by Ari Marmell
Oh, had he heard about that, over and over.
Those goblin bastards had sullied his victory. Thomas and the others had been heavily associated with him in the minds of the unwashed masses, and loved almost as well as he. That he couldn't protect them from the ravages of Morthûl's slaves had been a fearsome blow to his reputation. Yes, he was most directly responsible for the Allied victory in Kirol Syrreth, and that overshadowed everything else; nevertheless, he couldn't help but wonder if the adulation he received each time he set foot in the streets of Brenald was less than it might have been. Should have been.
Nor had the years been kind to his friendship with Dororam. His anger spent, the king had finally permitted himself to grieve for the death of his daughter, and his age had begun to catch up to him since the war's end. To duMark's mind, this was the perfect opportunity to expand the borders of Shauntille, to formally annex the fertile lands of southern Kirol Syrreth. But Dororam had refused to consider it. Kirol Syrreth was free, he'd argued, and would have to find its own way. Shauntille's resources were better spent elsewhere. DuMark had called the king a doddering fool before the royal court, and though they'd publicly reconciled in the months since, it was all for show.
Slowly, the mage sat on the edge of the large, unadorned bed. He sighed again as he took his weight off of feet that had supported him for hours in front of an unending stream of gawking yokels.
“Maybe it's time for some new rulership,” he said to the room at large, reaching down to unlace his right boot. It was a habit he'd gotten into over the past years, when he realized there was nobody else particularly worthy of his companionship. He sometimes wished he'd kept Ebonwind's tiny familiar for company. “Dororam's old, set in his ways. He needs to be replaced with someone more…dynamic.” The half-elf sat up, floppy leather boot clenched in his right fist. “King duMark. The Wizard King. I think I like the sound of that.”
“It does have a nice ring…to it, doesn't it?”
The world exploded in agony and flashing lights before duMark could so much as turn toward that hideously familiar voice. He felt himself toppling, felt the blood running down the back of his skull, matting his hair into thick layers.
His thoughts began to clear moments later, and he found himself strapped to his favorite chair, hands bound tightly behind him. Even his fingers had been individually tied, each to the next. A heavy pressure rested on his shoulders, and it took him only seconds, focusing through the throbbing pain, to recognize that he was restrained by a pair of large, hairy hands as well as by the ropes.
“Jhurpess,” he guessed. The hands tightened briefly in acknowledgment.
“And I take it it was my good friend the troll who hit me on the back of the head?”
Katim materialized from the shadows. The same leather and uneven furs adorned her wiry frame, the same hideous axe and needle-barbed chirrusk hung from her hips, and the same bloodthirsty, lunatic gleam brightened her eyes. The half-elf locked stares briefly with the troll and found himself forced to turn away. He'd thought she was bad before; now, there was nothing even resembling a soul behind those bestial orbs.
Gork, the miserable little thief, appeared from yet another corner of the room, idly tossing his kah-rahahk hand to hand. And following him came almost half a dozen others he did not recognize: two kobolds, two gremlins, and a man. They couldn't all have remained hidden from him in this small room, not via any natural means. Grimly, duMark began scanning for the wizard that he knew must accompany them.
“How did you get here?” he demanded, stalling for time. He'd find a way out; he always did. He just needed the chance to clear his mind of the pain, free his fingers…
“Come on, duMark,” Gork said. “This is the biggest holiday in the Allied Kingdoms. Lots of travelers coming into Brenald this past week. Lots of wandering priests, too.” The kobold smiled. “I’m starting to like monks, actually. I swear, nobody looks twice at them.”
The mage smiled back. “You seem to be short an orc,” he commented.
Katim's grin grew impossibly wide, and duMark thought he saw strands of some unidentifiable meat caught in the gaps of her back teeth. She said nothing.
Gork answered in her stead. “You mean Cræosh? He, uh…had an accident. On the Dendrakis cliffs.”
“Seems a strange sort of place to get careless,” duMark noted, still searching.
“Yeah, well…What're you gonna do?” Was Gork actually fidgeting? Good. If he was frightened of Katim—and given the implications, he had reason to be—that was something duMark could use.
“That doesn't sound like the troll,” he noted. “Not to face Cræosh directly? Why, can you even be certain he's dead?”
“It's a long drop,” the kobold muttered. “And it's been three years…” Katim's grin faded just a bit.
You keep telling yourself that, kobold. What he said instead was, “Wow. Really no telling who's next, with a troll that unpredictable, is there?”
But to that, Katim only chuckled. “Transparent, duMark. Perhaps I’m…not the only one in whom you should…be disappointed.
“So what's this about, Katim?” duMark asked with a forced casualness. “You're too smart to risk coming after me on some personal vendetta.”
“That's General Katim to you, shithead!” the lone human grunted.
“General?” DuMark barked a dismissive laugh, and even bound, his body language screamed condescension. “And who precisely gave you that lofty title, hmm?”
