Realms of Magic - Brian Thomsen King [84]
"You must go," the spirit repeated, its voice changing, becoming deeper and sultry. The visage was that of another woman. "This is not a place for those who do not believe. You do not believe in our goddess. You wear no symbol of hers."
"I believe in myself," the lich replied evenly. "I believe in power."
"But not in Leira."
"No. I have no respect for the Lady of the Mists," the lich growled softly.
"Then your bones shall rot here," the spectre cursed in a new voice.
The lich stared at the creature. The undead now bore the image of a young man with a long nose, and the voice was strong and masculine. Large ghostly hands reached out and thrust into Szass Tarn's chest. The lich stood unmoving, unaffected by the spirit's attack.
"This cannot be! You should be dead!" the spirit shouted with the voice of an old woman. Indeed, the pearl-white form was now covered with wrinkles, and the transparent flesh sagged on her cheeks and jaw.
"I am already dead," the lich whispered in reply. "And you will bend to my will-whatever manner of undead you are." Szass Tarn's eyes once more became pinpoints of hot white light. They bore into the old woman's eyes and fixed the diaphanous being in place.
"Who are you?" Szass Tarn demanded. "What are you?"
"We are Leira's," the old woman replied. "We are the last of the priests who lived in this temple. When the city fell to the army of Mulhorand, we died. But so strong was our faith in the Lady of the Mists that our wills banded together in one form so we could serve Leira forever."
The lich's lips curled upward slowly. "It is your misfortune you stayed." His pinpoint eyes glowed brighter, and he concentrated on the ghostly form before him. The spirit "moaned in pain, the voice of a young man joining the old woman's.
"No!" the spirit cried in a chorus of voices. "Do not hurt us! Do not send us from the temple!"
"To the Nine Hells I will send you-to join the other priests of the Patroness of Liars," Szass Tarn threatened, "unless you serve me and cease your cacophonous whining."
"We serve only Leira," the spirit wailed even more loudly.
"Now serve a better master." The lich raised a fleshy finger and pointed it at the spectre's face. The visage of the young man had returned. A silver beam shot from the tip of Szass Tarn's finger and struck the spirit's head, sending the apparition flying backward several feet. The beam pulsed wildly while the spirit convulsed in agony.
"Who do you serve?" the lich persisted.
"Leira," the creature groaned in chorus.
Again the lich struck the creature with a silver beam. The ghostly image wavered and began to spread, as if it were being stretched on a torturer's rack. The spirit's arms and legs lengthened to the corners of the stairwell, and it became as insubstantial as mist.
"Who do you serve?"
"We serve you," the spirit finally gasped in its myriad voices.
Szass Tarn's eyes softened to a pale glow. He studied the spirit to make sure it was indeed under his control. The many minds he touched berated him, but they swore their loyalty. Smugly satisfied, Szass Tarn willed his human eyes to return.
"Tell me, priests," the lich began. "Were you this ineffectual in stopping the Red Wizards who came before me?"
"The ones below?" the spirit quipped. The creature's face was now that of a beautiful woman, the one the thing had displayed when Szass Tarn first encountered it.
"Yes. The ones below."
"They believe," the ghostly image stated. "They wear the holy symbol of Leira upon their shiny heads. All believers are welcome in this temple. All believers-and you."
"You let them pass freely because they tattooed symbols of Leira on their heads?" the lich queried. "You believed they worshiped your goddess because of a little paint?"
"Yes," the ghostly image answered. "Leira's temple is for Leira's own."
The lich looked past the creature and peered down the stairs. "You will come with me. You will show me the traps that litter the path before us. And you will show me the relic I seek."
Szass Tarn resumed his course down the stairway,