Lich for Hire

As Sariel turned to look at them, both Ambrose and Mr. Misfortune felt a cold dread percolate through their bodies.

Being noticed by a lord of Hell was not a situation either of them wanted to be in.

This was where being a lich had its advantages. Ambrose recovered faster, and acted first.

"Leyla! Help! Sariel's come alive!"

Blunt though he was, this was exactly the right call.

Leyla didn't disappoint. The Sariel who had been staring them down blurred and softened, collapsing into a crude, plaster-like shape. The Lady of Mists materialized before them.

"That was close," she said. "A little longer and Sariel would have fully descended into this dream."

One look at Leyla was enough for Mr. Misfortune to understand that this was a real deity, standing before him.

And this reckless lich had just called her by name? Without a title, without a prayer, without so much as a bow?

Before Mr. Misfortune could figure out how to greet her properly, Ambrose was already speaking. "The image of Sariel was too vivid. Someone poured their whole soul into carving the perfect effigy, and Sariel felt it."

There were rules that divine descents had to follow. When the Spider Queen had sought to descend, she had needed to anchor herself to a statue consecrated in her name. She couldn't simply appear wherever she pleased.

A devoted worshiper, a sacred idol, a divine artifact, a proper summoning ritual—these were the conditions that allowed a god to cross over.

The Sariel conjured by the dream had been indistinguishable from the real thing, more lifelike than any idol in reality. Sariel must have felt the resonance and nearly been able to use it as a foothold.

Ambrose had even heard a stranger story once: a bold fool had written an unauthorized biography of a deity, one so vivid and spread so widely that the deity descended directly into the manuscript. The author was never heard from again. Whether he had been taken to a divine realm or dragged down to Hell, no one knew.

Mr. Misfortune glanced at Ambrose, askance. Was he actually daring to criticize a goddess?

Leyla looked mildly embarrassed. "I slept for too long, and I've forgotten more than I realized. But it's fine. We remain in a dream. Even if Sariel has locked onto this location, we can simply move elsewhere. Let's not waste time, though. Lingering for too long will create its own problems."

With that, she faded from view. The dream resumed its motion.

Mr. Misfortune had lost all interest in the drama unfolding before them. He turned to Ambrose. "That woman just now was a goddess, wasn't she?"

"Yes."

"How dare you speak to her like that?"

Even the weakest of gods commanded respect from mortals, unless faith demanded otherwise. A paladin of the Lord of Dawn might charge at a dark deity with a war cry on his lips, but that was a matter of doctrine, not license. Under ordinary circumstances, basic reverence was simply expected.

Blasphemy against a god was a serious crime—graver, in the laws of most nations, than treason.

"I've told you already that I know a lot of gods. I understand how to deal with them better than you do." Ambrose waved a hand. "We're both several hundred years old. Stop being dramatic and pay attention. The important part is coming."

The blurred Sariel resumed her role. She seized Domina Lowry by the throat and leaned close. "Traitor, I can offer you a chance at absolution. Find the others who betrayed me, deliver them to me, and I will consider easing your punishment."

Domina Lowry didn't hesitate for a moment. "I'll do it. I'll do anything."

She had clearly reached her limit. Betraying others was a small price to pay for relief from hellfire.

"Good. You're intelligent as far as insects like you are concerned, which means I have some reason to keep you alive. Go. Find the traitors. I will suspend your punishment in the meantime. And remember: my mercy has limits. Do what you're told."

Sariel dissolved into flame and was gone. Domina Lowry was left behind, gasping.

A moment passed, and then the dream shifted. The red-drenched bedchamber gave way to a dim underground room.

Domina Lowry stood in heavy armor, a whip in her hand, bringing it down again and again on a tifling who had been reduced to little more than blood and raw flesh.

"Give them up," she snarled, "and you will suffer less!"

The tifling raised his head with great effort. "Domina... Do you think... you can escape this? Sariel will not... let any of us go..."

Domina Lowry's face contorted. The whip caught fire in her hand, and she brought it down with everything she had. The tifling screamed within the hellfire until there was nothing left of him but ash.

Domina Lowry stood over the ash for a long moment and said, very quietly: "Go to Hell. It's what we deserve."

Mr. Misfortune couldn't help but speak up for her. "She was pushed into this. She didn't want any of it."

Ambrose looked at him without expression. The old man still had a soft spot for her, it seemed.

The dream shifted again. This time, Domina Lowry was on her knees before Sariel once more, her skin charred black by hellfire. She could barely move or speak.

"Give me one more chance. Please. I'll deliver them to you. I'll send them all to Hell. Please..."

Sariel was not a forgiving god. She kicked Domina Lowry across the room and watched her slide a dozen meters across the floor. "What could you possibly offer? Every traitor knows you've been selling them out. None of them will trust you again."

Domina Lowry used what little remained of her strength. "I can... give you... the entire kingdom."

