Tired Of Death

"I am called Dreth, and I am here to seek your aid," Dreth replied with as much dignity as he could manage through a closed door.

"Really? Our aid is it?" the voice replied. "Better come on into our lair then, hadn't you, if you're feeling brave."

The door swung open, and Dreth stepped inside, followed more slowly by the others, who cast glances at each other, apprehensive at this invitation into the lair of powerful magic users.

Inside, against all of Frumble's expectations, was a small cosy room, much in the style of ones favourite grandmother. A fire crackled merrily in a stone hearth, with the traditional large metal cauldron hanging over it, with contents he couldn't, thankfully, see. The whitewashed walls were clean, and small pictures hung at random intervals.

In the middle of the room, sitting on a rocking chair that rocked itself, was a fat old woman dressed in black, knitting a scarf. Frumble had to admit she certainly looked right for the part. A bulbous nose, sufficiently wart covered, spread itself out in the middle of her face. Small round eyes glared forth, and he felt them bore through him, as if seeing into his very soul. Her chin bristled with bristles, and reminded him of a couple of pigs he'd seen. On a table next to her was a pair of spectacles on a stick, in the style of those you would find at an opera.

Her sister was standing over by the fire, looking into the flames. She was an almost direct contrast in appearance. Exceptionally tall and skinny, she seemed to be all sharp angles. She was dressed in black too, but such a dark, deep, black she was almost invisible. Her face matched her body, long and narrow, with an enormous hooked beak for a nose. 

"We have guests Hilda!" screeched the fat witch in the rocking chair, without a pause in her knitting. 

"So we do Hetty," replied the second witch, not looking round. "So we do."

"Strange looking sort," Hetty said, rocking madly. ���Half of them are dead it seems."

"Unusual guests indeed," Hilda agreed, still looking into the flames. "And yet, they are more than they seem I feel."

"Oh sister, so they are." The fat witch stopped her knitting for a second and picked up her opera glasses, peering through them at the group.

"Three zombies, a Halfling wizard, a rogue in love, a seer who isn't quite, a… well. A young woman with the heavy mark of dark destiny on her, and…" She stopped and squinted at Dreth, as if not quite believing what she saw. "And Him. We're honoured today Hilda, look who's dropped in on us. Better get the best sherry out."

"You know me?" Dreth stepped forward. 

Hetty put her spectacles down and resumed her knitting, the needles cl.i.c.k.i.n.g in counterpoint to the chairs squeaking. "That we do young fellow, though it's been a while, hasn't it Hilda?"

"It has indeed Hetty, quite some while."

"I've spent the last few centuries in a dungeon. What do you know of me? Tell me!" Dreth sounded almost like he was pleading.

"Oh no deary," Hetty said. "You'll have to figure that one out by yourself. Go and ask his Lordship maybe, I'm sure you'll enjoy that, yes indeed." She cackled loudly. 

"Oh, good cackle," Percy said.

"Thank-you young Percy," the witch replied. 

"Hey! She knows my name!" Percy said, nudging Cuthbert. 

"His Lordship?" asked Dreth. "You mean the Overlord? Are you his allies then?" He fondled his sword.

"Allies!" Hetty laughed sardonically. "That miserable amphibian-to-be? Did you hear that Hilda?"

"I did indeed Hetty. I did indeed, and I'm not amused."

"I take it he's not a close acquaintance of yours then?" Cuthbert asked.

"Acquaintance. Ha!" the hag screwed her face up into something even uglier. "Used to date him, until he dumped me. Him! Dump me! Me! Hetty the Horrible! The one and only! Did it from a distance of course, and inside a circle of protection too, otherwise he'd be small green and croaking right now, I'll tell you that much for nothing." She spat into the fireplace, which flared up brightly for a second. "Some of the best years of my hag-hood, wasted on that bumbling idiot."

"So, you're not exactly friends with him," said Cuthbert, rubbing his hands together. "Good. Excellent even."

