Ziyadi gazed out over the Valley of the Murder to a great stone pyramid, its marble steps leading to a platform on which stood a golden altar glistening in the bloodred sun. It had taken three long years of planning and construction, an impossible feat for any race, but the Great Temple of Kalagh was nearly complete. Statues were still being erected along its magnificent walkways and along the cliffside noble residences were fashioned for the elite beings that hoped to see their sacrifices bare fruit.

A gathering of the latest group of inductees shuffled behind her, some carried by litter bearers while others walked on cushioned slippers, their fingers and other extremities adorned with precious stones and metals.

There were representatives and family members of over a dozen noble houses and tribal chiefs of various races. Ziyadi had donned the form of a human female, tall, but not as tall as a man of their kind. She preferred the human form which had no tusks, poisons, venom, horns, strong odors, provocative patterning or stingers that could make them seem threatening. On Top of that, the whites of their eyes betrayed which way they looked, making them easy to trust and their females’ physical strength was just below average. And with no natural ability for magic they were relatively easy to kill.

If humans had any special powers to lay claim to it was undoubtedly their ability to sweat and regulate their body temperature in hot climates. It was also a welcome bonus that they had relatively good eyesight. So aside from being non-threatening to most races, Ziyadi found the human form economical when moving on land. Perfect for performing the tedious task of charming their patrons.

A procession of robed priests passed them, consecrating the grounds in preparation for the Summoning of Kalagh, King of the Death Eating Murder.

“It is truly remarkable what you’ve achieved, High Priestess,” Prince Hiram said, fourth in line to the Kobold Throne of Shahreza.

“Thank you, my prince.”

“How did you build all this in just a few years?”

Ziyadi chuckled pleasantly, motioning as she spoke. “I can only take credit for rediscovering the lost temple of Natijah but it was my husband whose ingenuity in engineering and mathematics made the extensive renovations possible.”

“It is truly a wonder to behold,” the prince said. “And what are those?” he asked, motioning to wooden cranes a hundred and fifty feet tall. “Magic?”

“No,” Ziyadi smiled. “A scientific contraption of my husband’s design. I assure you, it is all mechanical.”

“King Darius will pay your weight in gold just to pick your husband’s brain. His marvels will do wonders for our mining output.”

“Ha, I will pass it on, Prince Hiram.”

Behind her the long haired oliphanian snorted with his trunk. “The Matriarch will match the kobold price in ivory and fertile lands to have Lord Sham expand out stables.”

The kobold prince balked at that. “Your matriarch can’t hope to match the king’s purse.”

Ziyadi lofted her hand. “Please, dignitaries, let us not discuss the profane on these hallowed grounds. Let us instead turn our thoughts to silent contemplation and the memories of those who’ve left us too soon.”

The two beings bobbed their heads respectfully and Ziyadi savored the few moments of peace as they entered the Eternal Palace.

The hymn of temple maidens and acolytes filled the grand court. The building was so new, it still smelled of fresh paint and the black marble tiles shone, spotless and unscuffed. They were welcomed by Sham, the hood of his crimson cloak shadowing his human eyes. Runes embroidered in golden thread rimmed the hem of his collar and he bowed his head in greeting, arms tucked into opposite sleeves. He was flanked by a man in black and Ser Crom who’s gaze was downcast, his bristly moustache wet from grief.

The man was no longer the same since Stout’s sacrifice, a bitter loss, even to Ziyadi who’d always found the giant’s simple honesty refreshing. But they would not have to mourn for long. The Lance of Natijah would be theirs and death finally put in its place.

“Welcome to Qasr Jawdan,” Sham said.

“Husband,” Ziyadi said with informal fondness. She didn’t need to pretend, but she’d learned long ago that such heavy matters of the occult and etheric were best offset with a light touch and a show of warmth. Rigorous adherence to reverence, ritual and hierarchy bred stress and stress made people unpredictable. Ziyadi turned to the representatives with a gentle smile. “Some of you are already acquainted, but to those who have yet to become familiar, meet Master Sham, my husband and the architect of Qasr Jawdan, the Eternal Palace.”

The oliphanian inclined his massive head. “Master Sham, it is truly an honor to meet one of the most brilliant minds of our time.”

Sham answered humbly. “Thank you, Arshad Fiel, but I can’t take credit for what Vham whispers to me. I’m merely the executor of his will.”

“Well said,” Prince Hiram lauded. “The miracles you’ve performed are a clear testament of divine favor.”

“Agreed, my Prince,” Ziyadi said, then raising her voice to address them all. “We are preordained to usher in a new era, an era where the faithful ascend to a grander plane of being. Some of you might still harbor doubt, but I promise you that what you will witness tonight will sweep away any reservations and you shall return to your masters filled with hope and optimism for your futures.”

A long necked zarafeh rocked his head. “The Galeh will hear only the truth, High Priestess. If I’m not convinced by the morrow, they won't either.”

