ALL NOVEL 92 - Deadly Tribunal
Lieze was pleasantly surprised by the amount of magical foci Drayya and Marché were able to source from the arcade. They arrived at the cemetery with staves, talismans and broaches bursting from their packs.
“112? 113?” Drayya set her collection down. A silver disc slipped from the hem of her pack and drummed noisily against the road, “I can’t say for certain just how many we pilfered, but better to overestimate than underestimate, eh? Don’t tell me you were expecting more or I’ll be upset.”
“No. This is perfect.” Lieze kneeled down to pick up the disc, “We’ll need Dark Casters to effectively target flying combatants, and these foci will give them the means to cast spells.”
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MIND + 1
“You would think the royalists would have cleared out any magical emporiums before we invaded the district…” Marché scratched the back of his head, “That’s what happens when your soldiers have no combat experience, I suppose. This kerfuffle with the Order is the first time the Sovereign Cities have seen war in over a century.”
“This country has allowed itself to become complacent with peace.” Lieze said, “-But belief in a world devoid of conflict is no attitude for a king to adopt. Whether his people agree, ‘war’ is just another instinct cultivated by man to perpetuate his venerated suffering.”
She spun the disc around to see an esoteric, tree-shaped emblem embossed on one side. It was most likely the treasure of a heretic once upon a time - a wild human from across the western downs who worshipped a God of their own design.
“...Unfortunately, we’ll have to hold off on creating any new thralls for now.” Lieze tossed the focus into Drayya’s pack, “My father wishes to hold a congregation to discuss the Order’s strategy moving forward, and he wants us to attend.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t kill you for laying a finger on Graeme.” Drayya replied.
Lieze blinked, “Are you really?”
“No.” She smirked, “Of all the slugs creeping around our beloved cult, Graeme is the most repulsive. He swears allegiance to Master Sokalar, but it’s clear he has ambitions of his own. A shame he’s too much of a coward to act on any of them.”
“Do you think he’s too chaotic of a factor to keep alive?” Lieze asked.
“Chaotic? No. Like all cowards, he will bide his time and wait for an opportune moment.” Drayya answered, “Be ready to nip that in the bud, Lieze. But if you wish to kill him before any such plans can flower, then who am I to stop you?”
“Am I attending this strategy meeting?” Marché pointed to himself.
“Everyone is.” Lieze said, “From novices to Deathguards to Sokalar himself. Expect it to be over quickly and without much input from the participants. My father has ingrained subservience into his necromancers’ minds and they will not question his decisions.”
“-And, of course, you subscribe to no such vow.” Marché sighed, “You know, Lieze - when we first met, I was under the impression that me and my followers would be joining the Order, not making trouble for it.”
“As did I.” She replied, “But circumstances have changed, and Sokalar has yet to become your leader in any authentic capacity. My own opinions on our allegiances have shifted.”
“What Lieze is trying to say is that she wants to have her cake and eat it, too.” Drayya explained, “With power comes greed, Marché, and Lieze has been deprived of power her entire life.”
“Do you have a problem with that, Drayya?” Lieze asked.
“Let me tell you this, to clear the air completely and absolutely:” She began, “I don’t care who leads the Order. My father is dead, and any hope for my succession has been void for decades. So long as the realisation of our ideals is carried out, then a hamster could lead us for all I care.”
“You still call him ‘Master’, don’t you?”
“Just as you still call him ‘father’, yes. Just as I sometimes still call Lüngen ‘Mister Lüngen’, as I did in my youth.” Drayya replied, “For the better third of my life, he has always been ‘Master Sokalar’. Even when he is dead or deposed he will still be ‘Master Sokalar’. And you will always be ‘Lieze’ - before you start demanding that I address you with some ridiculous title.”
“‘Mistress’ Lieze?” Marché suggested.
“Absolutely not.” She crossed her wrists, “Being forced to refer to her as ‘my lady’ was enough to make me gag.”
“I don’t plan to seek a title.” Lieze assured, “‘Lieze’ is my name. Prior to the siege, it was the only possession that was truly my own. I don’t feel the need to decorate myself like some elderly general.”
“No… that doesn’t sound like you at all.” Drayya muttered, “You’re very much an enigma, Lieze. I would be surprised to hear that you derive enjoyment from anything.”
“We used to chase frogs in the Deadlands. I enjoyed that.” Lieze replied.
“As children, certainly, but we are children no longer.” The raven-haired girl placed her hands on her hips, “You eat whatever’s placed in front of you, and you sleep in whatever bed circumstance provides you with; you speak only when business is concerned, you consider your appearance only in the shrouded terms of subterfuge, and you laugh… well - you don’t laugh.”
“Rejection of worldly pleasure is where enlightenment begins.” Lieze said, “I don’t care for cuisine or comfort or pleasure or attention. Power, privilege and freedom - these are the only vices I occupy myself with.”
“Isn’t that dull?” Drayya shrugged her shoulders.
“Dullness is our way.” She replied, “I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth.”
