The pantries were cleaned out of their meagre rations. Everything had been laid out on a single table in the feasting hall, down to last drop of that potent grape-ferment. Balandra noted, Delwynn’s foolish plan had another oversight: in actuality he only had a day’s worth of food and drink sitting in those pantries, for nearly half of the supplies had expired past their time. Such was the sorry state that the False Scion had left their once-proud stronghold. Still, it was enough for the coronation party the King of Worms demanded.

  But their new king feasted and he was content. Mithlas took the lion’s share, as the Undying Scion put it - that is, all of the mouldy things that the rest of the cult couldn’t eat. Mithlas was too drunk on his victory and the Lich King’s favourite wine to notice that his platter was fuzzy, wrinkled and oozing with rot-juices. His Slyth’taynt senses were loving every bit of these foul tastes.

  Blue alchemical light, as bright as the Naked Moon lit the grand feasting hall and brightened the moods of the living - and some of the dead. The Worm King spared no expense and had ordered the finest alchemical lights and the long Wraith-Candles to decorate the place. The few still-living cultists feasted and drank their rations from silverware reserved for their leaders.

  Overseeing them all was the idol of a god none living had heard of until now. Pithelel, hastily carved from the wall behind the two thrones had sharpened into view. The blue lights revealed not the half-arsed carving of a vaguely-described man, but the smooth patterns of many butterfly wings. Its “eyes” watched the revelry with a seemingly possessive light, feasting upon the merrymaking and desires of their new followers.

  The undead were encouraged to play music from their own bodies and; tavern songs long forgotten and those from recent memory flowed and smoothly transitioned as one long mashup that echoed through the honoured halls of Dar’Gehon.

  At first, the acolytes and the surviving Death-Masters pretended to enjoy their celebrations. Though defeated and battered, they were treated as if they had played a part in conquering their own home. Those old enough to remember the Lich King’s own banquets felt nostalgic.

  The Undying Scion, however, did not fall for this empty victory. At least, that’s the way she saw it. Balandra may have gained her rightful place but she was under the thumb of someone that could potentially be much worse than the previous fool she was bound to. Had she traded one idiot leader for another? She wasn’t going to let time dictate that for her. Soul unbound, she could now put her plans into action without risk of banishment. That is, if she played her pieces right. At the very least, this creature seemed open to new ideas.

  As the coronation party stretched long past dawn, Mithlas felt dissatisfaction and apathy suck away his happiness like a vile leech. Even as he twirled Delwynn around in his fingers, feeling the power and misery of his defeated enemy and baton was not enough to bring back that high he had felt when anticipating the Lich King’s throne. He could not ignore just how pathetically small his followers were. The undead he’d collected vastly outnumbered them and that just wouldn’t do. If only they were capable of free will. His mind began to wonder: he hadn’t quite thought of it until now but perhaps-

  “Sire,” Balandra said, “I believe we should seek out the Lich King.”

  Mithlas pondered it, then stopped twirling his baton, “Now, my Scion, what’s the rush?”

  “The Lich King is our only key to reclaiming our former greatness. If we can free him from wherever those knights had banished him to-“

  “Hmph. You don’t think I have the power to do just that? My dear Scion, I have no intention of restoring what came before. Don’t you believe we could make something greater than whatever daddy dearest had planned?”

  Ah, that’s right. He had no care for her father. She remembered how he treated his obsidian effigy not long ago. She’d have to change her approach.

  “My apologies, your darkness. I… I supposed you might be interested in gaining his servitude as well,” she said in nectarine tones, hiding her venom, “Just think of it, sire. With the Lich King under your thumb, you’ll have more than enough power to take the world for yourself. Please, consider it.”

  “Hmmm…” Mithlas tapped Delwynn upon his cheek, “I do love the sound of that. So we shall, but not now.”

  He had an interest - that was something, at least.

  “Then when, my liege?”

  “Your most unholy liege,” he corrected her. “The Lich King is most unimportant at the moment.”

  ‘Unimportant?!’

  She held in a hiss, “Ah. Very well, most unholy. Then what do you plan to do next?”

  She still didn’t know what his overall plan was. Power? Riches? It seemed likely if he had truly traded away his Beohil-ity for magic stronger than song.

  “Why, we should seek out our former betrayers, should we not? If I am to defeat death, I will need every necromancer to come forth under my-“ he felt eyes upon him from behind, “Erhem, under our name.”

  “Defeat death?” it was a goal shared by her father and every other necromancer, yet none had quite managed to do that. Lichdom still meant dying and retaining will in undeath. How would this slug be any different? “And how do you wish to do that?”

