A smug grin spread across Delwynn’s face. To himself, he had already accepted this as a victory. Too quickly had he given into the satisfaction; he had saved the last bastion of the Lich King’s true followers. In his mind, he was a great general, and in his heart, he was worthy.

  Though, to many of his followers, they were practically rats… no, worse. They were worms, hiding from something far more powerful than that they had ever encountered since the fall of their King. Their Scion was no better than they - no, in fact he was the worst of the cowards. He had ordered them to remain underground in the safety of their catacombs without a plan or hope of real salvation.

  “Is it safe, Scion?” asked one of the more inexperienced members of the cult.

  “You’re asking me that? Fool! Of course that vile slug is creeping around our grounds.”

  A week would do the trick, because of course, no siege had ever lasted longer than that. His plan was fool-proof as far as he was concerned.

  “But, your darkness…” one of the surviving Deathmasters cut himself off.

  “What is it? Speak up.”

  “We only have enough supplies to last us two days, your darkness.”

  “TWO DAYS?!”

  All of the cultists flinched. The bearer of this bad news took a tentative step back, fearing for his skeleton. He didn’t want to be torn out of his body like what almost happened to Ulrin. Luckily, the Undying Scion calmed down enough to see sense. He had suffered enough losses to throw away his experienced necromancers so easily like before. Combing back his platinum locks with fine fingers, he laughed it off.

  “Pah! Two days is more than enough. Did any of you see them bring food or wine? I’m sure that corpulent slug will succumb to hunger and boredom before the next morn.”

  He looked at them all, expecting to see hope and jubilation alight their expressions. What he got were tired, half-arsed cheers and smiles that barely hid their fears. They had seen what the Slyth’taynt could do. Prior to Mithlas’ arrival, they had only known tales of those mysterious slug-things and their vile hunger. Not a single necromancer knew that they were capable of magic that far exceeded their own abilities. Who could blame them? They were extremely rare to see in this realm.

  “What’s that look for?” Delwynn rose his voice, “You ungrateful wretches. I save you and this is how you react?”

  “No, your darkness,” the Deathmaster spoke up, “We are merely- ehrm… dead tired, is all.”

  “Then un-tire yourselves. Or must I kill you and bring you back myself?”

  “No, Scion,” all of his cultists said over each other at once, their smiles more convincing.

  “Good,” Delwynn stretched, feeling a gnawing in his gut. “I shall be feasting in my hall. Gather everyone else. Let’s celebrate this victory!”

  It was less of a friendly suggestion to all of his doting followers. Many went along willingly anyway - if this were to be their last night alive, then they were better off spending it in revelry.

  Just as they reached the halls, they heard a rumbling echo through the halls.

  “Must be Farris’ stomach,” another snickered.

  “Not me-“

  Their chatter was abruptly cut short by a BANG on one end of the hall.

  “What on Tiron-Mord-?”

  The second BANG made their brave Scion jump. The third came too close for comfort, snuffing out all of the lights further down. The fourth dislodged the decorative bones from the walls. Desperate songs turned to screams deep in the darkened passages. Sounds of rising undead followed, then the cracking of bone on wood and steel rending flesh.

  “What are you doing just standing there?!” Delwynn floundered, “Summon the Boneslaves!”

  His cultists did just that, their discordant chorale awoke the dead from the surrounding walls. Delwynn slyly slipped behind them and backed himself close to the doors of his party hall. As they got in place, bracing for an attack, many of the inexperienced members of Delwynn’s cult began to break.

  “We’re going to die! All is lost!” they simpered.

  “Shut up, all of you!” Delwynn’s voice broke. “Or I’ll kill you myself!”

  They obeyed quickly. All the commotion ahead of them died. For a while, there was only the sound of creaking bones and panicked breaths.

  The sound of footsteps echoed from the darkness. As it neared, they realised it was coming from the leftmost passage.

  “Get it! Kill it!” the Scion commanded.

  Their thralls were sicked upon the unknown figure. Unintelligible shouts and screams could barely be heard from under the songs of the necromancers. When the Boneslaves returned, they did not drag back another undead to add to their ranks. Instead, it was one of their own cultists, battered and close to death. She was tossed before the feet of the silenced group.

