《The Deathless Worm》


 Chapter I - The God of Wishes

    Deep inside the frosted mountains was a dank hollow, filled with many dangerous things. Rock drakes, stone-fanged Gibrilrickers and Greyworms could be found in every corner of these dark caves. None were foolish enough to venture into such places. Well¡­ None except a certain elf.


    ¡°Stupid, talentless Lehelit hack! Who does that gangly freak think he is? How DARE he call me a fool. Ohohoh¡­ I¡¯ll show him who''s the REAL idiot.¡±


    Mithlas continued to mutter profanities as he wriggled through the wet, narrow crags. If it weren''t for his naturally lithe and flexible frame that all Beohil elves were known for, he would have surely have gotten stuck and starved to death like the few corpses of the desperate Wormeaters that had blocked a few of the passages. Squeezing himself through these slimy tunnels like a worm was more than unpleasant and degrading for an elf of his breed. He was tired, grimy and he smelled like the rotten blood and bile of cave-dwelling animals that he had slain along his journey. He had promised himself that once this was all over, he would march to the nearest bathhouse and indulge in all of its debaucherous pleasures. But first, he would have to find what had been buried deep in these mountains. Sure, he had been following a vague footnote in a ragged old book of tall tales, but something in his gut told him that this was the best lead he had.


    ¡°This had better be the place,¡± he grumbled. As he slid further down the small tunnel, he felt the cold wet of the cave slime squelch against his clothes and seep all the way into his skin. He cringed and let out an uncomfortable whine. ¡°Gods damn it! It just HAD to be in a gods-forsaken cave. Why couldn''t these people have chosen a less difficult place to settle?¡±


    Of course, he knew why. He hadn''t been that stupid. Just purely frustrated. According to that children¡¯s book and the few remaining fragments of text that had survived the great fires of yore, the Cult of Pithelel had always preferred the harsh mountains, not because they had been driven out by close-minded types - far from it, for Pithelel had been a popular god amongst the old pantheons. In fact, it was their popularity that their followers chose to house him in such remote and desolate places. His followers had been the sensible types. Monks that wanted people who sought out the god of wishes to reflect before making their requests. A god¡¯s followers often reflected upon the god and Mithlas was in no mood to deal with an insufferably moral god. But after much rejection from those old and new, he had very little choice. He was far too desperate to give up now.


    Thankfully he didn''t have to crawl for long, for he felt a breeze close by in the darkness. Emboldened by hope, he wriggled further and faster with more vigour than before. Too confident, perhaps, to notice that he could have been heading to his death. As he wriggled free from the hole, he felt himself tumble down with a scream. A quick shout of a feather-fall spell kept him afloat enough to grab onto a moss covered ledge with a desperate grip.


    When his breathing had become less shallow, his mind had returned to him. Instead of cursing himself for his own foolishness, he had set about cursing out these caves. After his tirade had calmed, he finally did the sensible thing and cast a spell of illumination. Had he let himself fall he would have certainly become the elven equivalent of a ripe tomato, ruptured and messy, with its red juices coating the spiked stalactites and ruins below.


    ¡°Ruins?!¡± his voice echoed throughout. The mountain replied with a warning rumble that reminded him to keep his voice low lest he irritate the mountain enough for it to crush him under rocks or send all manner of beasts his way - mountains were very funny like that. ¡°Are those really ruins? Could it be?¡±


    His smile widened as he saw the preserved stone foundations and structures illuminated by his falling light. A few more spells of light danced off of his excited tongue and lo and behold, he saw the statues, dusted mosaics and carvings interwoven and dedicated to Pethelel. The ruins eerily matched all description and pictures found in that silly book of legends, except that they had now been coated in a thick layer of cave soil and dust.


    Mithlas could hardly contain his excitement. With the spell of slow fall still in effect, he wanted to launch himself straight into the ruins below. Reason -thankfully- made him reconsider; the ruins of the temple had been situated upon platforms. Part of the foundation that held the ruins up had crumbled away to reveal abyssal holes that must have went as deep as the rot-soaked domain of the Slyth¡¯taynt and perhaps even deeper.


    He shimmied across the face of the rock wall until he was directly above part of the ruins that appeared most stable. Once again, he said the spell of slow-fall and slipped off the face of the inner mountain¡¯s wall. With a gentle clack, his feet finally met solid ground. He stretched out all of the aches that had plagued his body from crawling around in those tight tunnels. After a few clicks of his neck and spine, he dusted himself off and squeamishly rubbed off the slime and cave moss from his clothes with little success. Groaning in frustration, he set himself back to his main goal. All thoughts of his ruined garments faded when he looked upon the ruins.


    From above, the remains of the temple had already been quite impressive for something built in a very impractical place, but standing in the midst of it like many had done in the past was truly something. It was like stepping into another world. Another time. Life-sized statues of an old race had been carved in reflective ebonstone. They beheld, with great splendour, dust-caked jars that had a familiar glint that caught Mithlas¡¯ eye. He peered into one of these jars which appeared to have been filled with gold at first glance. With excitement he polished the grime and dust that dulled one of these pieces of gold. Disappointment settled in when he saw that instead of a piece of gold, he had held a lump of mirrorstone in his palm; the jar had been filled with mirrorstone. Peering closely into the stone, he saw the illusory shimmer of gold reflected off of the stone¡¯s surface. Images of riches were marred by a trickle of deep red, as if the gold had become stained with regret and the terrible power it held. The other statues¡¯ belongings were also made of mirrorstone. One statue held a child in their jar that seemed to grow and mature into something rather beastly. Another contained a lover, returned from a violent death yet still rotted away. A great many held crowns which became chains and reflected the many bones of the victims of tyranny. The ebonstone appeared just as disappointed as Mithlas then. Had an adventurer or archeologist stumbled upon this place they would have understood the mysterious beauty of the preserved remains of the Temple of Pithelel. Unfortunately, it had instead been Mithlas that stumbled upon this sacred place. He tossed the useless stone aside with a humph.


    ¡°Useless rocks. This god better not be a fraud like these statues are suggesting.¡±


    It hadn''t been long before he found a few of the monks that once tended to the temple. He found them all in a grand room shaped like a pentagon. Worn, dulled rags that had once been a brilliant blue hung upon the desiccated elves. The monks lay peacefully ever-sleeping in varying positions of comfort.


    ¡°Now this is an odd way to go out. Sleeping themselves to death on the job? Serves these lazy monks right.¡±


    Since they knew this place better than he did, he had the idea to wake at least one of them back up again.


    ¡°Diy Tuthn¡¯e.¡±


    The spell stirred the monk. Their eyes crumbled open and a groan escaped their dried lips. It croaked something that almost sounded like an insult before falling back to sleep again. Mithlas began to fume.


    ¡°Useless!¡± his shout echoed out.


    He kicked the monks¡¯ head and it unexpectedly bounced off of his foot, filling the air with dust like a Sporepuff mushroom. He cried out in shock but honestly, what did he expect? After dusting off the corpse dust from his robes, he turned his attention to the doors surrounding him, each had been uniquely patterned and coloured (though the colour had faded over the years and one could scarcely tell apart the colours that remained in this dark place). He chose the door on the furthest end then ventured deeper into the temple, letting his little starlights illuminate each room on his side. As such, he followed the ones that grew brighter, for his lights had a good eye for seeking out points of interest. It had been a neat little trick he had learned from one Dwine performer magician. Aside from a few old coins and Waterskin Mushrooms, he hadn''t found much of value in this untouched temple.


    ¡°For a cult that worshipped a god of wishes, one would think the temple would be filled with riches! This place is emptier and duller than a Dwine peasant¡¯s purse!¡±


    Yet, he still pressed on. The true prize lay further into the temple - or at least, that is what his usual logic led him to believe. All elven temples had their dedicated shrines at the furthest end where a beautiful sanctum housed the ethereal idols of the Tuthadain, the gods of the elves. Of course, the old race did things quite differently and Mithlas came to learn this after reaching a dead end in a rather dull looking storeroom.


    ¡°Where on Dana is this blasted shrine? This place is a damned maze!¡±


    Mithlas kicked over one of the cracked pots with such force that it caused the pot to immediately shatter and turn into a puff of dust. He hacked and coughed up the dust, feeling the heat of frustration rising inside him. Amidst his tantrums, he tripped upon a loose tile and fell upon a wall. His body smeared across it, wiping away the cave dust and moss that covered its faded mosaic. It was with great convenience that he revealed a map of the temple; it had been shaped like a star with five points. Each point was tiled to show what each section had been used for. He had travelled from one leg of the star to the other end. Where he was, there were pictures of monks carrying tribute and storing them. Where that tribute was now played in Mithlas¡¯ mind, but there were no clues to their whereabouts. Each of the other arms contained places of worship, living quarters and lastly, the sanctum that housed the god. On that arm, there were pictures of different peoples - some long gone and others that appeared familiar - all moving toward a wondrous sanctum that defied logic. It appeared as a garden, ever changing with the sky in its ceiling. Housed inside it was a beautiful figure - yet not as pretty as Mithlas, or so he¡¯d like to think. Pithelel appeared androgynous and kindly, adorned with many butterfly wings upon their back and the backs of their hands and feet. Praying before him was a man with tears in his eyes as the pale woman in his arms stirred from the sleep of death. The very thing Mithlas desired lay in that arm of the temple. Feeling giddy, he made hurried steps towards the sanctum.


    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    The arm of the temple leading to the sanctum was decorated with more of those statues and writings in an ancient language that he didn¡¯t care to comprehend. Had he stopped to consider them, he would have seen that they were written in the very tongue that all magic is spoken in. At the end of this arm were two large doors, partially opened. Sleeping before it was another monk, curled up peacefully in rest though part of his body was now wedged under a door. Mithlas was thankful that the door stopper had propped one of the doors open, for he gave the other door a push to make his opening wider and more dramatic but it would not budge under the minute force of his svelte frame. With a huff, he slipped through the thin opening and with a slight wiggle he found himself on the other side.


    It was disappointing. Instead of a beautiful indoor field with an ever changing sky as depicted in the mural map, there was only a dull, crumbling stone room that was just as dull as the mountain interior that the temple was housed in. It was utterly abysmal that the sanctum, the star of any temple, was worse off than the rest of the temple. The statue depicting Pithelel was just as pitiful. What stood in the centre of the room was a crude lump of rock.


    Despite his disappointment, Mithlas had come too far already to give up and he wasn¡¯t looking forward to finding an escape out of this mountain. He prostrated himself before the rock.


    ¡°O¡¯ Pithelel! Hear me! I have come to make my wish. If you shall grant it, I shall serve you for all my days!¡±


    There was a change in the room. There was a slight breeze, noticeably blowing against Mithlas¡¯ hair. The air began to smell less musty and almost sweet. There was a slight rumbling quake and Mithlas almost thought that the room was beginning to collapse from an unexpected earthquake. Instinctively he shot up and saw something peculiar. A face had appeared from the lump of stone. Around it were many eyes or things that at least resembled eyes. The stone spoke, sounding like someone who had stirred too early after a night of heavy drink.


    ¡°What?¡± Mithlas was bewildered by the sight before him that he hadn¡¯t really heard what it said.


    ¡°I said,¡± the stone groaned as it continued to take shape, ¡°how long has it been?¡±


    ¡°Since someone came here? Gods know.¡±


    ¡°Yet I don¡¯t,¡± The stone said, sounding annoyed. It looked around with its head, now a crudely carved humanoid face. ¡°Too long, clearly,¡± it said, now sounding grim.


    The stone looked at its own form and did its best to reshape itself to its former glory, but only a crude carving of a winged being emerged. Pithelel sighed. It was not a resigned sigh but an annoyed one.


    ¡°Look at what my own followers did to me. Disgraceful! After everything I did for them, they made me disappear into obscurity. If I could make wishes of my own then I would have punished them.¡±


    The crude god turned his attention to Mithlas. It managed a hideous looking excuse for a smile.


    ¡°It seems they¡¯ve failed to completely get rid of me,¡± Pithelel laughed, ¡°Who do I owe the pleasure of awakening me from oblivion?¡±


    ¡°Mithlas,¡± the Beolhil stammered pathetically for a moment before coming to his senses. He straightened himself up and flicked his hair back, ¡°I am Mithlas of house Arbethion. Scholar of the Great College of Ban¡¯Morthen, ¡­¡±


    These titles of course were meaningless to the god of wishes but Pithelel seemed genuinely pleased to hear them. So Mithlas continued describing himself and his accolades.


    ¡°... And so on and so forth. I was a rising star in the academic world. A true talent like none other!¡±


    ¡°You seem to have everything going for you,¡± Pithelel smirked, ¡°So tell me, what would someone of your talents need my services for?¡±


    ¡°I was disgraced,¡± Mithlas said with an edge of bitterness, ¡°The college refused to see my brilliance. They thought my ideas were dangerous and stupid. Pah! I¡¯ll show them. And I¡¯ll show that backward necromancer cult that said I wasn¡¯t cut out for their little club.¡±


    ¡°Oooh. An unacknowledged genius. I do enjoy one of those. So, what is it you desire? Glory? Power?¡±


    There was a manic look about Mithas¡¯ smirk, ¡°Something much greater than that.¡±


    ¡°Do tell.¡±


    Mithlas beamed, ¡°I¡¯m glad you asked, ¡± Mithlas cleared his throat. He threw back his cloak, letting it flutter along the breeze inside the room. His desires began to materialise, getting stronger. The room began to shift. The old cragged stone turned to soil. The sky shifted to a starlit night, ¡°I want the power to defeat Death itself.¡±


    The corners of Pithelel¡¯s crumbling mouth lifted into a smile.


    ¡°Power over Death? Hmm, not the first time I¡¯ve granted such a wish. Let me guess. You¡¯ve lost someone dear to you.¡±


    ¡°No no no. Nothing juvenile like that, pfft. I simply want to do what no one else has. Not even the greatest necromancers of our time have been able to do that.¡±


    ¡°Not even the Great Lich?¡± Pithelel looked at the silly little man before them, though they appeared even more interested.


    ¡°Not even he achieved that kind of greatness. All he did was become a living sack of bones and even he was thwarted by a bunch of do-gooders. No, I want to eliminate Death entirely.¡±


    ¡°Because?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s it to you?¡± Mithlas¡¯s raised his voice, ¡°Are you going to grant my wish or not?¡±


    Pithelel chuckled, ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll give you what you desire.¡±


    ¡°Well, hurry it up already. I want to get out of this awful place as soon as possible.¡±


    ¡°As you wish.¡±


    The atmosphere began to shift once more. Mithlas felt the very ground shift underfoot. A strange feeling overwhelmed him, somewhat pleasant and uncomfortable but nonetheless painful all at once. His sight began to stretch and blur and the room span quickly around him at a dizzying rate. He could feel the whole world warp around him. Desperately, he wanted to scream and throw up but he felt all contents bounce around in his throat and boomerang back into his stomach, sending him through a sickening loop.


    Then, he was back, standing right in front of Pithelel. But now, Pithelel¡¯s face had become smoothed out; an androgynous face with exaggerated eyes, but still nonetheless beautiful - though Mithlas still thought that was nothing compared to his own looks.


    ¡°Your wish has been granted. Now, go and fulfil your end of the bargain. I do not ask for much in return but that you simply spread word about me.¡±


    ¡°Hmm. I don¡¯t feel powerful, or any different for that matter,¡± Mithlas said, sounding like his throat was still recovering from all the sick and bile that jostled around inside him.


    ¡°Trust me, you will,¡± Pithelel snickered.


    ¡°Gods¡­ Come to think of it, I do feel different. I feel¡­ rather ill. Truly awful¡­¡± Mithlas began to groan.


    He was about to test one of his spells on the door stopper monk behind him. When he took his first step, he felt an odd sensation. It was as if his legs were weighed down by sacks of fertiliser. Even the smell around him -he refused to believe that stench was wafting off from him- brought back some awful memories of running humiliating errands during his time within the Sect of the Lich King. His head spun and it took a lot out of him just to turn around. He rubbed off the beads of slime that ran down his brow.


    ¡°Gah! What is this disgusting sticky stuff on my hand?!¡±


    He froze in place. His hand was completely slick in that same goo but that wasn''t the worst thing about it. His hands should have been soft, clean and well manicured. They should have been the same glowing and healthy colour of the rest of his skin. No. These graspers that he was looking at now couldn''t have possibly been his. They were green, swollen, clumsy things. Mottled and bumpy in texture with rubbery fingers that stuck a little when they pressed together. They were even missing a finger each!


    Mithlas was lost for words. Only an awful mix of a gurgle and a high pitched whine escaped his thin lips. The sound only got worse as his eyes traced the rest of his body. His clothes that were once-loose and flowing had fit snugly over his bloated torso. The buttons of his undershirt and coat had popped off, exposing the dead moss coloured flesh underneath. His clothes were discoloured by the wetness of the slime, now being secreted by the bucket loads. He was standing in clear, glowing water which now filled the previously bone-dry pool surrounding Pithelel¡¯s idol. Thin clouds of noxious brown-green goop floated off from him but he was starting to see his reflection in the clearer parts of the water.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t do that if I were you. Maybe you should try out your powers instead.¡±


    But Mithlas did not listen. In the water, there was a sagging head peering out from a bloated neck that expanded with every word he spoke and every noise he made with his voice. From the sides of his wide, lipless mouth, there were two appendages that reached around his face frantically. Now acutely aware of them, he could feel them sticking and prodding at his face. They looked like two sickly earthworms. His fat cheeks sagged into several layers. Inside his maw were rows upon rows of small teeth and a rasping tongue. His eyes were evil, beady things, darkened till the gold of his eyes were dulled into piss-coloured orbs. His flowing locks had completely vanished, leaving his slime-covered head bereft of hair.


    It would be an understatement to call the sound that came after a scream. What Mithlas had produced was more than that. It was a wail that made the mountain quake. His agony had caused landslides and avalanches on all sides of the mountain.

