The Dark Lord of Dundee

The putrid stench of living flesh burning on the battlefield hovers in the air. Heavy and repulsive, it clings to everything; the uniform and hair reek of other people’s death, and it feels like it clings to very skin and will accompany one until the end of their miserable life like a morbid reminder of things done that cannot be reversed. Every breath taken hurts. There is a vague memory of bright light, and darkness and pain afterwards, when even breathing felt like a chore. Now, instead of that, there is ache in his chest, and, once the submarine commander dares open his eyes, there is bleak, greyish-red sky above him, and ash is falling onto the battlefield like perverse snow, accompanied by the feathers of the undead eagles of Crail: a testimony of those perished in the battle. There is something large towering against the sky, at the very side of his field of vision, and it takes a while and effort for him to recognize it as having once belonged to the body of the DSS Hootsforce, though the steel is bent out of shape to such degree only a skilled engineer would be able to tell what it has been once. The remains of the mighty vessel stand in the landscape like a solemn ghost, swaying lightly, accompanied by groaning sounds. Ralathor is not certain when or how it all went wrong. In fact, he is not even sure that things actually did go wrong, to begin with. After all, the plan was to get Angus close enough to Zargothrax, for the final battle. Everything else was meaningless, and each of them knew what they were headed into. As long as Angus won, it never mattered. There is chirping coming from somewhere he cannot determine, and then there are small, clawed, grabby hands that pull the commander from the rubble that was once, as insignificant as that might seem right now, the command bridge of the submarine, and Ralathor has to bite back a scream, instead giving just – a grunt – as he feels something slide from his side, and there is something wet and sticky there that makes his clothes cling to his skin. The goblinoids care little for such trivialities, as they pull their prisoner through the battlefield, presumably into the direction of their own commander. It does not, in fact, become any easier to breathe, and, from what Ralathor himself can assess right now, there are more varieties of pain showing up every single moment he spends being dragged along like a sorry sack of potatoes. Now that, that is insulting. In-between waves of pain and nausea he has to fight off, Ralathor attempts to scout their surroundings for any sign of Angus – or just about anything that might tell of a great victory. Still, everything that is present there is rubble, and a scarred landscape with charred corpses scattered into it like broken, discarded toys. He spots a group of foot soldiers of the resistance, just shortly before they are overwhelmed by what is left of the Deathknights of Crail. It is far too quiet. The realization hits like the Hammer of Glory. It is too quiet. There are no noises of a great battle, or of any squabble at all. There are moans of those injured and those dying, but there are no sounds of clashing swords, or blaster fire. No undead eagles soaring the sky, their knights astride. Just a few undead unicorns wandering about, snatching a bite or two of the dead and the dying, like vultures. Too quiet, too… The goblins drop their prisoner onto a slope of a small hill. Ralathor is certain that it does not do much, in terms of whatever injuries he might have sustained, but he also thinks it does not matter any longer. Not when there is that horrible, ominous, foreboding feeling in the air. Something is wrong. He knows that something has gone terribly, terribly wrong. One of the goblins pokes him in the side, and his vision goes black for a moment. Ralathor does not know what happens while he is out, only that (presumably) the same goblin screeches, before its voice clips out of existence. Hands – human hands, not the claws of the undead, or the paws of a goblin – cup his face and turn his head to the side, presumably, again, to face whoever is looming over him and blocking out what little sunlight is struggling to breach its way through the clouds at the moment. Somebody tsks, disapprovingly. A rather unnecessary thing to do, Ralathor thinks. It is cold. His whole body feels like it has been submerged into the liquid ice. It takes over his whole being, and it becomes impossible to breathe. Then, the feeling starts to withdraw, slowly, and with it drains the pain and everything associated with it. The air on the battlefield is repugnant, sickly and foul, but it has never felt so good to draw breath. The hands let go, and, finally, Ralathor dares open his eyes and face the unknown benefactor, even as dread swells in his chest. No wizard has ever been capable of such feat, not even the most powerful ones from ages long gone. It takes time, even with an excess of magic, to heal the injuries that Ralathor knows he must have suffered. The only