Gregor The Cripple

Thud Thud Thud, there came a pounding at the door. Sweaty and head-swimmy, Gregor’s eyes snapped open at the disturbance. Hissing with pain and recoiling, he shut them immediately, having forgotten that one of his eyes was currently not in the mood to be opened.

“Grub’s up, Wizerd.” Came a dry croak from the other side of the door, before a slight shuffling carried the speaker away.

Grunting acknowledgment, Gregor rolled into a sitting position and pushed himself up off the cot, which was horrible. Straw mattress, no sheets. More suited to torture than rest.

He had tried to nap away the agonizing discomfort, but couldn’t manage a wink of sleep. The pain had subsided gradually, but it was certainly still present. Some opium would be nice right about now, but there was none to be had. And though he resolved that there never would be, Gregor wasn’t sure that he could stop himself the next time the enchanting stuff was within reach. This possible loss of self-control troubled him and his rock-solid ego in an unprecedented manner.

Donning his hat – indoors or outside, a wizard was never without his hat – Gregor pushed through the door and began his weary amble down the flame-lit hallway, at the end of which he could see the hearth burning low.

To the side, not quite over the heat, was a cast iron pot depending from a soot-crusted crane. Nearby were some empty bowls. Three silent figures sat around the swaying and flickering light, two were were awkwardly supping.

Facing away from Gregor was the old hostler in his rocking chair, still creaking back and forth. To his left was a tall, weathered man of an unfortunately balding middle age. He crouched uncomfortably upon a wooden stool, eyeing the cripple with anxious interest.

The pair were sitting apart – intentionally, no doubt – from their other dining companion. He was a thin, robed man, whose gaunt features gave an impression of feebleness.

He wore a velvet hat with a brim wider than the breadth of his shoulders. The brim was completely rigid and straight. Clearly a stern hat who took its job seriously and was not given to flopping about. His sunken face sat emotionless underneath this enormous amalgam of fabric and magic, and he stared at Gregor unblinking.

Fire-cast shadows curled from the legs of his chair to the little hand-carved figures on the low shelf behind him, bending and shifting as if uncertain of the shape they were meant to draw.

Overall, it could be said that the wizard named Labourd possessed an unsettling demeanor.

Gregor glanced at him once.

With a poise born from considerable effort, he strode over to claim a free seat – of which there were two – and sat, taking care to disguise the great measure of physical relief that the act brought him.

Reaching out with his stump, as he felt was suitable pageantry when manipulating things telekinetically, Gregor appropriated a wooden bowl and spoon from where they lay in their heap at the collar of the hearth. He held no reservations about helping himself to the food, not even hesitating to consider the quality.

The night’s meal was some kind of buckwheat gruel, dubiously enhanced by chewy strips of unidentifiable meat.

In his current state, food was Gregor’s primary concern. Addressing the presence of the other wizard in the room was but a tertiary item on his list of priorities. However, ever competent, Gregor was still paying keen attention to the man, for dealings between wizards are rarely amicable affairs.

Labourd was no slouch, Gregor could feel it. The magic in the air curled invisibly about him like the trail of a stone in flowing water. He radiated a stale, cloying power, and he made no effort to hide it. Among wizards, such a show of power was very nearly an act of provocation.

But so what? If he wanted to talk, he’d need to suffer the indignity of being forced to initiate the conversation. If he wanted to fight, Gregor was prepared.

With this in mind, he busied himself with the gruel, shoveling down mouthful after mouthful of nothing-flavored slop unburdened by his observer.

The meal really was quite terrible, he thought. Even for himself, who had been without food for an uncomfortable period. Upon experimentally sniffing a spoonful of the foul stuff, he found it to be unremarkable, but noticed something else which was quite strange.

The air carried a familiar scent – the uniquely unforgettable bouquet of formol and ether.

Gregor’s eyebrows rose and a disdain-filled sneer tugged at his lips. That was the odor of embalming fluid. His lone eye drifted to Labourd's gaunt, unblinking countenance, fixing the man with a contemptuous look.

