The Dark Lord was not the biggest fan of chores. It has been years since he has been to this part of the Rukh kingdom, way too far away from his previous residency at the now destroyed castle in Boravia. Even longer had he last been to this particular layer, so far removed from the civilized world that he could barely remember its existence before his guests so unceremoniously pushed his hand to destroy his previous living vessel. But now he was back here, underground, surrounded by jars full of his undead clones, and it was so… filthy.
Since then the Dark Lord has spent no time idling. He traveled outside from time to time looking for bodies to reanimate, animals to train his army with, and adventurers to triumph over. It took the necromancer many months to slowly increase the sphere of influence of the unholy army. Most of the time was spent on making sure that the skeletal troglodytes knew their place and had the skills to clean the caverns proper. The wizard knew what he wanted from his lair, and he knew that no one else could come close to comprehending his evil genius of efficiency and eloquence. Every night he spent bringing down several troops of undead back inside the cave system, where he proceeded to purposefully set off a powered down fireball, carefully and meticulously order the evil minions around and instruct them on what was proper and improper etiquette of a grand villain’s lair. Every detail, every trap, every seemingly inconsequential spiderweb was to be rebuilt even better than before in the exact same position as before. Many zombies were turned into skeleton remains, many skeletons were destroyed and reassembled, but none of them suffered as much as the death knights. These powerful undead were practically impervious to all damage, the Dark Lord unwilling to destroy them with as much ease as any of his other minions, and so their torture consisted in not as much physical altercations, but in the mental ones. They were yelled at for the tiniest of mistakes, sent to work on the most menial of chores, and worst of all were ordered to go outside and gather more bodies to turn into their brethren, for the death knights held some memories of their previous lives, which tortured them as they had to go back into the familiar forests in the search of unsuspecting people, who at any moment might have been someone from their not so distant past. The Dark Lord knew it all and sought pleasure from it all. Finally, a proper punishment for the foolishness of the living.
After not so many months of coming back to this area, the necromancer was pleasantly surprised with an unexpected revelation. There was a village nearby, full of healthy strong people not three days of marching away - a perfect source for his unholiest of creations! And so his armies were regularly sent to the unsuspecting villagers to plunder them for riches and bodies, both of which were in the plenty. Even the skeletons and zombies lost in the encounters were minimal compared to the rewards these raids procured. Bags of golden coins to do business with, fresh new zombies, just so slightly stronger than the current rotting ones, even an occasional weapon would prove beneficial in the soon upcoming battle against good. The wizard thanked all nine of the Hells for this most generous of gifts that he would surely utilize most efficiently, and even managed to recall a spell most useless to send a magical message to Zilvod to thank his uncle for this unholy blessing, a response to which was most undignified - a raspberry. No matter, for the message was clear, concise, and most polite, three things that demon-kind moron knew not how to achieve.
And so the Dark Lord lived in relative bliss. His own space started to feel more and more like home. Traps were installed both inside and outside of the dungeon to protect from any unsavvy intruders, undead minions sent to investigate lands further beyond the nearby village, even the interior decorations became familiar to his undead red dot eyes. The necromancer found himself silently giving thanks to the long-dead adventurers who have brought with them a cloak most satisfying and fitting to his dark demeanor, slightly improving the confidence in his own magical abilities, just like a raindrop increasing the world sea level.
Months went by, the army grew, the Dark Lord ever so satisfied. Life was good, just as much as the life of an undead unholy evil wizard can be. No more than a fortnight back his undead horde has carried out a raid on that village full of fools and morons, every each one of them dumber than even the slowest of his zombies, as they knew not to mess with their master. The necromancer was ecstatic with the results for it was their greatest success yet, and he was already planning on one-upping himself next time. Deep underneath the hill, deeper than the caves, in a dungeon room there stood his army. He watched over them with pride, for he was responsible for their creation and continued unholy existence. No other wizard was powerful enough to do so, he knew it in his dead unbeating heart, and no other shall rise to replace him, for he would surely kill them before that could ever happen. His minions stared at him with anticipation of his next words, and he dared not keep them waiting any longer.
“MINIONS!” the Dark Lord bellowed, his voice shrieking. “I HAVE!...”
An alarm spell went off. It screeched next to his ear, annoying as ever, grabbing attention of each creature capable of having its attention grabbed. The wizard yelped and flapped his rotting arms around in an attempt to get rid of the annoying sound. He then remembered that a spell had no corporeal element and with a snap of his fingers the alarm stopped its beckoning and was deactivated for the time being. “Who dares enter MY lair?!” the necromancer asked no one in particular, snapped his fingers once more, and an image clear as a polished mirror appeared in front of his nonexistent eyes. There stood two adventurers: one tall, large, and muscular, other scrawny, pathetic, and wizard-like. It was outrageous! These morons dared to trespass on HIS lair, demand HIS head, and dare to proclaim themself a wizard in front of HIM?! Such atrocity was not to be tolerated, the necromancer knew it, and so only one course of action was appropriate in this situation.
