiat said. "Never mind. Tell the men to stay sharp. No brothels for anyone the next few days — keep your eyes open."

The Order Keepers' priestess was a woman who had once been exiled here for some transgression, drowning herself for a time in drink and vice before finally coming to her senses. Through bloodshed, cunning, every resource at her disposal — including her own body — she had clawed her way to the top of the faction, becoming its ruling priestess. Everyone who had once wronged her was long dead. The previous priest, a man who had once taken his pleasure from her, was now her most prized possession: a bare skull she kept and turned over in her hands, polished to a gleaming shine. Her name was Rose, taken from a certain foreign deity of legend.

She lounged in a tall oak chair, sunk into a pelt of pure white electric mink fur. None of her subordinates dared show her the slightest disrespect; they sat rigid and straight-backed, eyes fixed forward. A faint, coy smile played on her lips. Just then, someone entered. "Priestess, the people from Hollingburton have arrived. They're at James's estate right now."

"Who came?" she asked, lazy and languid, a note of coquetry in her voice.

"Three male mages and one female. Judging by their robes, one's an Arcanist, another might be a Senior Mage, and the other two are students who've become full mages."

"Go on, then. Keep the watch tight." Rose smiled to herself. "How interesting. I wonder what those old fools are thinking. Last time, six of them came, and four died. One woman fell into that fat lecher's hands — who knows what's become of her — and one fell to that lunatic Fiat. Even if he's kept her alive, I doubt there's half a life left in him. And they're still after the Fallen Angel's Tear?"