Chapter Twenty-Five: Shaking Hands With The Devil  

“How do I look?” the corpse asked, analyzing its new fittings in the mirror.

The vicar nodded. “Legendary, sire.”

The corpse looked itself up and down, an unreadable look on its face. Or what remained of its face.

“Those are designed after your old uniform.” The vicar said, then he paused. “At least, to the best of our knowledge. Most of the scripture placed little if any emphasis on your… sartorial nature. The documentation on such trivialities was scant at best.”

The corpse eyed the vicar’s reflection behind him as he adjusted the collar of his black gi. “I must still have dirt packed in my ears because I swear I just heard you slander personal fashion.”

The vicar cleared his throat. “Well, I, um, meant no offence my lord. It is just that…um, the point I was trying to make was that we essentially had to deduce what you wore.”

The corpse stared silently at the vicar for a long moment, the vicar visibly nervous by the injected silence. The corpse turned its attention back to its own reflection.

“Clearly. No one in their right mind would ever wear synthetic over single weave. Or tails. Is this the designer’s idea of a flattering cut? And who decided on all black? Am I an evil tampon, or something?”

The vicar looked stripped for words. “My lord, our apologies. I will make immediate reparations to have your entire wardrobe refit to your specifications. And you are absolutely correct: this is not our area of expertise. And it has been a very long time. Please understand…”

The corpse turned to the man and grabbed him by the collar, lifting him off the ground, its bony arms shaking.

“Oh, I think I understand that perfectly well. After all, I was the one stuck in that gods-forsaken half-world for three thousand years, not any of you or your band of fanatics! You are lucky your ritual didn’t resurrect dust, for all of the brevity your organization exercised in the matter.”

He tossed the vicar on the floor, the man grasping his neck as he gasped for air.

“Effective reverence is just so hard to find these days.” The corpse sighed, going back to the mirror where it began to daintily dust off dirt from around its orbital sockets with its bony finger.

“Disgusting. Just look at this face. Time really did a number on me, that bitch.”

The vicar stumbled to his feet, bracing himself on a dresser as he attempted to regain his composure. It had scarcely been one hour following Mokul’s reincarnation and word of his resurrection had already spread like wildfire around the canton and, along with it, a vast array of rumors; rumors ranging from the raising of an army of undead, to the boiling off of the East Enesian sea, to the complete failure of the ritual altogether and the resurrection of something else entirely. On that last note, the vicar could not be certain that they were dealing with any kind of imposter. Though the creature had lifted him as if he were made of paper–and that was in its current state, with hardly any muscle definition or physical substance to speak of– any creature from the Beyond could have taken the great lord’s place, considering how little anyone knew about the rules and ways of that world. The vicar glared at the creature’s back as it rifled through an antique armoire. It pulled out a long black hat, snorting derisively. It held the garment up, letting it dangle comically between pinched fingers.

“Really? A sorcerer’s hat? What kind of limp-dicked magician did you think I was? Do you really have such a low opinion of your great lord to clad him so?”

The vicar could feel waves of roiling energy radiating off the creature, like blazing heat from a furnace. He shielded his face, sweat rolling down his brow as his heart began racing.

“My lord, we meant no offence. It was a standard garment worn by masters of the day. Once again, we had little…”

“And yet,” the creature interrupted, “there is a certain…risque aura surrounding such a piece, if one can see past its overtly phallic nature.”

With a dramatic twirl of the hat, the creature placed the long, pointed hat on its head and turned to pose his profile in the mirror. The waves of energy simmered down and the vicar sighed inwardly as the creature’s rage visibly abated.

“Hmm. I’ll admit, it has a specific kind of charm. Like something from a storybook, or an S&M shop. Either way, I like it.”

The vicar blushed at the corpse’s language and cleared his throat.

“It, um…suits you my lord.”

The corpse turned to the vicar, placing a hand on a jutting hip.

“Could you be any more of a sycophant? If I wanted a bootlicker then I’d replace you all with Kvorzhian toads. I mean, whatever happened to good old fashion feedback?”

It eyed the vicar up and down with a disapproving look.

“I can see from your…uniform–if you call it that–that you’d rather drape yourself in a beach towel, so perhaps I won’t seek critical approval from you after all.”

“My lord…”

“Oh, look at me. Am I being a bit of a queen? I am, aren’t I? My apologies vicar–what was it now?”

“Sternglad, my lord.”

“Riiiight.” The creature said in a tone that was clear it could not care less.

It put a hand on the vicar’s shoulder. “So about those three-something-hundred thousand bodies loitering in my courtyard outside; what do you suppose they will do now that your little party is over?”

“We…we have told them that the ritual has been, um…adjourned. We explained that you would…”

“That I would what?” The creature interrupted. “That I would come out and preach to them and bring them salvation? Miracles, perhaps? Or maybe I could do a little dance. Waggle my meatless man-buns. Was that what you had on the menu, vicar?”

The creature burst out laughing, though the sound that emerged was more akin to a shovel striking dry dirt.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to reign in on your special day, vicar, but you must realize that they…” The creature pointed in the direction of the courtyard. “…are not my problem.”

Its tone was ice. Final.

It turned back to the armoire, casually sorting through the wardrobe. The vicar was stunned to silence. Among his assignment to assess the creature for validity he was also charged with preparing and formally presenting the dark lord to his audience where he would be officially recognized by the Arcus N’omenii–his Army in Waiting–the final act of the ritual. If he could not convince the dark lord to come around then not only would he likely be out of a job, the crowd could riot. And a riot that size… The vicar shivered at the thought.

“My lord, while I understand your pressing need for..”

The vicar paused as the corpse pulled out a satin brassiere, placing it against his chest and making an excited sound.

“…convalescence, there are matters that direly require your attention.”

“Oh…my…god.”

The corpse pulled out a pair of moth-bitten slacks and held them up.

“What could be more dire than this? Pleather? I will set the man on fire who puts pleather under my roof. Poor moths, probably have indigestion.”

The vicar could see he wasn’t getting anywhere with casual entreaty, so he attempted pleading.

“Please sire, if we don’t properly address the audience there could be grave repercussions for us all.”

The creature placed a heap of clothes in the vicar’s arms. “Not more grave than what I am going to do to whoever arranged this closet.”

The vicar looked down incredulously at the pile of clothes growing in his arms. He couldn’t believe the nerve of this creature! Was everything a fancy to it? With each passing moment of whimsy, the vicar’s suspicions were further cemented: this was not their lord standing in front of him. Angrily, he dropped the pile on the floor.

“No. I am…we are not some court of fools to be toyed with. If your clothes are to be laundered, burned or otherwise, I can find someone to do that for you. But right now, we need to all be adults and deal with the problem at hand–the problem that grows larger just outside these walls with each passing minute that we waste.”

The corpse stared down at the pile of clothes on the floor. It turned its gaze to the vicar, an unreadable expression on its face. Suddenly, a large piece of flesh dislodge from the side of its face, flopping onto the floor with a sickly sound.