 Chapter II - Not quite what he wished for... Oh well!

    ¡°What have you done?!¡±


    ¡°I gave you wanted,¡± Pithelel sighed, dusting off a few flecks of rubble from the nape of his neck. ¡°So much for gratitude.¡±


    ¡°Gratitude? What do I have to be GRATEFUL for?! You''ve ruined me! Undo this right this instant!¡±


    ¡°I can''t.¡±


    ¡°You¡­¡± he stammered in pure rage. ¡°WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN¡¯T?!¡±


    ¡°I don''t take back wishes. It complicates things.¡±


    ¡°WHAT?! What do you mean you can¡¯t undo this? I didn¡¯t even ask to be turned into a FREAK! You tricked me!¡±


    ¡°Are you suggesting,¡± Pithelel leaned forward with a malicious expression, ¡°that I¡¯m a fraud? I granted your wish. What? You thought a mere elf, a being of life and light, would be capable of comprehending death? Why do you think the Lich King couldn¡¯t defeat death? An elf could never become a great necromancer. There''s only one other being fully equipped with that kind of knowledge.¡±


    ¡°A Slyth¡¯Taynt¡­¡±


    ¡°Well done, I guess you''re not as stupid as I thought you were.¡±


    It was nonetheless a hard pill to swallow and Mithlas was in no position to accept what had befallen him.


    ¡°Take it back!¡± He sobbed, shaking his squishy fists as he fell to his¡­ knees? Well they did bend, ¡°Take back this stupid wish! I don''t want this anymore!¡±


    ¡°I retract that statement,¡± Pithelel sighed, ¡°What part of ¡®I can''t¡¯ do you not understand?¡±


    ¡°Then at least give me another wish! Give me back my looks! I don¡¯t want to be this hideous slug!¡±


    ¡°Hmm¡­ No, I¡¯m afraid I can¡¯t do that either. Besides, this is far more amusing.¡±


    ¡°You know what?¡± Mithlas said through burbles of snot, ¡°For a powerful god of wishes, you seem to get everything wrong! No wonder you fell into obscurity. Who in their right mind would worship a useless god that gets every request wrong?!¡±


    Pithelel¡¯s stone face began to crack along his eyes and brow.


    ¡°Watch your tongue, you ungrateful worm. Remember it was you who grovelled to me when you could have chosen any other god to grant your request. Ah, I see,¡± the statue slapped his forehead with a clunk and laughed, ¡°You came to me out of desperation, isn¡¯t that right? No god would have ever accepted your request¡­ Except for me. And this is the thanks I get?¡±


    Mithlas trembled somewhat by the god¡¯s tone but his arrogance still held strong enough to make him say this, ¡°Since you didn¡¯t hold your end of the bargain, I won¡¯t make back on my end of our deal. You can sink to oblivion in this stinking mountain for all I care!¡±


    At this, Pithelel¡¯s form stretched and widened, pulling the very stone that formed the temple and mountain into himself. The false sun behind him turned a blood red and he casted a great shadow over the newly-made Slyth¡¯taynt. His face had remained its pleasant self but it had twisted with deep grooves of anger and hollowed out eyes that pierced into Mithlas¡¯ being.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t do that if I were you,¡± Pithelel laughed again but this time it sounded hollow, ¡°You should know better not to break a deal with a god, even a weakened one.¡±


    Mithlas could not answer. He shrunk back, whimpering.


    ¡°And you want to know what happens to people who don¡¯t pay up on their end? Why, there¡¯s a special realm that I specially prepare for all renegers. Would you like to have a peek at yours?¡±


    The slug didn¡¯t answer but Pithelel wouldn¡¯t have cared for one anyway. The room around them shifted once more, taking on a gloomy grey. There were no stars, no clouds nor a moon in the black sky. Stinging water flooded the pool until it were an endless sea. In that see Mithlas could see every regret and terrible memory flow by the shore. A boy neglected. A fool rejected. Mithlas found himself alone and screaming on an island of stone, with nothing but a mirror cylinder framed in rock which stood at the centre of the island. The moment he laid eyes upon his reflection, he picked up a stone and smashed it into the glass, only for the mirror to reform before his very eyes. Pithelel appeared above the mirror, sitting and resting his head nonchalantly with a very smug look on his face.


    Mithlas fell to his knees and grovelled, ¡°No! Please, anything but this! I¡¯ll do anything! What is it that you want?!¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t remember? You promised to worship me. To serve me for all your days!¡± at that last part, Pithelel¡¯s voice matched Mithlas¡¯ own from before he had his wish granted. ¡°But because I¡¯m doing you a favour in not casting your existence  into this wretched realm, I¡¯ll extend that deal. I want you to spread word about me throughout Dana. Let my name be known by all those that will grovel to your feet when you rule. It¡¯s only fair that we share our followers, no?¡±


    ¡°Rule?¡± Mithlas¡¯ tone changed.


    ¡°Yes, my sweet slug. Had you actually been paying attention, you would have noticed that you have greater power inside of you than ever before.¡±


    With the snap of Pithelel¡¯s stony fingers, the room dissipated, changing back into the starlit Sanctum of Pithelel¡¯s temple. Mithlas found himself on his hands and knees before the crushed remains of the door stopper monk.


    ¡°Well, pet? That monk isn¡¯t going to wake up by himself.¡±


    Mithlas gulped and tried wiping the snot and tears from his face until he realised that there was no point to it. He was covered in muck anyway.


    ¡°Diy¡­¡± Mithlas cleared the croakiness from his throat, ¡°Diy Tuthn¡¯e!¡±


    Great power surged from his words through every nerve, vessel and cell of his body. His spirit roared with such magic that it reached into the world of the dead and wrenched the soul out to place it back into its desiccated body. The corpse¡¯s dried eyes cracked open. A hoarse moan escaped its dried lips. Without another command, the monk rose to his feet. There was a fear in his eyes when he saw Pithelel and a trembling in his joints. His lower lip tremored with his fear of the smiling god of wishes.


    ¡°W-w-what is your command, master?¡± whispered the monk, unable to say what he truly wanted to say.


    ¡°Master?¡± Mithlas said, voice high with uncontainable excitement.


    ¡°What¡¯s mine is yours,¡± said Pithelel, ¡°Besides, it would please me most to see my traitorous followers get their just deserts.¡±


    Mithlas had let out an involuntary squeal of excitement as he rose his finger at the corpse. It took him a moment before he could gain control of himself.


    ¡°Erhem, bow before me, worm.¡±


    And the corpse obeyed. Mithlas had never been so happy.


    ¡°It worked,¡± he coughed and hoped Pithelel hadn¡¯t heard him but he noticed the god raising an eyebrow, ¡°I mean¡­ of course it worked.¡±


    ¡°Is this your first time raising a corpse?¡± Pithelel smirked, ¡°No wonder you were so desperate for my help.¡±


    ¡°First time? Pfft. Please. I¡¯ve raised hundreds of corpses before.¡±


    ¡°Oh sure,¡± Pithelel rolled his eyes, ¡°But I bet you¡¯ve never had a corpse this compliant before. Do you see? This is only a fraction of your potential. Why don¡¯t you find out what else you can do?¡±


    ¡°Ohoho¡­ That I shall.¡±


    Mithlas rose his finger at the hapless corpse once more, ¡°Open these doors, worm. I can¡¯t fit.. Give me an entrance fit for your new king.¡±


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    The corpse began to crawl towards the doors. With its bony arms, it pathetically pulled at the heavy doors. It strained and groaned until its arms popped out of their sockets with a poof of corpse dust. It fell flat on its face then proceeded to wriggle towards the door, bumping its head against the hardwood. Mithlas turned to Pithelel, mouth agape. The god of wishes merely shrugged.


    ¡°What?! What is it doing? Why is it doing that? Is it stupid?¡±


    ¡°A servant¡¯s actions are only as stupid as their master¡¯s command.¡±


    ¡°What was that?! Are you calling me stupid?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Pithelel said, part smiling but there was a warning glare in his polished eyes.


    Mithlas considered his next words carefully, ¡°Erm¡­ Then how do I get this useless monk to do what I want it to do? It¡¯s better as a door wedge than a door opener.¡±


    ¡°Well, it is doing what you told you. Word for word. Come on, use that brilliant brain of yours and think.¡±


    Word for word. Mithlas had slapped his forehead when he realised what he meant.


    ¡°Gods¡­ Do I have to be very specific with what I want all the time? Your servants are just as useless as y- I mean as a Yitterine demon.¡±


    ¡°Right you are.¡±


    Mithlas turned his attention back to the pathetic corpse.


    ¡°You! Door Wedge! Put your arms back on.¡±


    The corpse struggled but eventually its arms popped back into their sockets all with help from his teeth. He remained on his hands and knees.


    ¡°By the Lich King¡­ Get up, dust for brains!¡±


    The corpse complied.


    ¡°Good, now fetch me the rest of your lazy monks and place them outside the door. It¡¯s about time they woke up. Get on with it!¡± Mithlas clapped.


    The risen corpse shambled away and slipped through the thin gap between the doors. Mithlas and Pithelel spent a good deal of time waiting for their servant to pile up his brothers and sisters outside the door. Mithlas had fallen into an uneasy sleep but he awoke with a sharp nudge.


    ¡°Ack! What is it?!¡±


    ¡°Your servants are ready,¡± yawned Pithelel.


    Mithlas heard a rhythmic knock from the other side of the door and he slowly trudged over to the door. From the crack, he saw the huge pile of desiccated dead. Door Wedge stood there gormlessly, waiting for his next command. The Slyth¡¯taynt was quite pleased so he wasted no time in casting his spell. His excitement was palpable. Enough so that it came in a great wave that channelled his words with an reverberating echo. That ancient tongue reached into the very bowels of the underworld and returned all of those souls back to their wretched bodies. A collective groan filled that arm of the star-shaped temple.


    ¡°Worms! Open these doors. Give me an entrance worthy of a king! No¡­ A great king!¡±


    Those twenty five corpses all crawled out from their pile and shambled over to the door. Their collective strength brought both doors open wide. Five each stood opposite each other and bowed toward Mithlas whilst singing his praises. The other ten lay on the ground, forming a carpet of corpses leading out of the sanctum. The last five gathered behind the Slyth¡¯taynt and twisted their bodies into a throne. They urged him to rest his tired laurels on them. He was hesitant at first but upon sitting on this strange throne, he found it oddly comfortable. Their bones creaked under his weight and several of the standing corpses came to reinforce this chair.


    ¡°Wow. For once, I got something better than I expected.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s an old custom. These monks renounced their kings to avoid doing this. Look at them now. Serves them right for making the world forget me,¡± Pithelel laughed.


    ¡°I''ll make better use of them. They are my servants now, for the record.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Pithelel chuckled. ¡°What¡¯s mine is yours.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d best remember that. Now, is there a way out of this blasted mountain?¡±


    ¡°There was once,¡± Pithelel flecked a stray pebble from his chiselled curls. ¡°But the monks had sealed it away. Your best bet is to get them to unseal the entrance.¡±


    ¡°Oh, of course. This would have been so much easier if it weren¡¯t for these worms.¡±


    Pithelel laughed, ¡°This is where we part. But remember our deal. If you dare go back on your end, I will find out.¡±


    Mithlas gulped, ¡°Of course! What do you take me for?¡±


    ¡°Farewell, Mithlas, O¡¯ great Worm King.¡±


    Mithlas was giddy. He liked the sound of that name. It had a lovely ring to it.


    ¡°Show me the exit to this mountain!¡±


    The undead began to walk ahead of him whilst those underneath strained, barely moving themselves or his newfound heft.


    ¡°Gods! You¡¯re all so useless. You. Yes, all of you up ahead. Get over here and carry me to the exit. Except you, carpet corpses. You can stay there. Can¡¯t have a grand exit without a carpet.¡±


    The shambling undead merged with the throne. Though it creaked with the strain of their bones, the walking throne had finally began to move and at a hastened pace. So quick that Mithlas found himself grasping at the edge of his seat.


    ¡°W-woah! Slow down you fools!¡±


    And so they did. Too slow.


    ¡°Ugh¡­ Speed up a little bit. But not too fast!¡±


    This went on for a while until the walking throne reached a pace that was just right for their new king.


    ¡°Ahhh¡­ Much better. But why does it feel like there¡¯s something missing?¡±


    He was right. It was too quiet for a grand exit.


    Mithlas sighed, ¡°Of course¡­ If only there were an adoring crowd to cheer me on. Where¡¯s the cheers? Where¡¯s the fanfare? Alas, I¡¯m surrounded by useless priests. Nevermind. In due time, everyone will celebrate my presence wherever I go.¡±


    The monks all grumbled and groaned. They may have been the necromancer¡¯s thralls but they still had the smallest freedom to express their displeasure. Mithlas had thought that they had been trying to cheer them on only to utterly fail in doing so.


    ¡°Oh, shut up, the lot of you,¡± he groaned, ¡°I appreciate the effort but you¡¯re making this event sound depressing.¡±


    They passed through some parts of the mountain temple that Mithlas had only seen from a top down view during his descent but had not ventured into. He passed grand statues depicting Pithelel in his many aspects - all of which appeared to have lost some of their initial cracks and dust as if they had been renewed, in a sense. Unnervingly, they seemed to be peering down at him. There were other buildings. Not just small shed-quarters and storehouses that were commonly found near temples but mansions. There were markets with shelves full of dust and broken jars. There had been a great city here around the temple, but it had all but vanished from history.


    The monks came to a stop at the road. The wall of the mountain had completely covered where the exit had been. It¡¯s as if it had never exited in the first place and the road was built to lead to a dead end. Mithlas wondered if the monks had wished the passage out away, but there was no way Pithelel would have agreed to such a thing. The god was too clever for that. He looked closely. The mountain had been sealed by separate stones, carefully carved and packed together with a special type of mortar that only made it appear as though there were no mouth in the mountain. Something built by hand like this could still be destroyed. Had he searched the base of the mountain more thoroughly, Mithlas would have saved himself the humiliation of wriggling around those tight spaces in the mountain. Though the thought made him bitter, he was nonetheless a little pleased by the outcome of his quest for power.


    ¡°Open up the exit! And careful now. If any one of you dare cause a cave-in, I¡¯m going to leave you under a boulder for the rest of your un-life.¡±


    The undead all disassembled from their throne form, gently leaving Mithlas standing on the ground as he watched them work. Stone by stone, the monks undid all of their past efforts to keep this place a secret. The longer Mithlas stood there, the more he grew impatient. He became increasingly aware of how hungry and weary he had become. He hadn¡¯t slept since he first climbed the mountain and his rations had been lost during his run in with Gribrilrickers. Those drake-like scavengers had made off with his food. Though he delighted in getting his bloody revenge on them, no amount of dragon blood spilled would ever bring back those delicious travel morsels. Gods, did he smell too. Food aside, he so desperately wanted a bath. Would a bath rid him of this foul stench? The question made him anxious the more he thought about it.


    ¡°I don¡¯t have all day. Hurry up, lazybones!¡±


    The monks sped up in their work whilst Mithlas glared at them, arms crossed. Though their speed had increased, they were careful with every movement of rock. It seemed these monks were smarter than Mithlas had given them credit for. After a little more time, one of the undead moved a stone, letting dusk-orange light to pour into the mountain. Mithlas shambled into the rays of the light, letting it touch his skin. The warmth from it was welcome but the light gave him a somewhat clearer look at the rest of his body. He didn¡¯t like how his skin glistened with slime all over and he didn¡¯t like how bloated and bumpy his body had become. It showed on his face and his undead seemed to sense his unease.


    ¡°What are you all gawking at? Hurry up and finish the job.¡±


    And so they did. The mountain opened up into a grassy field turned golden from the evening light of the sun. This was the very place where Mithlas had started his ascent into the mountain and he was still -if not more- confident and full of wonder but for a new reason. He could not wait to explore this newfound power surging through his body, and better yet, he could not wait to show everyone what he was now capable of. Fresh air flooded in, just as tangible as what Pithelel had conjured in his sanctum. Mithlas took it all in, ready to leave this cursed mountain and finally find a way to conquer death. He called upon his undead to reassemble into his walking throne.


    ¡°Alright, worms. Onward! We set off for Dar¡¯Gehon!¡±


    The walking throne began moving into the grassy fields. It had been long since these monks had felt blades of grass on skin, soil underfoot and the sun and wind on their skin. Their groans were louder from the shock of it all.


    ¡°Gods, would you stop that? I¡¯d rather have silence than spend the entire journey listening to you all moan.¡±


    And so they set off, the mountain growing smaller with every step the Worm King¡¯s throne took. Though the mountain grew further away, Mithlas kept looking behind him. His heart was heavy and anxious. Pithelel¡¯s words echoed in his mind. These were words he would never forget, for forgetting meant a fate worse than death. He committed them to memory.


    ¡°I want you to spread word about me throughout Dana. Let my name be known by all those that will grovel to your feet when you rule¡­ If you dare go back on your end, I will find out.¡±

 Chapter III - Strange New Tastes

    It was moonlight by the time the Throne of the Dead reached the thick ironwood forest of Rinn¡¯Caile. The forest was so thick that the stars and moon god¡¯s light had been blotted out by the canopies. The way was lit by a meagre light; it was all Mithlas could manage to cast. Mithlas¡¯ stomach had begun to growl incessantly and the hunger had gnawed from within his bloated stomach like nothing he had ever experienced. His boredom was the only thing reminding him how hungry was.


    The only thing that could distract him was sleep, but each time he let himself pass into the false-death the light would fade out and he would be impolitely jolted back to the world of the living after his throne had crashed blindly into a tree. After the twelfth time, he yawned and groggily cast the spell of light. After repeating his command, the Throne of the Dead walked again. That was the thing with the undead. They never got tired or hungry. It was a mystery that had yet to be solved even by the most curious of necromancers. Whether it was the act of being fueled by magic alone or something else entirely one really knew what kept the dead going. Regardless, it was really handy and at that moment, Mithlas wasn¡¯t too concerned about that.


