A Lich's Guide to Dungeon Mastery

The mental apparition faded into the darkness, and Esheth clicked his tongue in disappointment. He’d hoped to bind it to the spot and call in some Mentum and Karma experts to shred its mind into bits and pieces, claiming all of the answers he sought for himself. Alas, it seemed that he would have to continue working with the country bumpkins who ran this… work camp.

He should have never signed up for this venture, but the rewards had been oh-so-tempting. Phylactery shards? Not only that, but fresh ones? His experiments would jump forward by leaps and bounds, and he may even discover the secrets to his own immortality. Who could pass up a deal like that?

Still, working with these idiots was tedious. They kept on insisting that they set up closer to that ominous spire in the distance. Fools. Just because there was a structure in the area, that didn’t automatically mean that this area’s threats were confined within it.

No, it was far more likely that the dark tower was merely a distraction, a way to pull them away from the task at hand. Yet, frustratingly, his magic was simply devoured by the death energies of the monster’s Domain Skill, preventing him from getting a lock on the true nature of this place.

A messenger sprinted up to him, panting and holding out a letter. “Venerable Mage, hahh…” The man took a deep breath before composing himself and finishing his sentence, “Commander Galias demands your presence in the war room.”

Esheth took the note with no small amount of disdain, scoffing at what he read. “War room? What war room? I only see tents.” Furthermore, this brutish lout thought he could order him, nay, command him, Esheth the Wise, Seer of the Aeons, to do anything? And for what? Because he’d been born as the scion of a noble house? Because he was blessed by Shamsum with a powerful affinity for the Light? He was a boy, and not only that, he was a weak, powerless boy who had been handed all the power he held on a silver platter, never taught how to actually use it.

With every new generation that passed him by, Esheth realized fewer and fewer people understood the true meaning of power. It came in many shapes and forms, money, connections, personal might, yes, yes, but a bare minority grasped that those who flaunted it brought just as much danger upon their own heads as those they aimed it at. Power was a thing many would–and had–died for.

Money could be stolen. Political rivals could be assassinated or outmaneuvered. Even personal might, the purest and simplest form of power, could be harvested, as the Base Mentum of a creature’s experiences would be siphoned away from them and into their environment–and their killer–upon death.

Nonetheless, Esheth would have to abide the minor slights the ignoramus and his band of hooligans carelessly tossed his way, at least for the time being. His revenge could come some other time, when the potential of his own immortality wasn’t on the line. Esheth’s spark of life faded by the day, and his progression had stalled. He valued his life over his pride, and this was the only way forward for him.

He could simply ruin the remainder of the boy’s life when he was done here.

Following a strand of Soothen, Esheth soon pushed his way into a tent, glaring around at the rowdy scene within. The lordling and his gang were drinking an amber fluid–rum, from the smell of it–and laughing raucously at some joke or tale one of them had told, likely boasting of one of their conquests; whether woman or beast, the Soothsayer didn’t care to find out.

“You wished to speak with me?” He ground out, suppressing his pride.

“Hah, oh Eshh–” the noble scion belched, and the seer barely managed to prevent a sneer from crossing his face–“Esheth, yo-you’re–hic!–he-here! Care for a dr-drink?” The young man waved a mug in the air, nearly dropping it.

“No, Young Master,” Esheth said in a tone that very nearly failed to hide the scorn filling his heart. Well, this idiot probably wouldn’t have noticed it in his current state, but it was better to be safe than sorry. “I am here to discuss tactics, as per your letter.”

“Ooh!” The spoiled brat’s eyes lit up with sudden recollection. “The boys and I are going into the tow– duh– tar…” His eyes glazed over again, too far into his stupor to finish his sentence.

Had it been anyone else acting like this, Esheth would have assumed that they’d been poisoned, but in the case of young Astaliar Galias III, such was relegated to flights of whimsy. Not only was the youth’s body so heavily Reinforced that typical poisons would barely affect him at all, but he was also a powerful Paladin of the Light, capable of cleansing his entire body in a bare instant.

The only reason the alcohol was affecting Astaliar at all was that it had been brewed by top alchemists using the best techniques and ingredients, keeping his specific constitution in mind. In other words, the worth of the materials and effort used to create the liquid in his mug alone would be enough for a common family to live comfortably for a decade. Instead, it was being used to get a spoiled brat more drunk than anyone should ever be.

“My liege,” Esheth ground out through gritted teeth, “I believe I advised directly against this course of action. We require more information, sire, and should hardly be sending–” the handle of the Galias’ heir’s mug shattered in his hand, cutting the Soothsayer’s words off.

“Listen, oldie.” Astaliar grew noticeably more sober, waving what was left of his mug at the scholar. “I think that you–” He cut himself to take a pull of the magical alcohol-substitute. He belched, wiped at his mouth, stared blankly at Esheth’s chest for a moment, then remembered what he was saying, anger sparking in his gaze. “You don’t know–hic–who I am! I am in ch-charge here, not you! My friends and I are going to go have some fun, and then we all get what we want and can go home.” He burped again, ruining the clarity of his final sentence.

I’m going to kill you if that Lich can’t, I swear on it. “Yes, sire.” I am going to keep you alive for as long as possible so you can watch me send each of your organs to different dimensions.

“You’re sure you don’t want a drink?” The young man’s red face twisted into a grin that was somewhere between goofy and contemptuous.

“Yes, I am indeed.” Esheth excused himself from the tent.

As he was walking away, he heard Astaliar’s voice one last time, calling for his attendant just outside the tent. “Send in one of the girls, Cassius!”

Esheth turned and saw one of the frightened “auxiliary units” being forced into the tent, and cursed the Galias’ blood for producing a reprobate such as this one. Astaliar had insisted on the presence of these girls, and while their families had been given decent compensation, they also hadn’t been given a choice.

Furthermore, the young women had been treated less like people and more like animals, forced into carts that looked more like jail cells than transportation devices and fed only the bare minimum. On more than one occasion, Esheth had heard screams coming from that tent, and he’d witnessed many of the girls who exited get rushed straight to the infirmary, which was already greatly understaffed, since Astaliar had insisted that they wouldn’t be needed. This was why he chose to restrict his own powers.

Locking his wrath deep within his heart, Esheth began planning. He had many titles, earned over a long, long life of politics, warcraft, and research. The most common were, of course, the most recent, as society had a short memory. Esheth the Wise, for his efforts in modern academic studies. Centuries’ Sage, a reference to his long life and wealth of knowledge concerning magic.

However, there were quite a few that the common people had forgotten. He, however, would never forget his own sins. He was no longer Eskrav the Bloodsayer, but there would always be a part of him that recalled the violence of his youth. A part that craved it.

A long-forgotten, long-suppressed cruelty had awoken within his heart, now, and the Flame-Warden once more became the Flame-Warrior.

Astaliar Galias would fall.