Lich for Hire

Chapter 384: Enemies Approach

In the Court of the Silver Moon, a letter from Catherine arrived in the present elven king's hands.

He read it carefully, then exhaled with feeling. "That insufferable lich! He dumps another mountain of work on Catherine and disappears overseas by himself. Isn't he afraid he'll be eaten by sea monsters?"

A vivid fantasy briefly surfaced: marching an army out to sea, finding the lich, and purifying his soul on the spot. It dissolved just as quickly. They were partners now, and whatever personal grievances he carried could not be allowed to interfere with matters involving the gods.

In the capital of Lyon, meanwhile, news of the lich's departure had made its way to the young emperor through a different channel.

A merchant convoy returning to port had passed through Lyon and brought fragmentary reports of unrest at sea.

From there, people with both motivation and the patience to cross-reference what they heard had assembled the fragments into a picture: the lich at the top of Lyon's most wanted list had gone to sea, and was almost certainly up to something.

Lyon's position was different from the Court of the Silver Moon's. It could not simply observe.

Their doctrine alone would not permit indifference to active evil, but beyond doctrine, there was the matter of the last war.

The astral passage had appeared with implausible precision between the two armies at the exact moment it would do the most damage. Anyone with knowledge of spatial magic understood the vanishing improbability of that placement. Only a diviner could thread a needle that fine. That had been no coincidence, and Lyon had not forgotten it.

Old grievances and new manifested in an impulse to send an elite force to sea.

Given the persistent failure of previous attempts, this time they would send the real Knights Penitent, not the junior members who had previously been dispatched and had not come back.

The actual Knights Penitent had a substantial roster of legends. This deployment would include five paladins and two priests, seven legends in total, with a mandate to purify the lich at any cost.

After the Knights Penitent departed, the young emperor returned to an empty palace.

The slaughter had hollowed out the palace. These days, Percival was learning magic under the Dragon Tyrant's guidance, beginning with Mage Hand—which he had deemed good enough reason to dismiss even the remaining servants.

He described this as appropriate penance for a man of his sins. It had the unintended effect of generating genuine approval from observers, reinforcing the impression that his apology had been sincere.

At this moment, the young emperor was practicing sword drills with Mage Hand, concentrating hard on the effort to hold the blade steady. The sword trembled badly regardless, shaking as if enchanted by some destabilizing spell.

Eventually, the Mage Hand collapsed and the sword clattered to the floor. Percival swore. "What's the point? A hundred years of this won't buy me a fraction of a percent of the time power's strength."

The low voice from the Draconic Armaments answered him, "Even at full power, I was still not Arthur Lyon's equal. Do you want to end up like me, with someone's blade taking your head?"

"I have no talent for this!" Percival snapped back, something close to despair in his voice.

Temporal energy was so much more convenient. It made everything else feel pointless. Why grind through magic when he already had access to such power?

Atros did not accommodate the complaint. "Effort compensates for talent. You are going to be Lyon's last emperor for eternity. You have all the time in the world. If a hundred years isn't enough, spend two hundred. If two hundred falls short, spend five hundred. You will achieve something eventually. When that day comes, you won't need to fear anything."

Percival remained sullen. "Arthur Lyon is dead."

"His successor is not." Atros's tone sharpened. "If you keep slackening, Your Majesty, you will die. You and I are one now, and I have no reason to harm you. But if you won't take my word for it, you'll understand when a blade reaches your throat."

Percival went very still. "Successor—you mean, Allen Watson?!"

"I didn't prompt you," Atros noted. "You identified that name on your own. What has Allen Watson been doing? I think you know."

Percival's fist closed.

Allen Watson had been doing much of note.

During the battle of the Unholy Kingdom, it had been Allen's public condemnation that had cracked Lyon's military morale from within. But afterward, Allen had emerged looking like a hero. He had personally held off dozens of dragons to cover the army's retreat.

Public opinion was shifting. A growing faction argued that Allen Watson had not, in fact, committed treason. Some were openly suggesting he should be recalled, that someone with his abilities and record belonged in Lyon's service. The Silvermoon Knight was gone, and Lyon was hungry for a new standard-bearer.

Percival had gritted his teeth and done nothing. Splitting the empire would be a worse outcome than tolerating Allen Watson, and he had grudgingly extended an invitation to the young paladin.

But Allen had refused the overture entirely, and submitted instead a document of tens of thousands of words laying out in systematic detail how the spread of extremist ideology within Lyon had caused the empire to violate the Lord of Dawn's teachings.

