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Dreadlord Proletius, he also the Grand Master of the Deathknights of Crail, he also the Commander of the Forces of Evil (trademark pending, courtesy of the Forces of Justice), had been staring into the floor for the best part of the last hour. During this time, he had discovered a few things:
One, that this particular carpet was surprisingly thin, for all the fluffiness it boasted;
Two, that the floor itself was surprisingly hard;
Three, that dreadlords and deathknights alike were just as prone to stiff and/or cramping limbs as the rest of the population of this miserable shithole of a country were;
And finally, four, that large hoods had One Significant Advantage most people were unaware of.
Another heartfelt yawn escaped the Dreadlord, and he was glad about the large hood obscuring his face from the sorcerer’s view, for he was not sure the self-proclaimed Emperor of Dundee would appreciate somebody fighting off sleep while he prattled on a few meters away.
By the knickers of a London wench, could this guy talk! The McFifes had been keen on talking, too, but Lord Zargothrax must have studied the magnificent skill of pompous blather for decades, for he easily beat the late McFife, his Lady and all of their predecessors.
There were other, more important places that Dreadlord Proletius was supposed to be at right now. Alas, he was stuck here and, truth to be told, had stopped listening already five minutes into the “conversation”, when it had become obvious this was going to be a monologue instead of a dialogue (just like most of their interactions were), and that the aforementioned monologue was going to be peppered with the word “Auchtermuchty” at any chance that the dark wizard had. Truth to be told, again (it happened awfully lot, these days), Proletius had long had the suspicion that His Imperial Highness, the Scourge of Auchtermuchty Himself, Lord Zargothrax, just enjoyed spitting the name around the way it was supposed to be pronounced. Not that the wizard had any plans to share his reasons with anyone, his long-suffering force commander included, so those remained just wild speculations.
Proletius had, however, once dared to ask the Dark Lord for the reasons for his deep hatred towards those filthy things called the peasants of Auchtermuchty, and that was the only time in his memory, both before and after becoming Dreadlord Proletius, that anyone had actually caught Zargothrax off-guard, for the dark sorcerer had looked like a deer caught in headlights, as he stared the deathknight down for a moment before spitting something along the lines of “They know what they did!” and returning to his monologue.
Something something resistance. Something something Auchtermuchty. Something something resistance commander. Something something something Dundee. Something Auchtermuchty something. Something undead something something deathknights something Auchtermuchty something demons something Auchtermuchty again.
A few more yawns and an obnoxious leg cramp later, they had finally arrived at the part where His Imperial Highness usually sent his deathknights out, to slaughter more peasants in Auchtermuchty. This was normally also the part where Proletius started paying attention again, or at least tried to.
- Grand Master Proletius, dispatch your Knights of Evil, to slaughter more peasants in Auchtermuchty!
Of course.
There was just one teensy tiny little problem with that.
And that problem had yet to be somehow brought to the wizard’s attention.
He might as well try.
- With all due respect, Lord Zargothrax, - Proletius began, hoping he would have the chance to also finish that sentence, - I—
- Silence!
- But there is—
- Silence!!!
- But—
- Weren’t the commands clear?!
The wizard looked like he was about to throw a lighting bolt at his force commander.
Not that the deathknight worried about that much. What would it do? Kill him again?
- They were, Lord Zargothrax, but— Eh, forget it! Pompous prick, - the last part, Dreadlord Proletius muttered under his breath as he rose from his knees.
- What?!
- I said, as you command, Lord Zargothrax!
Well, that went well.
***
It took a while for the Grand Master of the Deathknights of Crail to descend from the top of the large pyramid. Why Zargothrax had insisted on building these instead of sticking to the good, old-fashioned and reliable method of building citadels, like the one in Crail, was, to Proletius, a mystery wrapped in an enigma, but here the Dreadlord was, climbing down the never-ending stairs while simultaneously avoiding running into goblins and undead scurrying up and down. Here, it should be noted that said avoidance normally involved pushing the offender out of the way; sometimes, they went tumbling for a few flights; sometimes, they went over the handrail or out of a conveniently placed window.
