Side Story: Ain’t No Rest For The Wicked
~ Plot and Plotting ~
[Allan Hazred]
Allan readjusted his glasses as he walked down the large obscure hallway. His quick footsteps, belying his apparent age, were echoing loudly in the imposing silence, along with the usual clinking of his multiple tool-belts. His narrow wrinkled lips were pursed in annoyance, hiding his pointed teeth. Nervous twitches were agitating his long nose and shaking his sensitive whiskers through the cold stale air. He ignored the chills running down his furry spine and joined his large clawed hands behind his back.
Ghastly torches were weakly repelling the darkness, casting moving shadows on the painted walls. Left and right, frescos depicted scenes of madness and horror. Humans, elves, dwarves, beastmen, mermaids, all the races were there, represented by distorted parodies of themselves, stealing, killing, raping, mutilating, waging war on their kin, devouring new-borns, dancing immoral rituals in pools of blood, surrounded by corpses, copulating with horrid creatures vomited by the dementia of a damned artist, and many other nauseating scenes words did not suffice to describe.
On the high vault, overseeing the repulsive chaos, the figure of a white-clad elderly floated with his arms wide open. Tears were trailing down his sorrowful face as divine bolts of judgement rained from his outstretched hands and down upon the corrupted World, reducing the ignoble caricatures to ashes and leaving behind only a peaceful but barren land. On his chest, painted with blood, was a simple red circle crossed by a single line. The symbol repeated regularly on the crazy fresco, stamping each impact of cleansing lightning.
The Advent of Sanity… Distant dream of a powerful madman. Distant, maybe, but close too. If his plans come to pass, that is. While thinking so and shaking his bald head, Allan kept walking and barely cast a glance at the impressive work of art.
Although “art” was a dubious denomination when talking about such disgusting imagery. But as an amateur, he was of opinion the term “art” should objectively refer to the craftsmanship and emotional impact rather than the appeal of the subject. In this sense, the grotesque fresco truly was the oeuvre of a master painter.
A tortured dement, no doubt. But all the better artists always suffered some form of mental afflictions. One couldn’t attain greatness if their mind functioned like everyone else’s. Allan’s master was the same.
Suddenly, a group of half-a-dozen heavily armed giant black skeletons appeared from an adjacent passageway. Each reached at least three metres of height and towered above the short man. However, Allan’s pace did not slow down in the slightest. He walked right past the undead group, once more pushing up his small round spectacles.
As if the short middle-aged man were invisible, the monsters did not show any reactions and continued their way down the corridor. The sound of their clattering bones, weapons and armour rapidly decreased in the distance.
Allan snorted in disgust. Undead… Repugnant brainless empty shells. If they weren’t needed for my master’s plans… He left his mental threat unfinished, not because he could not follow up on his words, but because he had trouble choosing which destructive treatment was most suitable amongst the numerous ones at his disposal.
He could not stand the undead. The proximity of corpses did not bother him. He was used to it. But he hated the undead for being the puppets they had been risen to be. During his relatively long life, he had always valued intellect above all virtues, therefore those mindless enslaved creatures revolted him to no end. If it weren’t for his master’s orders, Allan would never have tolerated these pitiful existences so close to him.
So he just forced himself to consider them as simple tools. Which they were, ultimately.
As he continued advancing, Allan encountered a few other groups of bony soldiers, as well as many black-robed hooded figures who fearfully bowed to him before removing themselves from his path. Neither the former nor the later received even a cursory glance, though none escaped his notice.
To him, the living in this place amounted to even less than the dead. At least the monsters had been given no choice on the matter of their brainless servitude. The humans, on the other hand, had wilfully tangled themselves in the strings of the puppeteer in hope of personal gains. He doubted most of them even believed in the Cause they served. They likely just did not want to be swept away along with the rest when all hell broke loose.
Despicable parasites, he mentally spat as he pushed his glasses up. Those selfish hypocrites barely deserve to be used as Master’s disposable pawns.
Noticing a simple skeleton diligently scrubbing the floor a few steps ahead, blocking his way, the man clicked his tong in annoyance. He could have easily sidestepped the creature, but he hated wasting even a sliver of his precious time. One of Allan’s large shovel-like hands left it position behind his back and rose to his face. Long sharp claws brushed past a silver ring dangling from his left ear. With no forewarning signs, the undead instantaneously crumbled into dust.
Stepping fast over the remains, Allan sighed, already regretting his rash action.
Now the floor was dirty again.
* * *
Allan eventually reached an imposing double door, made of dark oak and ebony, reinforced with black steel and ornate with agonizing faces. Only the ever-present red crossed circle brought a touch of colour, although no levity.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here, he thought ironically. A rare concession to humour for the stern individual.
