Lich for Hire

The tiflings' Unholy Kingdom might have been the only nation whose founding was questioned from the very beginning.

Their infernal bloodline had always been a source of discrimination. Even though tiflings had contributed to the war against the Dragon Tyrant, their heroes had all perished on the battlefield.

At the time, many from other races argued that Lyon should never have helped the tiflings establish a nation, calling them cowards who had hidden behind others and reaped the benefits.

But Arthur Lyon said only one thing: "Heroes sacrifice themselves so that even the ordinary, the timid, may live in peace. Are the elderly and the children, who never went to war, also to be treated differently?"

With that, he silenced all opposition and pushed through the founding of the tifling kingdom.

In gratitude, the Unholy Kingdom erected a statue of the holy king in its capital, one that had been preserved since.

Yet even after the founding of the kingdom, problems persisted.

By the traditions of other kingdoms, the most renowned hero, or their descendants, would be crowned king.

But all the heroes who had marched with Arthur Lyon were dead, and their heirs were far too young. The eldest was only five.

The tiflings formed what they called the Unholy Council to govern the realm. Its members referred to themselves as the Impure, acknowledging that they had seized authority that rightfully belonged to the heroes. The name was meant as a constant reminder that they had to bear responsibility for the kingdom and not betray the heroes' sacrifices.

Like all newborn nations, it began with vigor and promise.

But less than three hundred years later, the bloodline of the first tifling king was abruptly extinguished, its last descendant dying in an "accident" without leaving an heir.

It was a convenient coincidence. Thin as the royal line might have been for generations, difficult though tifling reproduction might be, it was absurd that not even a collateral branch remained.

Everyone understood the truth. Those who called themselves Impure had truly lived up to their names. They had usurped the legacy of heroes.

Still, it was an internal matter. At the time, the Lyon Empire had neither the will nor the evidence to interfere.

And so, from that day on, the Impure became the true rulers of the kingdom, their council gradually consolidating power into thirteen intermarried families.

That system had endured until the present.

To ordinary tiflings, it made little difference whether the kingdom was ruled by a a king descended from heroes or the thirteen families who had stolen their glory.

Life went on much the same, and so the kingdom persisted without major upheaval.

The situation had lasted until recently, when the Lyon Empire began to grow increasingly aggressive. It blatantly ignored national boundaries and began expanding outward at a terrifying pace.

Backed into a dead end, the tiflings turned once more to infernal power. Along their borders, they constructed numerous sealed Hellgates. If Lyon were to invade, they would open these gates and unleash hell itself to repel the assault.

If disaster followed, well, the blame would lie with Lyon.

This extreme measure bought them a long stretch of uneasy peace. But as Lyon racked up victory after victory, the pressure mounted. The Unholy Council resolved to construct even more Hellgates.

At that moment, a long-serving court mage raised his objection.

Dissent from an ordinary court mage was pointless. At worst, he could be dismissed. But this man was no ordinary mage. He was a legendary archmage, and the very one who had originally proposed using Hellgates as a defense against Lyon.

It was his strategy that had spared the tiflings from losing half their territory like the dwarves.

His precise calculations had kept them walking the razor's edge without drawing divine punishment.

Now, he was issuing a grave warning: build any more Hellgates, and they would cross the line. Divine retribution would follow.

That warning gave even the Impure pause.

A Lyon invasion might not mean immediate annihilation, but provoking the gods would.

The choice was obvious to all except one member of the Impure.

That particular Impure had once been an infernal knight, a tifling who had personally walked the infernal realms. He claimed that the archmage's calculations were flawed, that the kingdom could safely construct at least ten more Hellgates.

Who were the tiflings to trust?

And so the argument dragged on, unresolved.

In the end, the council adopted a compromise: they would prepare all materials and complete ninety-nine percent of the construction in advance.

If Lyon attacked and a Hellgate was destroyed, they would finish building a new one on the spot.

It was a clever solution on the surface, but the archmage opposed it just as strongly.

This time, however, the Unholy Council ignored him.

In the end, the mage who had served the kingdom for decades resigned and vanished without a trace. Meanwhile, the Unholy Kingdom pressed forward, stockpiling materials and accelerating preparations for more Hellgates.

The entire kingdom was now ready for war. Troops moved constantly. Quartermasters scoured the land for resources.

