White flashes of light.

Condensate splattered his face.

Men in blue outfits strapped him to a floating bed.

Morthisal's head rang. His eyes didn't want to focus, so he closed them and again tried to seek his power. Always, it was there, below the surface of his being. Threads he could touch, pull, and gather, then convert to magical power to summon the dead. He could also twist the power and use it to subdue the minds of the weak.

It wasn't there! He reached and reached, but his connection to the nether realms was gone, like he was… no! Lord Morthisal refused to allow the image to form in his mind. A… No!

A peasant.

"No!" He screamed.

The floating contraption slammed into a large metal box, and he was shoved inside. Morthisal tried to lift his hands, but they were strapped to his body.

"Oh, we got a live one, " one of the men in blue said. He leaned over and pulled Morthisal's eyelids open, shone an extremely bright light in them. Morthisal tried to thrash away, but the man was quick and yanked the other eye open. "I'm Samuel. Can you tell me your first name?"

Samuel ripped open a compact package that appeared to be made of paper, extracted a white square, and pressed it to Morthisal's forehead.

"My name is Ebonwrath! Morthisal Ebonwrath!"

Metal doors slammed shut, and the box lurched into motion.

"It is, huh?" Samuel said. "Well, Morthisal. It appears you have a head wound. Can you tell me anything about yourself? Would you like the hospital to call someone?"

"Call. Yes. I must call upon my power."

"Tell me about it," a woman dressed like Samuel said.

"The nether realms. I cannot locate them."

Samuel glanced up. "I swear this guy was playing Dungeons and Dragons when he hit his head. Did you ever play?"

The woman shook her head. " I thought about it in college but was too busy being hot."

"So what happened to you since then?"

She lowered her voice, "Samuel? I have one nerve left."

"Oops. I didn't mean to set it on fire."

"How about if I set you on fire?"

Samuel opened his mouth, glanced at Morthisal, and shut it.

"What is this nonsense? How are we flying? Untie me immediately. Immediately!" Morthisal demanded.

The woman looked up and called to someone seated in a little box ahead. "Let them know they'll need someone from neurology."

Morthisal bounced as the flying vehicle darted forward. It all came back to him in a rush.

The ritual!

Moments ago, Dark Lord Morthisal Ebonwrath had been in his throne room, being tended by his most trusted advisor, one of the most powerful sorceresses who had ever lived, Thalindra. She had chanted a long and complex spell with him. One that would carry him far from his throne room, which was about to be overrun by the heroes of Mythralon.

He had promised to take her with him, but there was no time. She should have known better.

The castle’s foundation had shaken around him as the enemy had borndown on his thick, double doors. Those doors had been so beautiful. Thick wood with metal bands that had been strengthened with spells and sigils. They should have been impenetrable.

The wizards and clerics must have worked together to rip away the protection.

He’d known the enemy would soon be within, and he’d had barely enough reserves to finish the transfer spell, let alone cast something to tip the balance in the war.

He'd been aiming to transfer into the body of an unsuspecting person in Mythralon. Being near the capital would have been ideal, as it would have allowed him to assassinate the king more easily.

The spell they had found was from before the cataclysm. They'd had mere days to study it, learn its secrets, and attempt to replicate them.

It had been sheer willpower that had allowed him to finish the ritual. The phrases had been foreign and harsh even in his well-versed mouth, and the timing and cadence of the words had come together in a last-ditch effort.

But something had gone very wrong. The portal that should have carried him across a few hundred miles and landed him in the body of an unsuspecting man had somehow twisted in his mental grasp. In a matter of seconds, he had passed beyond realms, worlds, suns, stars, and galaxies. The window had been small, and the ceiling between realities thin. It was sheer luck he’d stumbled across a body that was in the throes of death. Or seemingly near death.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

With no remaining time, Morthisal had ejected the other soul and filled the body with his own. The shrinking tunnel had been open only seconds. The man's soul had been thrown into the swirling vortex. Maybe it had arrived in his own soon-to-be executed body. Maybe it had been lost in the aether. It was of no consequence to him.

Morthisal groaned. He'd ended up in another world entirely. One that was incomprehensible. The dark lord had lost his power. His voice wasn't even his own.

Something held his arm, and then a cold sliver pierced his skin. He tried to recoil…

"I said we're putting an IV in, okay? We will get some fluids into you and something to help you remain calm. Nod if you agree."

Morthisal didn't nod, but the flying vehicle bounced. His head bobbed.

"Close enough," the woman said.

He glanced down to see a glass vial. Inside, a long piece of metal pierced a device that was now hanging from his arm.

"No! Unhand me, peasants! I will bury you in the dirt and raise you as my servants for all time!"

"Like I said. We got a live one." Samuel chuckled and depressed a knob of some sort in the tube.

Morthisal sputtered curses. He raged as he reached again for his power and found… warmth. Yes. Such warmth.

