A man stood in the throne room of Occasus Solis, the capital building of Agor. His skin was as white as bone, and he had no hair. He was tall and thin, although not frail, and rippling with light muscle. His eyes burned with a fire made by a mix of immortality, ambition, and a deep loathing for everything they landed on. He would be handsome, if not for his gaunt features and the marking on the back of his head, the only blemish on the man. It looked as if his skull had been smashed with a rock and glued back together. There were spiderweb cracks and several notches and divots. This spread down his neck and across his back, ending about four inches from his waistline. He leaned on a halberd, his elbow in just the right position not to be cut. This man’s name was Axes, and he was here to slay Death.

“You’re late,” he said, his voice like a cold winter’s wind blowing over a field of ashes. As he spoke, a man approached, seemingly stepping right out of a child’s nightmare.

Standing almost ten feet tall, he was a strange mixture of different creatures. He had the rib cage of a human, for instance, but the head of a dragon. He had ram’s horns instead of dragon’s, however, and his lower body was that of a horse, like a centaur. He had the feet of a human, though, and no tail. Furthermore, his arms, all six of them, were long and thin, resembling giant insectoid legs. He also had two more arms sprouting from his back, but these were massive tree-trunk limbs that looked to belong on a polar bear. They ended not with hands, however, nor even claws, but long eagle-like talons. An undead amalgam, Axes knew, and the Lord of the Dead.

“When you’re king, you can show up when you want,” replied the Lord of the Dead.

“When I’m king, I’ll have much more on my mind than timing,” Axes replied with boredom.

“Yes. Apparently, however, you also don’t have wisdom on your mind. To challenge the Lord of the Dead is to die. But then again, you have been a thorn in my side for some time now. Getting rid of you would be quite gratifying,” the king said. He smirked at his foe. “I suspect this shall be over soon.”

Then they battled. They battled long and well, deep into the night and to dawn again. For every swing the other made, the other anticipated and blocked, as if the fight had been choreographed. Eventually many of the subjects of the underworld came to watch, unsure who to root for, only wondering what was in store for them should Axes win. When the battle was finished, nearly three days had passed.

On the morning of the third day, finally, the king made a mistake. He stumbled, and Axes capitalized on his lost balance with a series of punishing attacks. Finally, Axes brought his halberd down on the king’s head, watching in pure delight as he – no, it fell.

“I am king of the underworld!” Axes bellowed victoriously. “And I’ve been waiting to do that for a long time,” he remarked anticlimactically.

***

Axes was consulting the oracle. After he’d defeated the now former Lord of the Dead, he had gone to have his wounds tended to, then to the lunch pavilion. Despite the fact that he was dead and was in no need of any kind of biological necessity, he had yet to break the habit of eating.

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“Content, your majesty?” the oracle asked.

“Does the whole underworld know of my victory?” he asked in reply.

She chuckled. “Word spreads fast when everyone is dead and making bets on how many decades until something – anything – changes.”

“That’s…fair,” he answered, remembering the long hours he had spent doing virtually nothing, and the long weeks he’d spent doing literally nothing. “I ask for tidings of the future,'' he said. She smiled.

“Don't they always? I’ve been killed six hundred times because the kingship did not like my prophesies. You are aware that I am only the messenger; it’s your actions that deliver your doom. So perhaps his majesty can be even tempered?”

“I make no promises,” he spoke.

She frowned. “But of course, your majesty. Here is your prophecy:”

The king of the dead, thine title, thine name.

But go to the living to extend your reign.

To succeed you need naught but three things.

A gauntlet, a sword, and the greatest of rings.

Lost long ago from the great king,

And when they were gone, he lost everything

Fought will you be, by one from the trees

Fighting you he, with warrior keys,

Curse breaker, Reign ender, the wood folk king,

Challenge you he your might and your things,

The name of the soldier, known only by some;

Greatest of all

Almighty

Lifegiver

Victor

Youngblood

Nurturer

Should his sword fall,

so shall all.

Out from the gloom,

bringing your doom.”

Axes’ eyes filled with fear, and then anguish. Then he began to shiver, as if chilled. His eyes became darker, his skin paler still. He began to shake with rage.

“Doom!?” he shouted. “He will not be my doom! I will be his! As well as yours!” With that his halberd fell, leaving the poor, defenseless oracle before him dead. (Even deader, at least.) She sighed.

“Of course, you kings always have been short tempered. Remember, you alone are the deliverer of your doom.” With those words, Axes seemed to compose himself, standing straight.

“Indeed,” he said, then turned to one of his servants. “Greath, prepare my horses and an army of ghouls; it’s time to meet the hero of Ba Unduel.”