Two days. An eternity trapped in this old wooden chair, two days that felt like a lifetime, time I wouldn't get back. The hall's light hadn't changed at all since we started, after all, the sun doesn't reach so deep into the earth. The floating phantasmal orbs spread a trembling and tedious blue light through the dark room, barely keeping the darkness at bay. The stone atrium emanated a chill, making my bones creak whenever I moved. The thirty square-meter room was located in one of the deepest points of the Administrative Guild. A structure that looked like an inverted castle and always had a damp, cold, and stagnant air.
It was here that we held the meetings of the Lich Council. Long and endless – those are the words that come to mind whenever the topic of Meetings comes up, seeing as the undead don't need breaks for things like eating or sleeping.
The topic at hand was the storage of ancient texts with Memetic Hazards, items that tend to drive anyone who sees them mad, mortal or otherwise. The glyphs projected by the Holographic Crystal were enough to melt my brain, literally. There was a rock, positioned on a podium among study items, that radiated a disturbing aura and made my mind throb. Beside it, a fragment of the Algurian Vase – the very basis upon which my Psycholachrium, the the artifact that I obsessed with for decades, had been built – pulsed faintly with arcane energy. My head ached as if nails were being hammered into it, a sensation nothing new for this dead guy. My skeletal arms lazily propped up my elbows on the large half-moon stone table. With my right hand, I supported my exposed skull covered in arcane runes glowing a pale blue. Masterfully carved, if I may say so myself.
Looking around, I could see the five of us seated in a semicircle. The Pale King, at the center, looked mentally exhausted with the details of how to carve the stabilizing circles into unicorn horns, creating anchors of reality. His fingers drummed slowly on the dark marble. Although his death mask never changed expression, I could have sworn boredom oozed from his empty eye sockets. Maybe, instead of boredom, what was oozing was what remained of his bitter soul, I thought, frustrated. The distant murmur was all my nonexistent ears could pick up as I stared at the white metal mask, its expression impenetrable. A silent sigh shook his shoulders, and with an effort, I shifted my gaze to the next unfortunate soul in our circle.
To his right sat the Ex-Druid, now Lich, Feyrot, hunched over the table with his old amber horns almost touching it. If I didn't know he was one of the undead, I'd say he'd died and was rotting, he was so still,I thought, then realized that description wasn't wrong. His pale body was covered in pieces of wood growing sporadically. His face had a patch of moss, partly petrified, partly dark green, which gave the impression of a long beard. His scent of damp earth and dry leaves mixed with the smell of dust and mold in the room, made the experience marginally more bearable, just a little, I concluded. At his feet, Nidhogg, the giant magical silverfish, slept peacefully. I cast a pleading look at that fat fluffball, please, please, please do something mischievous! I beg you, try to cut through the boredom, my expression tried to say. He looked me in the eyes, settled in to get comfortable, and went back to sleep.
Defeated, I looked at who crowned the right end of the table, the Abyss Devourer, Abby, for those who knew him best. His feet swung carelessly above the floor as he calmly drew scenes of terrible war and death, even for my metaphorical stomach. I felt a pang of envy when I saw that carefree scene. His black eyes with bright blue pupils focused on the yellowish parchment that held the meeting details. With his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, he looked like a focused young boy. Abby looked like a 13-year-old with an androgynous appearance, wearing a white robe with blue ornaments on the sleeves and hem. His long golden hair seemed to fight against his focus, falling into his eyes and being pushed behind his ear again and again. His sharp teeth were the only detail that betrayed his true nature, revealed by a satisfied smile at his visceral work. By this point, I wasn't even listening to the voice of our esteemed speaker anymore; it had become background noise, or maybe a lullaby.
Shifting my focus to my left and trying not to think about blood, I saw Morwen, the dark Priestess. She was reading and rereading her ancient tome for what felt like the millionth time. The bound leather folds were marked by weight and the passage of time; in contrast, her light and semi-transparent violet veil looked freshly woven. The light piece covered the lower part of her thin and pale face, giving her an air somewhere between a saint and a nightmare. Her heavy violet cloak was still in the dead air of the room. Morwen's posture exuded the elegance and dignity of the High Clergy, impeccable despite her clear disinterest in the background speech. Her expression was impassive, but as she turned the pages of the sacred book of Nox'thule in a slow and delicate movement, she seemed to be searching for a prayer that could ward off boredom just as it warded off evil. The churning of my brain when I glanced at the projected glyphs snapped me back to reality.