Fifty imposing [Death Knights], two dozen [Wraiths] and as much [Ghouls] were guarding the door, as well as a hunched hooded figure whose face was shrouded in darkness. Difficult to tell if that thing was human or some kind of higher undead spirit.
The being did possess sentience, but the black robe covered every inch of their body. Even their hands never left their long sleeves, which remained most often joined before them like some kind of monk. As far as Allan knew, the Lord’s attendant didn’t even possess a proper name, only answering to the moniker of “Faceless”. Which was very appropriate on the whole, if lacking in originality. Like everything else in this gods-forsaken place.
A slow, emotionless and gravely wheeze suddenly echoed from under the hood: “You… are late. The Lord… has been… expecting… you.”
“I bear good news. I am sure His Lordship won’t mind,” Allan replied, unfazed.
“Then… follow.”
Without waiting for a reply – not that the man would have bothered replying – Faceless turned around and the grim door opened without apparent command. A foul stench seeped between the panels and Allan’s muzzle creased deeply. Beastmen had naturally heightened senses and his sense of smell was especially developed, so the devastating odour felt almost physically painful.
It gets worse each time. Is this even possible?
He stoically fought rising nausea and discreetly pivoted one of the rings on his left hand by a quarter turn. An imperceptible flow of air leaked from the accessory and flew to his nostrils, enabling him to breathe normally again.
Readjusting his ever-slipping glasses, he then fell into step after Faceless, not sparing a glance to the supposedly carved faces and their imploring looks as he passed by.
On the other side of the doors was a vast throne room filled with obscurity. The only light inside came from a huge candelabrum standing on a distant banquet table, at the end of the central aisle. An ominous isle of clarity in an ocean of total darkness. Total silence too. Aside from Allan’s own footsteps, only a faint repetitive squashing could be heard. Faceless seemed to soundlessly glide over the floor, their robe trailing behind them.
Once the two reached the illuminated area, the hooded figure quietly slid to the side. Left alone, Allan let his gaze wander over the spectacle that he already had witnessed countless times, but never failed to disgust him.
An obscene amount of victuals covered the table, which extended to both sides beyond the reach of the candlelight. Every single aliment composing the sordid feast was either decaying or already rotten. Piles of mould-covered fruits and putrefying vegetables laid alongside lumps of unidentified bloody meats, in which maggots would have no doubt be teeming if not for the necrotic magic that saturated this underground palace of death.
In the background, by a vaguely concealed door, a group of women from various races stood waiting, holding large plates filled with even more spoiled food. Even to Allan’s uncaring eye, every single one of them could only be described as a stunning beauty, and all were naked. Another kind of feast.
If you were into corpses.
Indeed, the Lord might keep his personal… pets… of fresher appearance, but the insides of these females were as rotten as the provisions they carried, a state betrayed by their fixed eyes devoid of life. Impossible to guess why the Lord insisted on gathering beautiful women since he had long lost both the means and desires to use them as anything but furniture.
After a very short while, Faceless whispered loudly in the silence: “My Lord… he… has come.”
Having been announced, Allan straightened his posture, adjusted his glasses again, and steeled his mind as not to look away from the nauseating feast before him, which was also the obvious source of the nauseating odour that he thankfully could not smell at the moment.
A rustle rose from behind a huge heap of shrivelled grapes. Soon a large skeleton stepped into the light, biting vigorously into a black wrinkled apple that spurt putrid juices all over the creature’s jawbones and his once-immaculate white robe. Faint splashing sounds could also be heard as the barely chewed flesh of the fruit fell on the floor through an empty rib cage.
Decadence. Allan held back a disgusted snort, and instead respectfully bowed. His glasses slid down.
“Your Lordship,” he humbly enounced as he pushed the unruly framed lenses back up his long nose.
The skeletal lord threw the apple away into the shadows and picked something else from the table, before lengthily glaring at Allan. The man’s angry disgust was reflected inside the purple fire burning in lord’s empty sockets. Although, the latter’s hatred was not especially directed at the one before him. The elder lich simply loathed every living thing in the world, no one in particular.
After several minutes of heavy silence punctuated by apathetic chewing, testing Allan’s patience, the room was abruptly filled with a disembodied voice echoing with cold anger.
“Hazred… You took your time.”
“Pardon me, Your Greatness, I ha–”
“SILENCE, VERMIN!!” the lich boomed and whipped his arm in direction of the still bowing man, who made sure not to even flinch when the rotten pear splashed against his shoulder, smearing his impeccable tunic. His eyebrow twitched, however, when some murky drops splattered on his glasses. Still, he didn’t move.
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“Know your place, miserable mortal. You are only here because we allow it to be so. Therefore, when we call you. DO NOT DARE TO MAKE US WAIT!! Are we clear?”
“Clear as the full moon, Your Magnificence,” Allan managed to sound sincere.
“Good. Now…” all anger left the Lord’s voice, replaced by merry iciness.