“Necromancer! Come out and face!...” yelled the taller one, but no one would ever know what the necromancer was supposed to face, be it justice, axe, or a bare fist. The wizard’s third snap signed their doom, for those idiots did not check beneath their feet, where a hidden bladed trap was placed. The machine whirred to life, as the remote spell was activated, cracking the earth in two, bringing the blade into the dim sunlight, and slicing the two humans in half. It was not a fine cut for the difference in height brought the difference in results: the wizard died on the spot, his heart cut in half, whilst the barbarian’s admittedly impressive stature meant that he was cut right beneath the ribs. The barbarian’s legs fell forward, and his torso back, as both large and small intestine spilled out like uncooked boravian sausage links. The warrior yelled in agony, whirring in the dirt beneath him. Eyes full of shock and despair, he could only do two things: scream out the name of his fallen comrade, which was either Tom or Tim or something else just as stupid, and frantically try to collect his guts back inside of his torso. In short, the necromancer enjoyed his wails and foolish attempts to save his life, but he was in the middle of a very important speech before he was so unceremoniously interrupted. So he decided to record these agonising last moments, which not only would satisfy his sick sense of pleasure, but would also serve as a great tool to torture the future death knight with. All in the name of discipline, obviously.
In the end the Dark Lord continued his monologue: “As I was saying: I HAVE GRAND NEWS! YOU SHALL BEAR WITNESS AS I, THE DARK LORD, WILL CONQUER THIS KINGDOM OF SIMPLETONS! YOUR COMRADES IN UNDEATH WILL REW THESE LANDS IN MY NAME AND MY NAME ONLY, FOR A GRAND ARMY HAS A GRAND PURPOSE! NOW PRACTICE, YOU FOOLS, FOR I, YOUR MASTER, DEMAND IT!”
The speech was short indeed, just as the speaker, but it was effective for it served its simple purpose: the undead troops under the watchful necromantic red eyes of the death knights began their training by fighting each other. The losers were all reassembled at the nearest benches in due time and sent back in the ranks to be inevitably destroyed once more. Only the command of the necromancer himself would bring stop to this mind-numbingly pointless exercise, but the wizard was busy practicing his evil speech for when he would inevitably conquer the continent of Drevzold. From time to time he walked amongst the undead minions’ ranks yelling at one zombie or skeleton who dared to fight not as fiercely as an adventurer with suicidal intentions. And despite all of his stupid minions, the necromancer could not help but smile with egotistical pride and joy that his armies were finally shaping up to become worthy of his own greatness.
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And the routine was set. Every day from dawn to dusk the necromancer would practice his evil speech and train his armies for world domination, and from dusk ‘till dawn he would bring out his undead minions for a nightly hunt of the annoying wildlife. Even the death knights had somewhat of a pleasant time with themselves, for their tortures were becoming more and more rare every day, as their master’s mood improved. The previously alive adventurers were surprised to find themselves thinking about what a grand time they might have if they ever did conquer Drevzold. One could only imagine what sorts of possibilities lay ahead of them, what carnal pleasures would be satisfied, and how the Dark Lord might, Might let them have at least a little bit of freedom. Yes, daydreaming on the job is indeed a popular pastime enjoyed by many from a simple farmer to an undead abomination.
Today was an exciting day for all involved as the day has come to once again raid the nearby village. It surely had the time to recuperate and rebuild what was destroyed in the last raid, prepare for the attack and die as foolishly as last time. Even the Dark Lord was in a giddy mood, since he ordered only two flailings instead of the usual three. He either forgot about it in his excitement or was being generous, but no self-aware death knight was about to double-check as not to provoke their master’s wrath. Many demons and devils were thanked that day.
The underground was thriving with unlife. Skeletons were busy preparing weapons of melee and ranged variety, polishing swords, sharpening arrows and spears, cleaning the death knights’ armor pieces, everything that was weapon related was tasked to them and they were happy to oblige, or as happy as undead skeletons could be. Zombies were slowly shambling from one side of the room to the next in a desperate attempt not to be late just like last time. Death knights were sparring with each other adding finishing touches to their performances of battle variety. Each and every one of them were out of armor and looked as hideous as their master did coming out of the clone jar. Their bodies were rotten in every place imaginalbe, maggots thriving in their flesh. Many had no eyes left to speak of, which were replaced by dark red sparks deep inside the empty sockets. A few were stitched together from different body parts of animals and human types, all kept running by the ancient evil necromantic magic.
