From the nearest portal to the Castle of Melancholy Dreams the shortest route crossed over a chasm whose bridge was guarded by the warriors of Lady Jandalanu. These, insisted his Chief of Spies, would not impede Lord Azanth’s triumphant return to his former territories. Nevertheless, Lord Azanth experienced some trepidation as he waited on the east side of the abyss and a dozen figures in shining armour gathered at the west.
For guards, he had but two forest demons, former sergeants who had fled to the wild woods following his downfall. And, of course, his Chief of Spies, who now possessed the Tupperware case in which he resided. Unpleasant was the feeling of absence of even the most trifling person to whom one had become accustomed and Lord Azanth found that he now missed his human companions. While in level they were no match for the guards of Lady Jandalanu, and their presence would hardly have reassured his current anxiety, the cheerful conversation of the humans and their amiable acceptance of a demon as a comrade meant that to be with them was to experience a heartwarming warmth. Even for one whose heart was made of starch.
‘We should cross now,’ said the Chief of Spies and walked forward. A sensation of vertigo filled Lord Azanth as the assassin carried him out and over the chasm. The swaying bridge was suspended from two thick cables of entwined rope and iron. Sturdy enough, he presumed, to carry large numbers of troops, yet decidedly flimsy against the immensity of the drop below.
Alea iacta est.
Indeed, my lord, most apt. This is your Rubicon.
Why does that knight approach? From the other end of the bridge, one of the shining warriors was walking towards them.
There was just enough room on the bridge for the two bulky forest demons to push past and stand protectively in front of Lord Azanth. All three members of his entourage came to a halt at the centre of the bridge, where the sense that he was swaying between vast skies above and deep void below caused Lord Azanth to feel as helpless as a tiny mote of dust. It was not a feeling suited to someone who aspired to once more be the most powerful lord of the Seventh Plane of Wickedness and he called up a number of menus and studied them in order to regain his sense of authority.
The approaching warrior raised the visor of her helm, to show her fanged smile. With a shock Lord Azanth realised it was Lady Jandalanu herself. She must have travelled fast on learning of his plan to return and she had come without her courtiers and banners. Bending and kneeling, placing both hands on the ground, Lady Jandalanu held this submissive pose for a respectful interval. An interval that became too long as she continued to remain face down on the wooden planks of the bridge. Would she ever cease to abase herself?
Arise. Please. This is not the place for ritual.
Lady Jandalanu looked up and although straightening, remained on her knees: ‘My prince, my lord, my liege, welcome back to your rightful domain. The list of those who betrayed you and allowed the paladin to conquer your castles is long. I am not on that list. Nor am I on the list of those who failed to answer your call and watched from afar, perhaps even gloating at your fall. No. When the forces of good entered the Seventh Plane of Wickedness I came to aid you with what force I could bring, because it is a travesty of all our customs to let an army of humans and angels dictate our affairs.
‘Alas, I was too late and had to retreat to my most remote castle before you had even caught sight of my army, from where I learned to my dismay that you had not even been given an honourable death, but rather had been transformed into some kind of fried vegetable,’ she narrowed her eyes as though trying to discern Lord Azanth’s shape through the Tupperware, ‘and that it was expected you would be eaten and thus banished from the Plane of Life, never again able to advance the cause of demonkind there.
‘Your enemies underestimated you. And whatever support Lady Liseth had on this plane – from the usual discontents and those who whinged about the arrogance and severity of your dominance – entirely fell away once it was revealed that she had been complicit in releasing titans. And so I have ridden hard to be here at the joyous moment of your return, to renew my vows to you and to escort you to the Castle of Melancholy Dreams. I look forward to being present as you take your revenge upon those whom, in contrast to myself, failed you.’
A most pretty speech, Lord Azanth broadcast, so his Chief of Spies was included in his response, largely fictional, of course, but I appreciate it all the same and I shall reward you with the lands and castles of the Duke of Heartbreak once we have stripped them from him and sent him back to Level One.
Whether Lady Jandalanu was dismayed that he had scoffed at her story, or pleased with the prospect of authority over new territories, Lord Azanth could not tell. She was admirably controlled and of course, too high level to be able to read her thoughts.
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Please stand, Lady Jandalanu. This uncomfortable location and my lack of a body that might command authority means my acceptance of your homage is by my words alone. They suffice.
As you wish, my lord.
At last, they were moving again, up the rising slope of the far side of the bridge and to the small troop of knights that Lady Jandalanu had brought with her. There were extra horses too and a residual fear that this might all be a trap faded as his Chief of Spies rode alongside Lady Jandalanu at the head of the cavalry.
By late afternoon, they had cleared the hills that surrounded the portal and arrived at the farmlands of Lord Azanth’s demesne. Serfs – mostly humans who had been foolish enough to have traded their souls for momentary delights, or revenge, or position – stood and watched as the troop rode past.