He turned around and a throne that had been up to now kept in the shadows was suddenly revealed by two rows of ghastly purple torches framing a short flight of stairs. The undead necromancer ascended the steps and dropped onto the seat, adopting a regal posture that was somewhat spoilt by the deplorable state of his grandiose clerical robe. Immediately, one of the dead-eyed females rushed to his side and knelt with mechanical gestures, presenting her Lord and Master with a plate of unidentifiable… somethings.
Allan preferred not to hazard any guesses.
The lich grabbed a handful in his bony fingers heavy with jewellery and it disappeared through his opened jaws. Then he continued: “We hear you bear good news.”
This ability he has to know everything his undead servants hear really is unnerving, Allan thought as he lifted his gaze towards the Undead Lord.
Finally, he dared to take off his glasses and wipe them with a cloth he kept in one of his numerous pockets. His gestures were fast and efficient, and the frame was quickly back on his nose. Then, keeping a neutral expression on his wrinkled face, the middle-aged beastman answered in a confident tone: “Yes, Your Sanity. I finally succeeded in deciphering the last of Queen Winnifred’s diary.”
Interest flickered in the flaming orbits and the lich leaned forwards.
“Speak. Have you discovered the location of the Princess?” he asked in a tone that made obvious what a negative reply would entail. No doubt something bloody and unpleasant.
“I have,” Allan answered with conviction.
He was not a little proud of this feat. He considered himself a master of codes and puzzles, yet Queen Winnifred of House Sangbleu had definitely earned his utmost respect with the fascinating complexity of her encrypted notes. He thought it a shame the woman had died nearly two and a half millennia ago. He would have loved exchanging pointers over a cup of tea.
The lich slammed his fist on the armrest of his throne. “Then stop wasting our time! Where is she?!”
“Bluerose Castel, Your Immortality,” Allan replied humbly with a small bow, a model of servile deference.
However, if he had bent over, it was not in a show of respect towards the skeletal lord, but in order to hide the faint smirk, he had now trouble repressing. He had not lied. Lying to such a powerful mage was the surest way to find himself in several places at the same time. As in, pieces of himself in several places at the same time. A most unfortunate condition, and above all, very lethal.
He truly had only just finished decoding the journal. That said, these few last pages contained nothing of importance to him, only the laments and regrets of the late Queen.
The information the lich so desperately wanted, namely the whereabouts of Victoria Sangbleu, the Immortal Exiled Princess of Erwyn, Allan had discovered it months ago, long enough to dispatch his own spies to the location and learn of the barrier protecting the area. Only when his informant had confirmed they had no way of breaking through the magical defences by themselves, had he finally decided to come report his findings to the Lord.
“So it was Bluerose after all. How nostalgic.” The echoing voice had turned into a distant whisper and the ghastly flames that served as the Lord’s eyes dimmed as if he was lost in thoughts. Then he raised his voice again: “Don’t you think so, old friend?”
The rattle of chains answered the question and, with a cackle, the lich looked up.
Hanging by the wrists from the impossibly high ceiling, almost out of reach of the candlelight, another tall skeleton was turning slowly under the push of an inexistent breeze. Rags that once upon a time had looked like a king’s mantel sagged loosely on his twiggy frame, a broken crown had mockingly been nailed askew to his cracked skull, and a simple pitch-black ring encircled his fleshless neck.
The red flames in its orbits looked about to extinguish any second, but they still burnt a cold hatred when the hanging lich glared at his sitting counterpart.
“…fool…” The murmur fell, barely audible. “…you have … no idea–”
Purple fire flared in the Lord’s eyes. “SILENCE!!” The order clacked and the words of the weakened skeleton abruptly stopped as he started to convulse in the air, beset by unspeakable pain.
The Lord watched his “old friend” wriggle pitifully until the shaking subsided. Then, laughing without joy, he lowered his gaze back to the beastman who was waiting patiently.
“Hahahaha. We must thank you again Hazred, for this little gift. It amuses us to no end.”
He did not sound amused at all.
“I live to serve, O Ageless Sage.”
“Do you?” Flickering purple embers considered him in silence. Allan felt a few drops of cold sweat trickle down his back, but in the end, the Lord only clapped his palms in satisfaction.
“Very good then, Hazred. You have our most sincere gratitude.” Glacial irony littered his words. “If it weren’t for your information, our plans would still be stuck.” He marked a pause, seemingly considering something. “…How curious that in the past half-year we made more progress than in the last four centuries. I wonder…. Are you that good, or… could it be… that all this time we were surrounded only by a FLOCK OF DEGENERATED INCOMPETENTS!!”
Screaming this, the lich cast a scornful glare – and half a potato – towards Faceless, who imperceptibly flinched. Even without seeing the hooded being’s expression, Allan could feel the weight of the servant’s glare on his shoulders. He didn’t care however and nonchalantly readjusted his glasses once more.