    ¡°Gaaaah! I¡¯m starving! Hurry up, godsdamnit!¡± Mithlas complained for the hundredth time. ¡°I should have had dinner AGES ago! Do you want your king to waste away?! Do you want me to STARVE?!¡±


    Deep down the monks did. Oh how they desired it! Of course, they were not allowed to express themselves nor abandon the slug on their backs. All of them prayed that their master would keep misdirecting them for long enough until he starved to death. But the question hung in their heads. Could a Slyth¡¯Taynt die from starvation? They had never seen one before, even in their long existence. Surely, even these slugs could die, right? Alas, they were forced to quicken their pace and endure their master¡¯s complaints in this deep forest.


    They were too far from their destination. Dar¡¯Gehon was miles away beyond the thick of the forest. It was beyond the hills and plains beyond that. They must have gotten lost amidst their mishap with their master sleeping as the path had disappeared. It was astonishing how Mithlas had not noticed but when you¡¯re one as sleep deprived and hungry as him, you¡¯d be hard-pressed not to lose your way. Whilst the monks searched around, scuttling to find the path again, they saw the trail up ahead.


    Then, the light began to flicker and fade again, until they were engulfed in dark once more. One of the monks snagged his leg on what felt to be a large branch. Legs began to tangle in a tripping mess of limbs. There was then a scream, then a thud and a crash of leaves. Mithlas felt his body planted face down on wet humus and leaves. Some of it had entered his mouth. He sat up, spitting out nature¡¯s filth from his mouth - which was a struggle now, for his lips and face managed to trap some of it in the thick, gluey slime covering him. There was still the faint taste of dirt in his tongue¡­ and it was appetising. No. That couldn¡¯t be right. He spat out what he could of the taste and in the midst of doing so he heard his stomach rumble loudly. It was then that he realised that he was no longer sitting on his throne; he was in the dark, sitting on the ground like some kind of animal.


    ¡°Worms?! Where the hell are you? Get over here!¡±


    He heard groaning close to him, followed by the crunching, squelching steps of bare, bony feet until he heard another thud. More loud moaning followed. This repeated until Mithlas grew too annoyed to tolerate it anymore.


    ¡°Godsdamnit, must I do EVERYTHING myself?! Loith¡¯Reatha an Lithrod!¡±


    A tiny light hovered over him. He could hardly see beyond a centimetre beyond himself but it was enough to catch the monks¡¯ attention. Out of annoyance, he waved his arms around, looking all about him.


    ¡°Over here, you imbeciles!¡±


    He heard the scuttling get closer and then he saw the familiar outline of his throne crawl forward into the light and lower itself to kneel for him. Without hesitation, he collapsed onto his seat.


    ¡°I swear, you do that one more time I will¡­¡± his repeated tirade -which he had forgotten he had repeated earlier- was interrupted by the violent growl of his stomach.


    The pain of hunger had grown so uncomfortably immense that he could scoop up the forest floor and eat it all if he wanted to. But he didn¡¯t want to do that. At least, that¡¯s what he would have liked to believe. He shook off these strange thoughts and began to command the undead once more. They resumed their nightly walk with Mithlas unperturbed by the pains and exhaustion burdening his body. He needed sustenance. That came first before sleep - for the pains of hunger needed to be addressed urgently.


    Not long after they had resumed their walk, Mithlas faintly scented something¡­ delicious. It reminded him of Dragon Forge Eggs, a delicacy from a far away land - the ones he had were duck eggs fermented in a traditional spiced brine and smoked with not-so-traditional ironwood. Whether it was the delirium of hunger and exhaustion or the urges brought on by his body, he decided to follow the scent.


    ¡°Nevermind Dar¡¯Gehon. Follow that scent!¡±


    The undead tried sniffing around and followed scents completely unrelated to the one he wanted to follow.


    ¡°Stop, you idiots! We¡¯re getting further away. Can¡¯t you smell those eggs? Fermented ones? Heavily smoked¡­¡±


    He continued to describe that scent. This confused the undead further which infuriated their master. Not having anymore of their nonsense, he relented and guided his throne by making them follow his little light. The scent got stronger as they wove through the trees faster and faster. Mithlas was practically drooling - even though Dragon Forge Eggs weren¡¯t something he had been fond of before, but he was hungry enough to eat just about anything. The light was dying and exhaustion was taking hold once again until the throne came to a stop. The smell was overpowering. So overpowering that the undead shuddered and tried to cover their own and each other¡¯s nose-holes. Illuminated by that tiny light was the hind leg with dark, matted fur.


    ¡°Let me down,¡± Mithlas stammered.


    The Slyth¡¯Taynt slid off and scrambled forward. He wondered if this was some kind of fresh kill left behind in the forest - though, he knew this: fresh kill would never smell so exotic, let alone eggy. He moved the light closer to the dead thing - his throne edged closer, not wanting to leave the fading light. He revealed a bloated corpse of an Iron Wolf. The iron plating of its skull and spiked spine was peeling off, revealing numerous maggots that wriggled around inside the exposed flesh. The sight should have disgusted him. It should have but¡­


    ¡°No¡­ No no no no. There¡¯s no way I¡¯m going to eat that!¡±


    But it smelled so good. His body hungered for the rotten thing so much that it overpowered all reason and sensibility. Closer and closer, he edged forward till his gaping mouth was a millimetre away from the taut, round flesh of the dead wolf. In that moment, he learned something important about Slyth¡¯Taynt. They needed dead, rotting things. They thrived on it. They craved it. Despite all his willpower, despite his pride and ego, despite all his insistence that he was still an elf -a noble Beolhil elf no less- it wasn¡¯t enough. The monks that made up his throne all shuddered at what they had witnessed and they cursed the fact that they could still feel sick yet they could no longer retch. Of everything they had seen in their previous lives, this was amongst some of the most traumatic and disturbing things they had ever witnessed. Nothing, except for marrowless iron bones and iron plating, was left of the wolf.


    Mithlas sobbed and then belched and sobbed some more.


    ??????????


    The rest of the journey was spent in dead silence. The small guiding light had strengthened somewhat but not by much; Mithlas was still exhausted but he didn¡¯t sleep a wink. The monks could hardly blame him; they would have fared similarly if they still required sleep. As they edged towards the end of the forest path, the dark blue of the first dawn had poked out between the leaves of the canopy, filling the land with its sombre hues. When the trees had receded into an overgrown valley, that groggy blue had mingled with the smoky grey of the rolling fog.


    The moist cold air was uncomfortably pleasant to Mithlas skin and lungs. His eyes could hardly stay open now and the fog ahead seemed so thick that even his pathetic excuse for a light spell wasn¡¯t going to help. Despite not desiring rest, Mithlas could ignore his tiredness no longer. He commanded his Throne of Dead to find a suitable spot to camp. They stopped and went as Mithlas kept complaining. Either a spot was too open, too dry or too wet. Eventually they settled upon a raised bit of land, overgrown with wild hedge-growths, long dew-tipped grasses and sparse trees. The priests let their load roll off of them and they were allowed to disassemble into a more comfortable standing position, wherein they stretched, cracked and shook off their stiffness to not much success. They were to stand guard around their king, armed with branches and the spells that they had committed to memory before their strange slumber.


    Mithlas had crawled under a space under where a log and a few large rocks had rested upon each other and sunk into the earth, leaving enough space for the Slyth¡¯Taynt to fit most of his body, save for his small slimy tail - it was only when he felt a breeze blowing against it that he realised that he had one. The space smelt of mildew and the musky-sweet scent of earth and fallen leaves. He shivered, not because he was cold - his body loved the cold and that exactly was part of the problem. He was disconcerted by how much change he had undergone and there was nothing else he feared right now than getting to love this horrid form. Thinking about it had made him lose energy so he fell right asleep.


    In his dreams, Mithlas saw the light receding from view. He was cold, a deathly kind of cold, but it was pleasant to him as warmth had been once to him. He recoiled from it. He wanted to leave the shadows, so he waded through them with his new heavy legs. When he came close to the light, he could make out figures dancing around a hill. A roaring bonfire kept the shadows out and the festivities in. A little closer now, he could see that they were elves but they wore the same kind of imperfect patchwork of leathers and cloth that the Dwine and Kligane don themselves in. He edged towards the warmth, a bothersome heat that made him sweat more slime from his pores. As he emerged into the light, the dancers stopped and stared in utter horror. They pinched their noses and squealed, staggering backward. Some came forward, waving torches at him and screaming what sounded like profanities in a primitive tongue. The light stung. It dried his skin.


    Mithlas opened his eyes. His tail end had been baking out in the sun. He pulled it inward into the damp and tried smearing some slime on his poor tail to soothe it. The attempt somewhat worked. A slight sting still lingered and his tail was discoloured, but he was better off than before. He trembled as he stared outside - the warmth of the sun had covered the land outside completely, leaving nary a shadow or shade for him to take shelter under. Thankfully, he remembered that he had a group of undead waiting outside for him.


    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    ¡°Worms! Shield me from the sun! I need you all right NOW!¡±


    The undead gathered around the space he had sheltered in. Immediately, they wrapped their bodies together in an attempt to build a shade shelter around him. Unfortunately, they were too few and too bony to produce sufficient enough shade. The leaves above them were too young, too small to improve their little shelter.


    ¡°Great. Just great. What am I going to do now?¡±


    He slammed one foot against the soil wall of his little room and felt something sharp jab him.


    ¡°OW! WHAT IN THE NAME OF-?!¡±


    When he shifted his body away, he saw something glowing and white protrude from the soil. Manoeuvring his body around with great effort, he shifted his position so that his head could closely examine the thing more clearly. The thing appeared to be shaped like a bone. A clean one, despite being surrounded by soil, yet, roots had begun to sprout from them. This was none other than an elvish bone. As luck would have it, Mithlas put two and two together and realised that he had stumbled upon a Cot-Hill. Despite the seemingly innocuous name, such a term was used by necromancers for old burial mounds built in the old days when the Beohil and the Lehelit lived in small sidhe villages. Generations of dead would be buried here - which wasn¡¯t a lot given that the elves had exceptionally long lives and a tumultuous history which forced them to move every few generations. There must have been a substantial amount of undead buried in here, untouched for centuries. A smile grew on Mithlas¡¯ thin lips. He spoke the words to raise the dead.


    A great surge of energy filled him and the area surrounding him. For a split second, he could see his very own magic reaching into the underworld, yanking those sleeping souls and stuffing their shrieking selves back into their remains that glowed from within the hill. That much power made him feel so amazing. It was nothing like he had ever achieved before. He wanted more. He was so giddy that he began to laugh aloud to himself. The vision faded and he felt a great quaking from opposite him. Soil began to bury him and muffle his screams.


    ¡°Get¡­ me¡­ out!¡± he cried before the soil fully enveloped him.


    Some of the soil had fell into his mouth when he was buried. He had made the mistake of trying to spit the soil out, only for more to enter as expected. Between choking to death and ingesting the soil, naturally he swallowed it all down - that¡¯s to say, it was the only natural option for his body - and to his dismay, the taste was beginning to grow on him. It almost reminded him of the common root vegetables that he grew up with or a strong green tea in a clumpy form - richly earthy, as expected of soil. Eating strange things once again aside, the cramped environment was making him uncomfortably comfortable again and he shifted around in his grave with shallow breaths, hoping that his thralls had heard him earlier. First he was turned into a Slyth¡¯Taynt, then that whole incident in the forest, now he had been buried alive. Suffice to say, he wasn¡¯t happy in the slightest about his predicament. Still, he had done something spectacular so his day wasn¡¯t entirely ruined to warrant another streak in his list of things that have gone poorly for him.


    Not a minute longer, the earth above him began to shift. The darkness broke away and his face was exposed under a cool shade. Blinking the remnants of soil away, he found himself staring up at skeletons, all sprouting roots and small trees from the heads or backs; the elves of this very Cothill! Suddenly, they yanked him out quite awkwardly and roughly. Mithlas coughed and wheezed, too glad about being unburied to admonish the newly revived undead for their rough handling of their king. Thankfully he was sheltered from the sun by the shade of their trees.


    It really was spectacular that he managed to revive undead of this calibre. Reviving the desiccated monks of an ancient god was one thing, but to revive elves whose bones had sprouted sacred trees that should have protected them from such magic was another thing. None had quite achieved this feat, other than the Lich King himself. The skeletons twitched and their bones creaked as if trying to fight against their stillness. A fear had settled on their bones like no other experienced in life. Like the monks around them, they could only wait for their master¡¯s next command.


    ¡°What excellent thinking on my part! Bone trees! I want you to provide me with shade at all times during the morning. You shall become a useful fixture for my Throne of the Dead,¡± He pointed out a bunch of undead at random, ¡°...you, you and you, assemble my throne this instant!¡±


    At once the undead obeyed. His throne had expanded into a large chariot, assembled by bone and desiccated flesh and trees and bushes. It appeared like a moving portion of forest, moved around by skeletal hands and feet. The free hands tended to Mithlas¡¯ every need, massaging his sore spots sustained during his journey and entertaining him with a bit of gesture theatre in which these hands told old folklore through the gestures and manipulations of their hands. The rest unbound to the throne were a mix of monks and formidable tree skeletons that moved surprisingly fast for their lack of flesh and their lumber heft. Mithlas could truly call this an army of undead, his numbers bolstered from a meagre twenty five monks to fifty undead. Still, he was unsatisfied. It wasn¡¯t just that he desired more undead, but he didn¡¯t want to turn up back at the Lich King¡¯s Sect Hideout looking and smelling like a steaming mound of fermented turds. Worst of all, after all of that effort of resurrecting those Cothill skeletons, he was starting to feel rather hungry; and no, he was not keen on feasting on another disgusting thing!


    Their route had changed and Mithlas had his undead travel at a quicker pace. He had them keep an eye out for any houses. Not simple peasant hovels. No, he needed a mansion and he wouldn¡¯t settle for any less. There was bound to be a holiday estate in this neck of the woods, even if it belonged to a Dwine. Even a Dwine mansion would be sufficient. Luckily enough, he didn¡¯t have to wait very long. The lumbering undead had passed out through the hills and into a smaller wood until they stumbled upon some tracks.


    ¡°Gods, not another forest. This better lead somewhere.¡±


    The group followed the tracks into the forest and their search had not been in vain. The tracks led to a path of leaf-shaped stones and that path led to a clearing. There was an earthen-coloured building walled off by rose hedges and small trees evenly spaced from each other in a zig-zagging pattern. The mansion itself was made of tortoise-limestone for its walls and climbing vines clung along its sides like a green coat of leaves. It had darkened windows and a single spire about below the height of the treeline. The mansion itself seemed to want to blend in with the forest, but it was so perfectly groomed that it failed in its attempts to do just that; it was trying too hard and failing. This is just what Mithlas needed.


    ¡°Excellent,¡± Mithlas licked his lips, ¡°Now we march.¡±


    The undead carried him straight through the front gate. No guards were there to stop them so the walking Cothill elves simply broke through the wooden hedge-gate with a swing of their wooden clubs-for-arms. With the gate shattered to smithereens, the Throne of the Dead marched onward to the darkwood door of the mansion. Two guards drunkedly staggered out of the building in good spirits and immediately sobered up at the sight of the army of undead at their doorstep. One remained frozen, looking to the older guard. The older one, a round, red-faced woman, reached out for her sword with a unsteady hand before finding its hilt and unsheathing it. She pointed it toward the army, finding a solid stance.


    ¡°Halt!¡± she hiccuped, ¡°Stop right where you are!¡±


    Mithlas gave her a questioning look before laughing hysterically, ¡°You can¡¯t be serious.¡±


    ¡°Have you any idea whose property you¡¯re trespassing on? Be off with you before you get yourself into serious trouble!¡±


    Mithlas yawned, ¡°Who? Honestly, I could care less about some rich old Kilgane. You short lived types couldn¡¯t begin to comprehend even a fraction of a Lehelit¡¯s wealth.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t ask again, slug.¡±


    Mithlas¡¯ eye twitched at the word.


    ¡°I am no slug,¡± he sat up straight, ¡°and you¡¯d best get that through your thick, underdeveloped skull, Kligane or else you¡¯ll be answering to me for the rest of your undead life.¡±


    The older guard gave her partner a grin, ¡°You wanted to be a paladin, right boy? Well, get ready because this is your first real fight.¡±


    ¡°B-but there¡¯s so many of them, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°Phshhhft¡­ This is enough. It¡¯s miniscule compared to the Lich King¡¯s armies.¡±


    ¡°Miniscule? MINISCULE?!¡± Mithlas blubbered, ¡°My army is greater than that so-called Lich King¡¯s forces! Worms! Kill them! I want them grovelling at my feet!¡±


    The Throne of the Dead disassembled. The first wave of Cothill skeletons charged forward. The older guard stood her ground next to the younger one; he had only just then started to unsheathe his sword but he fumbled it. The overgrown skeletons had already closed in. Their arms raised to crush the guards like mere beetles. The older guard raised her head.


    Blinding light swiped through the first wave. The skeletons froze before their club-arms could meet their mark. Then, there came a creaking sound. The top halves of their bodies toppled backwards.


    ¡°Timber!¡± shouted the guard with a hiccup.


    Mithlas yelped when he saw the first of his newly summoned undead fall. Their top halves fell upon the second wave behind them, burying monks and smaller skeletons under thick logs. He had sorely underestimated his opponents, or rather, the single guard. Her sword glowed with light and it seemed that there was a constant spotlight or a halo around her; she was a paladin. A retired paladin.