The other wizard, seeing that he now had Gregor’s full attention – though not quite knowing the reason for it – decided commence with his intended business. “You are Gregor the Cripple, supercedent of Kaius the Elderly.” His voice was reedy and quiet, and made its statement in full confidence. This was neither a question nor a request for clarification. It was a statement intended to disclose his possession of specific knowledge about the other party.

“You are a corpse.” Replied Gregor with matching surety. It simply did not matter to him what Labourd knew, nor how he knew it. Gregor was Gregor, and that was assurance enough against any informational advantage which the other might possess.

The two mundane men in the room exchanged a nervous glance.

Labourd gave voice to his surprise at Gregor’s assessment, though his features did not articulate to match his speech. “You are more perceptive than I would have imagined, given your age.”

“You are more alive than I would have imagined, given yours.”

The reanimated wizard gave issue to three gurgle-coughing barks of laughter. “I like you, but you misjudge me. I died at only fifty. Since then, it has been just two years.”

Gregor simply stared at the man. It was obvious that this Labourd was here for him – but he had arrived at the waystation before Gregor. How had he known? Was it the two men from the Empire? Possible, but unlikely. “Am I being hunted?” Questioned the living wizard, eye narrowed.

"Close. A conflict is brewing. You are being scouted."

This clarification neither pleased Gregor, nor satisfied his curiosity. "State your business, corpse."

Still expressionless, Labourd spoke, “It is not my business, but the business of my master- The Master,” He corrected himself. "I come bearing an invitation. You are offered a chance to stand tall above the world. Rejoice Gregor, for He knows of you, and has appraised you well. You are one of the few who are fit to be a servant, rather than a slave.”

"Your master?" Gregor still possessed enough potent arrogance to be violently incensed at this proposition in spite of his pain and hunger and his retreating fever. “Some decrepit corpsefucking necromancer has the gall to proclaim me ‘fit for service’?”

Labourd was upset at this, but gave no indication. “Be calm and think well, for you misunderstand. The Master is no necromancer. The enormity of his power defies the world’s classification.” He paused. “And do not think that you must be undead to serve. I am but the lowliest of his people. There are incredible, unimaginable beings among our number.”

This 'invitation' did not even merit the consideration of a reward. Servitude? Me? Gregor felt that this loathed cretin deserved some special insult for trying to recruit him in the furtherment of whatever petty squabble his necrophile master was belligerent to– so he resumed his meal. He stated simply, “I decline.” Treating the other with disinterest, as if his offer were some small, silly thing, not worth the effort to ridicule. One may always offend a wizard by impugning his pride.

As expected, this infuriated the dead man greatly, though he was unable to show it.

“You are allowed to decline, but know that you will not be allowed to avoid service.”

Gregor snorted, “I will not be forced to serve by a mere corpse.”

“Corpse or not, I assure you that I am quite powerful.”

“You have died.”

“And yet, by the power of the Master, I continue to live.”

“You do not live,” Gregor spat, “You may be ambulatory and aware, but you died. You either expired or were killed – which means you lost.” The ultimate disgrace. Yet he continued to play the game despite losing. How incredibly humiliating. “If your master wishes to deal with me, it won’t be arranged by a failure like you. It is insulting to send such an embarrassing ambassador. Furthermore, I wholly reject your insane suggestion that I could serve another. There does not exist a being who could demand my service, either in reality or in theory. I will impale you upon your shitty master’s spine if you continue to suggest as much.”

“I was told that you would be arrogant, but not that you would be stupid. The Master is truly magnanimous. I was instructed to give you, specifically you, a choice to serve. If you agreed, there would be great rewards. Perks of the job, you might say. You would retain your autonomy, and The Master would graciously impart some of his arcane knowledge. For you, the world would no longer harbor secrets. Not just anyone receives such favor; I sincerely suggest reconsideration.”

“Did you not hear me?”

