The Wayward Witch Chronicles

In life, there are certain tasks that must never be rushed. Grasping immortality is one of them.

In either the push for power or the fear of ending, certain magickers undertook a grotesque ritual. To preserve their life, they stole away their own soul and sucked dry the life of their own flesh. The rituals had been forbidden long before magic entered regulation. The secrets today were found only piecemeal, locked away under the close watch of university guardians, available only to those with the proper licensure and authorization from the High King’s own Cabinet.

But once again, that hadn’t stopped another damned hedgewizard from ripping apart her own mortality and descending into the withered life of a lich.

The lich had done a hack job of it, too. West studied her as she stepped through the portal, his lips curling downwards with professional disdain. Skin hung in threads and shreds from her exposed back. Her face, misshapen, drooped heavily on one side, graying teeth visible through gaps on her cheeks. The fingers on her right hand were twisted and blackened by rot.

Whatever her efforts, she’d made an unsalvageable mess of her body, and it would be crumbling around her at a breakneck pace. Unless, of course, she found a replacement.

They had only moments before the lich would spot them out among the sparse greenery. While she was still adjusting her eyes to the new grounds on the other side of the portal, West pulled a set of steel knuckles from his belt pouch and slipped them over his fists. He leaned to his companion and whispered: “We’re takin’ this one down.”

Dover seemed startled, but his grim face showed no hint of question as he drew the foremost of the two swords at his waist. “Your signal, then.”

West’s “signal” was him breaking into a dead run, trusting Dover to follow. The lich’s attention snapped up as he broke through the first line of branches, offering no threat or warning, only focused on the task of putting an end to the lich in the shortest amount of time possible.

The lich pulled back at the appearance of an enemy, considering the portal– but the magic of it palpitated unsteadily after the effort of her trip, barely holding to the rims by the thinnest threads of ether. Taking another trip before the thing had recovered would be disastrous. Setting her mouth grimly around her tooth-filled gashes, she flipped open her spellbook.

If West had been hoping the rotted arm would be a disadvantage, he was wrong. He could hear the finger bones crack as the lich pulled her spell from the air, slurring a harsh word of power. The moss beneath her shriveled and blackened at the front line of some hungry magic, advancing in a savage arc. It swept toward the approaching Investigator. West sprang clear of the wave of destruction, letting it pass by to eat away at the low branches and leaves of the outlining trees.

“Keep on yer toes, lad!” West called back to his companion. Several meters behind, Dover was already moving well clear of the spell’s path.

The lich worked swiftly at a second spell. Following a line drawn by her pointed finger, a wall of undulating black flames sprung from the ground, forcing West to skid to a halt on the slick, mossy ground. Close to the flames, he could see small faces and hungry mouths among them, homing in on the brightness of life like a parched man trying to suck at a pool of water.

It reached for him– but he wasn’t so easy a meal. Reaching within himself, he drew on what he called the Pond. It was the reservoir of life within him, the energy that lapped up against every cell in his body, and motion of water that fueled his life. With a focused breath, he let it flow about himself like a second skin. Where magic met it, he felt a slight prickle; but the fringes of the spell couldn’t pierce the inscrutable shroud he’d wrapped himself in.

His Pond kept him safe at this distance, but it wasn’t so powerful that he’d throw himself through those flames. Undaunted, West called out: “Dover!”

“On it,” the Glamori answered with a brandish of his rapier. His eyes took that silver glow, and he maneuvered his weapon through the air precisely, hooking at and catching up the threads of magic feeding the black flames. The metal of the sword twanged and whined under the strain of the energy. With a flick, Dover wrenched aside the whole mess, like pulling aside a cobweb. The ensnared spell flared upwards as if splashed by oil it, then expired.

West clapped Dover’s shoulder as he passed him by and surged ahead, intent on closing the ground to the lich.

But the pause had given the lich enough time to work up one more nasty-looking bit of spellwork. The faint shape of its manawork hung heavy in the air between her and the Investigator. He pumped his legs faster. If he could get there before she could complete the spell, the magic would vanish without realization–

But still too many paces away, she sketched out the final pass of her spell and let loose some hellish crossbreed of summoning and necromancy.

With a ground-shuddering crash, a noxious form emerged from the arcane curves of the mana in the air. West had the impression of a body like a horse, easily three times his height… dripping. He glimpsed at least six sets of small humanish arms along the spine, and a massive skull with one eye missing and one protruding. It screeched with a voice as deep and hollow as despair. Its hooves, broken and chipped, trailed barely a foot above the ground, not quite liking the touch of true earth. Its baleful gaze fell to the Investigator, and it leaned toward him, stretching its skeletal mouth wide enough to show a dark, writhing cavern awaiting his folly.

West was nearly close enough to feel the thing’s breath on his face already, hot and rancid as a bloated carcass in the sun; there was no time to retreat, no room to think. West dropped a leg forward and slid, getting as low to the ground as he could. Not low enough though, that terrible jaw was bearing down on his head faster than he could move.

One last gambit. He reached up a hand, touched fingers to the brim of his cap.

pop.