    ¡°Godsdamnit! I just raised you from the dead! Pick yourselves up and kill that drunk old frump!¡±


    Much to the paladin¡¯s surprise, the halved skeletons were still trying to pick themselves back up. Still, that hadn¡¯t been enough to shake her resolve. With a smile, she kept fighting back against the undead with her less-experienced partner. The younger guard struck a monk right between their ribs, but his sword got stuck, tangled with the string of the monk¡¯s robes and jewellery. He did not anticipate the moving tree-skeleton moving up toward his exposed flank. The older guard saw her partner struggling and pushed off the skeletons and monks stuck on her sword. Without touching the undead, she swung her blade and a radiating slash flew through the stuck monk and the incoming skeleton, causing their bones to loosen and fall apart.


    ¡°Stop playing around, boy! This isn¡¯t sword practice!¡±


    The younger guard straightened up and did his best to concentrate harder. With each wave, she felled them all, but they just kept building themselves back up. That¡¯s when she began crushing their bones under her boot.


    ¡°Must I do everything for these useless worms?¡± Mithlas huffed.


    He drew upon his power and shouted out a spell typically used for repairing broken bones - his prior knowledge studying as a healer mage was always handy. Completely shattered, unmoving undead reassembled and began walking again. Seeing this, the retired paladin set her sights upon Mithlas. The Slyth¡¯Taynt almost jumped out of his skin when he saw that bloodthirsty look on her face.


    ¡®She¡¯s absolutely insane,¡¯ he thought, ¡®I need to deal with her fast!¡¯


    He focused all his efforts on fixing up his army as rapidly as he could. In precious few seconds, skeletons and desiccated corpses reassembled. They clawed and punched and struck out at the woman, but she kept guarding and sidestepping their attacks as she charged toward Mithlas. She swung, sending a flying slash toward him. If it weren¡¯t for a Cothill skeleton, bumping her slightly, Mithlas would have been dead. The slash barely touched the top of his head, causing Mithlas to shriek and duck late. Furious now, Mithlas sped up his spell. The guard countered one heavy swing from a skeleton but she didn¡¯t see one newly assembled monk strike out toward her. His bony knuckles met her jaw, knocking her completely off kilter. That was the opportunity all the undead needed. She did her best to defend against their attacks, but one more hit to the abdomen by a skeleton¡¯s club arm was too heavy of a blow for her old body to handle. She was knocked to the side. Before the undead could descend upon her, the younger guard tried to fight off the few monks.


    ¡°Run Colin! Get out of here!¡± she urged.


    The boy froze, ¡°But what about you? The mansion?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be stupid boy, go now!¡±


    Seeing the many undead rush toward him, he froze again, until he heard the older guard mutter a chant. Suddenly, he felt an overwhelming cowardice come over him. His legs sprang to flee and he sped off faster than a stallion through the forest. Too fast for the undead to pursue him, all the undead focused on the former paladin. The woman¡¯s resolve crumbled. The undead all descended upon her and it was over in a few seconds.


    Mithlas smiled smugly as he looked over her body. Something freshly dead would be easy to revive and fix up. With the right spells, she opened her pale eyes.


    ¡°Welcome to my army, paladin,¡± Mithlas laughed. ¡°Now, I wonder what I should call you¡­¡±


    ¡°Dame¡­ Gnatta¡­¡±


    ¡°Hmm¡­ Fine. I¡¯ll let you keep your name. Well then, Dame Gnat, show me to your pantry. Your king is famished.¡±

 Chapter IV - A Much Needed Makeover

    The doors of the mansion flew open. The moment the throne¡¯s bony feet clattered on ivory marble and felt a long-awaited warmth from the oak-leaf patterned long carpet, they were met with the marble statue of a paladin. The armour-clad figure stood proudly, in one hand, holding the shield of the Gods of Light, the Tutha¡¯Duin. In his other hand, he held aloft a sword flaked with gold leaf - ¡®How shoddy!¡¯ Mithlas thought, and he was right to think so, for if this was of Beohil make, it would have been made of actual solid gold. Most striking of all was his helm which was shaped like a snarling hound with bared teeth and cropped ears. This was none other than the paladin famed for killing the Lich King many, many years ago, Ser Cu of Gol¡¯Stanta


    ¡°So this little holiday cabin belongs to the Dog Knight? Or rather, his descendants. Not what I expected from that rugged dog of a man.¡±


    He felt that pang of hunger again, followed by the ravenous growl as if possessed by the spirit of the wolf he¡­ nevermind. He wanted to forget what happened that night as much as possible.


    ¡°Come, worms. Your king is starving. Find me some food. Fresh food.¡±


    After navigating many halls and rooms, they soon found the kitchen. It had been left in a state. The guards must have been drinking here, but there were a few more than two cups stained with wine sitting on a large wooden table. There were windows on one end of the wall, but the one just opposite the kitchen counter had been left open, showing the battle-damaged front yard. Dame Gnatta trembled, but her new loyalty to the Slyth¡¯Taynt prevented her from moving of her own accord. She heard a loud growling coming from the throne.


    ¡°Looks like you and your friends were having a party here, Gnat. Be a dear and show me where you keep the food and fine wine.¡±


    The order was made and it moved her against her own will; even her iron stubbornness wasn''t enough to fight against this low grade necromancer. His words had been laced with a strong magic, not unlike the Lich King that she and her old companions had fought against. She silently cursed at herself as she moved closer to the small stairs leading into the pantry. She had hoped they had hid someplace else. Anywhere but the pantry. Her hands shakily gripped the circular handle of the door. She could scarcely hear frightened breathing from the otherside. Gods¡­ no.


    The pantry door swung open with a loud creak; a sound that most definitely made Mithlas cringe - they couldn''t even be bothered to keep all the door hinges oiled to prevent such an assault on his poor ears?! These servants sure did get lazy without their masters and mistresses in the house.


    From the other undead¡¯s perspectives, nothing out of the ordinary could be seen inside. Mithlas was far too hungry to notice anything either, except for the great selection of fine foods and drinks on display. Immediately he ordered his undead to prepare him a feast; nothing that needed to be cooked - mind you, he was far too hungry to wait. Mithlas¡¯ throne had plonked itself down beside the table, which was quickly cleaned and dressed with tablecloth and the finest of plates and cutlery. As each of the undead cut and prepared the dried meats, hard cheeses, fresh fruits and sweet breads, Gnatta kept a sideways glance towards the pantry. Somewhere amongst the barrels and sacks, there was something there, biding, listening.


    ¡°Gods, just bring the food here already. I''m wasting away!¡±


    The undead were interrupted from their preparations. Usually, Mithlas wouldn''t have taken a bite if the food had not been to his standards, however he did previously eat dead wolf and he was starving so standards had flown straight out of the window for him. The moment he took a bite of a fresh golden pear, a look of utter disgust crossed his face. There hadn''t been anything wrong with the fruit; the texture was right and the taste was sweetly tart. It should have been the best pear he had ever tasted but he felt so sick to the point that he spat it right out.


    ¡°A-Are you trying to poison me?!¡±


    The dried up monk holding the bowl of fruits shook his head creakily. He staggered back as the slug snatched the bowl and tossed it away.


    ¡°Stupid bag of bones¡­ Bring me something else!¡±


    One by one, the undead presented Mithlas with all the finest things from that pantry. Every sweet, savoury, perfectly seasoned thing was spat out and thrown aside by the slug. He came close to gagging several times but by some strange process of his body, nothing ever did come back up. He was sweating profusely again. His emotions were a mix of disgust and a gnawing fear. In desperation he tried to force himself to swallow these things, but he could hardly keep these foods in his mouth for even a second. The pantry was growing emptier and with it, Dame Gnatta¡¯s worry was growing.


    After a failed attempt at trying to eat one more piece of a sweet pastry, Mithlas gasped and grasped at the edges of the table.


    ¡°This isn''t fair,¡± he heaved, ¡°The food must be poisoned¡­ Those damned servants must have done it.¡±


    In truth, there had been nothing wrong with the food at all. It was a strong suspicion in the back of his mind but one that he couldn''t bear to accept. It was easier to blame his folly on the ill-prepared servants of the mansion. The undead had froze in their commands, forced to hear the Mithlas¡¯ whining and complaining.


    Whatever was hiding in that pantry had noticed that the undead had stopped coming into the pantry. Still retaining her hawkish perception into undeath, Gnatta could see two faces peering out from the heavily shadowed part of the dark pantry. If her heart could still beat, it would have burst from her chest. She willed those two to leave. Each moment, they hesitated, rocking in and out of view. It took one to finally rush out quietly, followed by the second, frightful one. Before they could make it to the door, Mithlas had recovered from his outburst - their hesitation had cost them dearly and Gnatta had let out a groan of disappointment.


    ¡°It seems we have two rats sneaking around,¡± Mithlas chuckled.


    The two servant girls made a break for the door but with Mithlas¡¯ command, they were caught by his undead servants. They kicked and screamed before being promptly sat down on the opposite side of the table from Mithlas, just in front of Gnatta. The young women continued to struggle, as rodents caught in a trap would do.


    ¡°Ah ah ah,¡± Mithlas said, wagging his finger at them, ¡°I¡¯ll have none of that attitude from either of you. Doorwedge, Gnat, shut them up.¡±


    The two moved of their own accord and placed their hands over their mouths. When the girls saw Gnatta, their hearts sank and fear nestled in their hearts.


    ¡°Now-¡± Mithlas was interrupted by his stomach¡¯s protests. With reluctance in his voice, he finally relented, ¡°Ugh¡­ Cachiad, bring me the overripe items¡­¡±


    The undead priest quickly brought him a bunch of almost-past-gone food from the pantry; it was all that was left in there now. Mithlas took the food and ate it all up feeling immense regret for savouring the lightly rot-touched flavours.


    ¡°Now, what shall I do with you two?¡± he said, munching into a slightly brown-sagged apple.


    The servants looked at Mithlas in disgust, clearly unable to take his appearance or scent even though their mouths and noses were shielded by a freshly undead and a long desiccated undead.


    ¡°What¡¯s with that look? If you keep looking at me like that I¡¯ll add you to my army. I have every right to after you stampcrabs tried to poison me!¡±


    With that the girls together changed their look and forced smiles.


    ¡°You can do better than that. Smile, you''re in the presence of a king!¡±


    The maids put a bit more effort into looking like they were genuinely happy to behold such a sight. They pictured their ideal lovers: one pretended to see a fellow with flowing hair, strong jawline and chisell¡¯d torso like any man sung of by the Bards of Erotica. The other saw the squire that -unfortunately- abandoned them to the whims of the slug. Still, she remained infatuated.


    If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    ¡°That''s better. Now what to do with you¡­? Aha! I have just the thing. I am a merciful and forgiving king. If you want me to spare the likes of you wretches, you¡¯d best do what I say.¡±


    The girls braced themselves for whatever horrid acts the Slyth¡¯taynt had intended for them. Their heads swam with whatever cruel and disturbing things such a creature of filth would intend with two helpless servants.


    ¡°I want you to make me beautiful.¡¯


    The girls looked at each other, one muddle-faced and the other trying to stifle a laugh. How they would make this sagging pile of slug flesh look in the slightest bit appealing. Regardless, under the threat of being turned into rotten-smelling zombies, they were willing to do anything.


    Without a moment''s hesitation, they led him up to the master bedroom. Of course, he was carried along in his bone throne so he didn¡¯t have to tire himself out with the stairs - thank the gods. Still, the slow movements of his straining servants and the gentle rocking movements the throne made as they ascended was beginning to make him very sleepy.


    By the time he had awoken from his nap he was in the master bedroom and he had been spared the wait for all of the preparations. After a big yawn, he gestured for the two girls to begin. The servant girls didn¡¯t really know what to start. They had never beautified a canvas so putrid before. So they went with what they knew.


    They applied a generous amount of lotions and powders to his face. The pats of cotton-sponge and the steady strokes of each brush elicited a satisfied sigh from the Slyth¡¯taynt. It was wondrous how a face could be transformed, even with lesser quality Dwine cosmetics.


    Mithlas loathed waiting, but he made an exception for this occasion. The feeling of having one¡¯s body painted and features enhanced by the magic of makeup was a joy that nearly every elf indulged in. And for a former elf that hadn''t had his makeup done in quite some time, this was bliss. Besides that, even he knew that real art couldn''t be rushed so he let them take their time - with the occasional snack break.


    The skies had become a darker, colder blue by the time the girls were done. If the dead had the freedom to express themselves, some of them would have laughed at the result. Others not so much. Dame Gnatta fluctuated between the two out of disdain for her murderer and fear for the girls. The girls themselves were beginning to sweat. They exchanged small glances, one urging the other to speak first. After a long back and forth, one gulped down their fear and pursed their lips open.


    ¡°We''re finished, er¡­¡± the one paused, considering her next word carefully, ¡°Milord.¡±


    ¡°We''ll see about that. Show me.¡±


    The girls pulled over the large standing mirror. His makeup was done in the fashion of that decade: his whole head was painted a pale tone, warmed at the cheeks and caked on so much that each bump and pore had been smoothed put. Contours were painted over his bloated cheeks


    ¡°No no no! This won''t do!¡±


    They felt their breaths get stuck in their lungs.


    ¡°Where''s my hair? Fetch me a wig at once.¡±


    The girls¡¯ eyes widened. They had no wigs in the mansion - their masters had been blessed (or cursed) with hair that seemed to continuously grow out instead of falling out. But one of them seemed to have a pretty quick idea.


    ¡°Right away, Milord.¡±


    She rushed out of the room, which would have raised an eyebrow had Mithlas not been so preoccupied with his visage. The other servant girl bit her lip as she waited for her companion to return. He didn''t seem too upset about their work on his face so there was that.


    That''s when her companion returned. She could have fainted there and then for she recognised the things in her hand. It was all of the hairs gathered up from when the family had last stayed at the mansion - all of the hairs had been hastily bound together by twine and glue to form a copper brown ¡®wig¡¯. Their hair tended to grow out and quite fast in nearly every place of their body. Particularly in the rear end - most believed that Ser Cu had a tail for he was too proud to trim himself down. His descendants did not share that same sentiment, however.


    Mithlas looked up to see the wig in question. His face twisted into annoyance.


    ¡°That colour? Is that all you have?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Milord. Our lord and lady prefer to wear the colour that they were born with.¡±


    He raised a lumpy brow, ¡°They both have the same coloured hair?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Milord.¡±


    Putting that peculiar detail aside, he continued his rant, ¡°Well¡­ Couldn''t they have at least been adventurous enough to try something less drole? Why not platinum or honey wine? Hells, I¡¯d even settle for corn stalk.¡±


    She sucked her lips in, making a very unsure horizontal line with her mouth as she pondered whether the question was one she should answer.


    ¡°Ugh, ginger¡­ Very well, put it on.¡±


    She applied a powder that felt pleasantly cool to his slimy scalp and placed the wig on. Doing her best to style it around his head, she carefully brushed it with various combs. It didn''t really suit him, but honestly it could have been a whole lot worse.


    Mithlas had them hold their breaths again as he inspected his visage. He didn''t look too pleased. The girls gulped at the same time when they saw his expression shift into a scowl. They prayed quietly for the gods to spare them from becoming stinking corpses, but that fate was becoming increasingly more likely.


    ¡°Hmm¡­ I never thought I¡¯d say this, but this colour does suit my current complexion. It will do.¡±


    Oh.


    The girls and Gnatta felt the held air escape from their lungs.


    ¡°Now, I am a merciful king,¡± Mithlas said, running a painted hand through his hair, ¡°I¡¯ll spare you for not making an absolute meal of my face.¡±


    ¡°But,¡± the girls straightened right up at the word, ¡°You must do one thing for me.¡±


    ¡°Spread word of me, your new glorious Worm King, Mithlas! And, er¡­¡±


    He thought of Pithelel¡¯s warning. The very thought of returning to that horrible plane made him shiver.


    ¡°¡­and the all-powerful god Pithelel, who made this all happen,¡± he said, words laced with cautious sarcasm.


    ¡°We will, Sire,¡± the quieter girl said. The other tugged at her skirt, prompting her to curtsey with her companion.


    A wise choice. Mithlas was well puffed up with the show of respect. Finally, he was being treated the way he deserved. Nothing would please him more than being treated the same way by those foolish Lich King fanatics.


    No. He wouldn''t be satisfied until the entire world grovelled to him.


    As good as it would have been to add the servants to his army, the last thing he needed was two scrawny Dwine. Besides, he could find better makeup artists elsewhere and he needed someone to put a good word in for him. Oh, and that unreliable god of wishes. He dismissed them from the premises.


    With a full belly, a brand new look and decent new addition to his undead army, he left the comforts of the Cu mansion for his original destination. As much as he would have preferred to stay and rest in wonderful silks, he had some more important matters to attend to. Excitement overpowered sleep deprivation¡­ Until it didn¡¯t. A few more minutes is all he needed before he felt the Dream Goddess¡¯ pull.


    How long had it been since he had last slept in a bed?


    ¡®I suppose another little nap wouldn¡¯t do me any harm.¡¯


    Dar¡¯Gehon would have to wait till tomorrow. With a long yawn, he ordered his bone throne to lay him on the bed - carefully of course, so as not to ruin the servant¡¯s handiwork. He was propped up in an upright seated position, silken cushions piled up to hold him in place. As much as he wanted to lie down fully, he didn¡¯t want to risk messing up his wig. Goodness, how he missed the smooth sensation of silk on his skin. Sure, it wasn¡¯t as good as what he was used to back home, but after sleeping in lice-covered straw-mats, stony crevices that made his bones ache and a literal dirt hole with moss, it was a welcome change - even if his body did like that last one. At least his new body didn¡¯t mind the silk. In the back of his mind, he had worried that he would have to sleep in dirt for the remainder of his life.


    Mithals closed his eyes, a smile on his face grew before he slept. He couldn''t wait to see that Lehelit fool brought to his knees. For now, those thoughts would just grace his dreams.


    ??????????


    The noise of desperate breaths and hurried footsteps marred the usual forest sounds. Forest creatures scampered away as a young squire sprinted through the forest path. Colin¡¯s mind raced with the images of that morning. His legs ached, but nothing could compare to the pain in his chest.