Of them all, however, one stood out far beyond for its height and musculature. This death knight was reanimated from the corpse of the adventurer barbarian who died not so long ago right on the Dark Lord’s doorstep. It was the same body that so desperately called out for its diseased wizard friend, who now was one of the many skeletal figures polishing his armor. None could tell with full certainty if that bothered the creature who previously wished to destroy his now master, not that it mattered much to any of them. What did matter was the fact that of all the death knights currently residing in these caverns he was the biggest and the meanest. To anyone familiar with necromantic magic it is well-known that the deepest and darkest desires, insecurities, and overall unhappiness more often led to a more powerful and capable undead creature. Now with this one it was impossible to truly determine what of his past life he held in his unholy soul that made him such a great fighter, or even if it was just his general physique that kept him in such a great shape. Nevertheless, he was yet undefeated by any of his other peers.
The Dark Lord finally decided to come to the caves where his army was preparing for an eventual raid. He watched with egotistical pride as his own creations were getting ready to slaughter the innocent, plunder their riches, and populate his army with even more undead. When he arrived at the ring made by all varieties of his minions he stopped to watch what it was all about. The barbarian death knight was fighting two of his undead comrades, and considering the amount of broken limbs on the cooperating couple, he was winning. The two losing death knights exchanged a glance and set a plan of theirs into motion, brilliant in its simplicity, and impossible to watch in its lackluster execution. The bigger one started jumping up and down waving his arm, which now had three elbows, in an attempt to distract the bigger foe. When the now undead adventurer looked his way, the shorter and leaner one chose that moment to strike. She rushed forward with a dagger in her hand, knuckles white, for there was no skin or muscle left, and moved to cut the giant’s midsection stitches open. The undead rogue’s jaw hit the floor in amazement, when her head was rolling deeper into the groaning, clacking, overall cheering, undead crowd. While the body of the now headless death knight was still functional, even it without a single brain cell could tell that the fight was over. The distraction was not successful enough and the winner was as clear as the underground waters further down the cave system.
With the barbarian death knight crowned the victor, the undead crowd started to dissipate back to their chores, as no other challenger appeared. The headless body of the rogue started the search for its head, which blankly stared at it, unable to make a single sound, since no lungs were attached to its vocal cords. The Dark Lord on the other hand made the managerial decision to have a small conversation with the barbarian death knight. Its impressive build and strength made it a prime candidate to the position of his personal guard.
The wizard approached the stationary barbarian, kicking away the head from his way. “Well, well, well,” the necromancer began. “The devils indeed blessed me with a fighter of your stature. Say, how about we go for a walk and you tell me something about yourself, so I know what strings of yours to pull on, if you dare and disobey my command?” The undead barbarian slowly turned his head to his master and gave him a short grunt. “Excellent! Oh, and bring that skeleton buddy of yours. I want my future bodyguard to be able to command a lackey of his own, so I can relax for at least a moment”.
The death knight turned his head to look back and grunted even more fiercely. A skeleton, one of the crew polishing the warrior’s armor, clacked in affirmation, grabbed a helmet and brought it to him. Neither the Dark Lord nor the death knight accepted its offering, as the undead barbarian obediently followed the necromancer. Their conversation, though mostly one-sided, was indeed fruitful as the Dark Lord learned more and more of his soldier’s backstory, consisting of tragic family death, long hardships, and a journey from the northern lands to the southern. He also found out about the close relationship the barbarian had with his wizard friend with whom they battled many a foe and defeated numerous monsters in their short time together.
As the conversation progressed, so did their path to the surface. The Dark Lord wished to take the death knight for a trial against a hydra who lived in a nearby swamp and was of utmost inconvenience with its overall lizardly behavior. When they finally stood outside, leaving through the hidden hatchet and the hole entrance, the Dark Lord decided to voice this proposition: “Truly, dear death knight, your tales are high and tall! But how do you hold in a fight? Are you REALLY sure you would do great defending your master against simpletons and hungry monsters? You see, there is this hydra nearby, nasty thing, and it’s constantly eating animals that I need for my ritu… What is this sound?”
Despite not being noticed at first the deep girthy rumbling continued in its intensity, transforming from a tremor, to a rumble, to a deafening quake. As the rumble grew so did afore unnoticed crack in the ground. Months of the Dark Lord’s unholy magic influence left the earth dry, unhealthy, dying, only being granted a modicum of rain and sun it enjoyed before the necromancer corrupted it and began its slow destruction. And so, since the undead wizard was lost in his own mind, ego, and speech, the unknown force’s machinations were left unchecked until it was too late.
“MY LAIR!!!” the Dark Lord shrieked, as the ground collapsed on itself burying his army, his jars of clones, his impervious phylactery, and everything he has been working on for months on end underneath thousands of kilos of soil.
When the dust settled, and the view of a once mighty underground hidden lair was changed into a crater of dirt, rock, dead trees, and some unfortunate birds and squirrels, there were only three left: the Dark Lord, the barbarian death knight, and a skeleton hugging the warrior’s black horned bucket helmet.