"What's it to you zombie?" Hilda pointed a finger at him, making the undead wince. 

"Nothing, nothing at all," Cuthbert said, backing off.

"Good." Hilda nodded.

"Listen," said Dreth. "We're here because the lad here," he gestured at the Seer, "said you might know where the Overlord is. Can you help us?"

Hetty grinned, a worrying sight. "Oh, we can do better than that young fellow. We can transport you near to his lair. How would that be for you?"

"What's the catch?��� asked Dreth.

"You have to do us one small favour when you get there," she said, putting down her knitting.

"How small?" Dreth said.

The witches smiled in unison. 

~ * ~

The Malevolent Citadel, like all good Fortresses of Evil, was built in a barren wasteland on top of a high, rocky peak. It's towers, made of the same dark stone as the crags below, rose into the ominous dark cloud that surrounded the edifice at all times. The blasted land around stretched out as far as the eye could see*, a maze of sandstone walls rising up from the cracked earth below. It was certainly an impressive sight, albeit not very convenient for the shops.

Some way out, on the outer rim of this hellish landscape, there was a brief flash of white light, which quickly faded, leaving in its place a motley group of figures.

Three of these were currently arguing about the ingredients used in teleportation spells. They were dressed in black, their tall pointy hats proclaiming their profession to be witches, though in this case it was really witches in training. 

Next to them, standing and admiring the scenery, were three undead, although it would probably be more accurate to count them as two and a half undead, as Sprat was only knee high. 

On the other side of the witches stood a man and a woman, holding hands. The woman's black and white striped hair was striking. She was garbed in a simple robe, and armed only with a dagger. Her boyfriend, in contrast, had two swords strapped to his leather armour, and he looked like he knew how to use them. 

Slightly behind the humans was a Halfling. Clearly a wizard from his robes, he was thumbing through a thick book and mumbling to himself. A gangling youth stood peering over his shoulder.

Finally, standing in the centre of this strange gathering, a tall thin figure in dark robes with a large black sword strapped to his side. He looked around him with an expression of eagerness on his ancient face. Dead eyes stared out at the landscape, and turned unerringly in the direction of the citadel, even though the view was obscured from their current position. 

~ * ~

Dreth nodded. He was close now. He could feel the presence of the Overlord. His hands tightened into fists. One way or another, he was going to get to the bottom of things, if it meant the deaths of thousands. As long as his death wasn't one of them of course.

"This way," he said, cutting short the various conversations around him.

"How do you know?" asked Percy.

"I just do," Dreth replied, stepping forward and nearly tripping over Sprat.

"I must say, I like what they've done with the place," Cuthbert said, admiring the rough walls that rose up on either side of them, canyon like.

Emerald coughed. "What are you talking about? It's horrible, I can barely breathe!"

"Ah, that's where I don't have a problem," Cuthbert replied. "Another example of the superiority of the undead race."

"You're not a race," Tybalt said, covering his own nose. 

"Of course we are!" the zombie replied. "What else would you call us then?"

Tybalt opened his mouth to reply, but then shut it again, unable to think of an answer.

"The Mystical Lexicon of Taraamapoo defines race as: 'Any people united by common history, language, cultural traits, etc.'," said Frumble conversationally. The wizard had cast a small spell, and so wasn't troubled by the poisons in the air. 

"See? The mage says we're a race," Cuthbert said.

"What sort of name is Taramamaaasoo?" Tybalt sneered.

"Taraamapoo," corrected Frumble, "is a fabled city on the far side of the Ocean of Twisted Death. The population is said to consist of mystics and wizards who spend their days researching new and powerful magics."

"So who does the cooking then?" Emerald asked.

"Well, not all the population are wizards, obviously," the mage said. "There are others who serve them of course…"

The discussion carried faded as the party wound their way through the cursed land, heading towards the Overlord's domain. 

Hidden in the rocks, eyes tracked their every move…

*which wasn't very far, due to the sulphurous emissions of volcanic vents in the area.