“Now, Throne. Is that any way to treat royalty? What’s the worst she can do to me? Acid spells? Necrotic gas?”
Despite his gloating, those glyphs from earlier had given him a nasty surprise. So scared he was, he made another new discovery about his anatomy - of which, much details of this unpleasant discovery shall be omitted for the reader’s sake.
“Unhand her. I want to hear what Lich King’s heir has to say.”
She was dropped a little too roughly than Mithlas intended. He was about to admonish the throne for it but Balandra could not contain her disgust. Her next intake of air came with a series of gags and coughs. Those first breaths were enough to make one regret having a nose. She’d dealt with many a foul corpse her whole life, but nothing quite like a Slyth’Taynt. At last, she caught her breath, desensitised to the stench.
“Who in the Hundred Hells are you?”
Mithlas recoiled at first, even more offended than before. Sure, he looked different, but he had expected someone of her skill to recognise his soul at the very least.
“Lost your touch, Balandra? You can’t even see that I’m one of your own. Look at my robes.”
She arched an eyebrow. Confusion grew ever more on her face, squinting for every detail. He had the robes of an acolyte, indeed, but beyond flesh, he was a rot-slug through and through.
“We’ve never had a Slyth’Taynt in our ranks.”
His stomach dropped a little. Surely he wasn’t that different now. That stupid god’s words echoed faintly in his mind - a whispered reminder of his horrid state.
‘No no. Her soul-sight has dimmed. Yes, that has to be the reason.’
If she was to blind to see him for who he was, then perhaps she needed a reminder. He’d kicked up quite a fuss before he left. She’d remember his name. Surely.
“Of course, you wouldn’t recognise me as I am now. You see, I have made great sacrifices to attain powers beyond what your moronic cult could ever promise. I came here because I thought you were more free-thinking than those academy dullards.”
‘Oh, you precious fool,’ Balandra thought. That may have been true when the Lich King reigned. That’s what they were supposed to be. But now they had reverted to the same restrictive philosophies. They were no better than the fools that claimed to be enlightened, only in place of the many gods in the world they did it all her father’s name.
Mithlas continued, “I sung your damned songs and did your pointless chores. All I wanted to do was share my life’s work. A way to defeat death without Lichdom! And yet you all laughed at me! Just because you couldn’t teach me how to resurrect a dead rat!”
To be fair, she had been too busy at the time to hear such ideas or see witness his tantrum as he left. Busy, pouring her time into researching the whereabouts of the Lich King’s soul fragments. So much so that she didn’t anticipate the councilmen’s plan to marry her off. It was Delwynn’s responsibility to take care of the acolytes - clearly another mistake. No wonder there were so many talentless acolytes.
“That’s… certainly an idea, but I still don’t know who you are.
“I am Mithlas. Once, an unrecognised genius amongst my kin. Once, your most loyal and wisest of the necromancers.”
She was quite earnestly without a clue. Small moments where she did acknowledge his existence were too insignificant to keep. Why, an acolyte was equal to the many blow flies around the crypts - precious, useful but easily forgotten. And how full of himself he was! Quiet was her laughter.
The Slyth’taynt had noticed her expression. In turn, his own painted face passed from hurt to fury. How dare she forget him. He leaned forward, his breath foul yet cold.
“But that’s King of the Worms to you now. And you’d do well to remember that.”
He leaned back into his seat, looking rather pleased with himself.
“And,” he added. “You will pledge your allegiance to me."
“I bow to no slug,” Balandra hissed.
“Oh, I don’t like that. Cover her mouth, Throne.”
“Release me at once you contemptuous lump of-”
Her mouth was covered once more.
“Throne, a seat for the Scion, if you would please.”
She squirmed against their uncomfortable grip, held in place for a time until they reformed themselves to make a conjoined throne. Once they had finished, they seated her awkwardly next to Mithlas.
“You should be grateful, Balandra. You get to sit next to a king.” Snickering, he took a look about the carnage around him, “Hmm. It seems like much hasn’t changed since I left.”
His eyes looked to the centrepiece of his surroundings. The Lich King’s image was immortalised in stone, standing tall and imposing with his Withered Rose drawing out the undead. Many bony hands reached out towards him. From within their hollowed out eyes were their souls carved from crystal. They had all been carefully shaped, expressing a fearful kind of fervency. The way the Lich looked down at Mithlas never sat right with him when he first arrived at the Sect. Even now, in his triumphant return, those eyes were boring down on him. The Worm King met his gaze with defiance.
“Eridyu, diy pidin-coc!”