“You would address me so? The cheek!” The creature cried. Then it burst out into hysterical laughter.

“Did you see what I did there? Now that is beyond comedic timing. And whoever said the gods didn’t have a sense of humor?”

The creature continued to laugh as the vicar felt his temperature rising. He balled his fists and felt red hot flows funneling into him. Eros help him if it came to that, but if he had to convince this remnant–dark lord or not–to present itself through violent means, then so be it. If that was his fate, then let it be written. He began to channel the flows to his hands. Nothing too special to start, just enough to send a message. If the creature was even half as powerful as the dark lord truly was, then this would do it little harm. Sure enough, the corpse stopped laughing and turned back to the vicar, a curious look on its face. It stared down at the piece of flesh on the floor between them and a strange sound emanated from its stomach.

“That is…actually so gross. I can’t believe that came from me. I….”

“My lord, if it really is you in there, I apologize for this but you must understand this is for the benefit of all…”

Before the vicar could finish, the corpse placed a hand against its mouth.

“Uh-oh.”

It vomited all over the vicar, drenching the man head to toe in an obnoxious mixture of bile, dirt and other ancient bodily fluids. The vicar stood dripping, stinking and completely stunned. The flows exited him with diarrheic expediency, leaving him both powerless and speechless.

The corpse wiped its face with the back of its hand and crossed its arms as it considered the vicar. “I’ll admit, it’s not the best look for you. Although, now I’ll probably fit in those prophylactics your tailors call pants. A little off the top means a little of the bottom, no?” It patted its rear, smilingly cheekily.

Vicar Sternglad wiped vomit off of his face, flicking the residue onto the floor. He glared at the corpse, his eyes ablaze with pure ire.

“I must be candid with you; I was charged with assessing your true character, and now I see it, plain as night. You are no lord: you are a barbarian. Mokul would be rolling over in his grave if he knew such a pretender was parading around, wearing his good name.”

The corpse held up a corner of his cape. “Well if this is the kind of thing a good name gets you, I wouldn’t want it either.”

Enough! Enough of this idle banter and….and….flamboyant philandering!”

“Ah, I see what you did there. Alliteration. Very clever. A bit discriminatory but quaint, nonetheless.”

The vicar hissed, summoning two glowing globes of light in the palms of his hands. “Now I cleanse thee. Return hence to where you have come vile creature! In the name of our great lord, I expel thee!”

“Oh?”

***

Outside the room, two guards stood watch in the hall. One guard lifted his black armored arm and covered his mouth as he yawned. A scream sounded in the room behind them and the double doors between the guards burst into shards as the body of the vicar flew through them in a rigid heap. The guards leaped aside as the man struck the adjacent wall with a loud crunch, his head snapping back and striking the plaster with another sickly sound. He fell to the ground face first, the back of his skull a bloody pulp, a large blood stain oozing down the wall from an indent where the skull had made impact.

The body was not moving.

The guards got to their feet reluctantly, staring down at the corpse a blade away from their feet. They cocked their heads toward the sound of footsteps and the shattered bi-folds opened, the corpse stepping out into the hall. It stepped on the vicar’s body as if it were a mat, stopping and looking side to side down the long hall. It eyed the guards who stared back at it with perplexed looks.

“It feels so good to be home.” It said, taking in a deep breath.

“You!” It said, pointing at the guard nearest it, the guard nearly jumping out of his armor.

“Take this fool out of my site. Make sure to wash up any stains that he leaves on my rug.”

The corpse stepped aside as the the guard dropped his lance and grabbed the vicar by the arms, dragging him down the hallway and out of sight.

The corpse turned to the other guard. “I can’t seem to find my eyes. Show me to the throne room.”

***

The guard led the corpse down the black marble hall and into a domed foyer. He approached a large set of vaulted doors made of thick plate steel and pushed his full weight against them. Slowly, they creaked open with an irreverent groan, revealing a rectangular room that looked as if it were nearly the entire length of that wing of the fortress. On the end nearest the door there was a black pipe organ that extended up the wall twelve blades or so and into the roof. Where the pipes went the guard didn’t know but he had heard the archbishop playing it from time to time when he was on his rounds.

He didn’t think the archbishop would be playing it anymore.

The guard accompanied the corpse down the room along a large throw rug that stretched from one end of the room to the other, black as the night above and threaded with a great insignia of
the cult in the center. On the outer wall, windows were placed at intervals overlooking the bluffs below, the raging black ocean visible in the intermittent flashes of lightning. A large black chandelier hung in the center of the ceiling from a beam high above which ran along the length of the roof. Perpendicular to this central shaft were other beams at regular intervals like ribs that jutted out from a spine. Rats could be heard scurrying about above in the network of joists. They came to the far end of the room to where an enormous throne sat atop a pedestal. Adjacent to it, across from the windows, was a massive stone fireplace which had a roaring fire in the hearth. The guard swallowed nervously as he approached the throne. None of the employees of the castle liked coming into the throne room, in the rare event that they ever had cause to come to it; it was strictly off limits unless otherwise instructed. But it wasn’t for fear of trespassing that no one wanted to be there—it was the throne itself.

The Throne of the Departed.

That was how history had remembered it at least, though any who had seen it immediately knew it was a euphemism. The thing was made entirely out of bone—the bones, it was said, of all the leaders who had ever opposed the great lord. Where usually would be a post for a leg was perhaps a femur or tibia/fibula. Literally a leg. And where wooden slats may have braced a cross-section were ribs, or perhaps one of the arm bones. But, perhaps, most grotesque of all were the row of skulls that lined the back of the chair, splayed out in a fan fashion between sharpened lengths of bone, as if emulating heads on stakes. Many believed that only the skulls of the dark lord’s most esteemed enemies earned a place on the throne. For that reason, the throne was known, if but colloquially, also as the King Collector, namely for the handful (skull-ful?) of historical kings who had inevitably found their way to Mokul’s chair.

The corpse stopped at the base of the throne and gazed up at it in silence, standing there as it took it in. It opened its arms as if to greet it.

“Ah my lovely, lovely little chair.” He leaned against it and embraced the throne as if it were another, rubbing its face against what looked like it may have been a pelvis.

“Oh, how much I missed you! You have no idea how bloody hard it is to find a comfortable place to sit in eternal damnation.”

The guard stood and watched in awe. As if feeling the guard’s prying eyes, the corpse turned and looked at the guard.

“What are you staring at? Don’t you have some other newly resurrected martyr to perv on?

The guard gasped and turned quickly to face the wall. “Um… I was hoping, s…sir, that possibly I could watch as you tried your throne out. Y…you know, for comfort-ability and such.”

“As exciting as the thought of watching one take a seat surely must be, I think not. Would you wish your good lord further degradation by remembering him in such a state? Would you wish to tell your children this story–that you waited three thousands fael’ing years to watch a half-man reclaim your idol’s noble throne? Is that what you wish?”

“N…no, my lord. That is not what I wish.”