    ¡°Damn me to the hells! Why am I like this?!¡±


    He was supposed to be a squire. A good squire would have held his ground and cut through those undead bastards just like Dame Gnatta had taught him. He hated himself for feeling the slightest bit of relief when she gave him the order to run. Did she not trust him? She must have sensed his weakness. His cowardice.


    The others were right. Gnatta made a mistake that day when she picked him out from all the other children in that village. How could he ever hope to be a knight if all he was content with abandoning the meek to save his own skin?


    Tears streamed down his cheeks. A hoarse scream of frustration sent the birds and small mammals into flight - the boy certainly had a set of lungs on him. Perhaps he was better suited as a choir boy for the army. Here he was, running tail between his legs.


    There was a monastery nearby - ¡®nearby¡¯ meaning approximately two villages and a day-long cart ride away. He prayed to the gods for a horse, but only a Ney passed him by - a kind of horse, but one the size of a small dog. The gods must have had deemed him unworthy of a horse. Completely exhausted, his pace slowed until he was a walking, gasping mess.


    It was going to be a long journey for the poor squire.

 Chapter V - DarGehon

    Mithlas rose from sweetened dreams. He wiped the crust from his eyes and saw that the room had darkened to a cooler palette, lit only by dimly adjusted alchemical lights. Beyond the windows, the sky had darkened with thick, muddy clouds, rusted by the sun¡¯s fall.


    He had overslept. No matter - one couldn''t complain when they were so well rested. With a good long yawn and a stretch, he sank back into the silks. Gods¡­ When was the last time he was so blessed by the Dream Goddess?


    When the world came back to him in full, Mithlas¡¯ thoughts went back to his goal.


    Dar¡¯Gehon!


    Now he was refreshed enough to show them what he could do. Dark magic coursed through him like a full bladder waiting for release, even in this holy ward-ridden place. He couldn¡¯t wait to sing his spells in a place where the borders between life and death were much weaker than under that Cot-Hill near Rinn¡¯Caile.


    He trembled just picturing the faces of those Cleric-dropouts and second-rate sorcerers that dared call themselves necromancers when he graced them with his very presence. Now where was that throne of his¡­?


    He clapped his hands, ¡°Throne! Stop fooling around with your Knoblets and get over here.¡±


    The Bone Throne groaned. They tossed the ebony Knoblet - a warrior piece - to the side and scuttled forward, abandoning the Gwyddbwyl board that they and the unbound monks found in the bedroom to pass the time. Poor Doorwedge hid his own frustration; all of that planning and preparation to pull off a brilliant play had gone to the dumps - much like everything that happened in his life and unlife.


    Suffice to say, they weren''t looking forward to being sat on again. They braced themselves as Mithlas crawled over the edge of the bed. He made a little ¡°Umph!¡± and a loud ¡°Skkkrkkk!¡± when he got on the Bone Throne. A few of the monks were sure that they broke something again.


    Their king seemed more distracted than usual. His hands flicked across his hair and straightened out his clothes tentatively, fearful that his slimy hands would stick to his wig and clothes if he touched them too much. They did. Just a little.


    Exhaling sharply, he said to Doorwedge and the other walking monks, ¡°Bring me a mirror. I must look my best for my grand return.¡±


    They obeyed, pushing an ornate standing mirror over to him. The sight that greeted him did not please him one bit. He had tolerated it earlier -he had been too tired to see sense- but now he could scruitinise every flaw.


    Missing were the less-than perfect contours of his face. Gone were the stray hairs he laboured to pin back throughout the day. The uneven shape of one eyebrow that remained ever concealed by his hair. Only the single black spot under his eye that marred his complexion remained; that damned birthmark that no amount of powder or magic could conceal. Even a god couldn''t get rid of it.


    All of that mattered little now that everything about him was horrendous. In his eyes, he was a pile of dung that had been painted with low quality makeup -by elven standards that is- and decorated with a wig.


    He felt¡­ Awful. Mad even. He wouldn''t have had to go this far to make such terrible sacrifices if being a necromancer weren¡¯t so difficult. No. It wasn''t that. He went to Dar¡¯Gehon and was told he lacked the talent for their magic. Talentless! Ha! If they had just taught him and listened to his ideas, they would have recognised his greatness! Oh, how he¡¯d show them.


    ¡°I¡¯ll show them all!¡±


    His sudden outrage shook deep within the bones of all the undead under his control. Even the ancient, tree-burdened Cot-hill elves left to stand guard outside the house could feel his anger.


    ¡°Worms! I¡¯ve had enough rest. We march for Dar¡¯Gehon now!¡±


    And away they went. Mithlas felt more energised after he had awoken. In turn his surge in vigour was felt by the undead under his control. Each and every one of them could feel strong magic forcing their every move. They felt as strong as they remembered being at the peak of their life. Perhaps even stronger.


    Mithlas forgot all about the two servant girls that had been left in the mansion. They both hid in one of the rooms, out of sight and muttering thanks to the Goddess of Dreams for her mercy. From their window, they watched the undead carry the Slyth¡¯taynt away. Of the dead, they saw Dame Gnatta, looking up at them with dead eyes as she marched on.


    It broke the hearts of the girls to see their holy knight this way. It wasn''t all that long ago that they were all peacefully going about their lives. With the lord and lady away, the four of them enjoyed their idling. Now, one of their heroes was nothing more than a puppet of evil magic. Making a sign of the Gods of Light, they turned from the window, lost on what to do.


    ??????????


    Though it had not rained that day, dew had quickly formed to dampen everything that hadn¡¯t been sheltered. Worms, slugs and other little servants of decay had grown excitable, gathering and feasting where rot dwelt. A chill spread across the air, intensifying as the sun faded. The clouds parted for a clear night, as forecasted. Blue-green light, like the palour of a spirit, broke past the dark wisps that were left until a great skull-marked orb hung alone: a Wraith Moon.


    A group of hooded figures emerged from the catacombs of Dar¡¯Gehon. As they passed, all that crept and slithered formed a path for them. They wore black robes contrasted by silver trimmings and bone toggle buttons. Only one stood out from the rest; a tall, masculine figure who wore a silver-engraved skull-half mask that covered the bottom half of his face. An orb of Falselight illuminated their way as they moved towards an open spot in the vast burial grounds. That particular spot was marked only by the statue of the Lich King - its base concealing the door to the great crypt housing what little remains were recovered.


    ¡°Prepare the array,¡± commanded the masked leader, his voice deep with a hollow chill to every word.


    The necromancers obeyed, enchanting the ground as they painted shapes in the grass with rodent¡¯s blood - any ordinary paint would have sufficed, but it was scarcely available in a place like this. Several placed common offerings of silver, gemstones and their king¡¯s favourite foodstuffs within the circles around the edge of the array.


    Indeed, all of the Undying Scion¡¯s best underlings were hard at work. Except for one.


    Balandra¡¯s only task was to lead the spell-song upon the array¡¯s completion. As she waited, she arched an eyebrow at their handiwork. The offerings were correct. The array itself however, much like previous attempts, was of questionable shape and quality. The real problem, however, was the location of their ritual. A shame - a Wraith Moon was perfect for drawing in the dead regardless of what realm of death they resided in.


    ¡°The Lich King is close at hand,¡± Delwynn said, ¡°I can feel him from beyond the grave.¡±


    Balandra knew his words were mere Trog dung. Wherever the Lich King could be reached, it certainly wouldn¡¯t be from his remains. The Holy Order made sure of that but it was futile trying to persuade anyone to pursue any alternative theories.


    ¡°Are you sure this will work this time?¡± she cut in, every ¡®s¡¯ accentuated like a wet hiss - a feature inherited from the Lich King, hence their family name, Neidredd.


    ¡°Of course it will work, Bal. You dare question my intelligence?¡± Delwynn snapped.


    She hung her head low to hide the disgust in her eyes - how dare he, ¡°No, your darkness.¡±


    ¡°Good. Then keep your lips¡­¡± he made a pinching motion towards her lisp, ¡°... shut. Not another word from you until the array is complete.¡±


    Balandra stifled a spell of Walking Necrosis. Under different circumstances, she would have killed him in an instant and taken her rightful place. After all, she was the Lich King¡¯s daughter; the true Undying Scion. Unfortunately for her, the councilmen had decided and made the necessary rituals to ensure that the successor they chose could never be stabbed in the back by their own. A clever decision - it had prevented pointless bloodshed after all - but one they would come to regret. If only they had chosen someone who was truly worthy.


    In the end, she was relegated to being a left-hand woman. Second best. At worst, a mere wife, despite her brilliance - again, another wonderful decision from one of her father¡¯s chosen councilmen. She was wasted here and she knew it well, but she alone couldn''t break the rituals that kept her bound. From under her long cloak sleeve, she wrung out the platinum band on her left hand. ¡®This damnable hex of matrimony¡­¡¯


    As for why Delwynn was chosen to be the next successor, he had fit three criteria: 1 - he was a pure-blooded Lehelit like her father. 2 - he was a man like her father. 3 - he could at least summon five undead. Of course, these criteria were in no way chosen by her father; he died so abruptly and had no intention of having a successor, such were his dreams of eternal rule. This was all in part, made up by the senior members of the sect. And now, thanks to them, the Sect of the Lich King was now as flaccid as their-


    ¡°Bal. If you¡¯d please.¡±


    She snapped out of her thoughts. The array was finished and all waited expectantly for her.


    ¡°My deepest apologies, your deathlessness.¡±


    Taking a sharp breath from her nostrils she stepped forth into one corner of the array, ¡°Mac¡¯thuid tua¡¯th Ais-Ssseiri¡¯gyfod¡­¡±


    She led the chant, her hands directing all of the followers. Their voices came together into a beautifully dark refrain. Each word gave power to the lines. Overlapping whispers from beyond their world further enhanced the spell. Rodent blood glowed, first bright crimson before burning into a ghostly green. Spirits swirled all around, none quite reaching the center of the array - the space reserved for the Lich King. Any that dared touch his offerings were quickly rendered ectoplasm to further fuel the spell.


    The song continued until the Wraith Moon disappeared behind thick clouds, but their king did not come. Their unhallowed choir died down, leaving the followers looking a tad drained of life.


    ¡°Godsdamnit! What was that?!¡±


    ¡°What was what?¡± One cultist asked. One look from all the others made them regret that decision. When he saw the Undying Scion snap around to meet his gaze, he regretted ever being born with a mouth.


    ¡°Are you braindead? Does it look like we succeeded in reviving the Lich King?!¡±


    ¡°No¡­¡±


    The cultist fell to the ground, prostrating himself low enough to kiss the fertile soil.


    ¡°Forgive me, your deathlessness!¡±


    Delwynn muttered something under his breath. The cultist¡¯s face fell as he felt his bones trembling. He cried out as sharp pains overwhelmed his spasming body. His bones pushed against his skin, straining away from tendons - it was as if his skeleton were trying to free itself from the rest of his body. He continued to beg for mercy, but the cultists around him took a few steps back.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡°Erhem.¡±


    The masked one was thrown off, ¡°What?!¡±


    Freed from further torment, the cultist fell flat on his face, letting out several groans of pain before passing out. Balandra rubbed the furrow of her brow as she took a sharp breath.


    ¡°I think you should reconsider your decision to de-bone our fellow man. We have too few precious followers to dispose of, you see,¡± she said, her tone turning sweet. ¡°Just a suggestion, my Scion.¡±


    That much was true. With fewer people, the strength of their rituals had waned more and more.


    ¡°Precious followers?¡± he scoffed. ¡°They¡¯d be more useful to me as shambling corpses. They''re all just as brainless anyway!¡±


    ¡°Perhaps,¡± she said, ¡°Although, it would be inconvenient if you had to complete all of these rituals by yourself.¡±


    With a ¡°tsk¡±, Delwynn turned away from the cultist. ¡°You make a very good point, dearest. Very well. Deathmasters, get him out of my sight.¡±


    Several picked up their fallen brother. The skin of his face and hands looked taut and bony. It would take their healers a while to set his bones in place and reattach his muscles. He was promptly carried off back into the main catacombs.


    The other followers were left, standing awkwardly and looking at their feet as children caught in the act of mischief. Meanwhile, their Undying Scion paced back and forth, searching for faults he could not see in the array - they were glaringly obvious to certain cultists in the group but none were brave enough to speak up. He muttered to himself about how hard he''s had it.


    ¡®Oh woe is me!¡¯ Balandra rolled her eyes, ¡®It still hasn¡¯t occurred to you yet that his soul ISN¡¯T HERE?¡¯


    Delwynn turned to all of them.


    ¡°Don''t just stand there!¡± he said, ¡°Help me figure out where you went wrong.¡±


    As hilarious as it was to watch Delwynn fumble everything, it was doubly frustrating - to Balandra at least. They should be out there, searching for the true location of whatever remained of the Lich King¡¯s spirit instead of wasting her precious lifespan on the same fruitless rituals. Her father was no fool. He would have been paranoid enough to have some remains of himself out there in case the Holy Order succeeded in casting him into the Outer Planes - and succeed they did, despite the insistence of the other cultists. She witnessed it herself. None but the Lich King possessed the power to locate the right leyline in their world that lay close to his soul in that bottomless place of torment.


    It was best to make oneself seem busy. She pretended to trace the lines and examine the offerings. Eventually, she noticed Delwynn coming straight over to her; he only did that if he really wanted something.


    ¡°Oh, dearest. What went wrong? Tell me,¡± he asked, voice soft but Balandra knew him well enough to see past it.


    ¡°You want my opinion?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want your opinion. I want an answer. This was supposed to have gone perfectly. Things were going perfectly. I¡¯ve seen nothing wrong with the array. The offerings were correct. Not a single cloud got in the way. So what else could have gone wrong?¡±


    ¡®Ah. Of course. So it¡¯s my fault.¡¯


    He didn¡¯t want the real answer. He was always right, after all. But Balandra was never one to accept false blame.


    ¡°There are too few of us, my love,¡± Eugh. ¡°Times have been hard since the Schism.¡±


    ¡°Oh yes, the Schism¡­¡± he said with disgust, ¡°Who did those fools think they were to question my leadership? I bet those fools regret ever leaving our glorious domain.¡±


    ¡®Yes and no.¡¯ Balandra recalled hearing back from the other sects. Those that hadn¡¯t been hunted down by overzealous knights on patrol or beasts in the wild were holed up in swamps and curse-stricken lands. She didn¡¯t blame them. Some were doing quite well for themselves, but with everyone so scattered, they had little chance of reviving the Lich King.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure they are, your darkness. They were so wrong for leaving you.¡±


    ¡°After what they did I should have had all of them all buried up to their heads in maggots. I don¡¯t need them. I have enough loyal followers.¡±


    He was in denial, of course. Having all of those members leave at once certainly bruised his ego. There was no getting around their lack of numbers either, and these days finding new necromancers was a pipe dream.


    ¡°Certainly, your darkness.¡±


    ¡°Pah¡­¡± he waved her off, ¡°Get the others to clean this up. We¡¯ll have to wait for the¡­ what was it again?¡±


    ¡°The Blood Aurora,¡± she sighed. They would have to wait for the next spring. Not that it mattered. It was time wasted just waiting for another failed attempt. A maddening loop of disappointment.


    ¡°Ah, yes the Blood Aurora. Next time, I expect you to make sure that the next ritual goes as planned.¡±


    ¡°But, your darkness,¡± she began with a faltering smile, ¡°How do you suppose we do that with the few we have?¡±


    He shrugged, ¡°You¡¯re clever enough. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll figure it out.¡±


    Her mouth hung open, face twitching as she fought to hold back her anger.


    ¡°Gods¡­ Don¡¯t tell me I have to think for you too, Bal. Must I waste my precious brain on something so trivial?¡±


    It certainly wasn¡¯t the first time, but Balandra¡¯s cup of patience had overfilled and spilled over. Enough was enough.


    She let out a laugh, ¡°This is pointless.¡±


    He blinked, ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve been doing the same thing every year. EVERY ritual. And yet we¡¯re still not close to reviving the Lich King.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s because you¡¯re the problem,¡± that elicited another giggle from her, ¡°You think this is funny? I have worked so hard to make sure things were immaculate! I wonder if all of these failures are on purpose. If not, then you¡¯re just a terrible orator with that lisp of yours.¡±


    ¡°Oh please. I inherited this so-called lisp from the Lich King. He didn¡¯t need a gaggle of idiots to sing his spells for him.¡±


    ¡°If you know so much, then what exactly is the problem, hmm?¡±


    ¡°His soul isn¡¯t here. The Knights of the Holy Order banished him far from our reach. We¡¯ve wasted enough time hiding in this crypt. We should be out there, looking for wherever he might have left a piece of his soul-¡±


    ¡°There you go again. Whipping your tongue at me for some hairbrained theory. I thought we were over this, Bal.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not a theory. I was there when he perished,¡± her eyes narrowed, ¡°A true scion knows their king. I should be searching the world for his traces.¡±


    He scoffed, ¡°Keep dreaming. You know you can¡¯t go where I don¡¯t want to. Even death cannot part us.¡±


    He lifted one hand from his sleeve, showing his wedding band. That accursed copy of her own ring.


    ¡°Even if you could leave my side, you¡¯d be nothing without me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d take my chances. If you¡¯re really that good, then cut me off and banish me.¡±


    She knew he couldn¡¯t, despite that smug look in his eyes. He put a hand on her cheek and when she tried to slap it away he held her firmly by the jaw and drew closer to her. They stood eye to eye.


    ¡°Now why would I want to do that, dearest? I¡¯d be a terrible Scion to let the Lich King¡¯s fragile little rose go to such dangerous places to chase tales.¡±


    A disgusted look crossed Balandra¡¯s face. It took every fibre of her being not to utter the worst spells. Her tongue began to bleed.


    ¡°Auugh!¡± Despite his mask, the Undying Scion¡¯s face fell, ¡°What are you doing? I command you to stop!¡±


    Delwynn dropped her. He shouted a bit, his words gradually became unintelligible from his quickly swelling tongue. All the while, Balandra laughed.


