On Death and Locals

Devastation. Utter ruin. Complete destruction. No, none of these words even came close to what the Dark Lord was feeling at this very moment. There he was, on his knees, just like so many of his victims begging for mercy, completely powerless and empty on the inside. Well, not that there was much inside to begin with, but it was beside the point. The evil wizard knew not what to say, what to proclaim, how to react… No, that was a complete lie.

“NyeeeeeEEEEEEEEEERGH!!!!!” the Dark Lord screeched at the top of his non-existent lungs. “I WILL KILL YOU!!! I WILL KILL ALL OF YOU!!! KILL!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!!” Every yell, every shout, every guttural scream was accompanied by the necromancer’s pointless display of power, as he cast every spell he could think of, and even some that he forgot about. Bursts of fire, electricity, ice, undeath were emanating from him every direction imaginable. Trees were scorched, animal carcasses burning be they still or reanimated, the sky itself turned dark with smoke, ash, and rain clouds. And all the while the Dark Lord continued his child-like tirade, which soon turned to animalistic screams, when his deep vocabulary of every curse and spell was exhausted.

Watching the necromancer’s tantrum were the two undead minions who were lucky enough to accompany him. The undead barbarian death knight silently took in the display of what can happen when an unimaginable power confronts an unimaginable loss. The view was pathetic from what his mess of a brain could remember from the before undeath. He knew that he was supposed to do something, but he wasn’t sure what or even if he could do it. Perhaps a smile, or possibly a bark of laughter. It was getting hard to think, to decide what he should do, and even harder to actually do anything without the explicit order of his master. Who was now in front of him. On the dirty dusty ground. Crying. Then he remembered what he was supposed to do.

The death knight raised his hand above and behind his shoulder and snapped his fingers. The skeleton, which was completely silent before this moment, clacked in surprise and excitement and rushed over to its master. The helmet it was hugging all this time was passed on to the undead barbarian, who silently put it on, obscuring his emotionless face.

The necromancer looked up at the hulking monstrosity, the only thing left of his grand layer, of the world conquering plan, now nothing more than a dirt hole in the middle of nowhere. The nowhere which some time ago tried to kill him. Come to think of it, this death knight was that barbarian that came to kill him too. The Dark Lord suddenly rose up with an ugly realization. “YOU!” he said. “IT WAS YOU! TELL ME NOW HOW YOU DID IT OR I WILL DESTROY THIS VERY INSTANT!”

The death knight was confused. It knew nothing that it did that could have resulted in this. There was a vague, fleeting feeling that he was forgetting something very important, but it was ruthlessly suppressed by the undead magic keeping it alive. Only the most important memories of his past life were kept afloat above all: his long journey of adventures, the hardships of unfamiliar lands, the few friends he made and kept, and Tim, great wizard Tim, his accomplice, partner in adventuring business, and best friend. The husk of Grognark was lucky that recent memories are rarely kept during the reanimation process, and at the same time the torture of barely remembering what once was brought a horrible toll on his fleeting mind.

And so, the Dark Lord could not have known of what transpired before his minion’s death, and after a seemingly wordless discussion he proclaimed: “Fine! There was nothing in that head of yours to begin with”. A sharp glare moved from one victim to the next, which trembled in what could only be mortal fear, despite the fact that the skeleton was already technically dead. “And you? Do you know anything of this?” The frightened skeleton raised its hands and vigorously shook them.

The necromancer was concerned. Who could have done this? Why? And why him? Besides the fact that they were obviously jealous of how grand and scary he was, who could have found him here, in the middle of nowhere? Who could have been powerful enough to destroy his layer in one fell swoop? The nearby village was nothing more than a collection of wooden houses and no one who made houses out of wood could even dream of matching his power. Not to mention, that if there was anyone strong enough to battle him, the great Dark Lord of undeath, they must have been killed in numerous raids he has conducted over the past several months. Something didn’t add up, and the wizard was getting more and more furious with himself. But then he took a deep breath. There was no reason to waste even more of his power on nothing more than fruitless attempts of letting his anger get the better of him. The Dark Lord decided to look on the bright side, which was considerably harder than he anticipated, but eventually did come up with one: the village and the hydra. The two sources of perfectly healthy, strong-bodied creatures just asking to be killed and reanimated to serve him for all eternity. Yes, it would take even longer to rebuild what he once had, and yes, it will be hard to take on this challenge with just one… two… one minion, who had no armour, no weapon, and no knowledge of how to command his own servants. Well, in this case, the Dark Lord would have to take the assistant role for some time to make sure that the barbarian death knight could overpower whatever challenge came their way.

So with what could have passed for the pep in his step and a song in what could have passed for the heart the Dark Lord started the journey to the swamp where the hydra has made a home. It was an obvious decision, for the villagers were numerous and could easily overrun him, while the hydra was a lonely creature, who can be killed with a well placed attack or spell. The two remaining minions followed him for two days and two nights, warding off a wolf here, a bear there, who were disposed of quickly and efficiently with the strength of the barbarian, and the magical power of the wizard.

The swamp was anything but inviting. The boglands were vast, surrounded by tall ancient pine trees, growing on what little islands could be found. The dirty water bubbled splattering the nearby cattails and lazy toads sitting near the edge. Clouds of mosquitoes and flies flew through the air scaring away everything and everyone, who valued their blood and comfort. But for the new three visitors they were nothing more than a buzzing nuisance. The skeleton was immune because of the obvious physical properties of a reanimated skeleton, what number of the insects wasn’t intimidated by the death knight’s stature would find the well dry, for no blood could circulate within the walking corpse, and the Dark Lord’s simple presence would kill all that was tiny and living around him for the stench of undeath was unbearable.

The hydra’s presence was evident. Pools of water disconnected from the bog pools were haphazardly placed all around, half-eaten carcasses laid in plain sight, freshly broken tree trunks were scattered across the land. Long trailing burrows crossed the grounds, destroying all hope for future vegetation, and every single one of them pointed in one direction. Following them was no issue for the undead trio. At the end of the trail they found what they were searching for: a serpentine head, the size of a small hill, was floating in the murky water, its nostrils above the waterline. The long neck was hidden from view, but in no means missing. These creatures were known from time immemorial, when written records were a thing of imagination, unable to be properly documented, when the oral tales were passed from generation to generation of enlightened people. So such display of vulnerability was known to be a simple trick of a devious creature whose heads could be spread out to guard the largest area possible.

The Dark Lord commanded his minions to go forward and attack it. Powerless to disobey, they went ahead with nothing more than a large club and a couple of skeletal hands. However, they soon stopped in their tracks, surprised by an appearance of something small, fast, muscular, wielding a greataxe in its hands. In one blurry motion the axehead went through the beast’s neck, separating the head to float freely in the swamp waters, colored red with the creature’s blood. A roar cracked the sky, and a murder of crows flew up in the air alerting what little life was still around to run like the hells themselves opened up from beneath. The bloody neck shot up, wriggling with pain, painting the world red, as the rest of the heads slowly rose up from all around. There was one, three, six, ten heads and more counting. This was no mere hydra, this creature survived for far longer than one could imagine, growing more heads than one could count. And the clear perpetrator of this event was standing before the undead.

“Fecking hells! Ya finally showed up, didn’t ya! And here I thought I oughta go and grab ye by yer hoodie and pull ye out of yer little hole meself!” Harold the barbarian greeted the living dead.