The human West was nowhere to be seen– instead, sliding right under the deadly creature in a whirl of red moss, a small blue form closed the last meter to the lich. "That's the end o’ it then!” bellowed the blue creature as it lept from ground right into the rotting body of the lich. Small as it was, its froglike legs were powerful, and the now-shrunk steel knuckles on its fists hissed caustically where it launched into soft flesh.

The lich’s chest caved in with the strike, and the second fist coming across flung her jaw clean off. Stunned by the blow, her spellbook dropped from the fingers of her good arm. Her monstrous summon turned to bear down on her attacker, but Dover was only a few paces behind. It screeched horribly as steel bit into the side of its neck.

The lich staggered back one step, tripped over a blue leg caught under her ankle, and then was silenced by a heel breaking in the remnants of her face and skull.

Her pustulent body hissed, peeling apart from itself in chunks and flakes, and left nothing but a pile of slime and bone.Toe to toe with Dover, her summon vaporized, the threads of ether that had pulled it to the mortal realm cut dead. In seconds, all that was left at the site of the portal were the two panting companions and the lich’s fallen spellbook.

“So, uh. Whatever happened to talking to them first?” Dover inspected his sword before sheathing it.

Wiping his gooey heel off on the moss, the Nuralli grimaced. “Lad, there’s nae talkin’ to a magicker what’s stripped out their own livin’ soul like that,” West– Pip– said firmly. “Especially one who’s botched her own body so badly. Once a lich’s body starts degrading, the only way fer them to keep on is to get replacement parts. That’s what brought her to the village.”

Pip stretched out his limbs while Dover thought it over. He wasn’t so young as a Nuralli as he was in his human form, and no matter what kind of limbering routine he adhered to, he could feel his age grinding in his joints.

The Acquisitor collected the spellbook from the ground. “I’m not arguing with you, but after all you said about remembering magickers are people….”

Pip sighed. “It’s the night o’ the Twin Eyes, isnae it? When creation spells be the strongest– includin’ what sort o’ necromancy she’d be workin’. thes why she worked out a whole portal to travel with, jes’ fer tonight. Whate’er’s on the other side there,” he nodded to the portal, “is like to be her whole workshop. Ye’ll wanna call in a proper team a’fore goin’ through there.”

The Acquisitor seemed dissatisfied. “You don’t want to scout it out first?” he asked.

“Nae laddie– like ye said a’fore,” and the Investigator smirked, “I’m fer huntin’ the mages, not cleanin’ up after ‘em. In any case, I’m thinkin’ a wash in the creek is called fer and ye oughta see if ye can shut off that portal. After, we oughta report back to the village that their magicker problem’s solved fer the moment.” Another touch to the brim of his hat, another pop of displaced space, and the redheaded Allen West split off for the creek.

***

The next morning, scrubbed and rested, Dover met with West one last time before the Investigator left the village. They talked future plans as they spooned down a breakfast of porridge, summer berries, and fresh cream.

“You’re moving out already?” Dover asked, his disappointment palpable.

West glossed over it with a shrug. “Aye– truth to tell, this was jes’ a stop on the way fer me. I’m trackin’ down a lead on some missin’ adventurers.” He tapped a finger on the papers he’d been reviewing since before Dover had joined him for breakfast. The Glamori’s mouth made a small “o” shape, his attention gripped. “Nae anythin’ to be sharin’ on it yet,” West added apologetically, “it’s still early days.”

Dover drummed his fingers on the table’s edge. “West, why don’t you let me tag along? I’m sure I could be of help….”

“Nae, lad. Ye’ve got yer own work needin’ attention.” West folded away the reports, hiding the details from curious eyes. “When a magicker goes and makes a lich o’ themselves, they’ve put their livin’ soul in a trinket somewhere secret. This case still needs handlin’, and if it’s a right dangerous task, it’s still one Acquisitions is best suited fer. Yer work’s to bring in a proper team and sort out how to work that portal, or else track where she came from and make sure this fight is ended proper. Mine’s takin’ a different direction.”

“At an Investigator’s request,” Dover suggested, choosing his words with care, “an Acquisitions agent can be requisitioned at any time. We have to call in a team anyway, so another Acquisitor could come with them and take over this case.”

“Still nae, lad.”

“Why, though? You could surely use the help!” A hint of frustration bubbled over, reminding West of Dover’s far more impulsive grandfather. Dover’s never been that hotheaded at least, but he’s still got some growin’ to do, West thought as the Acquisitor made his case. Dover insisted, “Haven’t I proven capable? Don’t I even know some things you don’t?”

“It’s nae about that, and I dinnae owe ye an explanation.” West stood. “I’m thankin’ ye as always fer yer help lad, but I prefer it if ye stay on yer work ‘ere, and I’ll go take care o’ mine.”

Dover sighed, but waved his hand in acceptance. “I understand. It’s your call, after all. But if, say… if I were ranked an Investigator already. Would you have let me along then?”

“If ye were an Investigator? Hell nae, laddie,” West snorted, “why would I want one o’ those assholes taggin’ along?” Dover watched as he grinned once more, laid down a few small coins of appreciation for the pubkeep, then took up his bag. “Keep ye safe, Dover!” West called over his shoulder, and disappeared out the door.