Lich for Hire

Ambrose looked down at Domina Lowry, unconscious on the floor, and said to Mr. Misfortune, "You offered your heart to the moon, but the moon would rather shine on a ditch than spare you a single ray."

Mr. Misfortune frowned. "Where did that saying come from? It's vicious."

Ambrose had come along with Mr. Misfortune. The old man had insisted on a heartfelt confession, and Domina Lowry had not been moved in the slightest. She had tried everything to escape.

When she couldn't get out of the room, she threw a ring into the air.

It detonated with minimal power and maximal noise, clearly intended to draw attention and bring the guards running.

Unfortunately for her, at the exact moment it went off, a crack of thunder split the sky outside. Rain came down in sheets, swallowing up every other sound.

Domina Lowry stared at the window in shock.

She knew Mr. Misfortune was a diviner, but she had never witnessed the power of fate firsthand.

Diviners were rare enough that most people knew only that they could foresee the future.

What Mr. Misfortune had just demonstrated was something that felt less like mortal ability and more akin to divinity.

Still reeling, she threw herself into every means of escape she could think of: magical equipment, spells, and finally, drawing her sword and swinging it directly at Mr. Misfortune. None of it produced any result.

In the end, Ambrose ran out of patience and knocked her out.

For two legendary diviners working in concert, and in an ambush no less, a tifling who had long since lost her fighting edge was never going to be a challenge.

Mr. Misfortune looked down at her with an expression that was difficult to read. Ambrose said, "You could take advantage of her being unconscious to fulfill your dream, or we could just leave."

They hadn't come to kill her. Killing Domina Lowry would accomplish nothing. Her fate was Hell regardless of whether she died here or lived another decade.

Mr. Misfortune had simply wanted to face her one last time. This would be their final meeting.

He hadn't expected it to go like this.

After a long moment, Mr. Misfortune looked away. "Let's go. We have things to do."

"Even an old flame can't change your mind about dying?"

"She was never an old flame. She never knew. It was entirely one-sided." He paused. "And sentiment was never going to outweigh what's at stake."

Ambrose sighed. "Fine. When you're gone, whatever's left of my humanity will probably go with you."

Ambrose hadn't been a lich for very long—not compared to his several centuries of life. The years spent in isolation, running experiments in his castle had been uneventful enough that they hadn't erased much of what came before.

He had thought he'd grown into the role of lich fairly well, until he came back to places he'd known and found people he remembered.

All his long-sealed memories had come flooding back at once, stirring up emotions he hadn't expected to feel.

It had given him the impulse to help Mr. Misfortune no matter the cost, which was why he had threatened Sariel, and why he had spent more gold on all of this than he cared to think about.

But it was nearly over now.

"Come on. Sariel and Tiamat have been waiting long enough. Lords of Hell don't have much patience."

Ambrose and Mr. Misfortune walked side by side past the statue of Arthur Lyon. The orchestra was still playing the same anthem in praise of the same hero.

Ambrose asked, "Do you think they know Lyon is coming?"

"Whether they know or not doesn't change much. Everyone has their own duty, their own responsibilities. They're simply doing their work."

They crossed the plaza and made their way to somewhere deserted. Ambrose drew a teleportation circle on the ground.

The next moment, they were in the Umbral Depths.

A summoning altar of the scale required to call two lords of Hell was better borrowed from Black Rose.

Milena was already there waiting. When she saw Ambrose, she came forward at once.

"Father, everything is ready."

The word nearly sent Mr. Misfortune stumbling. He turned to Ambrose in astonishment. "You have a daughter?!"

"Why is that surprising?"

"You're undead. Don't tell me you married and had children while you were alive, and then turned your daughter undead as well."

"Does your imagination only work when you're gossiping?"

Mr. Misfortune was entirely unruffled. "Just tell me. I'm practically at death's door. Consider it satisfying the curiosity of a dying man."

Ambrose relented and explained Milena's origins.

Even Mr. Misfortune, who had seen a great deal, was taken aback by the story. The undead could produce children like that?

Once his astonishment settled, he looked at Ambrose and said, "You lucky bastard. Don't take it for granted."

"Take what for granted?"

Mr. Misfortune gave him a withering look. The man was either genuinely oblivious or pretending to be. Either way, he wasn't interested in pursuing the topic. "Enough. Call those two Lords of Hell and let's get this done."

Ambrose muttered under his breath, "I've met very few people in my life who were in such a hurry to die."

But a delay would serve no purpose. Fate had spoken.

Milena took her place on the altar again. Mr. Misfortune watched with wide eyes as Ambrose recited the summoning incantation in what could only be described as a perfunctory manner. He didn't understand the infernal tongue, but even he could tell there was nothing remotely reverent or humble about Ambrose's delivery.