This was no vague or impulsive objection. It was a thorough account, built from Allen's direct experiences, with specific instances and corroborating evidence, demonstrating that extreme ideology had corrupted Lyon to a degree that constituted an existential risk.

Allen's demand was immediate remediation: restore normal practice of the faith, and hold accountable those who had exploited extremism to advance their own interests.

The largest single beneficiary of that extremism, of course, was the imperial family. If Percival hadn't moved against them first, Allen's report would have been enough to shatter the empire entirely.

Allen had been accused of having ulterior motives for his "radical" position. The subtext was obvious: questioning whether the current policy was correct amounted to suggesting it needed to be replaced, which amounted to suggesting the author of that policy needed to be replaced.

In other words, Allen Watson was condemning the current High Inquisitor, who had crafted the policy, for not performing adequately. Was he not simply angling for his father to regain his old position?

The new High Inquisitor had responded in court with considerable passion, laying out Allen's hidden agenda for anyone who hadn't already worked it out.

At that level of power and privilege, even a devout priest of the Lord of Dawn might be tempted to stray.

The controversy had paralyzed every session of court for days.

Percival had come to genuinely despise Allen Watson. His familial "sacrifice" had been positioned to consolidate power cleanly, but Allen's interference had turned what should have been a decisive moment into something unresolved and ongoing.

"Allen Watson is a problem," Percival said, heat still in his voice, "but how does that make him Arthur Lyon's successor? Even if he claimed the title, no one would accept it. Too many generations have passed."

Atros was quiet for a moment. "He doesn't need anyone to accept it. I can see what he is. Allen Watson is walking the same path Arthur Lyon once walked. Your holy king was nothing but a wandering paladin when he started, less established than Allen Watson, with fewer connections and no comparable record of achievement. And he still took my head.

"So tell me: do you believe yourself to be stronger than I was at my height?"

The young emperor fell silent.

Percival was no fool when it came to assessing himself accurately. He was effectively alone now, with only the Draconic Armaments to rely on. The Dragon Tyrant had commanded the loyalty of an entire dragon civilization. The comparison between them was not favorable.

As that thought settled over him, he reached out with Mage Hand, picked up the sword again, and returned to practice.

Atros permitted himself a quiet exhale. The boy was genuinely inadequate. He was weak-willed, vain, cruel without purpose. His ascension to the throne was entirely a matter of luck. Bringing this empire back from its decline was close to an impossible task with someone like him at the helm.

But Atros was not truly interested in Lyon's revival.

He simply needed Lyon to hold together a while longer. He needed more time.

"My kin," he thought, his awareness sinking into the deepest layer of the Draconic Armaments, where something like a heart pulsed slowly with a light like distant stars. "Your king is nearly ready to return. Hold on a little longer."

......

News of Ambrose's departure for the open ocean spread with unlikely speed. Details accumulated simultaneously from sources both deliberate and incidental, each adding specificity to the picture. An invisible hand seemed to be working the information, carrying it further and faster than ordinary rumor traveled.

On the island itself, the first visitors arrived. Interestingly, the first group to appear was not Ambrose's personal enemies, but instead the githarks.

In terms of genuine grievance, Ambrose's account with them was modest: he had used the Dragon Graveyard's power to eliminate a contingent of their fighters. Before that, they had no quarrel. He had even been the one to open the astral passage that allowed them to arrive.

What stood out was their condition.

The githark force that had descended on the continent had once numbered a hundred thousand, with dozens of red dragons. The remnant that appeared on the horizon now was perhaps twenty thousand, riding ixiray across the surface, and only ten red dragons still aloft.

This was Gareth's work, clearly.

He hadn't followed up on details of that campaign. There had been too much else happening, but seeing the githarks in this state, it was obvious that Sephris had been recovered successfully and the counterattack had gone well.

The gap between their forces closed steadily. In a few minutes, the githarks would be in range.

Black Rose had been beside Ambrose through the days of preparation. She watched the approaching force and asked, "Do we let them come to us, or do we..."

Ambrose smiled and shook his head. "No rush. I haven't had a proper conversation with these githarks yet. We're on home ground. As hosts, we should at least start things off with courtesy. If they decide they'd rather not pay the toll, we can correct that misunderstanding afterward.

"Oh, one more thing: in the interest of standing on the defensible moral ground, make sure the magic mirrors are activated. I want my friends to see this from start to finish."

He rose into the air. Ahead, he could already see the red dragons beating their wings toward him.