His vision swam, and his head filled with a ringing sound. Had they put strong alcohol into his body?

He smiled and said, "What does it matter?"

"What does what matter?" the woman asked.

"Dude has lost it, Julia," Samuel said under his breath.

Julia leaned over and whispered to Samuel, "I know, but this is the most fun I've had all day."

"I heard that…and…I don't care. Did you know I once fed three live elves to a Skullshrieking Herald of Doom? They screamed as loudly as the skullshrieker."

”This guy is something else.”

Morthisal's head swam in a sea of warmth and confusion. The world around him blurred and shifted, a kaleidoscope of unfamiliar sights and sounds. He felt like he was floating on a cloud, his body light and disconnected from reality.

As the strange moving chamber stopped, metal doors opened to glass walls surrounded by silver frames. The rain continued to drizzle from the sky, but they were under a tall covering that shielded them from the shower. Morthisal groaned as the floating bed was again set in motion. It clunked as he was pulled from the metal chariot and wheeled into a vast structure of white. The smell of something like pure alcohol assaulted his nostrils, and it was horrendous. He already missed the comforting stench of decay he was accustomed to in his dark fortress.

"Where am I?" he slurred, his tongue feeling thick and uncooperative. "I should have been sent to the realm of the Pale King.”

"Did he just say pale king?" a voice asked.

"Head trauma," Samuel answered.

He snapped his mouth shut.

Think, Morthisal. Think!

He was still fuzzy from the transference and the elixir he’d witnessed being sent into his body. This was a new world—completely foreign. Morthisal needed to be silent, learn, and observe.

To that end, he lay back and concentrated on the strange, clean white ceiling above.

The blue-clad figures ignored his ramblings as they pushed him through corridors lined with strange glowing panels and doors that slid open of their own accord. Morthisal's eyes widened at each new sight, his elixir-addled mind struggling to comprehend the alien technology that surrounded him.

As they passed a group of people in white coats, Morthisal overheard snippets of their conversation.

"... gave him a strong dose of Ativan to keep him calm…"

"Ativan?" Morthisal mumbled to himself. "That must be the magical elixir that enchanted me." Morthisal giggled to himself at the thought of being bested by mere peasants and their strange potions.

"You will bring me the making of this elixir forthwith! I shall have its ingredients and measurements by the end of the day. Do not fail me!"

"We'll get right on that."

"You get right on that, Dark Lord. Address me by my station!"

Someone laughed, and Morthisal laughed with them. Then he shook his head and as he realized the effects of this 'Ativan' were making him feel giddy, a sensation he did not enjoy one bit!

They brought him into a small room and left him alone, but not before one of them mentioned something about mental health. He dozed for a few moments, surely no longer, then awoke feeling slightly refreshed. Warmth still suffused his mind.

Morthisal tried to sit up, but found himself restrained by straps across his chest and limbs. In his altered state, he didn't find this concerning. Rather, he marveled at the sensation of being bound to what he perceived as a floating bed.

"Wonderous," he muttered. "I must learn this levitation spell."

A woman entered the room, her smile tight and professional. "Good evening, sir. I'm from the billing department. Could you tell me what kind of insurance you have?"

Morthisal decided to play along and furrowed his brow in confusion. "Insurance? I...uh. I am having trouble with my memory. I seem to have a head wound, dear lady.” He glanced up, and she took note of the blood-soaked white bandage around his head.

"Dear lady?" she shook her head, and her smile didn't waver. Her eyes were drawn to a strange pouch on his chest. Where had that come from? “Do I have your permission to remove your identification from your wallet?” She pointed at the pouch.

“Very well.” He inclined his head benevolently.

The woman extracted several plastic cards from the wallet. "Thank you, Mr. Logan. I'll just make a copy of these and bring them right back."

"Logan?" Morthisal's face scrunched up, and he fought not to yell at the top of his lungs. That is not my name! I am the Harbinger of Despair, the Shadow Sovereign!

She left, leaving Morthisal to ponder this new mystery in his altered state.

A young woman with a smattering of freckles splashed across her nose and cheeks entered shortly after, her demeanor cheerful.

She wore a blue shirt and matching pants. A name hung from a tag of some sort, and it read Megan. "Hello there! I'm just going to take your vitals. We'll start with your blood pressure, okay?"

Morthisal nodded sagely, as if she had proposed a complex magical ritual. "The measure of my dark essence?" He squinted again at the tag. "Megan. What is this, Megan?"

"Well, this Megan is about to get off work in a few hours."

"Very well, then. Let the torture begin."

"Oh honey, if I wanted to torture you, I'd make you fill out your own insurance forms." Megan winked and stuck the thermometer in his ear. "Or worse–I'd make you eat the hospital cafe's surprise dinner."

"What is the surprise?" Morthisal asked, despite himself.

"The surprise is they call it meatloaf." She checked the reading and scribbled something on her chart.