I took one last look at my co-leaders, searching for any useful reaction or sign that we were making progress, but my disappointment was equally devastating and expected. We were already on our 12th mortal presenter, a middle-aged man with signs of balding that would make me feel hairy, despite my exposed skull. His thin face, marked by tired wrinkles and the shadow of a poorly shaved beard, contrasted with his well-kept clothes. His name was Bartholomew, no, Matthew, I never remember their names. For clarity's sake, I'll call him Bartholo-Matthew. The glint of madness and anxiety, for facing a room with the most powerful liches in the world, fought for space in his brown eyes, partially hidden behind small round glasses. Months hunching over tomes and in contact with cursed objects had clearly taken a heavy toll on their minds, especially Bartholo-Matthew's.
"... and th-that's why we should use gray dragon scales instead of gold to create the compound for inscription on the unicorn horns for the Malthus Anchors," I heard when my attention returned to the presentation. Bartholo-Matthew's hands trembled with nervousness, no matter how much he tried to hide it. "Th-this way we'll have an improvement in containing the madness." I checked the manuscript handed to us at the beginning of this torture; the pages had already gathered dust in the meantime, and the smell of paper stood out among the others. As I flipped through the sheets, I saw something surprising: the improvement would be 50%!
"50% reduction in decay?! And 26% in containing madness! That's magnificent!" I exclaimed without thinking. "With this change, we'll achieve a revolution in the storage of sensitive data and..." When I looked up, Bartholo-Matthew had a panicked expression, and I could have sworn I saw a drop of sweat trickle from his forehead to his chin. He gathered courage in the time I spent staring at him. I smelled his adrenaline, even with my relatively poor undead senses. Maybe it was something else… No, I preferred not to think about it.
"S-Sir M-Morthos, a-actually the d-decay decreased by 0.5% and the c-containment increased by 1.6%," he said quickly, as if ripping off a bandage with dried blood. I felt my brain slowly oozing out of my left ear like a hot, viscous liquid. The brain damage probably caused my mistake, so idiotic. I created a small, bright blue arcane circle with my fingers, a spell to restore what was left of my mind. While I worked on my mental faculties, the Pale King asked, in a low and icy tone:
"The entire meeting could have been summarized in that sentence and a summary of expenses, Anthony. Why didn't your team start with that?" That's how I found out our speaker's name was Anthony. The sharpness didn't go unnoticed by anyone in the room; even our resident brat stopped and paid attention. The monarch's posture relaxed slightly, probably at the prospect of an end to the meeting. The relief was short-lived; soon the monarch stiffened again, as if noticing a fly in his soul. He asked in a harsh voice, which would have made my bone legs tremble if I were in Antony/Bartholo-Matthew's place: "Didn't you say how much you spent on the research, Anthony? Nor what the projection for the renovation expenses would be."
"W-Well—" the poor mortal began, but the Sorcerer King didn't even let him start his excuses. "Don't come at me with 'well', 'you see' or 'understand,' we've been past that point for at least sixteen hours, Anthony." As a mage, I understand that words can kill if used in a spell, but these words finished off the poor guy in a completely different way; they killed Ma-tholo-ny's spirit. I made a mental note for future reference.
Our speaker's gulp echoed through the hall. The seconds of silence were a deafening decade, even for me. Straightening his posture, adjusting his clothes, and glancing at the door as if trying to calculate how far he'd get before being torn in half, Anthony/Bartholo-Matthew replied, his voice decreasing in volume:
"M-My K-King"—I remembered that when I first met Matthew, during his interview for the Sacred Order of Arcane Development of the Guild, he didn't stutter. I thought it was a consequence of the research, but now the Sorcerer King's cruel gaze was my prime suspect. He also looked younger, I added dryly —"We spent five hundred thousand gold coins on the research, and the renovation would cost another seven hundred thousand... Sire..."