Ziyadi’s smile left her eyes but not her lips. “At dawn, I expect you to be the first convert.” She paused, a thought striking her mind. “But why wait? Master Sham, the chamber is ready, is it not?”

“It is serviceable,” Sham said with slight hesitation.

“Good. Then we will proceed immediately.”

“But—” Sham stiffened his lips, then bowed in deference. “I will gather the acolytes.” And after inclining to the dignitaries, Sham left followed by Ser Crom.

“What does that mean?” Ziyadi heard Crom whisper to Sham.

The man in black remained and Ziyadi could feel his disapproving scowl at her back. But then again, Mogh Aedam always scowled disapprovingly.

“If you’d excuse me, I have a few preparations of my own to make. Mogh Aedam will escort you from here.”

“As you wish,” Aedam said, the corners of his mouth drawn.

Taken aback by the sudden developments, the group was left confused as she parted from them. Behind her, Ziyadi could hear the oliphanian rumble an agitated admonishment at the zarafeh.

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Ziyadi smiled to herself, thinking, Let them squirm and snap at each other. A new order will emerge all the sooner from it, brought about by their fellow peers vying for favor and tying their fortunes to mine.

It was scarcely an hour later when the dignitaries had gathered under the doomed roof of the Chamber of Renewal. Placed at the center of its circular dais was a huge granite altar, but it was dwarfed by the corpse sprawled atop of it with its large limbs touching the floor on all sides, head hanging over the edge.

Ser Crom watched along with the dignitaries from a veranda some twenty feet above them. All beings craned themselves for the best view, but none so intensely as Ser Crom.

“You’re nervous,” Ziyadi said to Sham who’d awaited her in the arched tunnel leading to the chamber.

“I’m not nervous,” Sham said, though the way he incessantly tapped his thigh told her that was a lie.

“Then what troubles you?”

“I—” He stopped himself and turned his gaze to the slain troll as the acolytes filed in, holding purple flamed candles and chanting in the Runic tongue.

Ziyadi touched his arm. “My love, don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts. Not after everything we’ve already achieved.”

“They aren’t second thoughts,” he snapped, but then lowered his voice to a raspy whisper. “I’ve always questioned this path.”

“Questioned, yet here we are. Three long years later and more powerful than ever and about to become even more so.”

“But is it the way?”

Ziyadi blinked. “As opposed to what? Dying before our children even leave the nest?”

Sham shrugged, avoiding her gaze. “If it is our way…”

“Our way?” How can anything be ‘our way’ if biology forces it upon us?”

“It’s how Vahm made us, how Vahm thought of the world.”

“It is. Yet, you forget that Vahm also conceived of a way to free ourselves from our limitations. My love, would you really have me devour you to feed our brood as we’ve done since the beginning of time?”

Sham compressed his lips. “Of course not… I want to live.”

“Then trust that we have done everything right. And who else could have done it? Who is more deserving than us? We will break with the past… I want you to be there at my side, Sham.”

Sham sighed. “We work well together…”

“We are a fiercely individualistic people… up until the very end when we realize how unconquerable we would be if we only worked together. Look around you, Sham. The two of us did this. Imagine what a thousand of our children, working and learning together can achieve. The world will be ours.”

Sham heaved, then nodded. “You’re right. You’re right. Forget I said anything.” And he grabbed her shoulders, massaging them. “It is time. Time to be bold.”

“We are so close…”

“I believe in you, Ziyadi. Now,” he stepped back, “your audience awaits. Show them the true meaning of power.”

Ziyadi smiled softly, then stepped into the light as if she were a gladiator entering the arena and like a gladiator she was there to face death and prove herself its better. Though it wasn’t her death she would overcome.

As Ziyadi took her place at the head of the altar, a female acolyte stepped forward, holding two wooden cups. One filled with a dark liquid, Blood of a Crow, the other holding what looked like liquid metal, Tears of an Angel.

Ziyadi spoke the Runic sequence and several dignitaries shifted uncomfortably, startled by the echo that followed, a welter of voices near and far harmonized with her recitation, filling the room. She dipped her fingers into the cups and pressed them to each side of the troll’s temple. The ritual wasn’t long, nor as complex as one would think. But it did require a mastery of Runic and a profound knowledge of the arcane.

Stout’s cloudy white eyes sprang open and an arm flailed, though the gasp of breath wasn’t his, but of the onlookers, some making religious gestures to ward off evil spirits. But Stout wasn’t taken by an evil spirit, he was taken by the Crow, his body animated by the simple desire to eat death.

Ser Crom cried out a wail halfway between a sob and a roar of triumph. “She did it! Mistress brought him back! He’s back!”

In truth, Stout wasn’t back. The art of necromancy was, as of yet, handicapped from truly bringing one back from the dead. Stout rolled clumsily from the altar, croaking something guttural as it rose to his knees, a foul slime oozing from his open mouth. The blow that had split his skull didn’t heal and his chest heaved with a first rattling breath, a reflex that would do it no good. Stout was gone and in his place, Ziyadi had raised a ghoul.

