The
Lich
"But
if the warlock be of exceeding grate powerr, his dead corse may rise
agayn, an such an abomination is called a liche."
--Abdul Alhazred,
translated by G. W. Cooper
Shawn
Hutton sprinkled the old witch's powder over the corpse while
speaking the last words of the spell. If he had correctly interpreted
the old woman's notes, the body of the most powerful wizard Alabama
had ever known would become his willing slave. If not ? well, he
shuddered to think what De Wayne Miller's lich would do to him if it
was not under his control!
Lightning
flashed outside the grimy windows of Shawn's toolshed-workshop,
immediately followed by a deafening peal of thunder. Involuntarily,
Shawn turned towards the window.
"That
had to be close," he muttered, wiping the sweat from his
forehead with his sleeve.
Then
came the rain, hissing through the azaleas and drumming on the roof
nearly as loudly as the thunderclap of a moment before. Shawn's ears
registered no sound inside the room, so loud was the rain, until a
heavy hand fell onto his left shoulder. He screamed and tried to
twist away, but it was no use. Another hand caught his hair and bent
his head so far backwards that all he could see was Miller's
half-rotted face, upside down and a bare inch from his own. Shawn
screamed again, for the last time.
Miller
dropped the corpse and strode stiff-legged towards the door. The fool
had completed the reanimation spell, just as Miller'd intended, but
had bungled the job. Miller hardly had any feeling in his
extremities, and his muscles were not responding as they should. This
would not do. He had to get to his own laboratory and finish the
task. He tried to grasp the doorknob, but his hands were like wood:
they kept slipping off. Finally, frustrated, he slammed the door with
his shoulder, ripping the hasp right out of the jamb. He strode out
into the rain without a backward glance.
Jasmine
mumbled to herself continuously as she rummaged through the wizard's
paraphernalia. Every so often she would exclaim delightedly over some
discovery, shoving her finds into a shapeless denim sack. Every now
and again, too, she would pause, to stare intently at a glass globe
that lay in the center of a large oak table. What she saw seemed to
reassure her, and each time after a few moments' pause she went back
to her work.
The
witch worked quickly. She moved from the desk to a shelf of books,
reading titles, occasionally taking a book off the shelf and flipping
through its pages. Two or three volumes she put into her sack.
Suddenly,
a bolt of lightning struck very near the old house: thunder boomed
loud enough to rattle the glassware on the shelves over the
pot-bellied stove. At almost the same moment, the dim glass globe
blazed forth with a hideous pale green light. The witch snatched up
her sack and trotted nimbly toward the door. However, even as she
reached for the handle, the door was wrenched open from outside.
"You!"
she gasped, starting back. "But the powder?!"
Yes,
Miller thought, I suspected the powder. So it wasn't made right.
Still, here I am, you back-stabber. We had a deal. Alas, his undead
lips could not form words so quickly. All he said was "Powder!
Backstabber!"
The
witch knew what he meant. "I intended you to remain in hell,"
she said. "I admit it. You should not be here. But we can still
keep our agreement." Her eyes darted from side to side while her
hand slipped into her pocket.
"Deal
broken!" the lich barked. "You die!" Yes, you crooked
old woman, he
thought,
I paid you well to restore life to my clay, and you betrayed me. That
young fool had just the wit to do your bidding. I suppose he paid you
too, and was told I would be his slave. We were partners, but now you
must pay for your deceit.
He
lurched towards the witch, arms held stiffly before him, growling
hoarsely. She took a small bottle out of her pocket, pulled the cork
with her teeth, and flung the contents at the lich. His chest and
right arm immediately began to pop and sputter like hot oil splashed
with water.
The
witch cursed under her breath: she'd been aiming for his face. The
lich ignored the flames, lurching forward and embracing the witch.
She twisted
out
of his grasp, he overbalanced and toppled to the floor, but he caught
her
ankle with one hand. The snap of ankle bones filled the room. The
witch bit her lip and reached into her sack, rummaging for something.
The lich dragged her to the floor just as she pulled another small
jar out of her sack. It slipped out of her hand, shattered, and a
dark thin liquid soaked into the planks. Sparks from the burning lich
fell onto the patch of liquid and it exploded with flame. The two
figures writhed apart, engulfed in flames, the witch letting out one
short shriek. The lich staggered back to his feet. Flame billowed
from his entire body. The witch rolled on the floor, trying to put
out her burning clothes.
The
lich silently cursed his former partner. You fool! I would have lived
forever. I would have treated you fairly -I needed an assistant. We
could have ruled this county. He turned toward the door, but the fire
was too intense. He lurched back to the center of the room, beating
at the flames that ate into his head. Fire had now spread throughout
the small building. The witch dragged her sack with one hand,
shielding her face with the other. She rattled the back door but it
was locked. She kicked at it. Something in the witch's sack exploded,
hurling her into the door, which did not yield. She fell to the
floor. The lich growled in rage and
stumbled
toward her just as the roof fell in. He was buried by burning beams.
The
flames
leaped up to meet the falling rain, and a column of steam rose into
the night.
Morning
sun flooded the glade. Mist rose up to meet it, but nothing living
emerged from the rubble of the Mage's house. After a while, a
mockingbird perched on the debris and began to sing.
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