  “They’re… in… inside…”

  With one last gasp, the cultist lay dead. But not for long - one of the Deathmasters quickly brought her back as a walking corpse. They hardly had the luxury to waste anybody. It would have been more helpful if she had told them where the slug’s forces were coming from but none amongst the surviving cultists could make the dead speak.

  “What’s happening? How did they get in?!”

  Their Undying Scion was close to breaking too. If it weren’t for his mask and hood concealing his face, his remaining forces would have already scattered in disarray. But his fears quickly turned to irritation, then rage. The sound of his own followers doom-singing grated on his nerves to no end.

  “Stop your simpering, you imbeciles!” he snapped, “Seal off those wings! Now!”

  Cultists and undead rushed towards every passage, collapsing the tunnels. As they worked, Delwynn was at a loss. It was utterly inconceivable that they could have gotten in. Every entrance had been enchanted with wards. Had he been betrayed? Had someone let the slug in? Impossible.

  His mind wandered to the secret exits. That slug couldn’t have known where they were, even if he were a former member as he ludicrously claimed. There was only one that knew besides himself. Someone like Balandra wouldn’t serve a loathsome slug, even if she were tortured. Even if she were enthralled! Surely!

  Even as the last hall collapsed with dirt and stone, an unsettling thought grew in the Scion’s mind. He had seen first hand how the slug’s undead army had felled his best Deathmasters with as little as a command. If they could get into their impenetrable catacombs, what chance did these measly fledglings and useless wounded have with their simple Boneslaves? Now that he had blocked off all chances of entry or escape, his domain had been reduced to his party hall.

  ‘Damn! If only I had more capable followers!’

  At least they had food and entertainment. In Delwynn’s mind, defending the last bastion of the Lich King was easier now; with what little forces he had were better consolidated to the small hall. All they had to do was hold out until the slug gave up on his ill-conceived siege. From under his mask, Delwynn chuckled, proud of his own military genius.

  Once the cultists had finished barricading themselves in, they all fled to the feasting hall. The large doors shut behind them with a resounding boom. Tables and undead assembled themselves to reinforce the doors. For good measure, more wards were erected with more ingenious password combinations.

  All of Delwynn’s followers collapsed into their chairs, voices too hoarse to make a dead rat dance.

  “Well, I think this calls for a celebration,” the Undying Scion laughed in manic relief. “Come! Let us drink to our victory.”

  They all needed a drink, so they didn’t hesitate to bring out the barrels and delight in their contents. So quick was their desire to wet their tongues and numb themselves that they didn’t bother to read the signs. What they drank was no common table wine, but the finest of aged port meant to be enjoyed in sparse sips - for it was far stronger than they could possibly have expected. What started out as fake revelry devolved into pure, unadulterated bliss. So good was their numbing that they couldn’t hear the sound of their wards breaking and their reinforcements crumbling. The world spun with the wine’s music.

  The great doors of the feasting halls were smashed to splinters by the invading undead, and yet, not even that had sobered them up. Delwynn was to busy dancing in his hallucinogenic haze that he hadn’t realised that all of his remaining followers were rounded up, nabbed by cold, bony hands. He giggled as he felt those same hands grasp at him.

  One hand pinched at that uncomfortable spot upon the end of his spine, only then did he snap out of his drunken haze. Before he could say a word, undead descended upon him. He let out a muffled shriek as he was covered completely in suffocating darkness. Try as he did to sing his spells, such efforts were useless when one was too panicked and breathless.

  His thoughts raced. The Undying Scion did not live up to his name. Worst of all, he would not be granted a particularly memorable death, proud and with words that will be quoted for eons. Instead, he’d die whimpering and pissing himself to some damned slug.

  ??????????

  Delwynn blinked, head and body throbbing with aches. He found himself slumped on the black-marble floors of the large throne room. Hands, feet and mouth were bound by disembodied hands that were as stiff as rigor mortis. Undead, ancient and fresh, filled the seats and standing platforms in a mockery of a coronation. This sacred spot had not been so full since the death of the Lich King. His still-living followers surrounded him, not as captors but as witnesses amidst the crowd - shame mingled with treacherous relief upon their faces. The cowards had pledged themselves to slug!

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

  Upon his throne sat the Slyth’taynt, with a big shit-eating grin. It wriggled excitably, making itself comfortable. That sacred seat meant only for King and Scion had been desecrated by tainted slime. Further tainting its obsidian frame was the groaning of ancient undead, whose additions had -by Delwynn’s own traitorous admission- made the throne grander and more extravagant than before. Salting the wound further, there, on the queen’s-throne, sat Delwynn’s own wife. Her expression was not of the pleading damsel or the scorned wraith. She was positively ecstatic!

