Epilogue:
End of the Beginning
“Everything comes to he who waits...
and I have waited so very long for this moment.”
– Skeletor, He-Man
– ***** –
The man readjusted his glasses as he walked down the large obscure corridor, his quick footsteps echoing loudly in the imposing silence, along with the regular clinking of his multiple tool-belts. His narrow wrinkled lips were pursed in annoyance, hiding his pointed teeth, and his long nose was twitching nervously, his whiskers trembling in the air.
Ghastly torches faintly lit up the place, casting moving shadows on the painted walls. Left and right, frescos were depicting madness and horror in every single of their incarnations. Humans, elves, dwarves, beastmen, mermaids, all the races were there, represented by distorted parodies stealing, killing, raping, mutilating, waging war on their kin, devouring new-borns, dancing immoral rituals in pools of blood, copulating with horrid creatures vomited by the dementia of a damned artist, and many other nauseating scenes words didn’t suffice to describe.
On the high vault, overseeing the repulsive chaos, a sorrowfully crying man, clad in white and surrounded by dancing souls, was opening his arms, raining divine bolts of judgement upon the corrupted world, turning the deformed ignoble caricatures to ashes and leaving behind only a peaceful but barren land. On his chest, painted with blood, was a simple circle crossed by a single line, a symbol that was repeated regularly on the crazy fresco, stamping each impact of cleansing lightning.
The advent of Sanity… Distant dream of a powerful man. Distant, maybe, but close too, as it might soon come to pass.
Suddenly, a patrol of half-a-dozen heavily armed skeletons appeared before the walking man, coming out of an adjacent passageway, but the man didn’t slow down in the slightest. He walked right past the undead group, once more pushing up his small round spectacles. As if he were invisible, the monsters didn’t show any reactions and the sound of their clattering bones rapidly decreased in the distance.
Undead… Repugnant brainless empty shells.
His mental snort was full of disgust. Not because he hated the proximity of corpses, but because most undead were no more than the puppets they were risen to be. During his relatively long life, he had always valued intellect above all virtues, thus those mindless enslaved creatures revolted him to no end. If it weren’t for his master’s orders, he would have never tolerated the presence of these pitiful existences so close to him.
As he continued advancing down the main hallway, the man encountered a few other groups of bony soldiers, as well as numerous black-robed hooded figures who fearfully bowed to him before removing themselves from his path.
Noticing a skeleton diligently scrubbing the floor a few steps ahead, blocking his way, the man angrily clicked his tong and brought his large shovel-like left hand to his face. His long sharp fingers lightly brushed past a silver earing and the undead instantaneously crumbled into dust.
The man regretted his rash action. Now the floor was dirty again.
– *** –
The man eventually reached an imposing double door.
Made of dark oak and ebony, reinforced by black steel, and carved with agonizing faces, and painted with yet again the bloody crossed circle as sole touch of colour, the door seemed to scream “Evil Overlord’s Room. Please wipe your feet upon entering, or we will EAT YOUR SOUL!!! Welcome.”
All hope abandon, ye who enter here.
Twenty imposing [Death Knight] were guarding the door, as well as a hooded figure whose face was shrouded in darkness, and who addressed the man in a slow emotionless voice:
“You… are late. The Lord… has been expecting… you.”
“I bear good news. I am sure His Lordship won’t mind,” the man replied, unfazed.
“Then… follow.”
Without waiting for a reply – not that the other would have bothered replying – Faceless turned around and opened the grim door. A foul stench seeped between the panels and the man’s muzzle frowned deeply. Beastmen had naturally heightened senses and, even as a half-human, his sense of smell was still especially developed, so the devastating odour felt almost physically painful.
Damn, it’s worse each time. Is it even possible?
The man stoically fought the rising nausea and pivoted by a quarter turn the blue ring he wore on his left index. An imperceptible flow of air leaked from the accessory and flew to his nostrils, enabling him to breath normally again.
Readjusting his glasses, he then followed Faceless, not sparing a glance to the supposedly carved faces that casted imploring looks at him as he passed by.
Inside the vast throne room, the unique source of light was a large candelabrum standing on a banquet table at the end of the central aisle. The rest of the place was filled with total darkness. Total silence too, as, aside from the man’s own footsteps, only a faint repetitive squashing could be heard. Faceless seemed to soundlessly glide over the floor.
Reaching the table filled with victuals, the hooded figure silently dismissed “himself” to the side. The man had always assumed the Lord’s aid was a “he”. Faceless voice sounded rather asexual, but the man didn’t care, so he had picked male. Plus, he thought, the being probably was some kind of undead spirit anyway, so gender really didn’t matter.