“Then get the fa’el out of my throne room.”

The guard turned away, giving an embarrassing bow as he shuffled out of the room awkwardly.

“And lock the door on your way out.” The corpse yelled after the guard.. “Tell no one to enter for one month. No sooner, no later. Anyone who opens that door will be dead upon entrance
of the room.”

The guard cast the corpse a confused look before catching himself. “Y…yes sir. What should I tell…the others, my lord?”

The corpse swatted a hand as if shooing a fly. “Oh, this again. Tell them I fell on another sword or something, for all I care. Why don’t you be creative.”

“Um…yes, my lord.”

“Oh, and one more thing.”

The guard stopped mid closure, poking his head back in the room.

“What is this strip of pubic hair doing here?” The creature pointed to the black throw rug on the floor.

“Sir? I believe the Archbishop had it brought in, um, imported I heard. Supposed to be exotic. They had the Order’s insignia put on it. Cost them a fair lot I heard. Fancy dyes and craft-work from up North. The monks of the Watch, or some such. It’s the mark of the wizard, sir. Your sigil.” The guard stood upright, proudly as if he had delivered good news.

The corpse scoffed. “I have no mark. Cattle and defective skin have marks.” It said, a hint of agitation in its voice. “The sight of it hurts my ego. Take it with you when you leave.”

The guard stood still for a moment, trying to process the request. When he realized the corpse was not joking it bent over and began to pull on the impossibly gigantic rug which, of course, refused to move. The guard stopped after a moment and looked up at the corpse who was ignoring him, staring intently out the window.

“Shall I bring you another, my lord?” the guard asked.

The corpse turned to the man. “Yes. How about something fluffy and pink? Now get out!”

The guard pulled frantically at the rug but, try as he may, he could not win over the force of friction. He tried to twist it into a roll but the rug was too large and he couldn’t manage. He bent over and began to fold a section of the rug over. Once folded, he grabbed the edges and tried the door again. He managed to get a small fraction through but then the handle got caught up. The corpse turned its head nearly backwards, staring at the man with its rotten face, its body still facing the window. It raised its arm at him, a fireball erupting from its palm. The guard screamed and covered his face, tripping on the lumped up carpet that had collected at his feet. The fireball caught the edge of the rug and the flames traveled rapidly up the rug, incinerating it instantly. When the flames reached the other end, a surge of fire catapulted the guard backward into the hall with a puff of smoke and both he and the rug were gone. The doors creaked close on their own, slamming shut. The lock latched down with a click and the corpse twisted its head back into position.

It watched as the waves rolled in from the darkness, careening against the cliff. It imagined the symphonic crashes that they made as they struck the rock; the sheer, raw power of the ocean as it demonstrated but a fraction of a fraction of its potential against the Enesian cliffs. The corpse felt euphoric to be back, at least as much as its partially-rotted brain allowed it to. It mused on that last thought—that its mind had managed to stay in tact long enough to preserve the shell of its former self. There was no saying how close it had come to fully losing itself in that other world. Perhaps it had lost a part of itself but such was the beauty of madness: there was not much to lose when one had long ago forfeit sanity.

Sanity.

Could any term be more subjective? Long ago–uncountable years–the corpse had realized that sanity really meant what others had come to expect of you. And that meant that sanity was a chain. If one wanted to rise past the mundane they had to rise past the expectations placed on them by themselves and others, which often meant doing things that society at large did not agree with. This was not the same thing as madness though. Madness was sanity without any bounds whatsoever–without any purpose. Sanity could easily be repurposed to fit one’s will but madness–that was a place one went and no others could follow.

And there was no escaping madness, in his experience.

The corpse had seen that place. Lived in it, in fact, for nearly three thousand years, apparently. And while it had inevitably escaped one prison, it felt like it had been cast into another: the one outside the bars. Its was a now a world of estrangement. It knew that its enemies had long ago ceased to be and in some sense that saddened it. The corpse felt as if it were some kind of…anachronism—a thing from another time that did not wholly belong. But it had never truly belonged so nothing had truly changed over those thousands of years. But there would always be more wars to fight, foes to vanquish. For that was the quester’s lot, wasn’t it: to establish oneself, whatever the means. Where there were countervailing ideologies there would be swords to defend them. In war, whoever swung the sword last was all that mattered.

But war was an old cren’s game. It wasn’t his–hadn’t ever really been his, despite what history insisted. No, his was an internal war, which wasn’t really a war at all because there were no other players but oneself. And while the world perpetrated the crime against him, time was the true enemy. And there was only one way to control time; even Aeros himself knew this.

The Book.

All his actions, allegiances, conquests–the very breaths from his body–were predicated on attaining the Book. If they had just given it to him in the beginning, in fact, no one would have ever had to die. Well, other than the billions of hypothetical lives that would be erased from existence when he literally rewrote time itself but that’s really just marginalia, isn’t it? The problem was–had always been–no one wanted to give it to him. And, perhaps, more importantly than that: the book did not want to be found.

It was said that only harbingers possessed the knowledge and abilities to locate it but the last recorded harbinger was well before his time (his first round of time, that is), so it wasn’t looking like the flows were particularly invested in making another one anytime soon.

Or…

It was entirely possible one was imminent, since it had been so very long since the last. Harbingers were truly like earthquakes in that regard. It made sense when one considered it as such, since both are products of energy and energy always disperses at some point. The problem was earthquakes were well understood and all but parsed out to their minutia by seismomancers and the like. But harbingers… They may as well have been ghosts for all that anyone knew about them. But that didn’t stop the corpse from searching. His was a past full of esoteric tutelage, all the way from the Magii of the Pits to Feyfalzen, up to standard Kaldan practices and modern flowcraft, so by no means did he balk at the arcane. Unfortunately, even aethermagick could not help him locate the Book, as it turned out. Just one of many lies told to him by his masters…

***

The Interloper watched from the shadows, he himself a shadow. He knew that the wizard would easily sense his attunement to the flows, so he had worked up a concoction to hide his energy signature: a dispersal spell, really–taking flows and using them to subtly displace concentrated flows and blend them in with the “ambient” energy that flowed through everything else. While it wasn’t perfect, it was enough to make himself appear no more important than the curtains that he hid behind.

As he watched the wizard take his throne, the Interloper felt a strange blend of awe and rage. The man, or rather corpse, was a living legend. Literally. It was truly amazing what the flows could do. Almost endless possibilities. If death was no obstacle to overcome, then perhaps the potential was truly limitless. No one knew. But what the Interloper did know was that Mokul had made many enemies in his past life and that hadn’t stopped when the wizard died. Almost died. He would know–he was among the most ardent of them all. And he had good reason, given what he had been through. So to see his greatest foe resurrected, offered another chance at life–something he surely did not earn in any respect–enraged was a euphemism for how he felt. Mokul should have been relegated to the deepest, darkest pits of Endabarron. Mokul should have ended. He certainly should not have been six blades away in the same room, about to take a throne like a revered king.