  “Bring me the False Scion,” Mithlas said, making no attempt at hiding his glee.

  Two of the slug’s own undead came forward, uniform in their movements. Delwynn was carried by his arms and dragged towards the feet of the thrones. Mouth still clamped shut, he could do little but let out muted spells and impotent cries of rage from under his his mask.

  “You might have a chance to live, Delwynn. Only if you appease me.”

  The slug relished every word spat from his lips. Delwynn cut his eyes at him - a last ditch effort at defiance. But, in those very eyes was fear and the scent of it was palpable. Delwynn didn’t want to grovel to something so beneath him, but he didn’t want to die or serve as a mere Boneslave either.

  “There it is,” Mithlas said, “Even in this most uncompromising position, you still have the gall to look down upon me. How predictable. Ohoho… Really. You have no idea how long I have waited for this day. Bring him closer. Closer. No, a bit back. That’s right.”

  Delwynn was lifted off his feet and brought over, face uncomfortably close to the Slyth’taynt. He could smell his eye-watering stench even through the hands that clasped over his mouth.

  “I want you to grovel. Admit what you should have done long ago. I want everyone to hear you admit that you cannot match my brilliant mind and my greatest talents. Go on. Tell them that you were a fool, False Scion.”

  For an awkward few moments, they both stared at each other. Delwynn’s voice was muffled under the hand as he called the Slyth’taynt all manner of insults until his face had gone purple.

  “Oh, for gods’ sakes, move, you wretched hand!”

  The hand obeyed, allowing Delwynn to be assaulted with the unfiltered stench that filled his air-starved lungs. He could be commended for his ability to hold all of his stomach’s contents in, something his followers had failed to do. Just as Balandra had done earlier, his nose adjusted to the smell and he’d calm down from his coughing fit, albeit, looking far worse off than when he was gagged and suffocating despite the added protection of his mask.

  “Go on,” Mithlas said, “Say it.”

  ‘As if,’ Delwynn thought to himself.

  “Diy Sgerrend Cro’ch.”

  The spell rebounded off of Mithlas’ skin. Confused, it went straight for the weakest of the bunch. With a shriek, the man’s skeleton was forced out of his body, emerging like a sad insect from its pupa, wet and red with viscera as it shed its wasted flesh. The newly minted Boneslave was still shrieking bloody murder as Delwynn’s hoarse little song made him fly towards the startled slug.

  But before the poor skeleton could even touch the Slyth’taynt, Balandra sang - far too low and terse to catch the words. Her spell froze the former fledgling in midair before he anti-climatically fell apart into a pile of bones. The skeleton felt himself fading, no longer tethered to the power of the unworthy Scion. Finally, some peace…

  “Diy tuth’ne.”

  The cleaved skeleton groaned to life as a magic far more potent than he had ever known filled his being. Looking back at the slug, he knew that he was now his thrall forevermore.

  As for Delwynn, Dame Gnatta had sprang to action without as little as a word from the Worm King. He could only watch in horror as the former Holy Knight rushed straight for him. The glint of her blade, blinding. He shut his eyes, bracing himself for Mag Dubnos.

  “Gnat, stay!”

  Her blade paused a hair’s width from the False Scion’s neck. Even though the blade didn’t touch him, Delwynn could feel the cold of her steel against his neck. He opened his eyes, not daring to move let alone swallow too deeply. Meeting his own eyes was the undead Dame’s paled orbs. Within her stony gaze, there was an abiding hatred - that’s when he knew. He was warned by his father before him of one of the Holy Knights who had vowed to end his bloodline - if only his father took his own advice, he wouldn’t have been cast forever from the world of the living. He did not know the reason for her desire for vengeance. That hardly mattered to him or his father. All that was necessary was to beware the fierce Dwine and hope that her short lifespan would end her fury.

  Unfortunately, neither he or the Holy Knight would get what they wanted. Mithlas smirked, brushing back imaginary hair and proceeding to smudge a bit of the makeup on his head with his slimy hands - he wished he had worn gloves. But, ruined makeup wouldn’t dampen his spirits. Not now when he had his worst enemy right where he wanted him.