The lich genuinely wasn't afraid of being struck down by a god.

Perfunctory or not, two pillars of flame appeared on the altar.

The first resolved into Sariel, the fallen angel with wings of fire. The second was Tiamat, the Dragon Queen, whom Ambrose had met only once before.

Ambrose looked at them both and said, without ceremony, "My lords, as agreed, we're here to formalize the contract."

Mr. Misfortune had been quietly bracing himself. As a tifling, this was his first time standing before the lords of Hell. Something in his infernal blood stirred, an instinct to kneel that he had to consciously resist.

Ambrose's composure steadied him. Mr. Misfortune straightened his back and waited for what was coming.

Tiamat regarded Ambrose and said, "Lich, any interest in becoming one of my faithful? I'll let you pick from any of the chromatic dragons. I'll send you one as a pet."

Mr. Misfortune nearly lost his composure entirely. What was this?

Tiamat was offering him a dragon, just like that, simply in exchange for his devotion? That was an extraordinarily lenient offer.

What astonished him even more was Ambrose's response. He refused without hesitation.

"I'll pass. I already have one dragon, and she eats enough for ten. I can't afford a second."

It wasn't a lie. Every time Naomi shifted into dragon form, her appetite exploded. She needed ten times her usual intake just to recover. She wasn't picky, but she wasn't cheap to feed.

Mr. Misfortune stared. This man had a dragon?

Sariel burst into laughter. "Tiamat, you already knew this lich wasn't going to give us what we want. Why embarrass yourself?"

Tiamat's expression darkened. She moved on. "Let's discuss the matter at hand. Lich, state your terms again."

Ambrose glanced at Mr. Misfortune, then addressed Tiamat. "He and I will construct an astral passage for both of you. In exchange, the several million souls of the Unholy Kingdom are released from your claim. Vladimir will provide a specific list—I believe you've already discussed the details with him. And Vladimir himself goes free, without descending into Hell."

Tiamat said, "You're forgetting something, lich. What about the millions of soul-coins you promised me? Are you trying to cheat me?"

Ambrose cocked his head. "I thought you said you didn't want them?"

He looked at Sariel. Sariel had been the one to declare, with great emphasis, that she wanted nothing from him except her grievance.

Sariel said coolly, "I said I didn't want them. I said nothing about Tiamat. Several million tifling souls, and you think a few words from that mouth of yours will make the debt disappear? Lich, do you take us for witless low-ranking demons?"

Ambrose exhaled. "Fair point. Name your price, my lords."

What followed was a negotiation. Mr. Misfortune watched as Ambrose haggled with an Archduchess of Hell. He genuinely couldn't believe what he was seeing. Tiamat opened at five million. Ambrose countered at fifty thousand.

Mr. Misfortune had confirmation of something he had long suspected: his junior had no respect for gods whatsoever. In fact, it bordered on contempt.

They settled at one and a half million soul-coins, each one required to meet the quality of the finest specimen Sariel had personally inspected. Not one coin below that standard would be accepted.

Tiamat was quietly satisfied with the outcome. The actual souls of several million tiflings would have varied wildly in quality. Guaranteed high-grade soul-coins were a better deal.

At Ambrose's insistence, both Archduchesses of Hell swore by Aion before signing. The contract bound both parties, and violation by either side would carry consequences.

All that remained was for Ambrose to prepare the soul-coins and deliver them.

The negotiation had gone so smoothly that Mr. Misfortune couldn't make sense of it. He had never heard of devils being so cooperative. Were all the stories simply wrong? He was still trying to piece it together when both figures dissolved back into flame and were gone.

When he finally found his footing again, he turned to Ambrose and said, "Arthas, what in the world has happened to you over these past few centuries?"

No mortal could stand before gods with that kind of composure. It wasn't natural. Even for the undead, awe of the divine was something written into the soul itself.

The only explanation was that the years had put him through ordeals beyond anything Mr. Misfortune could imagine. Whatever those ordeals had been, they had burned the reverence out of him, and left something capable of outmaneuvering gods in its place, something like what they were about to do.

Ambrose held out the contract to Mr. Misfortune. "It's not too late to change your mind, Vladimir. I'll say this once more. Let the Unholy Kingdom go. Come with me. I know paladins who walked away from Lyon itself. What hold does a kingdom steeped in Hell's corruption have on you that's worth dying for?"

Mr. Misfortune shook his head. "Don't. If I were going to walk away, I would have done it centuries ago. This is where I was born and raised. I'll give everything I have to this land and the people on it. If that means ceasing to exist, so be it."

Ambrose had no argument left for that. "Then let's begin," he said. "We'll snip off every other possibility and leave only the future you want."