Venom sprang from his ditty, forming cracks in the black marble. Balandra let out a muffled cry of rage as she saw her father’s image erode to rubble, leaving nothing intact but his sizable pidin-coc upon the damaged base. At least he had no interest in what was buried underneath.
“I never liked that statue,” he smirked, admiring the wreck some moments before turning his attention to Balandra. “Now will you bow to me?”
Balandra glared daggers back at him. It was perhaps wise that he had kept her mouth sealed shut, for she had half a mind to test a saltwater spell upon him. Such ferocity from someone clearly outclassed.
“Perhaps you’ll reconsider with this. Gnat, bring me one of the prisoners.”
Balandra twisted around, her eyes widening at the sight of a holy knight bowing slightly at the slug. The knight walked off just beyond her view.
‘How did he…? This isn’t possible…’
But it was. The dead eyes and the captive soul within confirmed that. Not since the time of her father had a single paladin been enthralled. They had many annoying blessings given unto them by the Tutha’Duin since their terrible crusade against her father. Blessings that should have protected them against their dark spells.
“Yes, that one. That will do.”
The ease of control this creature had over his many thralls utterly fascinated her. He didn’t have to sing his commands, nor did he need a choir or a duet to control them all. Her spine tingled cold at the thought of what else he was capable of. Her chest, however, burned hot with frustration. To think that the last bastion of the Lich King’s pride would come undone not at the hands of those foolish Knights, but at the hands of some slug. Gods - how it disgusted her.
The thrall dragged one of the tenderised cultists over, dropping him right at the throne’s feet. Mithlas’ eyes narrowed gleefully when he recognised the man right away. A Beohil, but no fellow of his. Quite the opposite, as he was one of the many that mocked and tormented Mithlas. A mediocre spellcaster by comparison - the only difference being that he could make a dead man do a back flip, whereas back then, no matter what Mithlas did, he couldn’t get a single corpse to even crawl if he wanted to. Perhaps he did it to fit in, to avoid the same treatment from his own peers. The man groaned, barely heaving a single pleading, “... spare… me…”
“Garaith? Ohoho... this is too good. Do that again. Grovel to me.”
Garaith pressed himself closer to the soil, prostrating with his arms spread wide. He continued to croakily beg over and over. As amusing as it was, it still wasn’t enough for Mithlas.
“Where’s Delwynn and the rest of his lackeys?”
“I- I don’t know… the Undying Scion… he ran away…”
Typical Delwynn. Balandra shook her head. The Lich King must be rolling in his grave. For some reason, the slug found it amusing.
“Either your ears are swollen or you must think me a fool. I know where the Undying Scion is. I have her right here, see? Now stop wasting my time and tell me where Delwynn is.”
“C…Catacombs…” he murmured, much of his next words were unclear until he finally said, “Delwynn… is the Undying Scion…”
“You know, you almost sound like you believe it. But I know better than to trust you of all people.”
Garaith whined, “…p-please… I speak the truth…”
“We’ll see about that. Gnat, kick him.”
Gnatta had no choice but to obey. She kicked him in the stomach as hard as Mithlas’ voice had conveyed. The noise he made her soul sink a bit. Sure, he was a heathen grave-defiler, but even they were worthy of pity.
“Now bring him here.”
The kick was completely unnecessary, but only Mithlas knew that. Looking deep into his eyes, he repeated the question to Garaith again. The answer was the same - his soul revealed he spoke true.
“Delwynn? He’s the Undying Scion?! How did that happen?!”
He glanced over to Balandra. The moment he looked a bit deeper past flesh and bone, he noticed something, or rather a bit of someone’s soul wound around her own like tight string. He followed the accursed bond to a pretty gaudy-looking ring. Looking her in the eyes, he made an expression that asked, “How could you have let that happen?!”
Of course, she couldn’t answer but the shame of it was clear on her face. The feeling of disgust was quite mutual, though she found the slug’s reaction to be rather curious. Perhaps he was telling the truth about his past.
“So much for the great Sect of the Lich King, eh?” Mithlas laughed, gaining mirth with each passing moment.
Garaith continued to plead incoherently. A pitiful sight, even for someone that liked to gossip about others. He had no business being amongst the Deathmasters with his lack of discipline.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Mithlas on the other hand was only getting started.
“Now what shall I do with you?”
“…spare…m-“
“Spare you? Do you even know what you did to me?”
He didn’t know. Too scared to answer. So, Mithlas answered for him.
“Wyneb Cu O’Cluidin. Remember now?”