But there he was, in the flesh. His plan had failed. He had failed. And worse:

He had failed them.

If he was to ever see them again, Mokul needed to die. Properly, this time. The problem was, even in his current state, the wizard was very powerful. Making someone explode just by thinking it was no mere flowcrafting. Even the Interloper wasn’t sure if he was capable of such a feat. In the swirling storm of memories that he had come to believe were once his, he could scarcely recall seeing more than a handful of magicians powerful enough to cast such a spell. And if the creature could do it again, well… Suffice to say, getting near the wizard may be harder than once thought. No, he would need to wait for the right opportunity, when the creature was distracted.

So he would watch, and wait.

The corpse dusted off the seat of the throne, though it had clearly been used recently, likely by the late Archbishop.

“Damn cultists, leaving their ass marks all over my things.” The creature snapped, before pulling his coat tails aside to sit.

He leaned back against the throne, taking in a long, deep breath. The Interloper could hear the air straining past the dirt-clotted nasal passages.

“It is good to be back home. Or some version of it.”

The corpse looked around, patting the arm of his chair like it were a good dog. He then proceeded to stare off down the room, remaining silent for a long while. After the silence dragged on and on, and the Interloper began to question whether or not the corpse had just fallen asleep like that, a sound emerged. Unsure of what it was, the Interloper thought he could see the corpse convulsing. Perhaps something had gone wrong with the resurrection spell? A misplaced word or relic, a delayed reaction?

Oh how sweet his luck were that so!

His premature hopes were quickly dashed when he watched the convulsions become regular, the sounds less a querulous product of dysfunction and those of melancholy.

The wizard–Mokul–was sobbing.

The Interloper couldn’t believe what he was seeing. In his ten years of serving in the Grand Enesian Army, he had never heard of the wizard showing such emotions. It was unheard of. Mokul was supposed to be a monster, not a human. He stood stunned, unsure of what to do. Now would be the perfect time to execute him, while he was vulnerable. But what if it was a ploy? What if, somehow, the wizard had detected him and he was seeking to draw him out, take him by surprise at the last minute?

No, you are being neurotic. He told himself. If he had wanted to destroy you he would have already. He made it very clear with the rug how much he cares for the Order’s accoutrements, so he’s clearly not afraid to burn a curtain.

“I…I am sorry, Leddy. I let you down again. I wasn’t strong enough… I was such a fool to think I could have done all that alone. Oh, how I miss you. I wish… If you could only be here right now, I know you’d know what to do. I’ve gotten myself into quite a mess this time, Leddy. Please, if you are still out there somewhere, I could really use your help. Even just a small sign, to let me know you are okay…”

The corpse trailed off, staring around the room. It looked up to the flickering flames of the many candles set into the massive chandelier above. Whatever it was hoping to see there did not come.

“Oh, what am I thinking? Of course you aren’t. How could you be? I saw to that, didn’t I?”

The corpse continued to sob, hanging its head in what appeared to be the utmost shame. The Interloper almost felt sorry for it, though his own internal fire refused to give in to pity. Regardless of the kind of pain that the wizard may be in, nothing undid what had happened to him. What about his people? Was one man’s suffering worth another’s? No amount of suffering would bring back loved ones. Sure, Aether could provide temporary respite from the grave, but thralls were far from human. If anything, they were un-dead, which was not to say living. No, no amount of repentance would suffice. The wizard needed to pay for his crimes. If not all of them, then at least the one that mattered.

Suddenly, the sobbing stopped.

“Are you quite finished skulking over there?”

The Interloper froze. Who was it talking to?

“Oh, who else would I be talking to, you numb-nuts?”

How on Rynn could he possibly…

The problem with dispersing spells is that, sometimes, they take a little too much off the top. They leave a kind of…silhouette, easily detectable to the senses. Right now, you’re essentially a human-shaped void amongst a wall of color. And it doesn’t help your case that you fidget like a Khona Gibbon that’s just chewed one too many weke leaves.”

The Interloper pushed the curtain aside, stepping out into the throne room. The corpse had its face buried in its hands, clearly unconcerned by the Interloper’s presence.

“How long have you been back there?”

“Long enough.”

“So you heard all that, did you?”

The Interloper said nothing. The corpse sat up in the throne, turning its head casually to the new guest.

“Surprised that your great lord isn’t as great as you thought?”

The Interloper pointed at the corpse. “You are not my lord, and you never will be.”

The corpse nodded. “Ah, so revenge is it? Tell me, what did I do to you? There are so many vengeful spirits out there, I can’t keep track of all the atrocities…”

The Interloper leered. “You speak of lives as if they are…passing moments.” He spat. “There are no words for the kind of pain…”

The corpse rounded on the Interloper, a tremendous force pulling him toward the throne, his throat snapping into the corpse’s palm, grasping him tightly. The Interloper gasped as the iron vice tightened around his throat, improbable strength for a creature with hardly any musculature to speak of. Face-to-face with the remnant of Mokul, the Interloper could feel the flows radiating out of it like blinding light that stunted all the other senses. Other than his rebirth, it was the closest thing he had ever felt to a religious experience. He knew then that he would die and he deserved to for failing. Despite this, out of instinct or some other autonomous reflex, he summoned all the flows he could muster whilst in a death grip, attempting to shield himself from whatever may come next.

“You think you know pain?” the corpse yelled in his face.

Its body exploded into flame, dousing its form and shrouding it in the near-formless sheet of burning light. The Interloper could feel the heat of the burning hand threatening to sear his flesh but, luckily, the spell resisted it. Through his red-tinted goggles, the whole world appeared to be on fire.

“You know NOTHING of pain! Suffering is an illusion compared to what I have seen, where I have been. I was forged out of pain.”

The Interloper gasped, grabbing at the arm as he tried to hold up his weight, which the creature easily held half a blade off the floor with no apparent effort. As his eyes scrambled for an exit plan, he noticed the creature’s exposed midsection with arm upheld. In his utility belt, he had a eight-pinch blade, doused with meningus root serum, a toxin deadly enough to stop the heart of even the most magically-sustained creature. He reached down to his belt…

“Do it.” The creature said.

“What?”

“Do it. Kill me. Anything is better than this. Being here, rotting away, in a time outside of time.”

The Interloper froze. Now was his chance. He could end it right then, right there, so why did he hesitate?

“Do it! What are you waiting for? You could be the one and true champion of the Dark Lord, Mokul himself!”

And then the Interloper understood. It made so much sense. Mokul had been sent to a place outside of time and death, a kind of in-between. But at least there, he must have found some kind of solace, some kind of peace and order, even if it wasn’t his order. Now, looking into the half-formed eyes of the corpse before him, the Interloper could see that this was no longer Mokul, but a shade of his former self. A vestige of what once was. And his whole life had become like that. He had been cast irrevocably into an age where he did not fit, neither in form nor function, and nothing would ever be the same. Whoever he had lost, they had absconded with time, and along with that, his purpose. The Interloper never knew why Mokul had done what he did; it was always assumed that his creed was clear at face-value: take back the world from those who would suppress it–suppress magick. But now he knew different. There was another purpose, ulterior or, perhaps, even the driving force, and that had been stripped away from him. And a life without purpose, well…

…That was the worst kind of life of them all.