Mr. Misfortune's eyes went wide. He had assumed Domina Lowry was a reluctant instrument of Hell, driven to cooperation by torture. He had not expected that she had been the one to make this offer.

Sariel's contempt didn't waver. "You have no standing to offer that. The kingdom isn't yours to give."

"I can make it mine. I can get them all to sign. I can..."

Mr. Misfortune's hands clenched into fists. He wanted to reach into the dream and put an end to her, but he knew it would accomplish nothing. He forced himself to keep watching.

They were close to the heart of the mystery now.

Sariel's tone shifted, just slightly, toward interest. "Oh? You believe you can actually do that?"

"I... can..."

Domina Lowry's voice had faded to almost nothing.

"Then I'll give you one last chance." Fire flared in Zariel's hand, and a magical contract appeared within it.

Mr. Misfortune strained to read the text. The words were completely illegible.

"How can this be? This is the most critical piece!"

Ambrose leaned in and had a look for himself. "It's probably because Domina Lowry herself didn't know what it said. She was nearly dead. She signed without reading it. The dream reconstructs her memory. If she doesn't remember it, neither can the dream."

"But she said she would get others to sign it too. Even if she didn't know then, she must have found out later."

Ambrose shook his head. "Not necessarily. If Sariel placed a concealment spell on the contract, only the signer sees the content. And even then, devil contracts are written in the infernal tongue. I doubt many members of the Unholy Council can read it."

The language of devils carried tremendous magical force, which was precisely what gave their contracts their binding power. Any mortal who tried to study it risked having their soul corrupted by the infernal energy before a single devil even had to lift a finger.

Ambrose could study it because he was a lich, already evil-aligned and naturally resistant to such influence.

"If the others can't read it, why would they sign it?" Mr. Misfortune asked, frowning.

Ambrose laughed. "There are any number of ways: drunk, unconscious, charmed, or blackmailed. Keep in mind that this was several hundred years ago. Domina Lowry has had plenty of time to set her traps. If you're determined to deceive just twelve tiflings, it's not that difficult."

Mr. Misfortune gritted his teeth. "Then we have no way of stopping them. Every bit of effort we've put into this has been wasted."

The future of the Unholy Kingdom couldn't be divined. Fate itself had refused to let them have a glimpse, and even Domina Lowry didn't know the terms of the contract she had signed. Who else could they turn to? They could hardly walk into Hell and ask Sariel directly.

"Don't give up yet," Ambrose said. "There's still something to work with. I've studied devil contracts, and I can make out some of the markings on the page."

Mr. Misfortune stared at him. "You can read the infernal script?"

"I had no noble family to open doors for me, so I had to read everything I could get my hands on. Weren't you the same way?"

Mr. Misfortune sighed. "I've read a great deal, but not as much as you, apparently."

Tiflings carried devil blood, which meant contact with infernal power posed a far greater risk of corruption for them than for other races. The language of Hell was something he had never dared study.

Ambrose addressed the dream itself, as if speaking to the air above them. "That's enough. What comes next is probably just years of manipulation and coercion as she pressured the others into signing. We can end the dream here before Sariel actually manages to find us."

The dream dissolved, and Domina Lowry with it. Leyla, Lady of Mists, reappeared before them.

"Sariel is not someone to take lightly," she said to Ambrose. "Don't act rashly. If you find yourself in trouble, come back to me. I can protect you now."

Ambrose smiled. "I appreciate it, but it should be fine. If a lord of Hell wants to give me trouble, she'll have to get in line."

Leyla graced him with a smile. "I have never met anyone quite like you. Take care of yourself. I'll be here whenever you need me."

She dissolved into starlight as Ambrose and Mr. Misfortune awoke.

Mr. Misfortune opened his mouth, but didn't know where to begin. Should he ask about the Unholy Kingdom, and what could be done? Should he ask what exactly Ambrose's relationship with that goddess was? Or should he go back to that line about lords of Hell having to get in line to trouble him?

What had this insufferable scumbag done over the last few centuries?

Ambrose, for his part, had moved on already. "Senior," he said, "help me with a divination."

Mr. Misfortune frowned. "Didn't you hear what I told you? The future of this kingdom can't be divined. Everything related to it is opaque. Forcing a reading would get us both abandoned by fate."

"That was before I was here. What else in this world would actually require two legendary diviners working together? With our power combined, even a god would find themselves caught in our grasp. And as you said yourself, I'm the one the Goddess of Fate favors most."

Ambrose summoned his Golden Throne. Countless dice of fate rose and floated before him. "Trust that she'll extend me this one courtesy."

Mr. Misfortune laughed despite himself. "Fine. Let these old bones of mine do something reckless one more time."

Threads of fate spilled into the air before him, filling the space between them. Dots and lines wove together overhead. Slowly, image by image, something began to take shape before them both.