    ¡°And do you really want to know how I feel about you, Delwynn?¡±


    He froze in place.


    ¡°I think you never deserved a-¡± he paused, her eyes noticing some movement behind her.


    ¡°What?¡± he smirked under his mask, though his smugness was denied by his trembling voice, ¡°Too scared to tell me what you really think about your leader?¡±


    ¡°Shh! What is that?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you shush me, woman! You will treat me with respect-¡±


    ¡°Shut up, Delwynn. Look at the trees.¡±


    The two squinted their eyes. In the darkness of the surrounding forest they made out the shadow shapes swaying back and forth. Closer those shapes drew; tall figures. Small ones too. An indistinct blob at their center. The sound of leaves and branches moving, not from the push of the night¡¯s breaths but through their own movements.


    ¡°Holy Knights,¡± the Undying Scion¡¯s voice faltered.


    ¡°No. This is something else. They would have triggered our glyphs.¡±


    Whatever they were, they were certainly getting closer. The Undying Scion narrowed his eyes.


    ¡°If it''s not the damned paladins, then it''s those traitors. They think they can just come in here with an army to take what I rightfully deserve? We¡¯ll see about that.¡±


    There was no way any of the apostates should have been prepared to take on the Sect, even in their weakened state. Yet, they managed to pass through the outer glyphs meant for the Holy Order and the middle glyphs meant for converting unwitting intruders into zombies. It seemed to Balandra that one of those groups was incredibly lucky and found success. She was part-hopeful, part-dreading what was about to come.


    ¡°Deathmasters! Boneslaves! To me!¡±


    At Delwynn¡¯s command, all of the cultists and their undead servants surrounded him at once. They prepared themselves for the approaching creatures, summoning forth shallowly buried undead from the other parts of the crypt. One cultist fetched him a broken shaft; it was all that was left of the Lich King¡¯s Withered Rose and it was given to Delwynn of all people. He wielded it like a cudgel - the thorns had served him well before. Though its magic had waned, some fragment of the soul powering it remained; its whispers allowed Delwynn to summon a sixth zombie. Balandra kept her tongue at the ready, the rest of the cultists waited for her direction.


    The figures stopped a few feet short for the necromancers to reach them with ranged spells. An angry voice could be heard in the distance, but none could quite make out the words properly. Based on the movements of the large blob with many legs, they assumed that the voice belonged to it¡­ whatever or whoever it was.


    ¡°Are they arguing?¡± one cultist murmured.


    Delwynn smirked from under his mask, ¡°Idiots. Boneslaves! Get them!¡±


    All of their undead rushed into the forest wielding rusted swords, spears and farming equipment. There was a commotion for a while as they kept fighting and the satisfying sound of metal on bone and flesh rang out. Delwynn sickered as their invaders seemed to struggle against the undead. That seemed to prompt them to keep moving forward. All of their own undead didn¡¯t come back when they called them back. That was fine. They just needed to soften their enemy up just before they continued to advance.


    ¡°Bal,¡± he looked over to her. ¡°You know what to do.¡±


    She was way ahead of him. Her voice led the dark choir. All of the glyphs under their enemy began to flare up. With their final word, necrotic flames engulfed the shadow figures and the remaining Boneslaves. One who always sang an octave too strong collapsed to one knee, the faintest wrinkles forming on their gaunt face. The sight took Balandra aback.


    ¡°Yes!¡± Delwynn cackled like mad, ¡°Serves you fools right! Bal, I want their skulls brought to me. They¡¯d make fine candleholders for our crypts.¡±


    Snapping back into reality, she answered, ¡°Yes, your darkness.¡±


    They waited for the thick flesh-eating smoke to dissipate. It often took a while - which was extremely excruciating for whoever found themselves on the receiving end of the spell. As they waited, something peculiar happened. The clouds appeared to part once more. Wraith-light touched every corner of Dar¡¯Gehon. Strangely enough, the sky was only clear over that particular part of the land with the Wraith Moon directly above it.


    Just then, their own undead came rushing back through the smoke. Before they could react, one of the faster undead chopped off their master¡¯s hand. Before it could strike the cultist down, an acid spell engulfed the zombie, quickly melting them down to their waist.


    ¡°Fall back!¡± Delwynn¡¯s voice broke.


    Balandra hissed out a spell. Five more undead rose from between herself and the encroaching undead to buy her time. More of their own undead came. Whoever was behind this must have been a skilled necromancer. But this was nothing they couldn¡¯t handle.


    Or so they thought.


    In one huge sweep, several cultists and their undead servants were knocked backwards. Again, it happened. Several undead, tall and fused to rotted trees pounded away at any unfortunates that happened to be in their path. Several more ancient-looking figures came forth. Bal even found herself fighting for her life against an undead knight of the Holy Order. The necromancers that summoned them were still nowhere to be seen.


    ¡°How¡­ How is this possible?!¡± she cried out as she pushed off the dame.


    Quickly she rushed away, reviving one fallen brother by her side to fight for her. He was quickly cut down once more.


    ¡®Hells! Where¡¯s Delwynn?!¡¯


    The Undying Scion was nowhere to be seen amidst all the chaos.


    ¡°HAHAHAHAHA! GUESS WHO, BITCHES?!¡±


    Something emerged from the mist. A large creature that scuttled upon the limbs of many undead. Its gleeful cackling rang out loudly through the battlefield, sending shivers down Balandra¡¯s spine.


    She fell at the feet of a large creature. She noticed that sat upon it, was a Slyth¡¯Taynt. It leaned forward, eyeing her with its amphibious, yellow orbs. Its fetid stench hit and kept her pinned down.


    ¡°Well, well. What do we have here?¡± the creature chuckled. ¡°Throne, pick her up.¡±


    Several boney hands came down upon her. Before she could utter a spell, they clamped her mouth shut.


    ¡°Hello again, Balandra. Did you miss me?¡±

 Chapter VI - Strange Bedfellows

    ¡°Now, Throne. Is that any way to treat royalty? What¡¯s the worst she can do to me? Acid spells? Necrotic gas?¡±


    Despite his gloating, those glyphs from earlier had given him a nasty surprise. So scared he was, he made another new discovery about his anatomy - of which, much details of this unpleasant discovery shall be omitted for the reader¡¯s sake.


    ¡°Unhand her. I want to hear what Lich King¡¯s heir has to say.¡±


    She was dropped a little too roughly than Mithlas intended. He was about to admonish the throne for it but Balandra could not contain her disgust. Her next intake of air came with a series of gags and coughs. Those first breaths were enough to make one regret having a nose. She¡¯d dealt with many a foul corpse her whole life, but nothing quite like a Slyth¡¯Taynt. At last, she caught her breath, desensitised to the stench.


    ¡°Who in the Hundred Hells are you?¡±


    Mithlas recoiled at first, even more offended than before. Sure, he looked different, but he had expected someone of her skill to recognise his soul at the very least.


    ¡°Lost your touch, Balandra? You can¡¯t even see that I¡¯m one of your own. Look at my robes.¡±


    She arched an eyebrow. Confusion grew ever more on her face, squinting for every detail. He had the robes of an acolyte, indeed, but beyond flesh, he was a rot-slug through and through.


    ¡°We¡¯ve never had a Slyth¡¯Taynt in our ranks.¡±


    His stomach dropped a little. Surely he wasn¡¯t that different now. That stupid god¡¯s words echoed faintly in his mind - a whispered reminder of his horrid state.


    ¡®No no. Her soul-sight has dimmed. Yes, that has to be the reason.¡¯


    If she was to blind to see him for who he was, then perhaps she needed a reminder. He¡¯d kicked up quite a fuss before he left. She¡¯d remember his name. Surely.


    ¡°Of course, you wouldn¡¯t recognise me as I am now. You see, I have made great sacrifices to attain powers beyond what your moronic cult could ever promise. I came here because I thought you were more free-thinking than those academy dullards.¡±


    ¡®Oh, you precious fool,¡¯ Balandra thought. That may have been true when the Lich King reigned. That¡¯s what they were supposed to be. But now they had reverted to the same restrictive philosophies. They were no better than the fools that claimed to be enlightened, only in place of the many gods in the world they did it all her father¡¯s name.


    Mithlas continued, ¡°I sung your damned songs and did your pointless chores. All I wanted to do was share my life¡¯s work. A way to defeat death without Lichdom! And yet you all laughed at me! Just because you couldn¡¯t teach me how to resurrect a dead rat!¡±


    To be fair, she had been too busy at the time to hear such ideas or see witness his tantrum as he left. Busy, pouring her time into researching the whereabouts of the Lich King¡¯s soul fragments. So much so that she didn¡¯t anticipate the councilmen¡¯s plan to marry her off. It was Delwynn¡¯s responsibility to take care of the acolytes - clearly another mistake. No wonder there were so many talentless acolytes.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ certainly an idea, but I still don¡¯t know who you are.


    ¡°I am Mithlas. Once, an unrecognised genius amongst my kin. Once, your most loyal and wisest of the necromancers.¡±


    She was quite earnestly without a clue. Small moments where she did acknowledge his existence were too insignificant to keep. Why, an acolyte was equal to the many blow flies around the crypts - precious, useful but easily forgotten. And how full of himself he was! Quiet was her laughter.


    The Slyth¡¯taynt had noticed her expression. In turn, his own painted face passed from hurt to fury. How dare she forget him. He leaned forward, his breath foul yet cold.


    ¡°But that¡¯s King of the Worms to you now. And you¡¯d do well to remember that.¡±


    He leaned back into his seat, looking rather pleased with himself.


    ¡°And,¡± he added. ¡°You will pledge your allegiance to me."


    ¡°I bow to no slug,¡± Balandra hissed.


    ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t like that. Cover her mouth, Throne.¡±


    ¡°Release me at once you contemptuous lump of-¡±


    Her mouth was covered once more.


    ¡°Throne, a seat for the Scion, if you would please.¡±


    She squirmed against their uncomfortable grip, held in place for a time until they reformed themselves to make a conjoined throne. Once they had finished, they seated her awkwardly next to Mithlas.


    ¡°You should be grateful, Balandra. You get to sit next to a king.¡± Snickering, he took a look about the carnage around him, ¡°Hmm. It seems like much hasn¡¯t changed since I left.¡±


    His eyes looked to the centrepiece of his surroundings. The Lich King¡¯s image was immortalised in stone, standing tall and imposing with his Withered Rose drawing out the undead. Many bony hands reached out towards him. From within their hollowed out eyes were their souls carved from crystal. They had all been carefully shaped, expressing a fearful kind of fervency. The way the Lich looked down at Mithlas never sat right with him when he first arrived at the Sect. Even now, in his triumphant return, those eyes were boring down on him. The Worm King met his gaze with defiance.


    ¡°Eridyu, diy pidin-coc!¡±


    Venom sprang from his ditty, forming cracks in the black marble. Balandra let out a muffled cry of rage as she saw her father¡¯s image erode to rubble, leaving nothing intact but his sizable pidin-coc upon the damaged base. At least he had no interest in what was buried underneath.


    ¡°I never liked that statue,¡± he smirked, admiring the wreck some moments before turning his attention to Balandra. ¡°Now will you bow to me?¡±


    Balandra glared daggers back at him. It was perhaps wise that he had kept her mouth sealed shut, for she had half a mind to test a saltwater spell upon him. Such ferocity from someone clearly outclassed.


    ¡°Perhaps you¡¯ll reconsider with this. Gnat, bring me one of the prisoners.¡±


    Balandra twisted around, her eyes widening at the sight of a holy knight bowing slightly at the slug. The knight walked off just beyond her view.


    ¡®How did he¡­? This isn¡¯t possible¡­¡¯


    But it was. The dead eyes and the captive soul within confirmed that. Not since the time of her father had a single paladin been enthralled. They had many annoying blessings given unto them by the Tutha¡¯Duin since their terrible crusade against her father. Blessings that should have protected them against their dark spells.


    ¡°Yes, that one. That will do.¡±


    The ease of control this creature had over his many thralls utterly fascinated her. He didn¡¯t have to sing his commands, nor did he need a choir or a duet to control them all. Her spine tingled cold at the thought of what else he was capable of. Her chest, however, burned hot with frustration. To think that the last bastion of the Lich King¡¯s pride would come undone not at the hands of those foolish Knights, but at the hands of some slug. Gods - how it disgusted her.


    The thrall dragged one of the tenderised cultists over, dropping him right at the throne¡¯s feet. Mithlas¡¯ eyes narrowed gleefully when he recognised the man right away. A Beohil, but no fellow of his. Quite the opposite, as he was one of the many that mocked and tormented Mithlas. A mediocre spellcaster by comparison - the only difference being that he could make a dead man do a back flip, whereas back then, no matter what Mithlas did, he couldn¡¯t get a single corpse to even crawl if he wanted to. Perhaps he did it to fit in, to avoid the same treatment from his own peers. The man groaned, barely heaving a single pleading, ¡°... spare¡­ me¡­¡±


    ¡°Garaith? Ohoho... this is too good. Do that again. Grovel to me.¡±


    Garaith pressed himself closer to the soil, prostrating with his arms spread wide. He continued to croakily beg over and over. As amusing as it was, it still wasn¡¯t enough for Mithlas.


    ¡°Where¡¯s Delwynn and the rest of his lackeys?¡±


    ¡°I- I don¡¯t know¡­ the Undying Scion¡­ he ran away¡­¡±


    Typical Delwynn. Balandra shook her head. The Lich King must be rolling in his grave. For some reason, the slug found it amusing.


    ¡°Either your ears are swollen or you must think me a fool. I know where the Undying Scion is. I have her right here, see? Now stop wasting my time and tell me where Delwynn is.¡±


    ¡°C¡­Catacombs¡­¡± he murmured, much of his next words were unclear until he finally said, ¡°Delwynn¡­ is the Undying Scion¡­¡±


    ¡°You know, you almost sound like you believe it. But I know better than to trust you of all people.¡±


    Garaith whined, ¡°¡­p-please¡­ I speak the truth¡­¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll see about that. Gnat, kick him.¡±


    Gnatta had no choice but to obey. She kicked him in the stomach as hard as Mithlas¡¯ voice had conveyed. The noise he made her soul sink a bit. Sure, he was a heathen grave-defiler, but even they were worthy of pity.


    ¡°Now bring him here.¡±


    The kick was completely unnecessary, but only Mithlas knew that. Looking deep into his eyes, he repeated the question to Garaith again. The answer was the same - his soul revealed he spoke true.


    ¡°Delwynn? He¡¯s the Undying Scion?! How did that happen?!¡±


    He glanced over to Balandra. The moment he looked a bit deeper past flesh and bone, he noticed something, or rather a bit of someone¡¯s soul wound around her own like tight string. He followed the accursed bond to a pretty gaudy-looking ring. Looking her in the eyes, he made an expression that asked, ¡°How could you have let that happen?!¡±


    Of course, she couldn¡¯t answer but the shame of it was clear on her face. The feeling of disgust was quite mutual, though she found the slug¡¯s reaction to be rather curious. Perhaps he was telling the truth about his past.


    ¡°So much for the great Sect of the Lich King, eh?¡± Mithlas laughed, gaining mirth with each passing moment.


    Garaith continued to plead incoherently. A pitiful sight, even for someone that liked to gossip about others. He had no business being amongst the Deathmasters with his lack of discipline.


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.Mithlas on the other hand was only getting started.


    ¡°Now what shall I do with you?¡±


    ¡°¡­spare¡­m-¡°


    ¡°Spare you? Do you even know what you did to me?¡±


    He didn¡¯t know. Too scared to answer. So, Mithlas answered for him.


    ¡°Wyneb Cu O¡¯Cluidin. Remember now?¡±


    Roughly translated: he had a dog¡¯s nipple on his face. That would have been bad enough on its own, but Garaith had built upon the lie. Eventually, all in the cult thought that Mithlas was a bastard; his mother had secretly laid with a Fomorian. And from that, all sorts of wildly unpleasant stories sprang up like a plague. From that day forth, none of the acolytes wanted anything to do with Mithlas. Some higher ranked members gave him strange looks. The odd comment slipped from careless lips.


    And that was only the mildest of torments inflicted upon him by Delwynn¡¯s little group.


    Garaith¡¯s swollen face passed from confusion to recognition. His eyes shot over to the now-subtle dark spot under that hateful amphibian eye.


    ¡°¡­ I¡­ I didn¡¯t mean¡­ I was only following Delwynn¡­!¡± panic forced those words too loud for his body to handle that he erupted into fitful coughs.


    ¡°All the more reason to punish you. Sucking up to that Lehelit scrote. Where¡¯s your damned pride?¡±


    That last part seemed to hit a nerve with Garaith. His face was pinched into what seemed like a disdainful glare. Under those next coughs, he croaked something unintelligible. Mithlas couldn¡¯t quite tell what was exactly said, but he felt like he knew it was an insult - it didn¡¯t matter that the man was actually begging for his life.


    Mithlas finally made up his mind, ¡°And for that I¡¯ll enthrall you for one simple purpose. You are to acquaint yourself with every nest of all stinging insects you wander across. Intimately. When you¡¯re done, I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll have a face that only a Fomorian could love.¡±


    A loud sob and a burbling plea escaped the man. He couldn¡¯t convince the Worm King, so he looked to Balandra for mercy. Something came over her, looking at this pathetic wreck in front of her. She should have not felt an ounce of pity for the man. After all of her years, she thought herself resistant to such nonsense. He was one of her husband¡¯s lackeys after all. Perhaps it was those stupidly puppy-like eyes from the smaller, now-lumpier elf.


    Mithlas began to speak the spell. She felt the power in his words. How they gripped the other necromancer into silence. Partway through, she found her mouth working on its own. She sang an urgent spell that pried dead hands from her lips.


    ¡°Wait!¡±


    The spell of enthrallment lost its grip on Garaith. The man wheezed as his heart started up again and air filled his chest. He fell to the ground, unconscious.