Then Faceless whispered loudly in the silence:
“My Lord, he… has come.”
Having been announced, the man straightened his posture, adjusted his glasses, and strengthened his mind as not to look away from the disgusting feast before him, source of the nauseating odour that he was thankfully not smelling right now. Indeed, every single aliment on the table was either rotten or decaying, reflecting the personality of the master of the place. Piles of mould-covered fruits, mixed with putrefying vegetables, laid alongside lumps of unidentified bloody meats filled with broken bones and maggots, ironically the liveliest creatures in this underground palace of death.
A rustle came from behind a huge heap of diverse long-expired aliments, and a large skeleton stepped into the candle light, biting vigorously into a black wrinkled apple that spurt putrid juices all over the creature’s jawbones and soiled once-immaculate white robe. Faint splashing sounds could also be heard as the barely chewed pome flesh fell on the floor through an empty rib cage.
Decadence.
The man held back a disgusted snort, yet respectfully bowed. His glasses slid down.
“Your Lordship,” he humbly said as he pushed the unruly framed lenses back to their place.
The skeletal lord lengthily glare at him, the same disgust burning green in his empty sockets, although this deep-rooted hatred wasn’t especially directed at his guest. The lich simply loathed every sentient living being in the world, no one in particular.
After several minutes of heavy silence, two rotten pears, a banana peel and a necroblasted fly – maggot level two –, a disembodied voice echoed through the room, filled with cold anger:
“Al-Hazred… You took your time.”
“Pardon me, Your Greatness, I ha-”
“SILENCE, YOU VERMIN!!”
“…”
“Know your place, miserable mortal. You are only here because I allow it to be so. Therefore, when I call you. DO NOT DARE TO MAKE ME WAIT!! Am I clear?”
“Clear as the full moon, Your Magnificence.”
“Good. Now,” all anger left the Lord’s voice, replaced by merry iciness, “I hear you bear good news.”
This ability he has to know everything his undead servants hear really is unnerving, Al-Hazred thought as he lifted his gaze towards the undead Lord.
Nevertheless perfectly hiding his thoughts and keeping a neutral expression on his wrinkled face, he then answered in a confident tone:
“Yes, Your Sanity. It appears the Progenitor’s descendant, or should I say the new Progenitor, finally left her lair.”
Interest flickered in the flaming orbits.
“I see. Was the princess in the [Bluerose Castel] as you said?”
“It is too soon to be certain. As your Excellency is aware, my spies cannot enter the valley. However I assure you I will soon be able to determine her precise location.”
“…”
The ghastly flames that served as the Lord’s eyes dimmed, as if he was lost in thoughts, and the echoing voice turned into a distant whisper.
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
“[Bluerose Castle]… To think the protection barrier we three put up all those centuries ago would affect even me. No wonder I wasn’t able to get my hands on Teacher’s legacy. Ah! But finally… and right on time for the [Centenary Solstice] too… ”
Then the Lord then raised his voice again:
“Very good Al-Hazred! You have my most sincere gratitude.” Glacial irony littered his words. “If it weren’t for your information, my plans would still be stuck. How curious it is that in the past half-year we made more progress than in the last four centuries. It seems that, you aside, I am only surrounded by a flock of DEGENERATED INCOMPETENTS!!”
Screaming this, the lich casted a scornful glare – and half a potato – towards Faceless, who imperceptibly flinched, before adding with a joyless laugh:
“Hahaha. You even brought me this useful toy that helped bring my poor insane friend back to reason.”
Al-Hazred adjusted his glasses and uncaringly followed the Lord’s gaze to another tall skeleton. This one was chained to the throne, at the limit of the flickering isle of light casted by the dying candles. Its regal clothes were in tatters, a broken crown had mockingly been placed atop its cracked skull and a simple pitch-black ring encircled its fleshless neck. The purple flames in its orbits looked about to extinguish any second.
Bringing his gaze back to the lord, Al-Hazred conspiringly rubbed his hands and replied with a wryly smile that made his wrinkled face fold a thousand times:
“No, no, your Greatness, you praise me too much. I am but a humble archaeologist. It is only luck that I stumbled upon Queen Winnifred’s diary <1> and heard of your glorious noble cause. And this neck-ring 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, oh Immortal Sage.”
“Haha! Such shameless flatteries as always. But did you forgot to whom you are speaking? Flatteries are useless against me. Tell me the truth. There must be something you want. Do ask! I am in a generous mood.”
“I only wish for Sanity to triumph, oh Well of Wisdom.”
“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 though. “Then I shall send my minions to courteously invite the princess to my pala-”
“I would advise against this, Your Powerfulness,” Al-Hazred boldly interrupted.