  “What is it with you Lehelits? Think you’re so high and mighty just because you’re a head taller than everyone else?”

  Delwynn didn’t bite back. He could only manage a hateful look, lest his words provoke the Gnat into cleaving his head clean off.

  “I’m still waiting,” Mithlas said.

  With little choice, Delwynn relented - though, he had to remind himself not to physically swallow his pride.

  “Fine. I’m pathetic and you’re amazing.”

  “Oh, come on. You know you can do better than that. I said grovel. Gnatta, release him.”

  Her blade retracted, slow and measured. Her movements were not of a thrall but of a disciplined paladin.

  Delwynn trembled, rubbing his neck. Under Mithlas’ and Balandra’s expectant gaze, Delwynn lowered himself in prostration.

  Hoarsely, Delwynn finally spoke, “I… I don’t even know who you are.”

  The slug’s eyes narrowed.

  “How easy it must be for you to forget your sins,” he spat, “I came to this place believing that I had finally found my people to share my ideas with. Instead, I was laughed at by you buffoons! And worst, you made an example of me. I will never forget the night you and your cronies tied me to pole in our gardens. You forced me to sing. Said my voice was so terrible that it was only good for scaring the birds! But no matter - I’ve no use for songs. After this you will always remember Mithlas the Glorious.”

  The added title made Balandra roll her eyes. Everyone else wanted to cringe outwardly but the undead simply couldn’t and the living dared not wrinkle their faces. Meanwhile, Delwynn felt the weight of the slug’s disdain.

  “No… I.. Forgive me, my lord…!”

  “Better! Now again, with more feeling. Show me how much you mean your words. Or, I could make a stinking zombie of you to fertilise our fields.”

  Gulping, Delwynn began, “I was wrong, Mithlas-“

  “Worm King.”

  “I was wrong, O’ glorious Worm King. I was blind to your brilliance!”

  Delwynn said, his eyes occasionally drifting to Balandra, “I should have treated you better. So please, give me another chance. Let me prove myself worthy of your forgiveness, my Undying Scion.”

  Balandra remained indifferent to his every word and thus said nothing.

  “Better. But let me make it clear that I do not want to be Scion. That title belongs to the Lich King’s true heir,” Mithlas said. “If you wish to prove yourself, then show your fealty to me. Get up and kiss my hand.”

  Delwynn froze. His eyes darted to that filthy appendage. How it oozed. Mithlas brought his hand closer as royalty would.

  “Don’t keep me waiting.”

  Delwynn pushed down his mask and shakily took Mithlas’ hand. Shutting his eyes, he quickly pecked once at those squishy knuckles. Slime still got past his lips. It was cold. The taste: foul. It was much worse than that spoonful of pure millennium year old marmite found in the Lich King’s vaults. The False Scion was left a gagging mess. His mask fell back down right as his body wanted to expel the wine and food he had earlier.

  “Are you satisfied now?” Delwynn coughed.

  “Very,” Mithlas looked over to Balandra who was also sharing his enjoyment. “But there’s someone else you have yet to appease.”

  “That wasn’t the deal…!”

  Ignoring Delwynn’s pleas, Mithlas continued, “Balandra Dóm’Neidredd, Undying Scion. Does he satisfy you?”

  Delwynn met her unflinching gaze and the curve of her cruel smile. His eyes beseeched her for mercy, calling upon her to remember loving moments that only existed in his mind. Balandra rose from her seat and loomed over his kneeling form.

  “Balandra,” Delwynn whispered, “Please, get us out of this mess… I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be a better Scion…!”

  Then came Balandra’s answer: “No.”

  “Ohoho…” Mithlas smirked, “Then do with him what you will, your darkness.”

  She tore the mask from Delwynn’s face, revealing his betrayal and despair. She reveled in the sheer hopelessness that radiated from the man that had bound her.

  “You can’t hurt me, you heartless wench! We’re married, our souls our bound!”

  “O’ King of Worms,” she said, “I wish to begin our divorce.”

  Mithlas sat back, chuckling, “It shall be done.”

  The ancient monks began to shiver as they felt the presence of their god fill the room. Several amongst the living could have sworn they’d heard the wingbeats of a butterfly pass their ears. The dark stone of the catacombs made small shifts.

  “O’ Pithelel, hear me!” Mithlas began, “I have come to make a wish on behalf of our loyal servant. Grant it and prove your power to your would-be believers!”