Roughly translated: he had a dog’s nipple on his face. That would have been bad enough on its own, but Garaith had built upon the lie. Eventually, all in the cult thought that Mithlas was a bastard; his mother had secretly laid with a Fomorian. And from that, all sorts of wildly unpleasant stories sprang up like a plague. From that day forth, none of the acolytes wanted anything to do with Mithlas. Some higher ranked members gave him strange looks. The odd comment slipped from careless lips.
And that was only the mildest of torments inflicted upon him by Delwynn’s little group.
Garaith’s swollen face passed from confusion to recognition. His eyes shot over to the now-subtle dark spot under that hateful amphibian eye.
“… I… I didn’t mean… I was only following Delwynn…!” panic forced those words too loud for his body to handle that he erupted into fitful coughs.
“All the more reason to punish you. Sucking up to that Lehelit scrote. Where’s your damned pride?”
That last part seemed to hit a nerve with Garaith. His face was pinched into what seemed like a disdainful glare. Under those next coughs, he croaked something unintelligible. Mithlas couldn’t quite tell what was exactly said, but he felt like he knew it was an insult - it didn’t matter that the man was actually begging for his life.
Mithlas finally made up his mind, “And for that I’ll enthrall you for one simple purpose. You are to acquaint yourself with every nest of all stinging insects you wander across. Intimately. When you’re done, I’m sure you’ll have a face that only a Fomorian could love.”
A loud sob and a burbling plea escaped the man. He couldn’t convince the Worm King, so he looked to Balandra for mercy. Something came over her, looking at this pathetic wreck in front of her. She should have not felt an ounce of pity for the man. After all of her years, she thought herself resistant to such nonsense. He was one of her husband’s lackeys after all. Perhaps it was those stupidly puppy-like eyes from the smaller, now-lumpier elf.
Mithlas began to speak the spell. She felt the power in his words. How they gripped the other necromancer into silence. Partway through, she found her mouth working on its own. She sang an urgent spell that pried dead hands from her lips.
“Wait!”
The spell of enthrallment lost its grip on Garaith. The man wheezed as his heart started up again and air filled his chest. He fell to the ground, unconscious.
“How did you-? Useless worms! How dare you ruin this moment for me!”
Before the throne could correct itself and cover her mouth, she sang. A few small bones answered and flew to her aid, keeping those hands pried open. She cleared her throat. Her tone was less bitting, more honey-sweet, “It would be a waste to kill a potential loyal follower, don’t you think?”
She had succeeded in calming Mithlas into listening to her. He was more surprised by her change in tone. He commanded his throne to release her lips once more.
“What use do I have for this useless worm beyond entertainment? I can summon as many dead as I please without needing a duet.”
“I can’t imagine you’d want to keep babysitting all of your undead all by yourself. You’ll need an army of loyal necromancers to do that for you.”
It sounded tantalizing to have doting followers at his beck and call. Besides, Pithelel needed followers too. Living ones, that is. Mithlas could sense him watching. It would certainly anger him if he turned them all into will-less undead. Then they couldn’t worship him. But still, to have someone deceitful like Garaith running around posed a potential problem.
“You have a point. I need loyal followers. Not liars that will stab me in the back any chance they can get.”
He had a point there and she was running out of arguments. She was even questioning herself - why was she so compelled to keep this dead-weight alive? Then she remembered what her father had once said.
“There are many ways to tame a spirit. You’ve succeeded in doing just that. Take a look at his soul for yourself.”
Succeeded. She sounded convincingly proud.
"Very well," Mithlas huffed.
Mithlas took a look at the man again. Lo and behold, his soul was wracked with fear. The object of that fear: none other than the Worm King. He whispered a spell, tugging slightly at his fear like a leash.
“Well well, looks like you were right, Scion.”
“It comes with experience.”
“Hmmph. Why, of course. That’s why I’m keeping you around,” he turned back to the unconscious heap at his feet, “Gnat, put this one with the rest of the prisoners.”
The Dame obeyed without a word, slinging the elf over one shoulder. Balandra watched as he was dragged over to a cage of bones. All of the Deathmasters were bound, barely alive or freshly dead.
“You’ve convinced me, Balandra. I’ll spare your people, but make no mistake, Delwynn is mine to do as I please.”
“What’s it to you?”
“It means everything to me. That bastard made every waking moment of my time in Dar’Gehon a nightmare. I vowed that one day, I would finally ruin him.”
One look at her told him everything he needed to know. They shared a common enemy. The gears in his brain were turning.