Anger brutally flared in the lich’s orbits.
“YOU DARE CONTRADICT ME?!”
Used to the Lord’s mood swings, Al-Hazred calmly continued, blatantly ignoring the huge [Necroblast] forming over the undead mage’s bony palm:
“Bluerose is close to that item. If my suppositions are correct, the Progenitor should come in contact with it by herself. Why act impulsively when the events are likely to follow the route we desire either way? As of now, the extent of the princess’ power is an unknown. If she resists and a fight were to happen, in the worst case scenario, she might die. And we need her alive.”
“I do NOT need you to remind me of that fact!”
“Then you also do not need me to remind you what happened last time you tried to acquire the primary key? I know the other seals can be bypassed but the fir-”
“ENOUGH!! One more word, and your soul joins the other ‘gate keepers’!”
Al-Hazred lightly shivered at the thought but did not let it affect his speech:
“Then I am sure you will find someone else to decode the key?”
The undead Lord glared menacingly at the wrinkled old half-beastman before him, a ghastly green orb hovering over his curled up phalanxes. Then he ragingly threw the [Necroblast] at the chained lich, who howled and arched its back in pain, before turning towards the silent Faceless.
“Take four [Death Knight] of my personal guard and go to Cali. If the Progenitor shows up, watch from afar but do not intervene if she approaches the seal. If she leaves the town, with or without the key, capture her. If she is not alone, kill her companions. Only the Progenitor matters.”
“Yes… Master.”
“Your Gloriousness, my spies can-”
“Do NOT contradict me twice, Al-Hazred. You are but a guest of the cult! If you anger me any further, I shall find another capable of decoding the key. I waited more than six thousand years for this moment, most of it sealed in the depths of an agonizing hell, I do not mind even if I have to spend a few decades finding someone else worthy of the honour of participating in the Great Salvation! You are disposable.” He marks a small pause, then concluded like spiting venom: “Do you understand?”
The old man sustained the skeleton’s glare for a few seconds, then lowered his eyes.
“… Yes, Your Lordship.”
“Good. Now leave.”
Without a word, his lips tightly squeezed, Al-Harzred bowed to the lich and left the throne room and its putrid banquet.
– *** –
Half-an-hour later, in the small room assigned to him, Al-Hazred 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 peak of the [Tiamat Mountain Range], and Al-Hazred’s room was one of the very few to have a window showing the outside, a flattering way to describe an uneven hole in the middle of a cliff. Aside from this “luxury”, only detail indicating he was favoured by the lich overlord, the place looked more like a prison cell than a bedchamber, although there was no lock on the door nor guard in the hallway.
Well, there were guards, but not to prevent him from leaving. More too keep undesirable visitors outside.
Suddenly, he stopped his steps, took a quill from one of his numerous tool-belts and a small parchment from one of his even more numerous pockets, and sat at the desk. Without bothering to dip the magic plume in ink, he quickly wrote a short message. Then, with a turn of his right wrist, a bracelet glowed and a small translucent ethereal sparrow appeared in his open palm.
Al-Hazred neatly folded the parchment and gave it to the invocation, which took it in its beak before flying out the window and disappearing in the sky at a speed impossible for any real bird.
Glancing outside, the old man caught glimpse of a few zombies erring aimlessly at the bottom of the cliff, then gasped and backed off quickly. He wasn’t good with heights, or with luminous open spaces in general. He by far preferred dark tunnels and narrow passages. It took a lot of effort for him to simply walk outside in the sunlight, but spending days underground with tons of rock above his head, scouring some buried tomb in search of antique artefacts, actually make him feel immensely relaxed.
He laid on his uncomfortable bed, and spent some time wordlessly staring at the stone ceiling until his heart calmed down, then a large wicked smile spread on his face.
He starts mumbling to himself:
“Hehehe. Now every player has come to the game stage. Hehehehe. Master really plays dangerously again… Everyone has placed their pieces on the board. Now it’s time for the Progenitor’s move. Who are you princess? What are you? How will you play? Please let me see something good. Will the Sanity prevail, or will madness continue its rule? Hehehe.
Now the game begins.”
– ***** –
<1> Just as a reminder, Karl Sangbleu and Winnifred Vangarn are Victoria’s parents.
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So, with this epilogue, Volume 0 is concluded. It’s rather short, but it’s only an epilogue, so do not complain. ^^
Besides, I spent most of the week reading Zhan Long and… well, it has nothing to do with the epilogue… so… eeeeeh… What was my point again? It’s late here. Or early actually… Anyway.
Thanks you for reading, and see you next volume.
Spoiler :
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