I wish to talk to a serf. Let us pause here.
The horses, tired and walking at an easy gait, were easily persuaded to halt and Lord Azanth reached out to a man holding a scythe.
I am Lord Azanth. I have returned. What think you of that news?
Welcome back my lord. You may have tricked me in our game of chess, but I would rather you were here than Lady Liseth, for the whip fell often on my back these last months.
There was no hiding the truth in the man’s thoughts. How long is your servitude to last?
Another seventy-six years, four months and ten days, my lord.
Consider it halved.
Thank you my lord. If I might… He knelt… I have a wife here now. Could she…?
For a moment Lord Azanth felt furious that a human serf would dare attempt to negotiate with him. Yet thoughts of how Liam, Aengus, and Kate had risked their lives in his cause softened Lord Azanth and he forgave the human.
Very well. She may return to the Plane of Life when you do. They could easily be replaced; there was no shortage of humans on the Plane of Life willing to bargain with a demon lord for the fulfilment of their desires.
Thank you, my lord. Thank you.
Lord Azanth signalled to the Chief of Spies to ride on and soon the Castle of Melancholy dreams came into view, a beautiful, symmetrical structure with eight round towers protruding from the corners and mid-points of the walls and surrounded by a wide moat, now coloured orange by the descending sun. The flags on the poles of the corner towers were all visible thanks to a firm breeze and they all displayed his own coat of arms: a red-eyed, flame-hoofed, black unicorn on a gold-and-scarlet background.
Horns were sounding on the towers, bells were ringing in the nearby village, and even at this distance Lord Azanth sensed the movement of dozens of people, hurrying back and forth inside the castle. Not that they were preparing to defend themselves; the drawbridge was down and the portcullis raised.
By the time they were approaching the wooden bridge over the moat, a crowd had gathered on either side of the road and their cheers seemed to be genuine and heartfelt.
‘Long Life to Lord Azanth!’
‘Victory to Lord Azanth!’
‘Welcome back Lord Azanth.’
Lacking arms and hands, Lord Azanth could not return the cries of the serfs with regal gestures of acknowledgement. Nor did he think it was wise to ask his Chief of Spies to raise him high to public view. The scene was not necessarily a safe one, this could be a trap. And at the sight of a crisp, the enthusiastic cries might well have died away, become mocking even. No, the people of the town would have to settle for hailing the return of their true lord without any acknowledgement…
Over the drawbridge clattered the horses and onwards underneath a tall, stone arch. Inside the walls of the castle Lord Azanth could see the tall keep and his potato body gave a shiver. It was upon that fortification that Earl Clarence had made Lord Azanth drink deep from the chalice of humiliation.
Lining the route to the keep were some forty spear-carrying guards. Not much of a garrison.
Where are the other soldiers? Lord Azanth asked one of them.
Fled, my lord, fearing your wrath.
There is nothing to fear. He that cannot forgive others breaks the bridge over which he must pass himself; for every demon has need to be forgiven. Lord Azanth made sure to broadcast this thought to the maximum range and number of soldiers that he could, not that he believed it. No, he would revenge himself upon all those who had failed him in due course. For now though, he needed an army and if that meant displaying a philosophical tolerance to those who had failed to serve him in the time of crisis then he would act the part as well as he could. It would probably assist him in this angelic pose that the moods of a potato crisp were inscrutable.
Hiding his true thoughts beneath a cloak of benevolent forgiveness brought a kind of calm to Lord Azanth’s mind, even as he was carried through familiar corridors and up familiar stairs to his solar: the large chamber in which he had previously held court. Here, however, his rage surged up again uncontrollably, for the room was destroyed. Stained-glass windows depicting his earlier triumphs had all been smashed, fragments of coloured glass lay strewn on the wooden floor; a bloodbark table, whose surface had once gleamed with a polish made from the tears of ruined gamblers was pitted by axe blows and covered in dark scars from some type of fire-based skill; none of the chairs were intact, their padding torn; all his banners were ripped apart too, banners that in some cases had taken years of careful needlework from the finest human artists to have lost their souls. The finest hall in the Seventh Plane of Wickedness was utterly ruined.
While Lord Azanth felt red rage come over him, Lady Jandalanu cleared away broken plates from the battered table and sat in the space.
‘What thinks thou of the Duke of Waking Nightmares?’
‘That toad? That half-eaten maggot? That self-serving hoarder of gold, whose greed is unbounded? That…’
‘He’s willing to declare for you.’
‘… staunch patriot of demonkind. That remarkably tasteful orchestrator of the finest balls in the seven planes of wickedness. That astute judge of character.’
Lady Jandalanu laughed, her fangs white against her purple lips. ‘Let us rest but one night here and ride to the duke in the morning.'