“What have you done?!”

“I gave you wanted,” Pithelel sighed, dusting off a few flecks of rubble from the nape of his neck. “So much for gratitude.”

“Gratitude? What do I have to be GRATEFUL for?! You've ruined me! Undo this right this instant!”

“I can't.”

“You…” he stammered in pure rage. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN’T?!”

“I don't take back wishes. It complicates things.”

“WHAT?! What do you mean you can’t undo this? I didn’t even ask to be turned into a FREAK! You tricked me!”

“Are you suggesting,” Pithelel leaned forward with a malicious expression, “that I’m a fraud? I granted your wish. What? You thought a mere elf, a being of life and light, would be capable of comprehending death? Why do you think the Lich King couldn’t defeat death? An elf could never become a great necromancer. There's only one other being fully equipped with that kind of knowledge.”

“A Slyth’Taynt…”

“Well done, I guess you're not as stupid as I thought you were.”

It was nonetheless a hard pill to swallow and Mithlas was in no position to accept what had befallen him.

“Take it back!” He sobbed, shaking his squishy fists as he fell to his… knees? Well they did bend, “Take back this stupid wish! I don't want this anymore!”

“I retract that statement,” Pithelel sighed, “What part of ‘I can't’ do you not understand?”

“Then at least give me another wish! Give me back my looks! I don’t want to be this hideous slug!”

“Hmm… No, I’m afraid I can’t do that either. Besides, this is far more amusing.”

“You know what?” Mithlas said through burbles of snot, “For a powerful god of wishes, you seem to get everything wrong! No wonder you fell into obscurity. Who in their right mind would worship a useless god that gets every request wrong?!”

Pithelel’s stone face began to crack along his eyes and brow.

“Watch your tongue, you ungrateful worm. Remember it was you who grovelled to me when you could have chosen any other god to grant your request. Ah, I see,” the statue slapped his forehead with a clunk and laughed, “You came to me out of desperation, isn’t that right? No god would have ever accepted your request… Except for me. And this is the thanks I get?”

Mithlas trembled somewhat by the god’s tone but his arrogance still held strong enough to make him say this, “Since you didn’t hold your end of the bargain, I won’t make back on my end of our deal. You can sink to oblivion in this stinking mountain for all I care!”

At this, Pithelel’s form stretched and widened, pulling the very stone that formed the temple and mountain into himself. The false sun behind him turned a blood red and he casted a great shadow over the newly-made Slyth’taynt. His face had remained its pleasant self but it had twisted with deep grooves of anger and hollowed out eyes that pierced into Mithlas’ being.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Pithelel laughed again but this time it sounded hollow, “You should know better not to break a deal with a god, even a weakened one.”

Mithlas could not answer. He shrunk back, whimpering.

“And you want to know what happens to people who don’t pay up on their end? Why, there’s a special realm that I specially prepare for all renegers. Would you like to have a peek at yours?”

The slug didn’t answer but Pithelel wouldn’t have cared for one anyway. The room around them shifted once more, taking on a gloomy grey. There were no stars, no clouds nor a moon in the black sky. Stinging water flooded the pool until it were an endless sea. In that see Mithlas could see every regret and terrible memory flow by the shore. A boy neglected. A fool rejected. Mithlas found himself alone and screaming on an island of stone, with nothing but a mirror cylinder framed in rock which stood at the centre of the island. The moment he laid eyes upon his reflection, he picked up a stone and smashed it into the glass, only for the mirror to reform before his very eyes. Pithelel appeared above the mirror, sitting and resting his head nonchalantly with a very smug look on his face.

Mithlas fell to his knees and grovelled, “No! Please, anything but this! I’ll do anything! What is it that you want?!”