“END ME!!!!” The corpse screamed into the Interloper’s face.

The Interloper could see plainly that death would be a gift to this creature. Life was condemnation. For now, he would let this half-wizard suffer in his misery. And then, when the time was right–just at the point where Mokul had made peace with his situation and began to establish a new purpose, he would strike: take it all away. Of course, Mokul may end his own life, but the Interloper had known many narcissists and they didn’t tend to take their own life. And in the event that the wizard proved him wrong, his deal was non-discriminatory: bring back Mokul. That was it. If his actions led to Mokul taking his own life, well, the outcome was just the same.

He moved his hand away from his belt. The corpse saw this and cursed, throwing the Interloper to the side. He struck the marble floor, sliding several blades on his shoulder until he came to a stop. His cloak sizzled smoke and several bruise-colored scorch marks were etched into his throat. He pushed himself off the floor and turned to the corpse.

“Why….didn’t you kill me?” It asked, a defeated tone in its voice and a lost look on its face.

The flames extinguished and the creature sauntered lugubriously back to the throne where it slumped down, laying askew like a deflated balloon. The Interloper got to his feet, rubbing his throat.

The corpse gave a halfhearted gesture in his direction. “That is some flow you worked there, to be able to withstand ebonfire, though I can see it still needs some work. You know aethermagick then.”

It was more of an acknowledgment than a question. The Interloper nodded, cautiously getting to his feet.

The creature tapped its throat, signaling the Interloper’s injuries. “So tell me then: if it’s not worship, and it’s not revenge, then what is it?”

The Interloper stopped to consider the question. What was it? He had decided to let him live, but only so that he may suffer. Death was a respite he would not be allowed. Yet, there they were, at a showdown of sorts, except he had voluntarily holstered his pistol and now he was at a considerable disadvantage. If the wizard killed him on the spot and decided to live, the deal would be null. He needed a convincing story. He needed to stay alive, for now. He glanced over at one of the many hanging banners with the Order’s insignia on it and got an idea.

“A test.”

“A test? For whom?”

“You. Well, it was a test for Mok…for the Dark Lord but now I know that you are him. You have proven that with your skills.”

“My skills are but a shadow on a pond, a distortion of a pure form. Given time and you shall see, like the rest.” The creature’s words were banal, recited, almost if it itself didn’t believe them anymore.

“And that is why I am here. To serve and protect you…my lord.” The Interloper bent knee though he struggled to wrap his tongue around the last words.

“Protection from what? Who sent you? Are you with those zealots outside?”

“I am not Oblitari, no. I act on behalf of…a third party, of sorts.”

Not entirely a lie.

The Interloper continued. “One that knows you will need extra hands during your time of recuperation.”

The corpse scoffed. “I don’t know who you are or who you represent but tell your masters this: I need nobody’s help. Never have, never will. And if you won’t kill me, perhaps I’ll find my own way to go out with a bloody bang then.”

The Interloper stood up. “That is a lie and you know it.”

“Excuse me?”

“That is a lie–that you have never needed help. You wouldn’t have gotten to where you are now, moping on the throne of a once great wizard, were it not for the sacrifices of many. Were it not so, you’d still be trapped in that sword, back in the Beyond.”

The creature perked up. “What do you know of it?”

The Interloper caught himself.

Almost slipped up. Be careful!

Nothing more than any other mortal…just that… it’s the leading theory these days. About the afterlife, I mean.”

The creature studied him for a long moment then batted a hand dismissively. “Don’t throw words that you can’t spell.”

“Perhaps, it would be good advice about the afterlife, but not your life. It doesn’t take a keen historian to figure out that you couldn’t have acted alone.”

“Oh? And what makes that so obvious?”

“Let’s take one small example. Oh, how about…Crimson Eve. An armada of seven hundred thousand strong…”

“Eight fifty, actually, but who’s counting?”

“…ten thousand ships, ten thousand times more munitions. That takes a lot of manpower.”

The corpse batted a paw. “Bah, I practically guided their every shot. Without me, they couldn’t have hit the ocean if they were aiming down.”

“Even so, there would be nothing to guide were the bodies not available. Do you see my point here?”

The corpse feigned yawning. “I am afraid I do, and I have to say, it is outright dull. So did you come to philosophize then? Or is this a revenge story after all: murder by boredom.”

The Interloper crossed his arms. “Jest all you want. If I walk out of this room, good luck fending off a mob of three hundred and fifty thousand strong. Your flame cloak was impressive but I’m afraid that, in your current state, that’s not going to cut it with them.”

The corpse eyed the Interloper, dressing him down. After a long moment, it spoke. “What makes you think you will be leaving this room?”

The interloper swallowed. He could feel sweat beading at the back of his neck. He could smell the charred flesh at his throat, a reminder that the creature meant business. His next words could very well be his last.

Stay alive. That is all that matters.

Same ends, different means.”

Another long pause as the wizard seemed to consider. Finally, after what seemed the longest minute in all of time, the wizard leaned forward and raised a hand, pointing it straight at the Interloper’s heart. The Interloper froze, bracing for the impact. His story hadn’t worked. Somehow, Mokul had seen right through him. He saw their faces in his mind, knowing that he had failed them and that he would never really see them again. He heard their voices, saying…

Crash.

Crash? Was that…a vase smashing?

Another ruckus, objects breaking from somewhere outside of the grand hall. Then the doors to the chamber flung open and a white blur flew into the room. The Interloper saw the object approaching and threw his weight backwards, executing a back handspring as the projectile nearly missed his leg as it cartwheeled back through the air. The corpse caught the object and the Interloper rounded off, landing back on his feet. He looked at the throne to find the creature holding a white sword–the very same weapon from the ritual. He stroked it tenderly, like the hair of a child.

“For three thousand years, I was trapped in this blade. It’s funny; I should hate this weapon for what it did to me. But when you are with something so long, it becomes a part of you and you a part of it. We are now inseparable in spirit, even though we were separated physically.”

The Interloper frowned. There was no doubt the sword was majestic but his feelings toward it couldn’t be more to the contrary. If he had just destroyed the damn thing instead of fixing it, he wouldn’t have been in the mess he was in.

“Endearing, to be sure, but how does this help our cause?”

Our? What, are we a team now? Why should I trust you with a potential army?”

The answer came to the Interloper so naturally that is surprised even himself. “Because you owe me.”

The corpse reared back in his throne, placing a hand against its chest, snorting. “Owe you? I’ve been gone for three millennia. And I’ve known you all of what… five minutes? What possible debts could I have accrued in such time?”