answer that comes to him is one that he fears. He has lived for very long, and he has seen the gods. Which is why he has never hoped, nor prayed, for godly interventions. You do not want a god to intervene with the affairs of the mortals. There is nothing but fog, at first, before he starts making out a silhouette. - Is that so, hermit? – a painfully, horrifyingly familiar voice purrs. – Is that so? I expected you would be more grateful, for getting patched up. Oh no. - Zargothrax… - That’s Lord Zargothrax, to you, you filthy— The deathknight dissolves into dust before he has even finished the sentence, and the rest of the wizard’s lackeys withdraw, their terror almost a bodily entity lying upon all and everything. - My apologies. – The evil sorcerer shakes his head. – It is so difficult to find good henchmen these days. Now up you get. You should be fine. Zargothrax does not offer help, and Ralathor would not take it anyway, as he sits up, then slowly hauls himself to feet. Everything feels like a chore, his body sluggish and slow to obey. He stands, fighting off the feeling of an all-encompassing tiredness, and it feels like his hands have been bound, resisting their master’s will. He is but a prisoner, he knows, regardless of how well-received he might be. Healing him is an act of mercy of his captor’s, not a sign of benevolence towards his person. On top of that, something is terribly, horribly wrong. A goblin’s screech attracts their attention, though Ralathor is incapable of discerning the cause of the commotion at first. Zargothrax, on the other hand, strolls over to the beastie that has been clawing and pulling at something on the ground and kicks it hard enough to send the goblin tumbling down the slope. - What did I just tell you?! How dare you show disrespect to him?! The sound of the sorcerer’s voice makes Ralathor’s head ache and leaves his ears ringing, even though he speaks as he normally does, to his minions and other “filthy mortals”. There is something else, too: a feeling that Ralathor cannot quite describe, that bubbles up in his chest. Adoration. Admiration. Joy of just being around and existing in the same plane of existence as Zargothrax does. He knows the feeling. And wishes he were wrong. The air around them ripples, like water, and there are electric charges spawning that dance and flicker, as if they were standing in the middle of a cloud in a thunderstorm. In a bout of horrifying revelation, Ralathor realizes he is incapable of actually perceiving the wizard normally. Looking straight at Zargothrax, his mind refuses to believe there is someone actually there. He sees the sorcerer interact with his surroundings, but his eyes play tricks on him, his mind cannot compute a presence it does not understand. It lasts until Zargothrax’s attention returns to the commander, and suddenly it feels as though a veil has fallen from his eyes, as everything returns to normal. - My apologies, old friend, - the wizard speaks, gesturing at something behind him at the same time, and Ralathor’s sight involuntarily follows his hand to the spot Zargothrax is pointing at, - but, as I said, good minions are hard to come by. If I give an order, I expect it to be followed to the point. There is a figure on the ground. It is lying on its side, with its back to them, the once green armour now all shades of grey and black, with red smears in-between. Its pose reminds of a broken puppet a careless child has tossed aside. Ralathor does not rush over to the figure. There is nothing that can be done there. Empty theatrics are a human thing. A mortal thing. There is no use to clutch and scream, and cry, when something is already over and done with. There is remorse, for a task failed. There is even some grief, for a life lost at the pinnacle of strength and youth. But mostly – mostly, there is relief that washes over the commander like warm water. Relief about how it is finally over. No more wars, no more battles to be fought, no more lives to be sacrificed. Everything is over. - So, now what? Zargothrax smirks at the question. - Now I can finally claim what is rightfully mine. - The solar conjunction is complete. - Yes. And your plan to stop me has failed. Now, a new era is upon us. And everybody everywhere will kneel before me. Or they will burn. - You are insane, - Ralathor spits, without thinking and with zero remorse for what he is saying. There is maybe a second, between his words and the sorcerer’s fingers locking around his throat. His body is still slow to obey, and, even if it were not, there is, presumably, very little he could do, to fight this. There is a cackle in his ear – the cackle of a madman – as Zargothrax ponders on what he should do with the insolent fool standing up to him, before the grip relaxes and the hand is removed. The sorcerer does not retreat, however; instead, he stays, close enough for Ralathor to smell the smoke and the blood on his armour and hair. Humans, even immortal ones, are not created to become gods. It messes with one’s mind. It