“You don’t remember? You promised to worship me. To serve me for all your days!” at that last part, Pithelel’s voice matched Mithlas’ own from before he had his wish granted. “But because I’m doing you a favour in not casting your existence into this wretched realm, I’ll extend that deal. I want you to spread word about me throughout Dana. Let my name be known by all those that will grovel to your feet when you rule. It’s only fair that we share our followers, no?”

“Rule?” Mithlas’ tone changed.

“Yes, my sweet slug. Had you actually been paying attention, you would have noticed that you have greater power inside of you than ever before.”

With the snap of Pithelel’s stony fingers, the room dissipated, changing back into the starlit Sanctum of Pithelel’s temple. Mithlas found himself on his hands and knees before the crushed remains of the door stopper monk.

“Well, pet? That monk isn’t going to wake up by himself.”

Mithlas gulped and tried wiping the snot and tears from his face until he realised that there was no point to it. He was covered in muck anyway.

“Diy…” Mithlas cleared the croakiness from his throat, “Diy Tuthn’e!”

Great power surged from his words through every nerve, vessel and cell of his body. His spirit roared with such magic that it reached into the world of the dead and wrenched the soul out to place it back into its desiccated body. The corpse’s dried eyes cracked open. A hoarse moan escaped its dried lips. Without another command, the monk rose to his feet. There was a fear in his eyes when he saw Pithelel and a trembling in his joints. His lower lip tremored with his fear of the smiling god of wishes.

“W-w-what is your command, master?” whispered the monk, unable to say what he truly wanted to say.

“Master?” Mithlas said, voice high with uncontainable excitement.

“What’s mine is yours,” said Pithelel, “Besides, it would please me most to see my traitorous followers get their just deserts.”

Mithlas had let out an involuntary squeal of excitement as he rose his finger at the corpse. It took him a moment before he could gain control of himself.

“Erhem, bow before me, worm.”

And the corpse obeyed. Mithlas had never been so happy.

“It worked,” he coughed and hoped Pithelel hadn’t heard him but he noticed the god raising an eyebrow, “I mean… of course it worked.”

“Is this your first time raising a corpse?” Pithelel smirked, “No wonder you were so desperate for my help.”

“First time? Pfft. Please. I’ve raised hundreds of corpses before.”

“Oh sure,” Pithelel rolled his eyes, “But I bet you’ve never had a corpse this compliant before. Do you see? This is only a fraction of your potential. Why don’t you find out what else you can do?”

“Ohoho… That I shall.”

Mithlas rose his finger at the hapless corpse once more, “Open these doors, worm. I can’t fit.. Give me an entrance fit for your new king.”

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

The corpse began to crawl towards the doors. With its bony arms, it pathetically pulled at the heavy doors. It strained and groaned until its arms popped out of their sockets with a poof of corpse dust. It fell flat on its face then proceeded to wriggle towards the door, bumping its head against the hardwood. Mithlas turned to Pithelel, mouth agape. The god of wishes merely shrugged.

“What?! What is it doing? Why is it doing that? Is it stupid?”

“A servant’s actions are only as stupid as their master’s command.”

“What was that?! Are you calling me stupid?”

“Yes,” Pithelel said, part smiling but there was a warning glare in his polished eyes.

Mithlas considered his next words carefully, “Erm… Then how do I get this useless monk to do what I want it to do? It’s better as a door wedge than a door opener.”

“Well, it is doing what you told you. Word for word. Come on, use that brilliant brain of yours and think.”

Word for word. Mithlas had slapped his forehead when he realised what he meant.

“Gods… Do I have to be very specific with what I want all the time? Your servants are just as useless as y- I mean as a Yitterine demon.”

“Right you are.”

Mithlas turned his attention back to the pathetic corpse.

“You! Door Wedge! Put your arms back on.”

The corpse struggled but eventually its arms popped back into their sockets all with help from his teeth. He remained on his hands and knees.

“By the Lich King… Get up, dust for brains!”

The corpse complied.

“Good, now fetch me the rest of your lazy monks and place them outside the door. It’s about time they woke up. Get on with it!” Mithlas clapped.