“You want to ruin him too, don’t you?”
Balandra went quiet. Did she really want to ruin him? Yes. 100%. However did she really want to work with this Slyth’taynt that called himself king?
“Yes,” she answered, “But I can do it myself.”
Mithlas noticed her rubbing at her hand. The glint of her wedding band caught his eye again. How the spirit in it seemed to claw into her soul - a small fragment of the man they both hated.
“Well, Balandra, it seems that you can’t do it without me. You made the mistake of marrying him. I’ll arrange your divorce and help you take back what is rightfully yours. How does that sound?”
“It wasn’t my decision,” She scowled once more, hiding her hand inside her sleeve. “What makes you think you can break this curse?”
“How bold of you to question my abilities. I could wipe out this pathetic remnant of your father’s glory with a word. You think a stupid marriage spell is beyond me?”
Balandra remained half-skeptical, but a bit of hope slithered into her heart. He was powerful, no doubt about that, but surely he had limits. Most importantly, however, why was he offering to help her?
“What’s the catch?”
“Don’t worry. I have no interest in becoming the Undying Scion. In return, you must recognise me as the rightful king of this Sect and Pithelel as our Patron god.”
“Bow to you and some unknown god? What makes you think I’d take you up on that offer?” Balandra hissed.
“Because, my dear, the other option is an eternity of undeath with your beloved. Now that would be a terrible waste, wouldn’t it? You are, after all, quite special.”
“It will take more than threats and flattery to convince me, Slyth’Taynt. You ask for too much.”
“Hells, aren’t you stubborn? I’m giving you the offer of a lifetime. A chance for greatness! Under my rule, we can bring about a new era of undeath. Free from all of those nonsensical rules and restrictions that hold us back.”
“Your rule?”
“Would you prefer anyone else?”
‘The gall of this slug! Myself, of course!’
She considered his words for a moment. A wrong answer would likely mean a fate worse than marriage or death. The Sect would benefit greatly from such radical changes. Still, she didn’t like nor trust the slug that defied all rules. At least, if she stayed in his good graces, she could find her way around him. Besides, she’d take back her rightful place as Undying Scion. Having some power was better than having no power at all. He was a clever idiot - a useful ally indeed.
“Very well, Mithlas. I accept your offer.”
“You swear it?”
She exhaled, “I swear.”
A large grin crept across his face, voice giddy, “Then pledge your allegiance to your king.”
She made a small bow, wearing an expression of sincerity, “I pledge my allegiance to you.”
“Ah ah. That's not good enough. Say that you, the Undying Scion, pledge yourself and your entire cult to me,” he was about to finish but he suddenly felt like he was being watched. What looked like a moth fluttered past him. His eyes were locked on to those circles within circles on glowing wings. “Erhem, and Pithelel, God of Wishes and so forth.”
“I, Balandra Dóm’Neidredd, pledge-”
“Put a little more spirit into it.”
‘You cocky piece of pig dung. Push me, slug. I swear to all the gods, I’ll flush you down the Hells! No no… calm yourself Balandra. Deep breaths.’
“I, Balandra Dóm’Neidredd, pledge myself and my followers to you, O’ King of Worms and to your god, Pithelel.”
A satisfied look spread across Mithlas’ face, “Splendid. Now let’s get your mask back, Undying Scion.”
He commanded his throne to loosen its grip on her. Shifting into comfortable position, she couldn’t quite shake the mixed feelings she had towards the Slyth’taynt. At the very least he addressed her correctly.
“Worms, let the prisoners free.”
Those that lived lumbered out of the cage. Those that were left had long died. Balandra shook her head. Amongst the unmoving were Deathmasters who had the potential to be worthy of their title. So competent and skilled. Now they were dead. What a waste…
Sensing disdain, Mithlas cleared his throat and revived their dead followers and had them stand side by side their compatriots. Not that it made things any better. Balandra was certainly fuming.
“It seems to me that the Lich King’s Sect is in need of a change in leadership!” Mithlas began, “For too long, you have been led by incompetents, playing at Lich King. Now that you’re under threat, your leader has abandoned you!”
The Deathmasters, both dead and alive, looked dejectedly. Even former friends of Delwynn were quite ruined by the whole ordeal.
“But worry not. From this day forward, you shall answer to your true Undying Scion,” Mithlas gestured to the woman beside him, “Balandra Dóm’Neidredd, daughter of the Lich King and Dark Mistress of the Deathless Choir.”
“As for me,” he continued, “I, Mithlas, King of the Worms, shall be the new head of your Sect.”