How many thousand what? For 5%? I choked, even without a throat. How did this budget pass? Who approved it? I looked at the parchment and saw a signature, in orange crayon, that clearly gave away the culprit: "Abby." When I looked to the side, the Pale King's shadow already stretched across almost the entire room, like tendrils of pitch, growing terrifyingly. His booming voice shook the walls, and if there had ever been anything inside our presenter's bladder, it was outside now.
"You, insignificant mortal, spent five hundred thousand gold coins of my Guild's assets"— I didn't dare say "our guild," I cherish my death — "and you want to spend another seven hundred thousand coins, totaling ONE AND A HALF MILLION"—"1.2 million, actually," got stuck in my non-throat, and Bartholo-Matthew seemed to shrink with each syllable — "FOR A MISERABLE AND INSIGNIFICANT IMPROVEMENT OF FIVE PERCENT?!" It's impressive, really; in my thousands of years as one of the undead, this was the closest I've ever come to fearing death. I saw Bartholo-Matthew doing his best not to cry, but I think I saw his nose start to run.
Trying to avoid having to fill out a "workplace homicide" form, I opted to slam my skeletal hands on the table as I stood up and said with a confidence I didn't feel:
"Let's wrap it up here today, Bartholo-Matthew," I said, looking directly at Anthony before realizing I'd said the wrong name out loud. "We'll discuss the budget at another time, and the responsible parties will be punished appropriately." I shot a sharp look at Abby, who had signed the mere two-page document without reading it. Abby looked to the side with feigned shame, that shameless, unscrupulous brat. "We'll return when you've lowered the costs and improved the performance of the What's-Its Anchors." For some irritating reason, Morwen decided it would be helpful to correct me. "They're Malthus Anchors." That time, my hatred was blooming. "Thanks, Morwen, for always being so helpful. Meeting adjourned," I managed to say through gritted teeth.
As I practically pushed the Pale King out the door, he shouted things about painful deaths to the useless and the incompetent while flailing his arms, trying to break free from mine, and reach the ghostly sword at his waist. In the middle of the improvised scuffle, I managed to hear, very quietly, almost fading away, a small voice full of fear and disappointment: "My name is Anthony, Mr. Morthos." I made no mention of what I heard; I had enough problems trying to save his life, I had no time to answer, let alone apologize.
When the others followed us out of the room, Anthony/Bartholo-Matthew Smith fled, running as if the devil were after him. To be honest, it was a wise decision, since, if my skeletal arm couldn't hold back the furious King, something worse than the devil would be after him. If anything, Anthony didn't run fast enough.
Already outside, I desperately sought a way to distract the Sorcerer King before his fury turned on me, and prevent my head from being separated from my body. Not that it would be a problem; after all, as long as my Psycholachrium, at the tip of my staff, was intact, I would rebuild myself.
My staff! I stretched out my hand towards my chair, and flying came my ebony staff, polished and shining, whose forked tip emanated spectral currents, which housed a floating golden dodecahedron, my Psycholachrium. This unusual box, the size of a closed fist, was the work of my life. The key to my immortality, and it was the artifact that imprisoned my soul.
Returning to the problem at hand, when I invoked my staff, the angry King managed to break free from me, and was about to summon undead hunting dogs to go after a certain scientist, whose name I definitely didn't forget, again. In a last attempt to save myself from a paper wo- I mean, to save a poor soul, I spoke without thinking:
"Sorcerer King of Vorlag"—The mention of his former kingdom, now fallen, made him turn his attention to me. "Our shipment of a living ancient demi-dragon arrived today," I said, hoping that the endless meeting had lasted at least two days in fact, since my perception of time was completely distorted by boredom. "Why don't you take it for a light exercise in the combat hall?"
