Lich for Hire Chapter 43: Gareths Passive Ability

Ambrose hovered silently above the ground as he inspected his domain. Everything appeared to be in order.

The humans who had co to seek refuge had finished building their hos; the newly cleared farmlands were already yielding results. With the help of alchemical potions, their first harvest would co within a few days and by the looks of it, it would be bountiful.

They were already marking out the grain they owed as tax. When they realized how much better life was here than before, their unease finally began to fade.

After the previous battle, the Porcupine Knight and the other nearby lords had suffered heavy losses. None of them dared to provoke Ambrose again. Instead, they turned on one another. Three lords had died in that war. What happened next was predictable: the survivors sched to seize the fallen lords' territories.

Ambrose had no idea what excuse the Porcupine Knight had co up with this ti, nor whether he could recover his losses. But one thing was clear. More and more freen were fleeing their lands and coming straight to the lich's domain.

He now had over three hundred humans in his territory, a not insignificant number.

The sudden influx didn't trouble Ambrose, because Raul had grown into a capable administrator.

Ambrose couldn't help but marvel at how much Raul had grown. Hardship was a potent force indeed. The illiterate man who had once stumbled blindly into his domain was now managing hundreds of people with remarkable order and discipline.

Everything was developing smoothly; Ambrose no longer needed to intervene.

Even the three prisoners weren't a problem.

Harvey, the apprentice magician, sat quietly reading in his cell. He seed so at ho there that Ambrose was half-tempted to start charging him rent. Allen and his priest companion followed a strict routine of prayer and calisthenics. The paladin had ant what he said. He had promised to behave as a model captive, and he would.

Ambrose respected that. Few people truly kept their word.

He then visited Isabel's laboratory and found that the girl's skill in alchemy had advanced considerably. She could now prepare complex potions without assistance, and Ambrose rewarded her with an enchanted ring.

He had stripped it from the priest. Unfortunately, it could only be equipped by humans, but that made it perfect for Isabel. The ring was embedded with a basic healing spell that could be used once per day to close wounds and cure common ailnts. Since Isabel now aided her brother in managing the freen, a healing spell was far more practical than any offensive one.

After making his rounds, Ambrose carefully polished his phylactery.

And then, quite unexpectedly, he realized he had nothing to do.

In the past, he had been perpetually busy conducting experints and figuring out new ways to procure more gold, but he had just concluded negotiations with Black Rose and she had sent him his first paynt. Ambrose's vaults were now flush with coin.

But the second phase of his living rcury cultivation required vast quantities of tal ore, which he couldn't obtain until Black Rose began her economic offensive to bankrupt the local mines.

So for the mont, Ambrose had nothing on his schedule.

For a lich, that wasn't a good sign.

Ambrose had lost the burdens of flesh, but also its distractions. Without desire or fatigue, what Ambrose would have to overco was endless, unbearable ennui.

"Maybe I should... count my gold again?" he muttered.

He quickly shook his head. "No, that's idiotic."

No matter how he counted his coins, they wouldn't start multiplying. A rational lich should enjoy both earning and spending gold.

After so thought, he decided to find the Dullahan for a drink.

After all, the man had given him the equivalent of a few hundred thousand gold as a greeting gift. It would be rude for a host to let his guest drink alone all the ti.

Ambrose shapeshifted into a human, left his fortress, and flew toward Alkhemia.

The changes to Alkhemia in his absence were imdiately apparent. The city looked even more desolate. More shops had gone under; fewer people walked the streets, and those who did wore grim expressions. Here and there, desperate n stood by the roadside holding signs: "Family starving—will work for food."

"This doesn't add up..." Ambrose frowned. "Have those alchemists still not reached an agreent with the Court of the Silver Moon?"

By his estimation, even the mad alchemists of Alkhemia wouldn't keep this up forever. No nation would watch its economy collapse without doing sothing.

With an entire army of alchemical constructs at their disposal, they could easily pressure the Court with military might and force them to the negotiation table. That would've been the logical move. So why weren't they doing anything?

"The Alchemists' Council may be insane," he muttered, "but they're not stupid..."

Still puzzling over the situation, Ambrose reached the South Cross Street in the adventurers' district and stepped into the Iron Slag.

There, he found exactly whom he was looking for.

Gareth, still in his human guise, was having a drinking contest with a two-ter-tall orc. Both were chugging huge mugs of burning liquor. The orc's tusked face twisted in agony as the flas scorched his throat, but he stubbornly gulped down the last drop. Gareth, in comparison, looked far calr. He drained his mug without spilling a drop. His expression—or lack thereof—didn't change at all.

By the second round, the orc was swaying. By the third, he collapsed entirely, the flaming liquor splashing over him and igniting as he flailed.

The crowd roared with laughter and applause.

Ambrose gaped at the Dullahan in silence. Did the undead have nothing better to do than to bully the living in drinking contests?

Gareth laughed out loud, slamd his mug onto the table, and bellowed, "I win! Drinks are on tonight!"

The tavern exploded in cheers. "Hurrah!"

"Bless you, my friend!"

"Gareth! Gareth!"

......

While the crowd chanted his companion's na, Ambrose found a quiet corner and called out to a familiar orcish bartender. "A pint of ale," he said.

"Master gaman, long ti no see," the bartender replied smoothly. "One mont."

The orc's movents were almost dainty as he poured the drink. His elegance was at odds with his hulking fra.

Ambrose nodded toward the cheering crowd. "What's going on over there?"

The bartender followed his gaze and chuckled. "Ah, Gareth. He's certainly a character. Haven't seen such a good drinker in years. Great personality and generous, to boot."

"I ant the buying everyone drinks part," Ambrose said. "Winning a contest and then paying for everyone? That's new."

"That's why folks call him generous," the bartender replied, then added in a low tone, "Though, truth be told, it's the owner footing the bill."

"The owner?"

The orc nodded subtly toward the far corner.

Ambrose turned and found a female orc, her skin the color of red-hot fla, muscles rippling like a lion's—and yet the way she gazed at Gareth could only be described as sultry.

Ambrose's jaw dropped. Had Gareth found himself another female patron? Was his legendary boon the ability to be a womanizer?

For a fleeting mont, Ambrose imagined a furious bone dragon unleashing her breath upon the tavern, reducing everything—Gareth, the female orc, and the bar itself—to smoking ash.