  Finally, someone was interested enough in actually hearing him out.

  “My Scion, you know very well that Death is an creation of the gods. With the powers that I now possess, I will finally break that cruel invention and all will know my name!”

  She blinked, brow furrowing, “Alright. How exactly do you plan to do that?”

  “I am glad you asked,” he wove his conducting baton, directing it to the bony extensions of his seat. “Throne! Take us to the Black Chapel!”

  Their seats came to life once more, reshaping and arranging themselves into a many legged two-seated mount. The Conjoined Bone Throne marched past the drunken revelers and undead shamblers, then through the shattered wooden doors of their party hall.

  The walls they passed along were bereft of undead; all of them had been put to work to conduct simple repeating tasks from fetching wood and stone to foraging edibles from the nearby forests. By morning, he’d have his new followers repair Dar’Gehon and prepare for their next move - which he had yet to elucidate to Balandra.

  The Black Chapel was not merely a place of worship, but a place for reflection and dark schemes. When his advisors proved useless, the Lich King would often come here alone seeking the counsel of wise wraiths and dead gods. Some of these schemes were still marked in chalk.

  One spot on the wall had been curiously rubbed out; Balandra had tried to elucidate what her father had been trying to plan. The remaining markings represented key leylines around Tiron-Mord. The theoretical passage written beside it was a question:

  ‘…the key to Mag Dubnos is the missing piece to true Lichdom. But if I am to supplant the gods, I must find the Gate and the Key. The gates of death lies in the lines. And the key is… Somewhere.’

  ‘Somewhere’ seemed to elude him - the theories had been smudged and written over out of frustration until he had settled for that word. Had her father lived longer, he would still have been searching for the key. Perhaps the answer lay somewhere in these mad scribblings.

  Unfortunately, this was the last time she’d ever get to study them again, for Mithlas had started smudging the whole lot with his slime covered hand. Years of planning and scheming were replaced by new lines.

  “You see, my Scion,” he began as he wrote, “The Lich King’s problem was that he sought to rule over the realms that he failed to consider the toll Lichdom would have on one’s body. I trust you wouldn’t want to live out eternity as a joyless skeleton. You’ve seen our thralls. It’s an utterly miserable experience.

  No, I propose we take death and rot out of the equation entirely!”

  Balandra remained silent as he finished his first sketch of his plan. The three spheres Annwine had been drawn out, but in a strange way. Mag Mell and Mag Dubnos were intertwined but Tiron-Mord had been severed completely from paradise and oblivion. Severing their world completely was a musical score for a theoretical spell; it was written with the Forbidden Syllables and with erratic pacing that would destroy one’s ears if heard.

  “You can’t defeat death if you play by the rules of the gods,” Mithlas said. “If we are to truly be great, then we must cast them out entirely. They and their paladins have brought us nothing but suffering.”

  That, she could agree with. But the plan… It sounded absurd! Yet, deliciously blasphemous.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “So you propose to deafen us all with this… spell?”

  “Not us. Oh no. This is music specifically for the gods to hear!” Mithlas chuckled, “What you see before you is the incomplete Song of Banishment! Created by yours truly, of course.”

  “Why haven’t you completed it yet? Doesn’t your god grant wishes? Unless…”

  Mithlas scrambled, fearing the wishing god’s fury, “Our god. Need I remind you that he is the reason you’re free? And, I assure you, he fully supports my efforts. I can’t say why. Perhaps he is beholden only to matters of granting wishes.”

  “Hmm… I suppose. Still, that doesn’t answer my first question.”

  She was right. Mithlas had been granted power but the rest of his masterpiece eluded him. As much as he dreaded directly talking to Pithelel again and risking another terrible cost, he needed to have a word with the god.

  “I’ll get back to you on that.”

  “Very well,” Balandra said, another question on her mind. “And once you have defeated death, what will you do?”

  “Why, I’ll enjoy my immortality basking in the glory. As everyone’s new king, they’ll build monuments of my proud vis-“

  He caught his reflection on his chalice of soured wine - a painful reminder of the cost of his power. With a growl, he set the chalice down on the cup holder of his Bone Throne. No one would deify a disgusting Slyth’taynt. Such was the law of the world: Only the beautiful were fit to walk amongst gods and kings.

  This was something he needed to fix. If Pithelel had refused to give him back his looks before, he’d have to find another way. He looked at Balandra, turning a tinge greener as envy gripped his heart. Her bloodless palor. Her serpentine face. The way her platinum hair cascaded down her tall, willowy form. And oh-! how it trailed as she walked; clad in black, her pretty head was a comet signifying doom of all who beheld her. Until he had regained his looks, the Scion was perfectly fit to be the face of their sect.