The risen corpse shambled away and slipped through the thin gap between the doors. Mithlas and Pithelel spent a good deal of time waiting for their servant to pile up his brothers and sisters outside the door. Mithlas had fallen into an uneasy sleep but he awoke with a sharp nudge.

“Ack! What is it?!”

“Your servants are ready,” yawned Pithelel.

Mithlas heard a rhythmic knock from the other side of the door and he slowly trudged over to the door. From the crack, he saw the huge pile of desiccated dead. Door Wedge stood there gormlessly, waiting for his next command. The Slyth’taynt was quite pleased so he wasted no time in casting his spell. His excitement was palpable. Enough so that it came in a great wave that channelled his words with an reverberating echo. That ancient tongue reached into the very bowels of the underworld and returned all of those souls back to their wretched bodies. A collective groan filled that arm of the star-shaped temple.

“Worms! Open these doors. Give me an entrance worthy of a king! No… A great king!”

Those twenty five corpses all crawled out from their pile and shambled over to the door. Their collective strength brought both doors open wide. Five each stood opposite each other and bowed toward Mithlas whilst singing his praises. The other ten lay on the ground, forming a carpet of corpses leading out of the sanctum. The last five gathered behind the Slyth’taynt and twisted their bodies into a throne. They urged him to rest his tired laurels on them. He was hesitant at first but upon sitting on this strange throne, he found it oddly comfortable. Their bones creaked under his weight and several of the standing corpses came to reinforce this chair.

“Wow. For once, I got something better than I expected.”

“It’s an old custom. These monks renounced their kings to avoid doing this. Look at them now. Serves them right for making the world forget me,” Pithelel laughed.

“I'll make better use of them. They are my servants now, for the record.”

“Of course,” Pithelel chuckled. “What’s mine is yours.”

“You’d best remember that. Now, is there a way out of this blasted mountain?”

“There was once,” Pithelel flecked a stray pebble from his chiselled curls. “But the monks had sealed it away. Your best bet is to get them to unseal the entrance.”

“Oh, of course. This would have been so much easier if it weren’t for these worms.”

Pithelel laughed, “This is where we part. But remember our deal. If you dare go back on your end, I will find out.”

Mithlas gulped, “Of course! What do you take me for?”

“Farewell, Mithlas, O’ great Worm King.”

Mithlas was giddy. He liked the sound of that name. It had a lovely ring to it.

“Show me the exit to this mountain!”

The undead began to walk ahead of him whilst those underneath strained, barely moving themselves or his newfound heft.

“Gods! You’re all so useless. You. Yes, all of you up ahead. Get over here and carry me to the exit. Except you, carpet corpses. You can stay there. Can’t have a grand exit without a carpet.”

The shambling undead merged with the throne. Though it creaked with the strain of their bones, the walking throne had finally began to move and at a hastened pace. So quick that Mithlas found himself grasping at the edge of his seat.

“W-woah! Slow down you fools!”

And so they did. Too slow.

“Ugh… Speed up a little bit. But not too fast!”

This went on for a while until the walking throne reached a pace that was just right for their new king.

“Ahhh… Much better. But why does it feel like there’s something missing?”

He was right. It was too quiet for a grand exit.

Mithlas sighed, “Of course… If only there were an adoring crowd to cheer me on. Where’s the cheers? Where’s the fanfare? Alas, I’m surrounded by useless priests. Nevermind. In due time, everyone will celebrate my presence wherever I go.”

The monks all grumbled and groaned. They may have been the necromancer’s thralls but they still had the smallest freedom to express their displeasure. Mithlas had thought that they had been trying to cheer them on only to utterly fail in doing so.

“Oh, shut up, the lot of you,” he groaned, “I appreciate the effort but you’re making this event sound depressing.”