“No, no, your Greatness, you praise me too much. I am but a humble archaeologist. It was only by pure luck that I stumbled upon Queen Winnifred’s diary and heard of your glorious noble cause. And this soul-binding collar was of no use to me. It is only normal that such items go to the superior minds able to use them to their full potentials. Superior minds such as yourself, O Well of Wisdom.”
Allan knew he was laying it a bit thick, but he also knew the Lord truly trusted no one. Thus currying his favour so obviously was less likely to raise more suspicion than a more subtle approach. Even in the midst of his growing impatience, Allan could not help but enjoy these little power plays. He had always loved a good game of chess.
“Hahaha! Such shameless flatteries as always.” The skeleton slapped the armrest as if in good humour, then leaned forwards. “But did you forgot to whom you are speaking? Flatteries are useless against us. Speak the truth. There must be something you want. Do ask! We are in a generous mood.”
“I only wish for Sanity to triumph, Your Immaculate Magnanimity.”
“Haha. Your loyalty is heart-warming,” the lich said in the same cold tone that totally contradicted his words – not that he had any heart to warm in the first place. He reclined back into his throne and turned pensive. “Bluerose… It’s been so long. We had hoped but… Of all the places, obviously, it had to be Bluerose. How annoying. Getting into that valley will be bothersome.”
Valley? Internally, Allan frowned. His spies had mentioned no valley. From the coordinates left behind by the Queen, the castle of Bluerose was located somewhere in the middle of a forest near a city named Cali. Granted, the magical barrier encircling the area was vast, but to the point of hiding a whole valley?
“Hazred!” The Lord’s voice snapped Allan out of his musings.
“Yes, Your Infinite Grandeur?”
“You were of great help to us. This shall not be forgotten.”
Allan said nothing but simply bowed in acknowledgement.
“You may leave now. Faceless will show you to the door. Take a rest, but be ready to move after the solstice.” The Lord waved his phalanges dismissively, before adding a dark tone: “This shall be a most… moving family reunion. Hahahahahaha…”
Without a word, Allan bowed again to the lich and left the throne room and its putrid banquet, followed by the joyless mad laughter of the undead mage.
* * *
Half-an-hour later, in the small room assigned to him, Allan was pacing pensively between a simple desk and a wooden bed, regularly pushing up his ever-falling glasses.
The Lord’s “palace” was an underground complex dug inside a tall mountain, which belonged to a range that fully surrounded the country of Erwyn, effectively isolating the cursed kingdom from the outside world. This geographical quirk was one of the reasons the undead pandemic had not spread to the whole continent. The innumerable dragon species nesting on the peaks likely also contributed.
Allan’s room was one of the very few with a “window” open to the outside – a flattering description for an uneven hole in the middle of a cliff. It was currently closed by thick wooden shutters, keeping the room dark save for a single candle. Allan liked it that way. Not that a lot of light would come in from the stormy outdoors, but he wasn’t good with heights. He by far preferred dark tunnels and narrow passages to mountainsides.
Aside from this “luxurious view” – only detail indicating the lich overlord favoured him – the place pertained more to a prison cell than a bedchamber, although Allan was free to come and go as he pleased.
The solstice. Six months. The time limit kept coming back to the forefront of his thoughts. Simply imagining such a long period of inactivity was a torture to him. It felt like such a waste of time. He was not a man to rest. Ever.
But realistically, there was little he could do at the moment. Little but wait. Of course, to an immortal corpse who had already lived for several millennia, the next winter solstice seemed like tomorrow, but to the middle-aged beastman, it meant almost another hundred and eighty long and boring days to spend in this hellhole.
Although, at least now he had a deadline.
Suddenly, Allan stopped his steps, took a quill out of one of his numerous tool-belts and a small parchment from one of his, even more, numerous pockets. He hunched over the desk. Without bothering to dip the magical plume into ink, he quickly wrote a short message in small precise characters. Then with a turn of his right wrist, a bracelet he wore glowed and an ethereal blue sparrow materialised on his open palm.
The man neatly rolled and sealed the parchment, then gave it to the invocation to hold it in its beak. He walked to the window, opening it. The small bird took flight and disappeared into the sky faster than the man could blink. Allan quickly closed the shutters, prudently not looking down at the vertiginous drop.
After a pause, he turned back around. His small beady eyes scanned his barren cell, eventually falling on the chessboard sitting on the corner of his desk, surrounded by neat piles of books and parchments. The pieces were positioned as if a game was in progress.
Delicately, Allan reached out with his claws and picked up the black king, curiously fashioned in the form of a smirking joker with vicious narrowed eyes. He observed the piece thoughtfully for a moment, before replacing it on the board, a square closer to the skeletal white king.
“Your move, Master.”
He blew the candle and darkness engulfed the room.
* * * * *