    ¡°How did you-? Useless worms! How dare you ruin this moment for me!¡±


    Before the throne could correct itself and cover her mouth, she sang. A few small bones answered and flew to her aid, keeping those hands pried open. She cleared her throat. Her tone was less bitting, more honey-sweet, ¡°It would be a waste to kill a potential loyal follower, don¡¯t you think?¡±


    She had succeeded in calming Mithlas into listening to her. He was more surprised by her change in tone. He commanded his throne to release her lips once more.


    ¡°What use do I have for this useless worm beyond entertainment? I can summon as many dead as I please without needing a duet.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t imagine you¡¯d want to keep babysitting all of your undead all by yourself. You¡¯ll need an army of loyal necromancers to do that for you.¡±


    It sounded tantalizing to have doting followers at his beck and call. Besides, Pithelel needed followers too. Living ones, that is. Mithlas could sense him watching. It would certainly anger him if he turned them all into will-less undead. Then they couldn¡¯t worship him. But still, to have someone deceitful like Garaith running around posed a potential problem.


    ¡°You have a point. I need loyal followers. Not liars that will stab me in the back any chance they can get.¡±


    He had a point there and she was running out of arguments. She was even questioning herself - why was she so compelled to keep this dead-weight alive? Then she remembered what her father had once said.


    ¡°There are many ways to tame a spirit. You¡¯ve succeeded in doing just that. Take a look at his soul for yourself.¡±


    Succeeded. She sounded convincingly proud.


    "Very well," Mithlas huffed.


    Mithlas took a look at the man again. Lo and behold, his soul was wracked with fear. The object of that fear: none other than the Worm King. He whispered a spell, tugging slightly at his fear like a leash.


    ¡°Well well, looks like you were right, Scion.¡±


    ¡°It comes with experience.¡±


    ¡°Hmmph. Why, of course. That¡¯s why I¡¯m keeping you around,¡± he turned back to the unconscious heap at his feet, ¡°Gnat, put this one with the rest of the prisoners.¡±


    The Dame obeyed without a word, slinging the elf over one shoulder. Balandra watched as he was dragged over to a cage of bones. All of the Deathmasters were bound, barely alive or freshly dead.


    ¡°You¡¯ve convinced me, Balandra. I¡¯ll spare your people, but make no mistake, Delwynn is mine to do as I please.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s it to you?¡±


    ¡°It means everything to me. That bastard made every waking moment of my time in Dar¡¯Gehon a nightmare. I vowed that one day, I would finally ruin him.¡±


    One look at her told him everything he needed to know. They shared a common enemy. The gears in his brain were turning.


    ¡°You want to ruin him too, don¡¯t you?¡±


    Balandra went quiet. Did she really want to ruin him? Yes. 100%. However did she really want to work with this Slyth¡¯taynt that called himself king?


    ¡°Yes,¡± she answered, ¡°But I can do it myself.¡±


    Mithlas noticed her rubbing at her hand. The glint of her wedding band caught his eye again. How the spirit in it seemed to claw into her soul - a small fragment of the man they both hated.


    ¡°Well, Balandra, it seems that you can¡¯t do it without me. You made the mistake of marrying him. I¡¯ll arrange your divorce and help you take back what is rightfully yours. How does that sound?¡±


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t my decision,¡± She scowled once more, hiding her hand inside her sleeve. ¡°What makes you think you can break this curse?¡±


    ¡°How bold of you to question my abilities. I could wipe out this pathetic remnant of your father¡¯s glory with a word. You think a stupid marriage spell is beyond me?¡±


    Balandra remained half-skeptical, but a bit of hope slithered into her heart. He was powerful, no doubt about that, but surely he had limits. Most importantly, however, why was he offering to help her?


    ¡°What¡¯s the catch?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry. I have no interest in becoming the Undying Scion. In return, you must recognise me as the rightful king of this Sect and Pithelel as our Patron god.¡±


    ¡°Bow to you and some unknown god? What makes you think I¡¯d take you up on that offer?¡± Balandra hissed.


    ¡°Because, my dear, the other option is an eternity of undeath with your beloved. Now that would be a terrible waste, wouldn¡¯t it? You are, after all, quite special.¡±


    ¡°It will take more than threats and flattery to convince me, Slyth¡¯Taynt. You ask for too much.¡±


    ¡°Hells, aren¡¯t you stubborn? I¡¯m giving you the offer of a lifetime. A chance for greatness! Under my rule, we can bring about a new era of undeath. Free from all of those nonsensical rules and restrictions that hold us back.¡±


    ¡°Your rule?¡±


    ¡°Would you prefer anyone else?¡±


    ¡®The gall of this slug! Myself, of course!¡¯


    She considered his words for a moment. A wrong answer would likely mean a fate worse than marriage or death. The Sect would benefit greatly from such radical changes. Still, she didn¡¯t like nor trust the slug that defied all rules. At least, if she stayed in his good graces, she could find her way around him. Besides, she¡¯d take back her rightful place as Undying Scion. Having some power was better than having no power at all. He was a clever idiot - a useful ally indeed.


    ¡°Very well, Mithlas. I accept your offer.¡±


    ¡°You swear it?¡±


    She exhaled, ¡°I swear.¡±


    A large grin crept across his face, voice giddy, ¡°Then pledge your allegiance to your king.¡±


    She made a small bow, wearing an expression of sincerity, ¡°I pledge my allegiance to you.¡±


    ¡°Ah ah. That''s not good enough. Say that you, the Undying Scion, pledge yourself and your entire cult to me,¡± he was about to finish but he suddenly felt like he was being watched. What looked like a moth fluttered past him. His eyes were locked on to those circles within circles on glowing wings. ¡°Erhem, and Pithelel, God of Wishes and so forth.¡±


    ¡°I, Balandra D¨®m¡¯Neidredd, pledge-¡±


    ¡°Put a little more spirit into it.¡±


    ¡®You cocky piece of pig dung. Push me, slug. I swear to all the gods, I¡¯ll flush you down the Hells! No no¡­ calm yourself Balandra. Deep breaths.¡¯


    ¡°I, Balandra D¨®m¡¯Neidredd, pledge myself and my followers to you, O¡¯ King of Worms and to your god, Pithelel.¡±


    A satisfied look spread across Mithlas¡¯ face, ¡°Splendid. Now let¡¯s get your mask back, Undying Scion.¡±


    He commanded his throne to loosen its grip on her. Shifting into comfortable position, she couldn¡¯t quite shake the mixed feelings she had towards the Slyth¡¯taynt. At the very least he addressed her correctly.


    ¡°Worms, let the prisoners free.¡±


    Those that lived lumbered out of the cage. Those that were left had long died. Balandra shook her head. Amongst the unmoving were Deathmasters who had the potential to be worthy of their title. So competent and skilled. Now they were dead. What a waste¡­


    Sensing disdain, Mithlas cleared his throat and revived their dead followers and had them stand side by side their compatriots. Not that it made things any better. Balandra was certainly fuming.


    ¡°It seems to me that the Lich King¡¯s Sect is in need of a change in leadership!¡± Mithlas began, ¡°For too long, you have been led by incompetents, playing at Lich King. Now that you¡¯re under threat, your leader has abandoned you!¡±


    The Deathmasters, both dead and alive, looked dejectedly. Even former friends of Delwynn were quite ruined by the whole ordeal.


    ¡°But worry not. From this day forward, you shall answer to your true Undying Scion,¡± Mithlas gestured to the woman beside him, ¡°Balandra D¨®m¡¯Neidredd, daughter of the Lich King and Dark Mistress of the Deathless Choir.¡±


    ¡°As for me,¡± he continued, ¡°I, Mithlas, King of the Worms, shall be the new head of your Sect.¡±


    There was a low murmuring and a whole lot of unsure glances exchanged amongst the necromancers. Some looked at Balandra as if betrayed. Others - mostly friends of Delwynn - looked at her in disgust. She returned with an cold warning glare. They should have been thankful.


    ¡°And those that object to this are welcome to lie down and die. We¡¯ll find a use for you yet.¡±


    That sure shut them up.


    ¡°Now, bow to your saviours.¡± Then he addressed the Dead Trees and the turned thralls, ¡°Worms, finish off anyone that refuses to bow.¡±


    Without delay, the Deathmasters prostrated themselves before their King and Scion. Something stirred in Mithlas. A truly wonderful feeling it was. Finally, he was getting some respect and recognition. Despite the circumstances, Balandra found herself feeling the same kind of satisfaction. The feeling passed quickly, however. They still had yet to take the entire cult for themselves.


    ¡°Deathmasters. Worms. Come forth! Let¡¯s remove the False Scion from his throne!¡±


    All rose to their feet and began marching towards the Catacombs. The place had been a sanctuary for those practised in necromancy, ever since Meredrydd Orm¡¯Neidredd started the sect. From what Mithlas remembered, the place was an underground palace, extended to accommodate many dead and living during the glory days. When he first came here, the Sect had already fallen from grace, so the dead mostly outnumbered the living. There just wasn¡¯t enough necromancers to command them all.


    Coming back to desecrated ground made him feel rather nostalgic. It was mostly the same if not little more run down than he remembered - a testament to the cult¡¯s stagnation under bad leadership.


    ¡°What a cesspit.¡±


    Balandra quietly agreed with him on that. It was crumbling apart before the Worm King came with his army of undead. It made her sick to acknowledge the sorry state of her home.


    They all surrounded the main entrance to the Catacombs. Ebony marble framed the doorways and walls of the small building, but its center was a thick wall of enchanted iron. Two great doors of the same metal stood before them, firmly locked by metal and magic. The viewing ports were open into faint black slits.


    ¡°Your Deathmasters and undead are mine. We can settle this civilly: submit your traitorous leader to me and you may join my ranks. Or, you may stay loyal to that nitwit. Fight us if you wish. You¡¯ll join us either way.¡±


    Silence.


    ¡°DELWYNN! COME ON OUT AND FACE ME, YOU COWARD!¡±


    There was muffled deep laughter from the other side of the door.


    ¡°I know you¡¯re in there False Scion!¡± Mithlas said. ¡°Let me in. ¡±


    ¡°False Scion?!¡± an intimidating voice roared out with familiar intonation, ¡°Pah! You just try getting in! Oh wait, that¡¯s right! You can¡¯t. Not without the password!¡±


    ¡°Bold of you to assume I don¡¯t remember it. Erhem¡­ Ithu aluther u¡¯shuldno-.¡±


    ¡°No, we changed that one years ago.¡± Balandra cleared her throat, ¡°Hatuath hy-hy¡¯opes thoralithin-¡±


    ¡°Aha! That¡¯s where you¡¯re all completely wrong! I changed the passcode whilst you were distracted! You¡¯ll never figure it out.¡±


    With a frustrated screech, Mithlas commanded his undead, ¡°Smash down that door!¡±


    The Cothill undead bashed against the stone, but the hardened wood had rotted away. Mithlas attempted a few other spells. No luck. There was powerful magic upon the door of the catacombs. Unfortunately, being a great necromancer didn¡¯t include power to open every door. But that wouldn¡¯t stop Mithlas. The doors and walls might have been enchanted, but the soil on the grounds could be dug up to bury the dead.


    ¡°Scion Balandra,¡± he turned to her, ¡°I assume you know these grounds and Catacombs like the back of your hand, correct?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Dar¡¯Gehon had always belonged to my family.¡±


    ¡°I knew you¡¯d be useful,¡± he didn¡¯t notice her rolling her eyes at that, ¡°I have a plan¡­¡±


    He whispered into her ear, in turn, her lips curled into a sly smile.


    ¡°What?¡± Delwynn called out. ¡°What are you whispering about? Did you finally accept defeat?¡±


    His suspicions seemed to be confirmed when the army of the dead began to recede from his view. ¡°HA! Another victory for the Undying Scion!¡±


    In actuality, they were following Balandra¡¯s lead. She brought them to an inconspicuous part of the grounds surrounded by graves. More undead were added to Mithlas¡¯ army. They were assembled quickly over several areas. A group hung around behind the entrance of the catacombs. Several more waited by the secret exits around Dar¡¯Gehon. The rest were assembled into large groups of three.


    ¡°These three points. Is that right?¡± Mithlas asked her.


    ¡°Yes, your darkness.¡±


    ¡°Oh please, ¡®my liege¡¯ will suffice.¡±


    ¡°Of course, my liege,¡± she sighed begrudgingly, yet she couldn¡¯t mask her excitement.


    ¡°And you¡¯re sure they won¡¯t get away?¡±


    ¡°Positively so. They won¡¯t see us coming at all.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s exactly what I wanted to hear.¡±


    With a giddy cackle he raised his arms.


    ¡°Alright then! Worms. Loyal Deathmasters. Start digging.¡±

 Chapter VII - The Harder They Fall

    A smug grin spread across Delwynn¡¯s face. To himself, he had already accepted this as a victory. Too quickly had he given into the satisfaction; he had saved the last bastion of the Lich King¡¯s true followers. In his mind, he was a great general, and in his heart, he was worthy.


    Though, to many of his followers, they were practically rats¡­ no, worse. They were worms, hiding from something far more powerful than that they had ever encountered since the fall of their King. Their Scion was no better than they - no, in fact he was the worst of the cowards. He had ordered them to remain underground in the safety of their catacombs without a plan or hope of real salvation.


    ¡°Is it safe, Scion?¡± asked one of the more inexperienced members of the cult.


    ¡°You¡¯re asking me that? Fool! Of course that vile slug is creeping around our grounds.¡±


    A week would do the trick, because of course, no siege had ever lasted longer than that. His plan was fool-proof as far as he was concerned.


    ¡°But, your darkness¡­¡± one of the surviving Deathmasters cut himself off.


    ¡°What is it? Speak up.¡±


    ¡°We only have enough supplies to last us two days, your darkness.¡±


    ¡°TWO DAYS?!¡±


    All of the cultists flinched. The bearer of this bad news took a tentative step back, fearing for his skeleton. He didn¡¯t want to be torn out of his body like what almost happened to Ulrin. Luckily, the Undying Scion calmed down enough to see sense. He had suffered enough losses to throw away his experienced necromancers so easily like before. Combing back his platinum locks with fine fingers, he laughed it off.


    ¡°Pah! Two days is more than enough. Did any of you see them bring food or wine? I¡¯m sure that corpulent slug will succumb to hunger and boredom before the next morn.¡±


    He looked at them all, expecting to see hope and jubilation alight their expressions. What he got were tired, half-arsed cheers and smiles that barely hid their fears. They had seen what the Slyth¡¯taynt could do. Prior to Mithlas¡¯ arrival, they had only known tales of those mysterious slug-things and their vile hunger. Not a single necromancer knew that they were capable of magic that far exceeded their own abilities. Who could blame them? They were extremely rare to see in this realm.


    ¡°What¡¯s that look for?¡± Delwynn rose his voice, ¡°You ungrateful wretches. I save you and this is how you react?¡±


    ¡°No, your darkness,¡± the Deathmaster spoke up, ¡°We are merely- ehrm¡­ dead tired, is all.¡±


    ¡°Then un-tire yourselves. Or must I kill you and bring you back myself?¡±


    ¡°No, Scion,¡± all of his cultists said over each other at once, their smiles more convincing.


    ¡°Good,¡± Delwynn stretched, feeling a gnawing in his gut. ¡°I shall be feasting in my hall. Gather everyone else. Let¡¯s celebrate this victory!¡±


    It was less of a friendly suggestion to all of his doting followers. Many went along willingly anyway - if this were to be their last night alive, then they were better off spending it in revelry.


    Just as they reached the halls, they heard a rumbling echo through the halls.


    ¡°Must be Farris¡¯ stomach,¡± another snickered.


    ¡°Not me-¡°


    Their chatter was abruptly cut short by a BANG on one end of the hall.


    ¡°What on Tiron-Mord-?¡±


    The second BANG made their brave Scion jump. The third came too close for comfort, snuffing out all of the lights further down. The fourth dislodged the decorative bones from the walls. Desperate songs turned to screams deep in the darkened passages. Sounds of rising undead followed, then the cracking of bone on wood and steel rending flesh.


    ¡°What are you doing just standing there?!¡± Delwynn floundered, ¡°Summon the Boneslaves!¡±


    His cultists did just that, their discordant chorale awoke the dead from the surrounding walls. Delwynn slyly slipped behind them and backed himself close to the doors of his party hall. As they got in place, bracing for an attack, many of the inexperienced members of Delwynn¡¯s cult began to break.


    ¡°We¡¯re going to die! All is lost!¡± they simpered.


    ¡°Shut up, all of you!¡± Delwynn¡¯s voice broke. ¡°Or I¡¯ll kill you myself!¡±


    They obeyed quickly. All the commotion ahead of them died. For a while, there was only the sound of creaking bones and panicked breaths.


    The sound of footsteps echoed from the darkness. As it neared, they realised it was coming from the leftmost passage.


    ¡°Get it! Kill it!¡± the Scion commanded.


    Their thralls were sicked upon the unknown figure. Unintelligible shouts and screams could barely be heard from under the songs of the necromancers. When the Boneslaves returned, they did not drag back another undead to add to their ranks. Instead, it was one of their own cultists, battered and close to death. She was tossed before the feet of the silenced group.


    ¡°They¡¯re¡­ in¡­ inside¡­¡±


    With one last gasp, the cultist lay dead. But not for long - one of the Deathmasters quickly brought her back as a walking corpse. They hardly had the luxury to waste anybody. It would have been more helpful if she had told them where the slug¡¯s forces were coming from but none amongst the surviving cultists could make the dead speak.


    ¡°What¡¯s happening? How did they get in?!¡±


    Their Undying Scion was close to breaking too. If it weren¡¯t for his mask and hood concealing his face, his remaining forces would have already scattered in disarray. But his fears quickly turned to irritation, then rage. The sound of his own followers doom-singing grated on his nerves to no end.