There was a low murmuring and a whole lot of unsure glances exchanged amongst the necromancers. Some looked at Balandra as if betrayed. Others - mostly friends of Delwynn - looked at her in disgust. She returned with an cold warning glare. They should have been thankful.
“And those that object to this are welcome to lie down and die. We’ll find a use for you yet.”
That sure shut them up.
“Now, bow to your saviours.” Then he addressed the Dead Trees and the turned thralls, “Worms, finish off anyone that refuses to bow.”
Without delay, the Deathmasters prostrated themselves before their King and Scion. Something stirred in Mithlas. A truly wonderful feeling it was. Finally, he was getting some respect and recognition. Despite the circumstances, Balandra found herself feeling the same kind of satisfaction. The feeling passed quickly, however. They still had yet to take the entire cult for themselves.
“Deathmasters. Worms. Come forth! Let’s remove the False Scion from his throne!”
All rose to their feet and began marching towards the Catacombs. The place had been a sanctuary for those practised in necromancy, ever since Meredrydd Orm’Neidredd started the sect. From what Mithlas remembered, the place was an underground palace, extended to accommodate many dead and living during the glory days. When he first came here, the Sect had already fallen from grace, so the dead mostly outnumbered the living. There just wasn’t enough necromancers to command them all.
Coming back to desecrated ground made him feel rather nostalgic. It was mostly the same if not little more run down than he remembered - a testament to the cult’s stagnation under bad leadership.
“What a cesspit.”
Balandra quietly agreed with him on that. It was crumbling apart before the Worm King came with his army of undead. It made her sick to acknowledge the sorry state of her home.
They all surrounded the main entrance to the Catacombs. Ebony marble framed the doorways and walls of the small building, but its center was a thick wall of enchanted iron. Two great doors of the same metal stood before them, firmly locked by metal and magic. The viewing ports were open into faint black slits.
“Your Deathmasters and undead are mine. We can settle this civilly: submit your traitorous leader to me and you may join my ranks. Or, you may stay loyal to that nitwit. Fight us if you wish. You’ll join us either way.”
Silence.
“DELWYNN! COME ON OUT AND FACE ME, YOU COWARD!”
There was muffled deep laughter from the other side of the door.
“I know you’re in there False Scion!” Mithlas said. “Let me in. ”
“False Scion?!” an intimidating voice roared out with familiar intonation, “Pah! You just try getting in! Oh wait, that’s right! You can’t. Not without the password!”
“Bold of you to assume I don’t remember it. Erhem… Ithu aluther u’shuldno-.”
“No, we changed that one years ago.” Balandra cleared her throat, “Hatuath hy-hy’opes thoralithin-”
“Aha! That’s where you’re all completely wrong! I changed the passcode whilst you were distracted! You’ll never figure it out.”
With a frustrated screech, Mithlas commanded his undead, “Smash down that door!”
The Cothill undead bashed against the stone, but the hardened wood had rotted away. Mithlas attempted a few other spells. No luck. There was powerful magic upon the door of the catacombs. Unfortunately, being a great necromancer didn’t include power to open every door. But that wouldn’t stop Mithlas. The doors and walls might have been enchanted, but the soil on the grounds could be dug up to bury the dead.
“Scion Balandra,” he turned to her, “I assume you know these grounds and Catacombs like the back of your hand, correct?”
“Yes. Dar’Gehon had always belonged to my family.”
“I knew you’d be useful,” he didn’t notice her rolling her eyes at that, “I have a plan…”
He whispered into her ear, in turn, her lips curled into a sly smile.
“What?” Delwynn called out. “What are you whispering about? Did you finally accept defeat?”
His suspicions seemed to be confirmed when the army of the dead began to recede from his view. “HA! Another victory for the Undying Scion!”
In actuality, they were following Balandra’s lead. She brought them to an inconspicuous part of the grounds surrounded by graves. More undead were added to Mithlas’ army. They were assembled quickly over several areas. A group hung around behind the entrance of the catacombs. Several more waited by the secret exits around Dar’Gehon. The rest were assembled into large groups of three.
“These three points. Is that right?” Mithlas asked her.
“Yes, your darkness.”
“Oh please, ‘my liege’ will suffice.”
“Of course, my liege,” she sighed begrudgingly, yet she couldn’t mask her excitement.
“And you’re sure they won’t get away?”
“Positively so. They won’t see us coming at all.”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”
With a giddy cackle he raised his arms.
“Alright then! Worms. Loyal Deathmasters. Start digging.”