drives one insane. One single mind – even if it is the mind of an already deranged evil wizard – is not enough to encompass the vast power that a godhood bestows upon them. If there was ever a chance to turn it all around and at least try to make amends, that chance is now gone. For a moment, Ralathor wonders what it really took, for the wizard, to make this happen. He decides he does not want to actually know the answer to that question. - Why not just kill me, too? – He taunts instead. – You know that I will not stop until I find a way to undo this, don’t you? Kill me, too! Come on! Coward! Do it! - Kill you? – The newly proclaimed god laughs, and the goblins and the Deathknights of Crail flinch, fearful of their, now godly, master’s rage. – Oh no, you are not getting away that easy, commander. Kill you. Hm. That sounds good, yes. But… - he runs a steel claw down the prisoner’s cheek and neck, careful enough not to leave a trace, before leaning closer, - where would the fun in that be? No. No, that is not an option. – Zargothrax tsks, his head tilted to the side, as though pondering about something. – I could make you into my pet. I can’t kill you, but I can hurt you, you know. But no, no, that’s not it, either. No. You managed to do something nobody had succeeded at, until that moment, and do believe me when I say there have been attempts. You killed my force commander, Ser Proletius, the Grand Master of the Deathknights of Crail. It is only fair, - he leans in and purrs into Ralathor’s ear, - that you take his place. You will kneel, - Zargothrax retreats and speaks in full volume again, and his minions withdraw even farther. - Or what? - There is no “or”. – The grin on the evil god’s face is that of a hound that has driven its prey into corner. – You will kneel. You can do it yourself, or I will force you. And I really would hate to have to do that - Hate to disappoint you, but you will have to do just that. Zargothrax grimaces, and it is visible he has not thought he would have to go this far. It is clear he has not planned for this to happen. For a moment, he stands there, staring his prisoner down, as though hoping he might, with that stare alone, persuade Ralathor to change his mind. - Is it really worth it, to you? – The wizard is next to the commander once again. – Think about it, hermit. There is nothing left for you, out there. The resistance has been crushed, and the remaining people in Achnasheen? I will make sure to drag them out of the valley as well. Choose to serve me, willingly, as the one who exerts my will and does my bidding. Think about it. The second most powerful man in the world, right after me. That is a position that should be enjoyed out of free will, don’t you think? What’s the use of power, if you cannot actually enjoy it? - There is no free will here any longer. Not with you. - You should be grateful, - Zargothrax snarls, - that I am even giving you that option, to begin with! - You know my answer as well as I do. There is confusion on the god’s face; a confusion that slowly changes into anger. As it does, a buzzing sensation, a sound that is more felt than heard, appears at the back of Ralathor’s head and slowly spreads into the whole of his mind, and the pleasant feeling in his chest grows, fluttering inside like thousands of butterflies, until it seems they will break through his bones and skin and burst forth. It is clear that Zargothrax wants to say something else, perhaps in hopes of persuading him, before the evil god snarls and begins pacing back and forth. - Fine! - he finally growls, poison in his words. – Be it your way, then! The buzzing gets louder, stronger, both more threatening and irresistible by the moment, causing Ralathor’s own defences to kick in despite the sluggishness of the body, as his mind fights to maintain control over its own territory, and there is a feral grin on Zargothrax’s face, as he watches the prisoner struggle. Whatever it is, it attacks and seeks to tear down even the smallest defence mechanism there is, impossibly fast so. And then it all comes crumbling down. Every single masterfully crafted defence in his mind crumbles to dust, leaving Ralathor’s mind bare and undefended to the assault, as they are swept away in a wave of all-encompassing agony. And then. Then it is likewise gone. Just the knowledge that something is not quite right remains. And the inability to put his finger on what exactly is off about it. - Kneel! – Zargothrax commands. Ralathor hates it. He hates how his body no longer obeys him – not even enough to try to resist. He hates how his mind is suddenly fogged and how it joyously rushes to obey the command given without even questioning it. He hates how he knows this is not his own doing and that it should be fought, and how, at the same time, he is aware that there is nothing he can do about it. - As you command, Lord Zargothrax! Those are not his words, even though spoken with his mouth, in his voice. Then again, he no longer belongs to himself, either. And he kneels.