Ziyadi lowered her arms. The next few moments were critical. The Crow’s mind had to take root for the ghoul to remain animated. But then, Ziyadi’s patience was rewarded as a faint light began to shine through Stout’s eyes, growing brighter.

Ziyadi turned to her audience, spreading her arms, palms upraised. “Behold, blessed souls and know that you have been chosen to stand testament to the power of Kalagh! Will you not submit? Will you not spread the word to your masters and testify to this miracle you have witnessed?”

“That… that isn’t Stout…” Ser Crom said, but his words were but a faint moan, quickly drowned out by a cacophony of praise and cheers spoken in the common and native tongues of the awed dignitaries.

But as Ziyadi relished in her moment of glory, Sham screamed her name and she turned, seeing that one of the acolytes was approaching the ghoul.

The acolyte, enthralled, reached out to the troll. “It’s a miracle,” she said, her paint lined eyes running with tears of joy.

“Stop, you fool!”

But Ziyadi’s warning came too late.

The ghoul roared, backhanding the woman with an arm thicker than she was wide and the acolyte splattered against the wall. Panic erupted like a geyser, and the acolytes nearly tripped over themselves as they fled, dropping their candles.

“Ziyadi!” Sham called over the screaming but she had no mind to leave. It would destroy everything they’ve worked for and seal their fates.

“Stout, don’t!” Ser Crom cried from the veranda, but of course the ghoul no longer answered to that name or any mortal command.

Aedam’s blade rasped as he drew it from its scabbard, but he did not aim it at the raging ghoul but at the dignitaries and Ziyadi knew that if things got out of hand, none of them would be allowed to leave alive.

“Have no fear!” Ziyadi called out, boosting her voice to an unnatural thunder as the dignitaries were caught between the threat of being bludgeoned to death by a mindless ghoul or being skewered on the Mogh’s blade. “I alone control death! I alone can save you!”

The ghoul had turned the dead acolyte into a gory pulp, ripping her in half from the hip down with a gruesome tear, legs kicking as if she were some macabre marionette.

Ziyadi raised clawed fingers, one hand tipped with silver, the other stained black and she spoke in the runic tongue, the ethereal voices joining her as obedient as ever as she called the ghoul to heel. A tangle of violet lightning crashed upon the ghoul’s mind and it loosed a feral roar, collapsing to its knees, clutching his tortured skull. “See?” Ziyadi said, unable to keep the rising glee from her voice. The lightning dissipated into thin air, leaving the undead steaming, yet subdued. “The dead can rise again, but as of yet, they’re only ravenous beings unable to think or reason! They don’t even remember who they were. But, they can be controlled. Rise, Stout!” Ziyadi affirmed the command in Runic and the ghoul rose to its full height.

The dignitaries started to ease back to the balustrade and Mogh Aedam sheathed his sword as the panic was subsumed by curiosity.

Ziyadi knew it would take more to convince the nobles of her claim, so she did what the acolyte had attempted with fatal results. She reached out her hand to the ghoul. “Come Stout.” The undead troll lumbered forward, as submissive as a beaten mutt and laid his blood stained chin in her palm, glowing pale orbs fixed on his mistress. Ziyadi was convinced that more than anyone, only the two of them felt the weight of this moment and she whispered to what once had been her loyal servant. “This is only the beginning, Stout… Your sacrifice shall not be forgotten.”

Ziyadi turned away from the troll to the sight of her acolytes, all on their knees, fists stacked in prayer, some shaking from nearly having lost their lives, their faith and station. But, Ziyadi wasn’t moved by their sudden show of devotion. They were the first to have abandoned her in the face of danger. Not one had tried to shield her, or usher her to safety.

She raised her gaze to the veranda where the dignitaries watched in stunned silence and then Aedam whose cold stare met hers with a nod. His sword appeared again and his command as ungiving as the steel he wielded.

“Kneel.”

The nobles obeyed, suddenly realizing that to merely gaze upon her was tantamount to facing a divinity, a master sorceress and soon overlord of all realms beneath the sun and sea. She turned back to the acolytes who had bowed even lower, following the example of one who had nearly flattened himself to the floor.

Ziyadi wanted to forgive, she felt the words rising but they would never rise high enough to reach the exaltation she felt in this moment, the supreme judgment which she alone could mete out. The command came in Runic and the acolytes were the first ones to hear their death sentence. Sham had the exit closed and Ziyadi stood amidst a carnage of blood and screams as Stout culled the unfaithful, hitting one so hard he was quartered on impact.

Blood splattered her cheeks and soaked her black robes as Ziyadi raised her gaze to the dome’s crown and extended her arms. “I dedicate these deaths to you, Kalagh, may you feast and bless my reign for soon the Lance of Natijah will be mine…” And death no longer be an inevitability, but subservient to my discretion.