“Without me, you never would be sitting there on that throne. The Oblitari had it all wrong. They thought the ritual would be completed by using some stupid skull and cheap words, but none of that worked. The clergy had been stumped by the riddle of the sword for as long as you had been bound to it. It was almost by accident that I realized the truth…”

Again, not entirely a lie.

“What truth?” The corpse said, sounding slightly introspective.

“The truth of the origin of the sword. You see, that sword that impaled you was not any ordinary sword. I did my research and found out some very interesting things about it.”

“Give me the I don’t give two flying fa’els about history version.”

“The blade of that sword—it is made from a dragon’s tooth.”

The corpse caressed the blade with its hand, its fetid reflection juxtaposed against the pearlesence of the beautiful white blade.

“Yes, I was aware of this. My predecessor–it’s former owner–that impotent betrayer, Mazlat– he could hardly keep his pants on whenever he mentioned the thing during his countless wretched sermons on Truth. Gods, it makes my ears bleed just remembering it. So what of it?”

“As I am sure you are fully aware by now, if one is bitten by a dragon, they are in quite a mess of trouble.”

“Absorbed to be reborn again. Once the prey is exterminated, their life force is then transferred into the tooth which, in time, will shed. The soul thus sowing itself into the earth to regrow as the fruit from a dragon tree. Yes, yes it’s all quite poetic but this is not new information. Tell me something useful or you will have proven your apparent worthlessness to be true.”

“Right, I’m getting to that.” The Interloper raised an eyebrow. “You think being trapped in a sword for three thousand years would teach you patience.” He sighed. “Anyway, as you said the tree sheds the fruit which, some say, is the reincarnation of the creature once bitten. But before the tree can grow the seed needs nourishment, and so once a tooth is lost, the dragon will bury it within the earth and expel its flame about the dirt, coating the plantation in fire—the final ingredient to procreation of its species.”

“You know, you are beginning to sound a lot like him. Yap, yap, yap. ‘This sword is the path to the truth and the salvation of all.’ Fa’el, I hate preachers! Wait… Are there still preachers in this age? Tell me those bloody Watch maniacs aren’t still around? What were they called again? Dong cattle? No that’s not it. John Crapple…”

The Interloper rubbed his temple. “Dawnchaple? The Shepherds of the Watch?”

“Yes, that’s the one!”

“Yes, their organization still exists today, to the best of my knowledge.”

The corpse sank in his throne. “Well, good news is as scarce as it’s ever been. At least that is consistent three thousand years later. You’re not one of them, are you? Is that who these mysterious masters are?”

“I am not a preacher, no. Can we return to the point at hand?”

“Wait… Are you a bard, then? You kind of sound like a bard. It would explain how you know so many stories. Sing for me then, Bard! I could do with some merriment.”

The creature summoned a decanter of wine sitting bereft on a shelf across the room. It downed the remains of the glass but, due to its unformed digestive tract, red liquid spilled out through its shirt, dousing its new clothes and seat.

“You are, um… leaking.”

The creature looked down, frowning. “Well damn. Why don’t you sing about that?” It burst into laughter.

The Interloper shook his head. “So as I was saying, the key to unbinding the soul from the tooth was there in front of us all along: fire.”

The corpse’s attention was on the empty decanter in its hand. It turned it in its grasp as the light reflected in various ways. As it played with the light rays, suddenly the glass began to glow. The glass became a glowing orange globe and then it began to lose form, turning into a pile of melted liquid in the corpse’s hand. The creature’s hand began to smoke and then bones began to burn. As the glass continued to heat, the bones began to crumble until a liquid pile of glowing glass and ash fell to the throne room floor. The creature looked down at the smoldering glass then to the stump of it charred arm which ended just above the elbow.

“Hmm. I never was too great at chemistry. So you were saying something about…fire, was it?”

The Interloper took a moment to gather his words. “Uh…yes…fire…fire was the key to unleashing you…from the sword.”

The corpse looked down at the sword laying across its lap. “Fire?”

The hooded man nodded. “Fire. Fire is the key. Fire forges the sword, therefore creating it.”

“Kiss of the flame.” Both said in unison.

They looked at each other and the hooded man smiled triumphantly. The corpse either wasn’t capable of smiling or still wasn’t impressed.

“But wait.. if the dragon’s tooth absorbs one’s soul, then why did I retain my body? Why didn’t I reincarnate as a dragon? Or a three-testicled toad? Better yet, why not a bloody unicorn or some other outrageously mythical beast, since we seem to going there. Explain that to me?” The corpse growled.

The hooded man shrugged. “Perhaps you have no soul.”

The corpse stared at the man for a moment and then burst into laughter. “You are a funny man.”

The Interloper shrugged. “I jest not. But I don’t write the rules. You would know all that better than anyone since you were there. Unfortunately, I don’t have any answers for you.”

The creature sighed. “Men rarely have answers in my experience. And Gods are often little better. It is in the mundane that we may find little bits of truth that can guide us toward the best questions.”

The Interloper raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t take you for the Alteir type.”

“Where do you think wizards get their training? Just because one seeks to better themselves in other ways doesn’t make them abstract. Let me ask you this: do you think I am evil?”

The Interloper struggled to remain silent as images of his past–broken fragments of tortured reflections–glittered in his mind.

“I…do not know you. How could I rightfully answer that?”

“But surely you know what I have done? After all, isn’t every other book written about my era about such things?”

“Yes, well…history doesn’t paint you in the kindest colors, but I wasn’t there so I couldn’t know.”

“Stop trying to defend me and answer the question. Do you think I am evil?”

The Interloper had to sit on the question for a moment while he churned it over in his mind. Of course he knew what he wanted to say but the creature was clearly fishing for some kind of philosophical rumination. For his own sake, he would need to fake a well considered response.

“I think…evil is ultimately subjective. No one that was ever deemed evil after the fact ever considered themselves evil. People all have their own reasons for doing and acting how they will, whether it is who they vote for, what kind of food they like, or which continent to conquer next.”

“What is voting?”

The Interloper rolled his eyes. “That is a long story. But it’s besides the point. I am sure you had your reasons to take the path that you took. Who am I to judge whether or not that makes you good or bad?”

The creature sighed. “You would make a good politician, you know that? Never answering the question but weaving around it like the slippery snake that you are. Fine. Let me put it this way, then: evil is an outcome, not a predisposition. I never intended to hurt anyone in the beginning but it turned to that when others wouldn’t listen. There needed to be a reform or all of magick would be lost.”

The Interloper held up his hands. “You need not have to convince me.”

“No no, that’s not the point. Without the unification of magick, the flows would be forever untethered to each other. I had a vision, you know, and it showed me what would come of the world if no one acted. So I acted. Some refused to share my vision so I was required to force them to see it. Do you understand?”

The Interloper shrugged. “It may not make you evil but it certainly makes you a tyrant.”

“It is funny you say that. In my time as a leader I realized two things about people: they say they want to be independent and have free agency yet their actions scream of needing guidance and inspiration. The human condition is then an oxymoron: people both need to be free and to be bound. But these two premises are mutually exclusive, so which do we choose: anarchy or structure?”