Into this tension walked Harvey. Because he was human, he was stopped and interrogated repeatedly upon entering the border city of Blackgate. Fortunately, he had documentation from the dwarven territories, or he would have spent days in a cell.

But even after making it into the city, he faced another problem.

Ambrose had sent him to deliver a letter... without telling him where the recipient actually was.

According to his master, centuries had passed. He could only confirm that the man was still alive. As for his location, Harvey could figure that out himself.

"Why rely on your master for everything?" Ambrose had said.

Harvey once again experienced just how stingy his master was. It wasn't that Ambrose couldn't divine Vladimir's address. He just didn't want to spend the gold. Calling it "training" was just an excuse.

Still, complaining wouldn't help. He had a job to do.

"According to Master, this Vladimir is a tifling, and a legendary divination mage at that. He should be well-known. I'll start by asking about court mages."

Muttering to himself, Harvey headed for a tavern.

It was quieter than expected. Despite the large venue, there were only a handful of patrons. The bartender was polishing glasses with obsessive intensity.

Harvey placed a gold coin on the counter and ordered a specialty cocktail.

Unlike Ambrose, who preferred to grease palms with copper, Harvey was generous. The gleam of gold immediately brought the bartender to life.

Sipping the spicy drink at a leisurely pace, Harvey asked, "Why is business so slow? Not many adventurers around?"

"The situation's tense lately. There's been fewer commissions and fewer adventurers."

It was a lie. Harvey could feel it.

If anything, tension usually meant more dangerous jobs, and there was never a shortage of reckless adventurers.

But he wasn't here for work.

"I'm a traveling mage apprentice," Harvey said. "Whenever I visit a new place, I like to pay my respects to renowned mages. Who would you recommend in this kingdom?"

"Famous mages? Oh, we've got plenty. Master Blydon Graton is an expert at transmutation. Mistress Domina Lowry was lauded as a Distinguished Scholar of Alkhemia, and is particularly skilled with magical brews..."

The bartender eagerly listed more than a dozen names, but only four were of legendary rank, and none specialized in divination.

That was odd. Had his master been wrong? A mage who wasn't famous would be far more difficult to find.

Harvey was just about to resort to his dice of fate when a drunken tifling staggered up beside him.

"Buy me a drink," the man said, "and I'll help you find who you're looking for."

Harvey studied him. He was old, very much so.

His skin was not the usual tifling crimson, but rather a dusky gray like a drow's. His hair and beard were pure white, his face lined with age. He was tall but frail, like a candle guttering in the wind.

In taverns, those who asked for drinks were usually swindlers. The rare exception... were people well worth listening to.

Strangely, Harvey's usual intuition failed him completely.

But that was telling in and of itself, wasn't it?

"Sir, you wouldn't happen to be the person I'm looking for, would you?"

The old tifling only chuckled. "Will you buy me that drink?"

Harvey dumped all the coins from his pouch onto the counter. "I'm paying for all his drinks."

The old man sighed appreciatively. "Not bad. That bastard actually managed to take in a student worth envying. You're nothing like him, though. Back then, he was unbelievably stingy. Bartender, your most expensive drink!"

Harvey didn't know whether to laugh or cry. The old tifling was telling the truth, undoubtedly, but it would hardly be appropriate for Harvey to join in the criticism and gossip about his master.

The old tifling took a swig straight from the golden bottle and added, "And you're different in other ways too. That bastard's tongue was blessed by the gods. He's never at a loss for words."

Before the man could insult his master further, Harvey hurriedly produced Ambrose's letter.

The old tifling took it, glanced at nothing, and stuffed it straight into his pocket. "You can call me Mr. Misfortune," he said. "You've probably heard that I lost my name to that bastard."

"I've heard a little," Harvey said carefully. "Something about a contest between you—"

The old man waved him off. "Don't dress it up. It was a clash of principles. I lost, and lost my name along with it. But my principles yet stand. And if I'm not mistaken, your master hasn't exactly been thriving either."

Becoming a lich was no grand fate, certainly, but Harvey also knew his master could stir chaos across the nine kingdoms with a flick of his hand.

"Enough about that," Mr. Misfortune said. "Come with me. If we don't leave now, we'll be too late."

Harvey didn't yet understand until a squad of armored tiflings burst into the tavern.

The leader raised his sword and pointed straight at the old man. "There, the fugitive! Seize him!"