They passed through some parts of the mountain temple that Mithlas had only seen from a top down view during his descent but had not ventured into. He passed grand statues depicting Pithelel in his many aspects - all of which appeared to have lost some of their initial cracks and dust as if they had been renewed, in a sense. Unnervingly, they seemed to be peering down at him. There were other buildings. Not just small shed-quarters and storehouses that were commonly found near temples but mansions. There were markets with shelves full of dust and broken jars. There had been a great city here around the temple, but it had all but vanished from history.

The monks came to a stop at the road. The wall of the mountain had completely covered where the exit had been. It’s as if it had never exited in the first place and the road was built to lead to a dead end. Mithlas wondered if the monks had wished the passage out away, but there was no way Pithelel would have agreed to such a thing. The god was too clever for that. He looked closely. The mountain had been sealed by separate stones, carefully carved and packed together with a special type of mortar that only made it appear as though there were no mouth in the mountain. Something built by hand like this could still be destroyed. Had he searched the base of the mountain more thoroughly, Mithlas would have saved himself the humiliation of wriggling around those tight spaces in the mountain. Though the thought made him bitter, he was nonetheless a little pleased by the outcome of his quest for power.

“Open up the exit! And careful now. If any one of you dare cause a cave-in, I’m going to leave you under a boulder for the rest of your un-life.”

The undead all disassembled from their throne form, gently leaving Mithlas standing on the ground as he watched them work. Stone by stone, the monks undid all of their past efforts to keep this place a secret. The longer Mithlas stood there, the more he grew impatient. He became increasingly aware of how hungry and weary he had become. He hadn’t slept since he first climbed the mountain and his rations had been lost during his run in with Gribrilrickers. Those drake-like scavengers had made off with his food. Though he delighted in getting his bloody revenge on them, no amount of dragon blood spilled would ever bring back those delicious travel morsels. Gods, did he smell too. Food aside, he so desperately wanted a bath. Would a bath rid him of this foul stench? The question made him anxious the more he thought about it.

“I don’t have all day. Hurry up, lazybones!”

The monks sped up in their work whilst Mithlas glared at them, arms crossed. Though their speed had increased, they were careful with every movement of rock. It seemed these monks were smarter than Mithlas had given them credit for. After a little more time, one of the undead moved a stone, letting dusk-orange light to pour into the mountain. Mithlas shambled into the rays of the light, letting it touch his skin. The warmth from it was welcome but the light gave him a somewhat clearer look at the rest of his body. He didn’t like how his skin glistened with slime all over and he didn’t like how bloated and bumpy his body had become. It showed on his face and his undead seemed to sense his unease.

“What are you all gawking at? Hurry up and finish the job.”

And so they did. The mountain opened up into a grassy field turned golden from the evening light of the sun. This was the very place where Mithlas had started his ascent into the mountain and he was still -if not more- confident and full of wonder but for a new reason. He could not wait to explore this newfound power surging through his body, and better yet, he could not wait to show everyone what he was now capable of. Fresh air flooded in, just as tangible as what Pithelel had conjured in his sanctum. Mithlas took it all in, ready to leave this cursed mountain and finally find a way to conquer death. He called upon his undead to reassemble into his walking throne.

“Alright, worms. Onward! We set off for Dar’Gehon!”

The walking throne began moving into the grassy fields. It had been long since these monks had felt blades of grass on skin, soil underfoot and the sun and wind on their skin. Their groans were louder from the shock of it all.

“Gods, would you stop that? I’d rather have silence than spend the entire journey listening to you all moan.”

And so they set off, the mountain growing smaller with every step the Worm King’s throne took. Though the mountain grew further away, Mithlas kept looking behind him. His heart was heavy and anxious. Pithelel’s words echoed in his mind. These were words he would never forget, for forgetting meant a fate worse than death. He committed them to memory.

“I want you to spread word about me throughout Dana. Let my name be known by all those that will grovel to your feet when you rule… If you dare go back on your end, I will find out.”