  Then, the faint sound of songs filled the room. Balandra and the rest of the cult’s veteran members were filled with a deep nostalgia - they were the songs from a time when the Lich King’s reign was glorious. A time when they were on the cusp of changing the world in their image.

  A beautiful voice whispered into Undying Scion’s soul, “Make your wish.”

  Balandra could feel a wrongness in the presence of this ancient, invisible god, but her desperation and desire won out over logic. As she took a breath to make her wish, all briefly glimpsed their Undying Scion in her true glory. An almost perfect reflection of their missing king.

  “Break my marriage bond, Pithelel. Free me of this weakness.”

  At hearing those words, Delwynn’s heart shattered, for it was then he knew that she meant every word.

  “As you wish.”

  Then, both Balandra and Delwynn felt an unbearable pain within themselves. Their screams harmonized and marriage bands shook until completely shattering. When the pain subsided, both felt strangely complete yet incomplete. Souls whole yet neither were used to missing that once-welded piece that didn’t quite fit. Where Delwynn lay broken, Balandra rose upright, put on her mask and returned to her seat.

  “He is yours as promised, Worm King.”

  Mithlas took that as thanks enough. Now that they both had their fill, what was left to do with the Lehelit now that he was brought so low?

  “I can still be of use to you…” Delwynn whimpered.

  Music to Mithlas’ ears.

  “Indeed you can be,” Mithlas rested his head in his hand.

  He caught sight of a engraving of the Lich King carved on the walls of the throne room. He was depicted conducting his armies with his staff, “Dethgnot” - the Baton of Undeath. Any great mage king of the Beohil worth their salt needed a staff. Mithlas had always dreamed of holding his own, but as he was always a tad out of tune, those hopes had been dashed back at the college and back when he was a fledgling.

  Now, he had exactly what he needed to fashion his own. Delwynn always had an excellent voice and fine potential - even though Mithlas would never admit that out loud without hurting himself.

  Just as Delwynn settled down in relief, Mithlas took this opportunity to snatch his hope away, “You’ll be of good use to me as my staff!”

  “No… No please! You can’t do this!”

  “Ohoho, but I can!”

  As hopelessness settled in, Delwynn resorted to incoherent screams. How quickly a Lehelit crumbles at the threat of undeath! He never wanted his life to end so soon, or at all for that mater. He wouldn’t even be granted the dignity of remaining a full corpse. So much for his dreams of pleasing the Lich King. All he could do was shut his eyes in the vain hope it would lessen the pain.

  “Diy Sgerrend Cro’ch.”

  The moment he heard those words uttered, Delwynn’s stomach lurched. His own favourite spell that he taunted others with was used against him. A sharp pulling sensation tugged at every muscle, every organ and every pain receptor in his body. First he spasmed, then a number of unpleasant noises and sights graced every witnesses’ senses - even Mithlas felt a teensy bit ill watching the spell work far too well than he intended. Then, Delwynn’s skull and spine launched out of his body.

  For a while, Delwynn twitched like a worm baking out in the sun. His vision began to clear as he adjusted to seeing through his spectral eyes. He felt cold and the pain was still fresh in his mind. The nature of his new existence only added more salt to his injuries.

  “Balandra, my dear Undying Scion. You know how to fashion a good staff. Would you like to do the honours?” spoke the Worm King.

  When Delwynn looked up to his wife, he saw that he truly was unworthy of that mask and throne. All that was left was the shattered remains of his love for her.

  “Gladly, my king. Airochafu.”

  Her words lifted the bony worm into the air. She continued to sing, elvish bone and spectre reforged into something much more useful than the creature they were harvested from. As her song came to an end, Delwynn had finished his transformation into a beautiful staff, steaming with ghost-mist.

  She offered the staff reverently to Mithlas. Delwynn was cool to the touch, light to hold and his grip was comfortable. The Worm King gave his new conducting baton an experimental flick and gesture. With a delighted smirk, he held his new staff to his chest.

  “A moment of silence for our fallen brothers and sisters,” Mithlas said.

  Cultists and undead hung their heads in silence. Though that silence was brief, for Mithlas was restless.

  “Are we done? Good. Diy Tuthn’e.”

  Dead bretheren all throughout the catacombs stirred to unlife once more.

  “Now, let’s celebrate. Your new king is here.”