    ¡°Stop your simpering, you imbeciles!¡± he snapped, ¡°Seal off those wings! Now!¡±


    Cultists and undead rushed towards every passage, collapsing the tunnels. As they worked, Delwynn was at a loss. It was utterly inconceivable that they could have gotten in. Every entrance had been enchanted with wards. Had he been betrayed? Had someone let the slug in? Impossible.


    His mind wandered to the secret exits. That slug couldn¡¯t have known where they were, even if he were a former member as he ludicrously claimed. There was only one that knew besides himself. Someone like Balandra wouldn¡¯t serve a loathsome slug, even if she were tortured. Even if she were enthralled! Surely!


    Even as the last hall collapsed with dirt and stone, an unsettling thought grew in the Scion¡¯s mind. He had seen first hand how the slug¡¯s undead army had felled his best Deathmasters with as little as a command. If they could get into their impenetrable catacombs, what chance did these measly fledglings and useless wounded have with their simple Boneslaves? Now that he had blocked off all chances of entry or escape, his domain had been reduced to his party hall.


    ¡®Damn! If only I had more capable followers!¡¯


    At least they had food and entertainment. In Delwynn¡¯s mind, defending the last bastion of the Lich King was easier now; with what little forces he had were better consolidated to the small hall. All they had to do was hold out until the slug gave up on his ill-conceived siege. From under his mask, Delwynn chuckled, proud of his own military genius.


    Once the cultists had finished barricading themselves in, they all fled to the feasting hall. The large doors shut behind them with a resounding boom. Tables and undead assembled themselves to reinforce the doors. For good measure, more wards were erected with more ingenious password combinations.


    All of Delwynn¡¯s followers collapsed into their chairs, voices too hoarse to make a dead rat dance.


    ¡°Well, I think this calls for a celebration,¡± the Undying Scion laughed in manic relief. ¡°Come! Let us drink to our victory.¡±


    They all needed a drink, so they didn¡¯t hesitate to bring out the barrels and delight in their contents. So quick was their desire to wet their tongues and numb themselves that they didn¡¯t bother to read the signs. What they drank was no common table wine, but the finest of aged port meant to be enjoyed in sparse sips - for it was far stronger than they could possibly have expected. What started out as fake revelry devolved into pure, unadulterated bliss. So good was their numbing that they couldn¡¯t hear the sound of their wards breaking and their reinforcements crumbling. The world spun with the wine¡¯s music.


    The great doors of the feasting halls were smashed to splinters by the invading undead, and yet, not even that had sobered them up. Delwynn was to busy dancing in his hallucinogenic haze that he hadn¡¯t realised that all of his remaining followers were rounded up, nabbed by cold, bony hands. He giggled as he felt those same hands grasp at him.


    One hand pinched at that uncomfortable spot upon the end of his spine, only then did he snap out of his drunken haze. Before he could say a word, undead descended upon him. He let out a muffled shriek as he was covered completely in suffocating darkness. Try as he did to sing his spells, such efforts were useless when one was too panicked and breathless.


    His thoughts raced. The Undying Scion did not live up to his name. Worst of all, he would not be granted a particularly memorable death, proud and with words that will be quoted for eons. Instead, he¡¯d die whimpering and pissing himself to some damned slug.


    ??????????


    Delwynn blinked, head and body throbbing with aches. He found himself slumped on the black-marble floors of the large throne room. Hands, feet and mouth were bound by disembodied hands that were as stiff as rigor mortis. Undead, ancient and fresh, filled the seats and standing platforms in a mockery of a coronation. This sacred spot had not been so full since the death of the Lich King. His still-living followers surrounded him, not as captors but as witnesses amidst the crowd - shame mingled with treacherous relief upon their faces. The cowards had pledged themselves to slug!


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Upon his throne sat the Slyth¡¯taynt, with a big shit-eating grin. It wriggled excitably, making itself comfortable. That sacred seat meant only for King and Scion had been desecrated by tainted slime. Further tainting its obsidian frame was the groaning of ancient undead, whose additions had -by Delwynn¡¯s own traitorous admission- made the throne grander and more extravagant than before. Salting the wound further, there, on the queen¡¯s-throne, sat Delwynn¡¯s own wife. Her expression was not of the pleading damsel or the scorned wraith. She was positively ecstatic!


    ¡°Bring me the False Scion,¡± Mithlas said, making no attempt at hiding his glee.


    Two of the slug¡¯s own undead came forward, uniform in their movements. Delwynn was carried by his arms and dragged towards the feet of the thrones. Mouth still clamped shut, he could do little but let out muted spells and impotent cries of rage from under his his mask.


    ¡°You might have a chance to live, Delwynn. Only if you appease me.¡±


    The slug relished every word spat from his lips. Delwynn cut his eyes at him - a last ditch effort at defiance. But, in those very eyes was fear and the scent of it was palpable. Delwynn didn¡¯t want to grovel to something so beneath him, but he didn¡¯t want to die or serve as a mere Boneslave either.


    ¡°There it is,¡± Mithlas said, ¡°Even in this most uncompromising position, you still have the gall to look down upon me. How predictable. Ohoho¡­ Really. You have no idea how long I have waited for this day. Bring him closer. Closer. No, a bit back. That¡¯s right.¡±


    Delwynn was lifted off his feet and brought over, face uncomfortably close to the Slyth¡¯taynt. He could smell his eye-watering stench even through the hands that clasped over his mouth.


    ¡°I want you to grovel. Admit what you should have done long ago. I want everyone to hear you admit that you cannot match my brilliant mind and my greatest talents. Go on. Tell them that you were a fool, False Scion.¡±


    For an awkward few moments, they both stared at each other. Delwynn¡¯s voice was muffled under the hand as he called the Slyth¡¯taynt all manner of insults until his face had gone purple.


    ¡°Oh, for gods¡¯ sakes, move, you wretched hand!¡±


    The hand obeyed, allowing Delwynn to be assaulted with the unfiltered stench that filled his air-starved lungs. He could be commended for his ability to hold all of his stomach¡¯s contents in, something his followers had failed to do. Just as Balandra had done earlier, his nose adjusted to the smell and he¡¯d calm down from his coughing fit, albeit, looking far worse off than when he was gagged and suffocating despite the added protection of his mask.


    ¡°Go on,¡± Mithlas said, ¡°Say it.¡±


    ¡®As if,¡¯ Delwynn thought to himself.


    ¡°Diy Sgerrend Cro¡¯ch.¡±


    The spell rebounded off of Mithlas¡¯ skin. Confused, it went straight for the weakest of the bunch. With a shriek, the man¡¯s skeleton was forced out of his body, emerging like a sad insect from its pupa, wet and red with viscera as it shed its wasted flesh. The newly minted Boneslave was still shrieking bloody murder as Delwynn¡¯s hoarse little song made him fly towards the startled slug.


    But before the poor skeleton could even touch the Slyth¡¯taynt, Balandra sang - far too low and terse to catch the words. Her spell froze the former fledgling in midair before he anti-climatically fell apart into a pile of bones. The skeleton felt himself fading, no longer tethered to the power of the unworthy Scion. Finally, some peace¡­


    ¡°Diy tuth¡¯ne.¡±


    The cleaved skeleton groaned to life as a magic far more potent than he had ever known filled his being. Looking back at the slug, he knew that he was now his thrall forevermore.


    As for Delwynn, Dame Gnatta had sprang to action without as little as a word from the Worm King. He could only watch in horror as the former Holy Knight rushed straight for him. The glint of her blade, blinding. He shut his eyes, bracing himself for Mag Dubnos.


    ¡°Gnat, stay!¡±


    Her blade paused a hair¡¯s width from the False Scion¡¯s neck. Even though the blade didn¡¯t touch him, Delwynn could feel the cold of her steel against his neck. He opened his eyes, not daring to move let alone swallow too deeply. Meeting his own eyes was the undead Dame¡¯s paled orbs. Within her stony gaze, there was an abiding hatred - that¡¯s when he knew. He was warned by his father before him of one of the Holy Knights who had vowed to end his bloodline - if only his father took his own advice, he wouldn¡¯t have been cast forever from the world of the living. He did not know the reason for her desire for vengeance. That hardly mattered to him or his father. All that was necessary was to beware the fierce Dwine and hope that her short lifespan would end her fury.


    Unfortunately, neither he or the Holy Knight would get what they wanted. Mithlas smirked, brushing back imaginary hair and proceeding to smudge a bit of the makeup on his head with his slimy hands - he wished he had worn gloves. But, ruined makeup wouldn¡¯t dampen his spirits. Not now when he had his worst enemy right where he wanted him.


    ¡°What is it with you Lehelits? Think you¡¯re so high and mighty just because you¡¯re a head taller than everyone else?¡±


    Delwynn didn¡¯t bite back. He could only manage a hateful look, lest his words provoke the Gnat into cleaving his head clean off.


    ¡°I¡¯m still waiting,¡± Mithlas said.


    With little choice, Delwynn relented - though, he had to remind himself not to physically swallow his pride.


    ¡°Fine. I¡¯m pathetic and you¡¯re amazing.¡±


    ¡°Oh, come on. You know you can do better than that. I said grovel. Gnatta, release him.¡±


    Her blade retracted, slow and measured. Her movements were not of a thrall but of a disciplined paladin.


    Delwynn trembled, rubbing his neck. Under Mithlas¡¯ and Balandra¡¯s expectant gaze, Delwynn lowered himself in prostration.


    Hoarsely, Delwynn finally spoke, ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t even know who you are.¡±


    The slug¡¯s eyes narrowed.


    ¡°How easy it must be for you to forget your sins,¡± he spat, ¡°I came to this place believing that I had finally found my people to share my ideas with. Instead, I was laughed at by you buffoons! And worst, you made an example of me. I will never forget the night you and your cronies tied me to pole in our gardens. You forced me to sing. Said my voice was so terrible that it was only good for scaring the birds! But no matter - I¡¯ve no use for songs. After this you will always remember Mithlas the Glorious.¡±


    The added title made Balandra roll her eyes. Everyone else wanted to cringe outwardly but the undead simply couldn¡¯t and the living dared not wrinkle their faces. Meanwhile, Delwynn felt the weight of the slug¡¯s disdain.


    ¡°No¡­ I.. Forgive me, my lord¡­!¡±


    ¡°Better! Now again, with more feeling. Show me how much you mean your words. Or, I could make a stinking zombie of you to fertilise our fields.¡±


    Gulping, Delwynn began, ¡°I was wrong, Mithlas-¡°


    ¡°Worm King.¡±


    ¡°I was wrong, O¡¯ glorious Worm King. I was blind to your brilliance!¡±


    Delwynn said, his eyes occasionally drifting to Balandra, ¡°I should have treated you better. So please, give me another chance. Let me prove myself worthy of your forgiveness, my Undying Scion.¡±


    Balandra remained indifferent to his every word and thus said nothing.


    ¡°Better. But let me make it clear that I do not want to be Scion. That title belongs to the Lich King¡¯s true heir,¡± Mithlas said. ¡°If you wish to prove yourself, then show your fealty to me. Get up and kiss my hand.¡±


    Delwynn froze. His eyes darted to that filthy appendage. How it oozed. Mithlas brought his hand closer as royalty would.


    ¡°Don¡¯t keep me waiting.¡±


    Delwynn pushed down his mask and shakily took Mithlas¡¯ hand. Shutting his eyes, he quickly pecked once at those squishy knuckles. Slime still got past his lips. It was cold. The taste: foul. It was much worse than that spoonful of pure millennium year old marmite found in the Lich King¡¯s vaults. The False Scion was left a gagging mess. His mask fell back down right as his body wanted to expel the wine and food he had earlier.


    ¡°Are you satisfied now?¡± Delwynn coughed.


    ¡°Very,¡± Mithlas looked over to Balandra who was also sharing his enjoyment. ¡°But there¡¯s someone else you have yet to appease.¡±


    ¡°That wasn¡¯t the deal¡­!¡±


    Ignoring Delwynn¡¯s pleas, Mithlas continued, ¡°Balandra D¨®m¡¯Neidredd, Undying Scion. Does he satisfy you?¡±


    Delwynn met her unflinching gaze and the curve of her cruel smile. His eyes beseeched her for mercy, calling upon her to remember loving moments that only existed in his mind. Balandra rose from her seat and loomed over his kneeling form.


    ¡°Balandra,¡± Delwynn whispered, ¡°Please, get us out of this mess¡­ I¡¯ll make it up to you. I¡¯ll be a better Scion¡­!¡±


    Then came Balandra¡¯s answer: ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Ohoho¡­¡± Mithlas smirked, ¡°Then do with him what you will, your darkness.¡±


    She tore the mask from Delwynn¡¯s face, revealing his betrayal and despair. She reveled in the sheer hopelessness that radiated from the man that had bound her.


    ¡°You can¡¯t hurt me, you heartless wench! We¡¯re married, our souls our bound!¡±


    ¡°O¡¯ King of Worms,¡± she said, ¡°I wish to begin our divorce.¡±


    Mithlas sat back, chuckling, ¡°It shall be done.¡±


    The ancient monks began to shiver as they felt the presence of their god fill the room. Several amongst the living could have sworn they¡¯d heard the wingbeats of a butterfly pass their ears. The dark stone of the catacombs made small shifts.


    ¡°O¡¯ Pithelel, hear me!¡± Mithlas began, ¡°I have come to make a wish on behalf of our loyal servant. Grant it and prove your power to your would-be believers!¡±


    Then, the faint sound of songs filled the room. Balandra and the rest of the cult¡¯s veteran members were filled with a deep nostalgia - they were the songs from a time when the Lich King¡¯s reign was glorious. A time when they were on the cusp of changing the world in their image.


    A beautiful voice whispered into Undying Scion¡¯s soul, ¡°Make your wish.¡±


    Balandra could feel a wrongness in the presence of this ancient, invisible god, but her desperation and desire won out over logic. As she took a breath to make her wish, all briefly glimpsed their Undying Scion in her true glory. An almost perfect reflection of their missing king.


    ¡°Break my marriage bond, Pithelel. Free me of this weakness.¡±


    At hearing those words, Delwynn¡¯s heart shattered, for it was then he knew that she meant every word.


    ¡°As you wish.¡±


    Then, both Balandra and Delwynn felt an unbearable pain within themselves. Their screams harmonized and marriage bands shook until completely shattering. When the pain subsided, both felt strangely complete yet incomplete. Souls whole yet neither were used to missing that once-welded piece that didn¡¯t quite fit. Where Delwynn lay broken, Balandra rose upright, put on her mask and returned to her seat.


    ¡°He is yours as promised, Worm King.¡±


    Mithlas took that as thanks enough. Now that they both had their fill, what was left to do with the Lehelit now that he was brought so low?


    ¡°I can still be of use to you¡­¡± Delwynn whimpered.


    Music to Mithlas¡¯ ears.


    ¡°Indeed you can be,¡± Mithlas rested his head in his hand.


    He caught sight of a engraving of the Lich King carved on the walls of the throne room. He was depicted conducting his armies with his staff, ¡°Dethgnot¡± - the Baton of Undeath. Any great mage king of the Beohil worth their salt needed a staff. Mithlas had always dreamed of holding his own, but as he was always a tad out of tune, those hopes had been dashed back at the college and back when he was a fledgling.


    Now, he had exactly what he needed to fashion his own. Delwynn always had an excellent voice and fine potential - even though Mithlas would never admit that out loud without hurting himself.


    Just as Delwynn settled down in relief, Mithlas took this opportunity to snatch his hope away, ¡°You¡¯ll be of good use to me as my staff!¡±


    ¡°No¡­ No please! You can¡¯t do this!¡±


    ¡°Ohoho, but I can!¡±


    As hopelessness settled in, Delwynn resorted to incoherent screams. How quickly a Lehelit crumbles at the threat of undeath! He never wanted his life to end so soon, or at all for that mater. He wouldn¡¯t even be granted the dignity of remaining a full corpse. So much for his dreams of pleasing the Lich King. All he could do was shut his eyes in the vain hope it would lessen the pain.


    ¡°Diy Sgerrend Cro¡¯ch.¡±


    The moment he heard those words uttered, Delwynn¡¯s stomach lurched. His own favourite spell that he taunted others with was used against him. A sharp pulling sensation tugged at every muscle, every organ and every pain receptor in his body. First he spasmed, then a number of unpleasant noises and sights graced every witnesses¡¯ senses - even Mithlas felt a teensy bit ill watching the spell work far too well than he intended. Then, Delwynn¡¯s skull and spine launched out of his body.


    For a while, Delwynn twitched like a worm baking out in the sun. His vision began to clear as he adjusted to seeing through his spectral eyes. He felt cold and the pain was still fresh in his mind. The nature of his new existence only added more salt to his injuries.


    ¡°Balandra, my dear Undying Scion. You know how to fashion a good staff. Would you like to do the honours?¡± spoke the Worm King.


    When Delwynn looked up to his wife, he saw that he truly was unworthy of that mask and throne. All that was left was the shattered remains of his love for her.


    ¡°Gladly, my king. Airochafu.¡±


    Her words lifted the bony worm into the air. She continued to sing, elvish bone and spectre reforged into something much more useful than the creature they were harvested from. As her song came to an end, Delwynn had finished his transformation into a beautiful staff, steaming with ghost-mist.


    She offered the staff reverently to Mithlas. Delwynn was cool to the touch, light to hold and his grip was comfortable. The Worm King gave his new conducting baton an experimental flick and gesture. With a delighted smirk, he held his new staff to his chest.


    ¡°A moment of silence for our fallen brothers and sisters,¡± Mithlas said.


    Cultists and undead hung their heads in silence. Though that silence was brief, for Mithlas was restless.


    ¡°Are we done? Good. Diy Tuthn¡¯e.¡±


    Dead bretheren all throughout the catacombs stirred to unlife once more.


    ¡°Now, let¡¯s celebrate. Your new king is here.¡±

 Chapter VIII - Wine and Venom

Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    ??????????