Labourd’s massive hat quivered as he tilted his head in mute confusion.

“I will kill you very shortly.” Declared Gregor as he worked at scraping the last of the gruel from the sides of his bowl. “This is terrible.” He turned and told the hostler, who had wisely retreated to the other side of the room with the bald man.

Labourd didn’t appear to take Gregor’s threat very seriously. “Think upon-” The bowl, hurled with the totality of Gregor’s telekinetic strength, cratered into the lower half of Labourd’s face. It crushed his jaw, his windpipe, and almost certainly cracked his neck.

However, being undead and without the hindrance pain, these injuries were not nearly enough to incapacitate him.

Reacting with a swiftness that belied certain skill, the dead man sent a bolt of pure energy whizzing toward Gregor, who had already blinked away. I lanced cleanly though the chair he had been sitting on.

Now behind Labourd, the younger wizard released his own bolt of energy. It shot directly toward the back of his enemy’s head, only to strike a shimmering blue barrier and glance away, decimating a few of the old man's whittled figures.

Gregor was not discouraged, for he now knew the nature of his adversary’s wards. They focused entirely on magical attacks, forgoing defence against the mundane in favor of greater strength toward magic, else Gregor’s bowl would have been stopped and his magical bolt would not have been deflected so cleanly. This strategy for defence would probably be common among the undead, he realized, given that physical injuries are of lesser concern to them.

He grinned a manic grin and teleported again – back to the front, seeing that Labourd had started to turn around. He flung the half-full cookpot to buy himself some time.

Typically, you couldn't kill dead things, you had to destroy them. And how best would one destroy something? In Gregor’s quite authoritative opinion, you ought to use either immense force or immense heat. In this instance, he planned to use both.

Acting quickly, he began pulling hydrogen from the surrounding air, gathering it at a single point. It took about a second. In that time, Labourd again turned and launched another spell.

Gregor’s own wards were well balanced between magical and mundane defence, and while they might not necessarily perform as well as Labourd’s, Gregor was a canny combatant. His defensive layers, different from the norm, were not layered in a series of spheres around him. They were instead arranged as steeply angled planes, such that any incoming spell or projectile would have to contend with as much surface area as possible. This innovation was his own, not Kaius’s, and was the source of much pride. However, though the increase in performance was great, the increase in magical expenditure was proportional. It was only a viable option for someone with unnaturally immense talent, like himself.

Thus, Labourd’s spell grazed across one of Gregor’s defence planes and sputtered out harmlessly against the wall behind him, having exhausted all its energy and momentum in futile penetrative efforts.

Once he felt that he had gathered enough hydrogen, he squeezed it all into a small magical barrier. Following which, he summoned an orb of fire around the barrier.

He brought his hand up and clicked his left forefinger and thumb, producing a blinding flash of brilliant light. Then he launched it.

The other wizard, though blinded, sensed the magical aura of the coming projectile. Confident that a magical attack would unable to penetrate his defences, he began to prepare another spell of his own. He would never finish those preparations.

Just as the fireball was about to meet Labourd’s wards, Gregor dismissed the barrier which held the little hydrogen parcel captive. The compressed gas ballooned out to mingle with the flame, resulting in a violent abundance of non-magical fire, which completely bypassed the unfortunate target’s defences.

His robes were shredded, his chest had collapsed, his exposed skin was seared and flayed, and he was thrown against the wall behind him such that his head was shattered and his pulped brain came spilling out.

A disappointing result. Gregor reflected that the effect would have been much greater if he had forced the entirety of the blast toward Labourd, rather than allowing most of it escape into whichever direction it pleased. Something to try next time, he supposed.

“Your protests are noted...” Spoke a new voice. Gregor scowled monocularly. Looking down, he discovered nothing unusual about the twice-dead corpse. He kicked it. It was limp and offered no response.

Addressing the two cowering fools in the back of the room, he asked, “Did you hear that?”

They had indeed heard it, though they were just as powerless as Gregor to pinpoint the speaker.