  “Is something the matter, sire?”

  “No,” he lied, “nothing at all.”

  Clearing his throat, he cast his thoughts back to the present. Balandra knew his master plan now. There was just one glaring issue that had been bugging him ever since storming the Catacombs.

  “Why are there so few of you? Did the paladins invade whilst I was away?”

  “Ah,” Balandra’s face turned sour, and she let out a pained hiss. “The Schism, my liege. When Delwynn was made Undying Scion there were many who objected to his rule. To their wisdom, instead of fighting over the position that had lost all meaning, those who objected left. The councilmen, Mortilore, the strongest Death Masters and anyone with half a brain left to form their own sects.”

  “I’m surprised you of all people stayed.”

  “I was very close to leaving. But then you came.”

  Mithlas grinned - in his mind, he pictured himself as a dashing hero saving a maiden from an dreaded tyrant.

  “Well, of course. I was destined to be Dar Gehon’s salvation and your redeemer.”

  “Gods no.”

  “What was that?”

  “Ah- absolutely, your unholiness.”

  Beaming, the Worm King turned to the next blank space on the wall and drew up his plans for the present.

  “Well then, we should start rebuilding, shan’t we? And, now that the true Scion has been restored to her rightful place, I’m sure the rest of our followers will come to roost.”

  ‘Very unlikely,’ Balandra thought, ‘Those fools wouldn’t accept a woman on the throne.’

  “Worm!” he called to one of his followers outside, “Send for the Carrie-Ron Crow. I have a message to send.”

  ??????????

  “Rejected? All of them?! WHO do they think they are to reject me?!”

  The Worm King’s scream reverberated through the courtyard. So loud it was, that it shook a nearby construction frame made of bone and timber. One Boneslave - who had been chiseling an androgynous visage for Pithelel - almost toppled off the edge of the platform. Her hammer slipped out of her bony hand, spun as it descended, and finally landed with a “poc!” on her Death Master’s head. He fell; an acolyte confirmed he wasn’t dead, but he was utterly useless unconscious.

  Balandra shooed away the Carrie-Ron Crow before they too came to misfortune and cleared her throat.

  “Most are… adverse to following a woman, my liege.”

  Mithlas scoffed, “It’s the 13th Cycle of the Holly Tree, they need to get with the times. How dare they!”

  Balandra noted, he sounded less so insulted on her behalf and more by the fact that they rejected him.

  “There’s also the matter of this god you’d have us worship,” she continued cautiously. “I won’t name names but there are those who see involving a god in our cause… unnecessary. Conformist at worst.”

  A sentiment she too shared. Part of the reason why many flocked to Lich King’s side was because of their staunch rejection of Mag Mell’s rulers. “To Dubnos with them,” her father would proudly say. “May they fall, forgotten, while we take our rightful place on their thrones!”

  But she couldn’t deny that it was a god who had brought her freedom. An unknown one. Likely some cast-out worm that had crawled out from oblivion.

  “It is completely necessary!” Mithlas snapped, frightful, “Those ingrates… Who do they think made all this possible? You all owe Pithelel as much as you owe me for liberating you from this idiot?”

  He gestured to his baton.

  Balandra sighed, “Yes. I know. Pithelel has my thanks, truly. However, none of us know anything about this god or how to honour them. Is it wrong to be so concerned over straying from our purpose either? It was never our wish to be a cult dedicated to an unknown god.”

  The Bone Throne and Pithelel’s former monks gave Mithlas weary looks that were felt by their King. He could never go back on his word - he wasn’t stupid.

  The Worm King swallowed, nervously smiling, “Scion, I thought you were cleverer than that. You and those worms pledged yourselves to one god that will always answer your prayers. All Pithelel needs is your wishes and your attention. He could ask for nothing less!”

  A god appeased by something so simple who gave so much more in return. Balandra was suspicious. If they were so benevolent, why did they not have a seat in Mag Mell?

  “So, you wished to be a Slyth’taynt?” she asked incredulously.

  “Why would I want this-?!” he took a deep breath. When he spoke next, he sounded pleading, “I asked for the power to defeat Death itself. And he granted it.”

  “Ah, I see. So specificity is important.”

  Or was him losing his looks the cost? The more she thought about it, Mithlas’ rulership over the entire sect seemed to be the price of her own wish.

  “Uh… Yes. Specificity. Look, is it really so much to ask to erect a shrine, ask him for favours and spread his name? ”

  “Why are you so desperate to appease this god?” she probed.