"I know what you're doing, Morthos, I'm not a child." The whitish mask turned briefly and subtly towards Abby, who looked hungry and thinking about food. "You want to divert my attention from the budget hole that Anthony caused." I had to hold myself back from exclaiming, "I knew his name was Anthony." "That won't work; I will hunt him to the ends of the earth if necessary." A long pause followed, indicating that our resident Monarch wasn't being completely honest. "Although a noble King like myself needs exercise to stay in shape, and playing with an ancient demi-dragon will be more useful than hunting a mortal with my hounds. I will postpone Anthony's punishment for now." He nodded, and a ghost servant appeared before us. "Prepare the Combat Hall for me and take the demi-dragon that arrived, there. I need to shake these old bones." He said with a voice that would indicate a malicious smile. Turning to me, he said: "Deal with Anthony, Morthos, and give him the appropriate punishment. And don't forget to put Abby in line; I saw that he was the one who signed the document. They are your responsibility now." I could have sworn I saw a cruel glint in his empty eyes.
With that, the endless meeting ended. The Sorcerer King left, with long and austere steps, followed the hallway ahead. His rapid pace, indicating to me an enthusiasm that he tried to hide, made the poor servant almost run to keep up with him. "The exercise wouldn't be light at all," I thought to myself, making a mental note to warn the maintenance team. Morwen, disinterested as always, turned to the hallway on the left, her dress fluttering with the sudden gesture. Looking at us over her shoulder, she said in a soft but objective voice:
"The Guild's affairs have kept me busy for too long; I need to resume my prayers for the Forgotten. Don't bother me for the next week." At that moment, my brain started two parallel processes: "how to get revenge for the humiliation of being corrected" and "what are the consequences of getting revenge." The first finished faster, and I said, with a sarcasm that would drip from my lips if I had them: "no correlation with the romance that arrived today from the Kingdom of Kayaamat, is there?" At that point, the second thought concluded, in time to move my body slightly to the left and see the sacred, and heavy, mace that appeared where my head was a fraction of a second before. I didn't have time to see the conjuration of the weapon, but I clearly saw a blush on her dead face.
"You need to learn to keep that tongue in your mouth, Morthos." laughed Feyrot, who decided that walking was too tiring, therefore was lying on his back on Nidhogg. The insect, of XXXXXG size, carried him out of the room and down the hallway. "Friends," said the druid, lazily, before I could retort, "for my part, I will go to my laboratory to continue the crossbreeding of mandrakes with twilight flowers; my data indicates that they may aid in the research of stabilizing the Ancient Texts." And so went an eccentric undead down the hallway, laughing quietly to himself.
"At least one of us will do something useful," I said to no one in particular. This time I didn't react in time, and the mace hit me on my right femur, causing an excruciating sharp pain, and I let out a muffled scream. Sacred weapons were one of our only sources of physical pain. While I cursed, quietly so as not to get hit again, and hopping on my good leg trying to balance, Abby fell to the ground laughing, rolling from side to side. I cautiously put my leg on the ground, feeling the cracks from the impact regenerating thanks to the Psycholachrium. Abby managed to calm down enough to stand up as well, looked into my empty orbs and said: "After this, I need food, shall we go to the kitchen, Morthos?"
I reluctantly agreed, and he grabbed my arm, leading me down the hallway that Feyrot followed. I didn't plan to fight with Abby anytime soon; I needed to rest my mind and had a pile of documents to review on my desk, so I decided to talk to him.
"Abby, why did you sign the budget?" I asked with genuine curiosity. The Devourer used to stay away from bureaucracy unless it was absolutely necessary.
"Because the mortal asked me to, duh," The sincere answer caught me a little off guard. I expected him to deny it, squirm, or something like that, but his big black eyes left no doubt about the truth. "He told me that he tried to talk to you guys and no one opened the door. When he explained to me that there was a good chance that they would be able to stabilize Room Two of the East Wing, I thought the bet was worth it." These demonstrations of maturity weren't rare, but they always made me look at that child in a different way. As much as he seems and, most of the time, was childish, he was the oldest Lich in the world. And my oldest friend. He knew the importance of that room to me. Even when I didn't pay attention to the situation, he still tried to help me. A dark smile would have crossed my face, if I still had one.
"Let's go eat, you gluttonous little monster," I said, messing up his golden locks even more. If I planned a scolding, it was completely forgotten. "I still need you to read the documents more carefully, Abby," I concluded, gently. The Abyss Devourer, opened a wide and genuine smile: "Okay, okay, what are you? My dad?" We followed, laughing, to the kitchen, talking about nothing and everything, at the same time.