“So this is the daughter of Sokalar…” Marché sighed, “I can’t say I’m surprised that the Lich has torn every shred of happiness from your life. How else could he possibly sculpt a prodigy who will inherit his wicked rule?”
“I will inherit nothing.” Lieze said, “If I desire the Order, then I will take it. I will not accept a handout from the man who synthesised me from the egg of a corpse.”
“A corpse…” Marché muttered, “I’m not sure whether or not to believe that. Sokalar may be an exceptional sorcerer, but there is a limit to the miracles we mortals can perform.”
“She speaks the truth.” Drayya smirked, “I’ve seen her ‘mother’ exactly once - a favourite of Master Sokalar’s. Even in wrinkled death, her snow-white hair remained. Isn’t that worthy of research? Perhaps he thought the woman was the child of a God, or some long-forgotten lineage blessed with magical ability? He had a reason. But nobody can say for certain what that reason was.”
Lieze hesitated to call her half-progenitor a ‘mother’, but she couldn’t deny that the circumstances of her birth were at the very least intriguing. Sokalar could not bear to tolerate the intrinsic love of conception, and so he used his pronounced understanding of necromancy to create Lieze from the egg of a dead woman.
What secrets did he hope to extract from the child of an extinct race? The question lingered in Lieze’s mind long enough for the scale to take interest, much to her chagrin.
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“...Let’s not dwell on this any longer.” She shook her head, “We have a meeting to attend.”
However busy the district might have been prior to the siege, its town hall clearly wasn’t the most popular venue for matters of parliament. Great balls of fuzz collected near the skirting boards where heaps of dust had settled down. A bowl of fruit placed with the purest intentions upon the table in the centre of the circular room had melted into a rancid juice, filling the air with a bitter scent.
Rows of descending desks overlooked a pair of benches facing what seemed to be a judge’s panel, though there was no gavel to be seen anywhere in the room. Sokalar had occupied that space, whereas most of the Order’s novices had taken to the outskirts. Only the Deathguards - among them Lüngen and Graeme - occupied the inner seats.
An unlit, brass chandelier dangled from the ceiling. All of its candles had melted, coalescing into stalactites of wax beneath the ornate design. The only light in the room came from the windows, which served to illuminate the agitated specks of dust dancing like mossy stars in the air. The room’s atmosphere was remarkably relaxed, considering the Lich’s presence, and active enough that Lieze’s appearance wasn’t paid much mind.
“Quite the turnout… so this is the Order’s advance force?” Marché spoke under his breath, “How many necromancers are there in total? I can’t imagine every last one of you came here.”
“100?” Drayya puckered her lips, “Mm… maybe more? Around that number.”
Lieze wasn’t paying attention to their conversation. From the inner seats, Graeme was casting a glare in her direction that would cause a child to burst into tears. His cheek had been sewn shut by an amateurish hand, though the lack of skin gave the occasional glimpse into his set of yellowed molars.
“It really has been a while, hasn’t it…?” Drayya sighed, “If I didn’t hate the guts of just about everyone in this room, I would call it nostalgia.”
“Enough.”
A single, slithering word was all it took to shock the chamber into complete silence. Nobody bar Lieze dared make a sound as Sokalar stood from his lofty desk, “We are gathered. Seat yourselves.”
The atmosphere dissolved into quiet respect. Defying even a simple command from the Lich was unthinkable, even by the confident standards of the Deathguards. With no reason to disobey, Lieze ushered Drayya and Marché down the shallow steps of the room towards the inner seats and found a perch far away from Graeme, who had abandoned his glare to focus all attention on Sokalar’s brilliance.
“We have established a foothold in the city.” He began, “A headcount.”
“Master Sokalar!”
A Deathguard shot to his feet as if struck by lightning.
“As it stands, we currently have 890 thralls under our command!”
He seated himself again, his duty completed. Lieze noticed a bead of sweat forming on his forehead.
“890.” Sokalar repeated, “An estimation of the enemy’s numbers.”
“My master….” Graeme stood that time, folding both hands together like a doddering old man,
“The lord of this realm commands 600 men, at the very least. Considering the casualties during the siege-”
“Stop.”
Every pair of eyes - including Graeme’s - darted to Lieze as she made her interruption.
“That may have been the case once upon a time, but we’ve had many battles with the royalists since then.” She explained, “I wouldn’t say there are any more than 300 soldiers left in the city. In a day or two, if Alistair has the sense to conscript what few civilians remain, that number could easily balloon into the low thousands.”
Blood dripped from Graeme’s palm as his unkempt fingernails pierced bare flesh. His expression was once of potent sourness. It was taking every ounce of his being not to launch into an abusive tirade right there and then. Only Sokalar’s presence diluted his rage.
“This is true.” The Lich admitted, “Consider every possibility. Never plan for the path of least resistance.”
His wisdom was heard by all, but it was clear, despite his lack of addressing, that the statement was meant for Graeme. With it came an unspoken threat, and the expectation that such a mistake would never be made again. Internalising his fury, Graeme sat down without another word.
Lieze settled into her seat. She had established herself as a participant of the discussion, but the hearing had only just begun.