  “Desperate? Please. This is only… a formality.”

  “Mhmm. A formality.”

  “Yes!”

  She was no fool. This god had the Worm King wrapped around his fingers. So too was she and the rest of the sect. As much as she didn’t like it, they were in a desperate state. If restoring the Lich King meant swallowing her pride and serving a higher power, then so be it; her father had rebelled against the gods before. He could do it again.

  The Worm King’s fear was as thick as his stench. That told her everything she needed to know about breeching an agreement with Pithelel.

  “Very well. I’ll see to it that our people yield to our new god,” her tone sharpened, “On one condition.”

  “Condition? You forget your agreement, Scion. There is no negotiating this.”

  “Oh, but I can, my liege. You see, there’s nothing stopping me from asking Pithelel to placate you.”

  Mithlas snorted, “He wouldn’t do that.”

  “Wouldn’t he?”

  “Of course not. It would mean him going against our agreement.”

  “Unless,” Balandra prolonged the last syllable, “you didn’t hold up your end of the bargain.”

  “Come again?”

  Without an ounce of fear, she continued, “Your god seems as desperate as the rest of us. A god needs to be known, loved and remembered, no? How long has it been? Millenia perhaps. If it weren’t for you, he would have become nothing as all forgotten gods supposedly do.”

  “Get to the point, Balandra,” Mithlas snapped.

  The corners of her lips lifted, “When my wish was made, I made my agreement with Pithelel. All of the Lich King’s flock would be his. Even the ones that abandoned this place and the ones that silently pledge themselves to his name.”

  Meaning, all necromancers on Tiron-Mord.

  “And so,” she continued, “should I break my word, I damn all of us to whatever oblivion awaits Pithelel’s deal-breakers. Without a single necromancer in the world, do you think anyone would want to follow something as loathsome you, my liege?”

  Mithlas blinked, mute out of sheer shock. Her venomous words left him twitching and paralysed for a moment. She had fangs yet.

  “You… You have no idea what horrors await you, fool.”

  “I don’t. Nor do I care. You don’t corner a coiled serpent, god or not.”

  He steeled himself as best as he could, “Alright. What do you want?”

  “Your word,” she raised a hand. “You must swear that you’ll help me find and revive the Lich King.”

  “That again?”

  She tilted her head back, wordlessly warning him that her next words would strike them all worse than dead.

  “Very well, Scion,” he said begrudgingly. “You have my word. But make no mistake…”

  He leaned in closer, “I will not forget this day. You won’t have another chance to repeat this stint again.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Balandra said, first in mock innocence but her tone turned genuine. “After all, your ideas for achieving immortality have merit. Honestly, it is a shame that you were ignored for so long.”

  Mithlas humphed, his face scrunching as he sunk back in his seat.

  “Now don’t be like that. I do mean it. We share the same goals after all. It’s only right that we are on equal footing. Can you blame me for needing to be so cruel?”

  His expression began to soften and a warm feeling filled his phlegm-coated chest. For the first time, he truly felt like he had been seen.

  “I suppose…” he stopped himself from saying the words. Instead- “I suppose I was right to spare someone as cunning as you, Undying Scion.”

  Though typically immune flattery, she still bowed her head, “Thank you, my most unholy liege. Now that’s settled, what shall our next move be?”

  Mithlas sat up straight on his throne, tapping Delwynn’s skull on the bony armrest. There was so much he wanted to do. Regain his looks… Focus on completing the spell and ritual to sever Tiron Mord from the realms of the gods… But most pressingly, his- their sect was weak and divided. Their plans could easily be destroyed in one fell swoop by Holy Knights.

  “As we are now, we must regain our power.”

  Mithlas’ yellow eyes lingered on the acutely detailed maps drawn on the black walls. There were a few notable burial grounds scattered around the Dwine territories of Midralach and the borders of the illustrious elven lands of Mag Beol. If he was going to prove his power as King of the Worms to their foolish stray sheep, he was going to do it in style.

  He tapped the tip of Delwynn’s spine on one spot in Midralach.

  “Tomorrow, we march here.”

  “Cariad-Caetref, my liege?” Balandra’s brows raised. “But that’s the home of Ser Gwaine.”

  “That indeed. His corpse will make a perfect addition to our collection.”

  “Of course, sire, but won't that attract the attention of the Holy Order?”

  “Ohoho… But it won't, provided that you do as I ask,” he laughs, “We’re not going to storm Cariad-Caetref. We’re going to steal Ser Gwaine’s corpse.”