“Structure sure seems like a euphemism in this case, don’t you think? Besides, if you believe that line of reasoning, who leads the leaders? And who leads them? Do we continue up that chain of thought until we reach the gods themselves? Then you are back to anarchy, the very thing you sought to avoid to begin with.”

The creature clapped its hand/stump together. “Good, good! Now you see my dilemma! So in the end, then, it doesn’t really matter which you choose because both are the same: meaningless and without actual influence.”

The Interloper gave the creature a wry look. “Are you trying to say that everything you did was meaningless?”

“No. That everything I did was meaningless to everyone else, but entirely meaningful to only me. And this is how we all must live our lives.”

“But not all of us are immortal like you. For those of us with tickers in our chest, meaning becomes an entirely different thing.”

“Ah yes, this is true. As it does for the ant and the mite and the atoms beneath them. The point is just the same: we are bound to the meanings we create for ourselves and that we are capable of executing within our power. No more, no less.”

“So, if I understand you correctly, because you are all powerful, your meaning subverts all others’?”

“Perhaps. But, alas, I am not all powerful. This sword will serve as a reminder that I too can be broken…that I am not impermeable.”

“Perhaps, but you are immortal. That is one step down from a god, as far as the cren is concerned.”

The corpse leered at the sword as it continued to be drawn in by its glimmering beauty. “Immortality means little when one is faced with an eternal life not worth living…”

That is the hope. 

The corpse jerked itself out of its reverie and took in its surroundings.

“Well, whatever you thought you could find here…” The corpse panned its remaining hand around the room. “Here it is, stones and all. Beyond that, you will find this place wholesomely unforgiving. If you were looking for some kind of…apprenticeship, that ship has long sailed. I work alone.”

The hooded man stood with a stern look on his face. The corpse could see that the man was implacable.

“Give me a chance and you’ll see that our paths are more aligned than you think. I want what you want!” .

The corpse walked over to its throne and brushed off some dust from the armrest. “Oh? And what is that?” its asked, feigning interest.

“You want what everyone out there wants.” He said, pointing in the direction of the courtyard where the thousands of creatures waited patiently to finally greet their long-lost master.

“You want the Truth. And you and I know that there is only one way to get that…”

The corpse raised its gaze to the man, leering at him.

“…The True Realm.”

The two stared at each other for a long moment, the silence growing long and uncomfortable.

“I thought you said you weren’t a religious fanatic.” The corpse said at last.

“I’m not. I despise zealotry as much as I despise impracticality, and the Alteir represent all that and more. You and I know that—if there is a…way into the Realm—that it isn’t through mere praying and bloodletting. There is good evidence that others have been there—the ancients.”

The corpse sat on the arm of its chair, crossing its arms. “And how is historical fiction any better than blind faith in this matter?”

The man smiled and held out his hands in front of him, spreading them apart as a hazy blue image appeared between them.

“Because both you and I know that the book is no fiction.”

The corpse stared at the floating spectral image of a large tome floating in between the man’s hands. He winced as if seeing the thing hurt, then he waved his hand, a strong puff of air extinguishing the image between the hooded man’s hands.

“Bah! Fae fables, the lot of it. If such a thing existed I would have known. I had every gods-forsaken magickal trinket and bauble spanning the last six hundred years during my lifetime housed in my arcaneum. Many books, but never that one.”

“Then tell me I’m wrong. Tell me that it does not exist…that it’s not been your goal all these years. Tell me I’m not just speaking to a depraved, decomposing
lunatic! Because if you can’t convince me, you sure as hell cannot convince all of them. And then you’ll have a problem that is very much not a ‘fae fable’.”

The corpse pointed at the man. “I do not owe anyone an explanation, especially you—a trespasser and Aeros knows what else. Your skills are impressive, I am sure, but I do not need a
court jester nor do I need a court. I told you: I work alone.”

The man’s face grew heated. “Call me what you wish, but you will see that, without help, you will fall again. For it is not your enemy that broke you: it was you—your arrogance. It is a
blinding light that your enemy will use to smite you…”

The corpse raised a hand and mimed a mouth moving. “Blah blah blah. You’re really not helping this court jester rebuttal, you know. I’ve seen potted plants more entertaining than you.”

The man ignored him, carrying on. “Both you and I know that the freedom our governments preach is a euphemism for slavery. Until every person that suppresses the gifted and prevents
True knowledge is quartered and punished, this world will never be free. There are no gods beyond here to absolve us and show us the way. You know this, I know this. We make all the
decisions down here, right now. All of them.”

“And…I decide that you are quite annoying. Right now. So if you would so kindly see yourself out, back the way you came…Wait…” The corpse leaned over in its chair, glancing behind the throne. “Maybe don’t go out that way. That was kind of creepy, you know.”

The hooded man shook his head, disappointed. “Fine, if you wish to play games with your time then that is your prerogative. I cannot help one who does not want to be helped. But know this: you have hundreds of thousands…perhaps millions of devoted followers on Rynn, today. Your past deeds are…legendary. Imagine what would happen to those people when they find out their ‘master’ is nothing but an egomaniac and wants nothing to do with them. Then, compare the kind of power that someone would have when they assume that kind of force.”

The corpse sat down at its throne and crossed a leg over its knee. “Don’t really care. Will that be all? Next!” It yelled, holding a hand to its mouth and looking past the man, taunting him.

The Interloper turned to go but stopped, looking back at the creature as it filed dirt out from under its grotesquely long fingernails with the thumb of its one good hand.

“Perhaps that old man wasn’t the fool I thought he was. He saw you for what you really are: a relic. I hope that when the rot clears in your brain that you can see that you are your own greatest enemy. Perhaps that has how it has always been, and this is just a cycle waiting to repeat itself.”

He turned away and walked out of the room.

“Any who are not with me are against me!” The corpse yelled at his back. “Including you, sneaky peeping curtain man.”

“According to you, that is everyone else.” The Interloper called back, continuing to walk away.

The corpse sat back in its chair. “I will kill anyone who enters this chamber. Horde or otherwise. I can do it, don’t think I can’t!”

The hooded man stopped in the door way, glancing back at the creature who sat fuming in its throne. “Oh, I don’t doubt that. It’s just…kill all potential for a new army? That doesn’t sound like a good battle tactic to me.”

The corpse rubbed its chin and contemplated the notion. The man was right. It hated to admit it, but he was; it was arrogant to think that it could ever work alone. It was just so…bitter. Bitter at the folly of man—at their utter weakness. Bitter that it had missed its chance to take on a world that it knew and loved so strongly. For all it knew, it wouldn’t even recognize the Rynn that it had awoken to. Would it even want to fight to liberate it? Would these new generations be worth it? Even instilled with the flows, Cren were merely just ornate glassware waiting to be shattered. Yet, they were the best it had. Every willing man, woman, child and creature was right outside on its doorstep. All of its work—should it eventually decide to attempt to rebuild an army—was already done for it. And the amount of energy to quell that many dissidents, well…even he would be drained after a casting like that. Drawing on the flows in such a way would set back its healing months, perhaps years…  And now that it was back, word would surely get leaked out of its return and it would not be able to sit vulnerable for even a day. It hated to admit it but…it needed those soldiers, as much as it didn’t agree with the sentiment.