In any case, the first few times were normally enough for the message to settle in that they were supposed to jump out of the way when they saw Dreadlord Proletius incoming.
Climbing down, even with all the goblins and undead, was, in any case, easier than going up. Normally, if you were summoned to the Dark Lord (and you had to be ranking equal to, or higher, if that was even possible, than his force commander, to meet Zargothrax, in person and in one piece), you would be wise to start out early or risk missing the appointment.
A landing platform for the giant undead eagles would probably be too much to ask for.
Eventually, though, after countless stairs and hallways between them, and having disposed of just two goblins (it was their day off; one of the last, before Zargothrax obliterated the council of their trade union and put an end to it once and for all, "Or so help me!") and a particularly stupid dark robotic astral zombie on his way, Proletius made it to the lobby – or what could be considered as such, were it not void of any life, save for a group of regular zombies (formerly peasants of Auchtermuchty) busy sweeping the floor, and a very strange… hooded thing… floating mid-air that might or might not have begun its service to the Crown as the handmaiden of a princess and was now reduced to a receptionist responsible for opening a hatch in the floor to dump stupid folks who dared imagine they could come in to complain about their trivial shite, to Lord Zargothrax, into the caverns beneath, as a nice little snack for the demons that resided there.
The Grand Master’s second-in-command, Ser Zachary, who had been loitering around the entrance, at the wall that, without a doubt, would have fallen over without the support of his back, shook himself into a more or less acceptable pose when he noticed his superior approaching, only for his shoulders to drop again, once he realized what Proletius’ facial expression meant.
- What? Again?
- Yes, - Proletius walked through the door, the knight tagging along.
- But, - the deathknight began, in a sheepish tone, after they had exited the pyramid, - there are no peasants left in Auchtermuchty?
- I know.
- There is nobody left in Auchtermuchty?
- I know, - Proletius scratched his eagle’s neck, and the undead bird closed her empty eyes and made an ungodly sound that was somewhere between a squeal and fingernails being drawn across a blackboard, to let the master know that she quite liked being petted, and would Proletius please scratch her head.
- There are not even dogs left in Auchtermuchty?
- I know.
- Then where are we going? Glasgow?
- So you could get your arses kicked by random peasant women again? – the Grand Master shook something that might or might not be pieces of rotting avian feathers off his hand. – Amateurs!
He definitely must renew the spells put on the eagle, once they were back at Crail, otherwise the poor bird was going to fall apart mid-air at the worst moment imaginable.
- Oh… so you know about that. – Ser Zachary looked like his eagle had just horribly betrayed his trust and thrown the deathknight off his back.
- You all should be thanking me, on your knees, that Lord Zargothrax doesn’t know!
- Yes, Grand Master Proletius. But seriously now, where are we going? If it’s not Auchtermuchty, and it’s not Glasgow (a heavy burden had been lifted from the deathknight’s shoulders, for he appeared relieved when the Grand Master of Crail nodded; not to mention the impromptu sigh of relief that escaped him before Zachary had had any chance to contain it), then where? Cowdenbeath? Inverness? Unst?
- Vacation.
- What? – the deathknight had never heard such word; not now, nor before he became a deathknight. After the colossal troubles that the goblins unionizing had brought along, Zargothrax was not too inclined on approving any more trade unions, and neither had the McFifes been, before him. Some things never changed. – Where’s that?
- Va-ca-tion. Time off. A couple of weeks will be enough, and Zargothrax never keeps tabs on us anyway. This climate is starting to kill me. Again.
- Time off?
- Yes.
- Isn’t that going to get us in huge trouble?
- You’re a high-ranking officer, stop acting like a filthy peasant! – Proletius spat, glaring at his second-in-command. – Besides, even if he finds out, what is he going to do? We’re the Deathknights of Crail! Hardly think he can kill us again.
- I’m… you are making a good point, Grand Master, - Ser Zachary bowed, as low as he could while seated atop an undead avian eager to take off. – Please, forgive me my ignorance!
And off they flew, while somewhere on the top floor of his black pyramid, the Emperor of Dundee was wondering what was it with this sudden urge to sneeze.