In reply, a tall robed figure stepped through the front door, ducking to avoid the frame. It strode purposefully across the floor, stopping an arm's reach from duMark, and slowly lowered its hood.
Another laugh, more flippant than the first. “The ogre? You're taking your orders from the ogre? You…”
And then the laughter died, so that duMark could scream.
“Belrotha,” flakes of dead and rotting skin falling from her face, shook her head and leaned over duMark, her eyes glowing with an unholy light. “Are we quite through now?”
“No!” It came out as a sob. Tears flowed down the half-elf's face; snot trailed from his nose. “You're dead!” he insisted, his voice hovering pitifully close to a wail. “You're dead!”
“I've been dead for centuries, Ananias. What's another death, more or less?”
“That's why you didn't interfere with the war,” the wizard whispered, finally piecing together the puzzle that had confounded him for three long years. He gestured almost impudently with his chin, indicating the tarnished circlet atop the ogre's brow. “You were preparing for this!”
Belrotha smiled. “I haven't lived this long, so to speak, by being stupid, Ananias. I knew full well that we couldn't stand up to Dororam's armies. This was the only viable option.”
“And you didn't care a damn thing about killing my friends, either, did you?” the half-elf spat. “You just wanted your precious squad away from Kirol Syrreth!”
“There were others who'd have served, had the squad perished during their exploits, but yes, I wanted my squad to be the ones. Still, I'd hardly say that killing your companions was something I ‘didn't care about.’ It's their fault as much as yours that this war even happened. If my squad's survival had been my only concern, there were safer places I could have sent them.”
“Your Majesty,” Gork hedged, twitching nervously. “The time…”
“Ah, yes. My little thief reminds me that we are deep in enemy territory. I’m afraid we'll have to cut our visit short.”
Despite his predicament, duMark suddenly smiled. “You're running out of time in more ways than that, Your Majesty.” His gaze flickered to the rotted flesh that decorated the floor around the ogre. “When your body died, you lost your claim to your pet demon's soul, didn't you? Without it, a mortal body can't maintain your sort of ‘life.’ Look at you! You're decomposing away into nothing, aren't you?” His grin, if anything, grew wider—even if it was largely bluff. “Kill me if you must, but you're following not long afte
r.”
The undead creature sighed theatrically. “It's true. Ogres are abominably strong, but even their bodies can only handle so much. The troll and the bugbear would do for a while, of course”—DuMark saw several goblins shiver at that—”but they, too, would fail.”
“And you can't just summon up another demon,” duMark taunted. “A spell of that power, with the strain you're already under, would destroy any body you have available.”
“I fear you're quite right,” the dead ogre said sadly. “What I need,” Morthûl mused, as though the thought had only just occurred to him, “is a new body. One more adept. One more accustomed to channeling the sorts of magics I require.”
“No…” DuMark broke out in a sudden sweat, his throat clogging. A wet warmth trickled down the inside of his thigh. “No!”
“My dear Ananias, some dignity, please,” the Charnel King implored, slowly removing the crown from the ogre's scalp. Her face began to rot away, even as the others watched. “Look on the bright side.” The crown drifted forward, held by quivering, near-skeletal arms, toward the half-elf's brow. The mage thrashed as much as the heavy ropes would allow, but Jhurpess's iron grip held him in the chair. He began screaming, incoherent now, tears raining down his face. “Did you not just say that you wished to rule? You will, Ananias. Kirol Syrreth and Shauntille. You will rule a kingdom larger than anyone has ever dreamed.”
The crown settled gently atop his head, and he couldn't even scream anymore. He sat, immobile, as Belrotha's flesh sloughed off her body and liquefied in an accelerated caricature of decay. The stench that filled the room was horrifying.
Like flower petals drifting in the wind, the ropes surrounding duMark's hands fluttered to the floor. Jhurpess relaxed his hold, and the half-elf slowly stood.
“Well?” the wizard said, glaring at the others. “Don't just stand there gawking. Let's be off. There's so very much to do.”
The last thing Ananias duMark ever saw, before his psyche blissfully drifted into the darkness of never-ending night, was his own familiar room—tinted, be it ever so faintly, by a nauseating yellow glow.
ARI MARMELL is a fantasy and horror writer, with novels and short stories published through Spectra (Random House), Pyr, Wizards of the Coast, and others. He has also worked as an author of roleplaying game materials for games such as Dungeons & Dragons and the World of Darkness line. His earliest novels were written as tie-in fiction for the games Vampire: The Masquerade and Magic: The Gathering. His first original (that is, non-tie-in) published novel was The Conqueror's Shadow, followed by a sequel, The Warlord's Legacy. Although born in New York, Ari has lived the vast majority of his life in Texas—first Houston (where he earned a BA in creative writing at the University of Houston) and then Austin. He lives with his wife, George; two cats; and a variety of neuroses.
You can visit Ari online at www.mouseferatu.com.
