The Waning World Pt. 3

Another short one. I can promise that the next few will most certainly be longer.

Scene Three

Even when you're gone I
Find that I'm still searching my mind
In my deepest dreams I
Dream that I may someday find you.
-Terathiel, 'Everything I've Known'

A dark-robed figure sat in the solitary throne, his face a shadow. The messenger sweated, anticipating his command.

"Speak," the bitter voice of the master grated.

"The rumours are true, my lord. From our sources within Nightsilver, and reports of our own, it is determined that, yes, the legions of the Dead God are rising."

A barely perceptible shift from the enthroned figure. "Must we fight?" he rumbled, tapping the blade leaning on his throne. "Can we fight?"

The messenger's eyes drifted to Demon Edge, and back to its wielder. "I do not think we have a choice, my lord. We are situated far too close to the Narrow Maze to simply sit out the storm, so to speak."

"I have seen death. It takes us all, in the end. Some sooner than others. I will not stand to unlife, however. That defies the natural order itself."

The hand of the lord gestured, and the High Warlock emerged from the shadows, clad as always in grey, purple and black.

"Tell me, Lazarus. What of the Dead God do we know?"

The warlock cleared his throat. "In technicality, he is not a god, but a powerful spirit of the Underscape - that afterlife realm the dead rest in. However, even before the time of the Ancient War, he sought to encroach upon the living plane in wars, and only the fall of the Ancients stopped him. You met his herald upon the lanes."

"Undying."

"Exactly. Now, he starts again, marshalling the forces from the half-life realm of the Narrow Maze. What he wants, none can tell. The dead keep… secrets."

"I do not wish to find out. How do we combat his forces?"

"The lesser servants of his are merely reanimated dead. His underlings… they are a different matter. Having fought alongside them, you are aware of their powers."

"Razor," the lord growled, deep in his throat. "Visage. I know them well. Would that they had met their end with so many others."

If the warlock noted the catch in his lord's throat with the last three words, he did not show them, and the messenger did not dare point it out. Demon Edge glittered in the darkness.

Finally, the lord shifted. "We must act." The warlock nodded.

"What do you propose, Lord Abaddon?"

He leant forward in his throne, revealing his regal face from the shadows. Shoulder-length silver hair hung around his face, which was sharp and angular yet so astoundingly beautiful, as befit his noble blood. His eyes, though, were sunken, rings around them suggesting lack of sleep… which of course, the whole household knew, if none dared mention.

"We must amass an army in response, of course," he snarled at the warlock for asking such a stupid question. The messenger quailed slightly at the anger of his lord. "And you, my erstwhile scout…"

The messenger stepped forward at the lord's behest. "I am yours to command, my liege."

A thin smile graced the other's lips, although it did not reach his haunted eyes. "You I have an important task for. It is your duty now, to find the Keepers. Of course they will already know of this, but I intend to convince them to our cause… or, at the least, convene a gathering of heroes."

"I will do as you command, my lord." He bowed low, determined not to fail. "I shall be swift."

"You had best," the lord intoned gravely. "Time waits for no-one…"

***
The Keeper peered deep into the scrying orb, focusing what little magical power he personally possessed. Yes, it was as the messenger said… already he could see it, the legions of death rising from their endless tomb. The Dead God's lust for clichéd world domination was well-documented, having only been driven back a few months before the end of the Ancient War.

Well, it made sense that eventually the lord of the Underscape would try again. The Keeper frowned. Technically, he wasn't supposed to get involved… but the heroes he had met were too bright a candle to be merely snuffed out.

Lazily, the perfect solution sauntered up to him, inspired by Abaddon's messenger. "Oh, that should work, Roquelaire?" he asked the quizzical-looking bird perched next to him.

"Can't judge until I know what you're on about," the avian replied.

"How long ago, exactly, did the Ancients fall?" the Keeper asked. Roquelaire raised his wing and scratched it with his beak, thinking.

"Two years ago in seventeen day's time. What are you…"

The Keeper tapped the side of his nose. "I think our erstwhile companions must of course celebrate the two year anniversary of their victory, no?..."

Roquelaire snorted. "You plot too much."

"And you too little. Just remember who's feeding you!"