It grit its teeth as it watched the mysterious hooded man exiting the hall. Maybe the man could be of some use. It was apparent that he was quite gifted in the flows—a trait it would expect of
any kind of officer, and he was enthusiastic, to his credit. A bit of an ass, but his heart seemed in the right place. It did not trust him, to be sure, but it didn’t trust anyone. Not since, well…times immemorial. It had its reasons. But it didn’t need to trust him—only to use him. Peeping curtain man could serve as a proxy—a stand-in while it healed. What was the worst that could happen? He could appropriate the army, in theory, but all he needed was time. Enough of that and quelling one subversion would just be another notch on his belt. No, it was a risk he would have to take this time.

“Wait.” The creature called out.

The Interloper froze, half out the door.

“It seems that I’ve fallen behind with the times. Tell me, how exactly would you go about…convincing all of those people that their salvation is not imminent?”

The hooded man smiled. “I have my ways.”

“And if your ways aren’t persuasive enough, are you prepared to deal with them?”

“Having sober second thoughts? Feel free to interview the other mediator applicants if you feel they are more qualified. Oh wait…there are none. Hmm, an interesting position this puts you in, I
imagine…”

The corpse did not look impressed. “I find your sense of self-worth distasteful. If you wish to play ping-pong with your hubris then perhaps another time. What I am more concerned with is
that you will put your…skills to good use in this matter. Creeping up on me is one thing, convincing them, another.”

The Interloper’s smug grin faded.

“Good. I am glad that we finally understand each other. In the event your dauntingly impressive persona is not enough to convince them that I am authentic, you shall find something down in the crypts that may be more…persuasive. Look for the room with the red light. You can’t miss it.”

“Crypts? A castle this size, they must be huge! They won’t wait for me to blunder around looking up the skirts of all your fallen comrades for this little boon of yours. Isn’t there another way?”

“Having sober second thoughts?”

The Interloper frowned at the corpse’s snide parroting of his own quip. The wizard shrugged.

“Unfortunately, there are no easy outs in life. If you haven’t learned this yet then you will sooner or later. Probably sooner. And it gets worse, I’m afraid: accessing the crypts is not so straightforward. You may need to search to find the entrance to them.”

“Guarding secrets with secrets? What do you have down there? The door to the Realm itself?”

“Bah. If the Realm only required a knock to get in then I would have kicked the bloody thing down a thousand years ago. Alas, it is not so, and here I am, haggling with a stranger in a Saeveretine costume for the future of my namesake, a stranger who himself doesn’t seem wholly convinced on what he is selling.”

The Interloper balled his fists. “I am confident I can handle this. I have dealt with much worse.”

The corpse leaned its chin against its hand–or rather, where its hand used to be. It stumbled on to the arm rest, its chin hitting the charred stump of its arm, cursing.

“Spare me your life’s story. Do we have an agreement then? You will be my acting officer in my stead, upon the end of which I shall resume command of the army and you will be reassigned in a capacity that I deem fit.”

The man crossed his arms. “The army which I am to build, you mean.”

The corpse leered at him. “The army which you are to persuade. They have already assembled themselves, as you can see.”

The Interloper thought about it for a moment and then looked at the corpse. “I can agree to those terms.”

“Then we have a contract! Ah, but one more thing…”

The corpse flicked its hand like a conductor waving his baton. The Interloper felt a pang on his cheek and his fingers revealed blood trickling down his face.

The corpse held out its own hand, also covered in blood drawn from a gash on its palm.

“An oath bound in blood;. fail to comply with the terms of our contract and you can be sure that I will collect the rest.” The corpse said.

The hooded man nodded solemnly in acknowledgement. The corpse saw the hooded man out of the room. The Interloper stepped out into the hall and turned to the corpse who stood holding the bifolds open.

“In the event that there comes a day where I care, what name shall I call you by?” the corpse asked.

“My name?”

The man looked down at the crimson rug beneath his orcish boots, delving into an esoteric world where mind met madness.

“I…was once called something by the people I loved.” There was nostalgia in his voice, masked by a crumbling wall of pain. He locked eyes with the corpse, one part of him hoping that those gaping pits of fetid flesh that were the creature’s eye sockets could see past the facade that he wore and witness the burning fires of rage within him–the fires that it had started.

“But they are…no more. Just as I.”

“So… am I to call you ‘self-commiserating puddle of wallowing pity’, then? Or maybe Riddle-Master. Ooh, that has a nice ring to it, no?”

The Interloper frowned. He couldn’t tell the corpse his true name of course. In magick, one had a very potent power over another if they knew their name. That and his true name was well known during his time. It was entirely possible that Mokul would remember him and that would not stand if his plan was to succeed. He racked his brain, attempting anagrams of his own name, words he had read in the volumes of texts he had seen about Klathen D’iar, as well as the storm of memories swirling about in his brain. And then it came to him, suddenly, inexplicably.

The blue tome he had found in the nook in the wall. The one with the strange monogram on the front. He recalled the runes on the front, what he thought may have been old elvish, but now…now that didn’t seem right somehow. He knew those runes from somewhere but, like a word at the tip of the tongue, he couldn’t quite place it. The stylized slashes on the front, cursive yet not exactly, danced in his vision as if they should mean something to him. And they almost seemed to form a word, though it wasn’t perfect. As he played with the fragments in his mind, suddenly it all locked together and the letters shone through.

“Zocks.”

“Zocks?” The corpse repeated.

The Interloper nodded.

“Yes, Zocks.”

The corpse’s face scrunched up in disapproval. “What on Rynn is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know.”

Not a lie.

“Remember when I asked you whether or not I was evil? Well, forget that: whoever named you was about as evil as they come.”

The corpse sighed. “But, alas, neither of us can change our past it seems. Not yet, anyhow. We shall see if that bloody book cannot evade me in two lifetimes…” The corpse mumbled.

“Ah, so you do admit to its existence then?”

The corpse stared off, lost in thought then slowly its gaze moved back to the man standing in front of him.

“Oh, that. Right. Forget about that for now. How about… Squad Commander Zocks. That softens the blow a bit, don’t you think?”

The Interloper nodded, forcing a small smile. The creature didn’t look convinced.

“You know, now that I hear myself say it, it’s really just putting a hat on a turd. Off to it then!”

The corpse slammed the doors in Zocks’s face. The newly minted Squad Commander turned away and looked down both stretches of the derelict halls. Not far off he could hear the din of the restless chanting that had begun out in the courtyard.

His audience—or rather Mokul’s audience–awaited.

He sighed. “I really should have killed him when I had the chance.”

#

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