Murder the Heroes

Chapter Four; Section One

The main hall was a long affair, designed to seat hundreds. It hadn’t been used in that way for a long time. The Underking wasn’t one for parties.

And his people didn’t have much to celebrate.

Instead the King sat in his throne, alone, most days, content with the many facets of his own company. Often he could be heard giggling and mumbling along with the gibbering phantoms of his mind. Few disturbed him here. For you could never predict what he would do. He’d always been a little crazy. Now he was certifiably insane.

Nobody doubted it; least of all the Underking.

Outside the people toiled as they had for living memory, sifting the waters to separate out the precious mana – brought by underground rivers from far and wide. It collected there in a giant underground cavern, pooling in glimmering and glittering lake where each ripple cascaded across the ceiling, magnified a thousand times by the water’s inner glow. It was a magnificent and eerie lightshow, all in green. Underglow the people called it and that was the name of the town upon the lake as well.

It caught the eye and the mind, those scintillating waves. They hypnotised – drawing in the unwary until there was nothing left of who they were. And so the townspeople stared out over the water, their expressions as vacant as their minds, waiting for something, though none could any longer remember what for.

The mana was the source of the Underking’s wealth and power. It was why, even though he ruled only a small town, somewhere deep underground nobody scoffed when he called himself Underking. It was why he mattered. It was also why he was as mad as a syphilitic whore. The mana made him powerful; the mana made him mad – or at least, madder yet, for he’d been a few feathers short of a duck since long before he became underking.

This was what he was reflecting on, at that moment, as the braziers flickered and threw strange shadows upon the walls, in some strange counterpoint to the rippling light that washes in through the windows. He looked up. The great doors at the end of the hall swung open. “My King,” The little man said, as he came forward, bent at the waist, “My apologies for disturbing you.” The King regarded him, then reached into a small case, took out a pinch of green dust and sniffed it with a quick confident gesture. Reality shifted, sharpened.

“What is it Feckless?” Only the tiny pull of a muscle at the corner of the figure’s mouth gave away what he thought of the name the Underking had chosen this time. It was enough. It would satisfy the Underking for hours – he’d replay and reimagine the scene, over and over in his mind’s eye.

“The Champions of Aberfell are here, my King.”

“Are they?”

“Yes, my King. What should I do?” The King snickered. Oh how he loved these games!

“Get somebody else’s face tattooed over your own?” Not even a flicker this time. He needed to be more original. That was the problem with madness. In order to maintain you had to escalate, for people could get used to the strangest things.

He sniffed a pinch of mana.

“Yes, my King. And what should I do about the Champions?”

“Let them wait.”

“Very well,” The figure retreated backwards out of the door, still bent at the waist. The great door and he was left to his thoughts. The Champions of Aberfell were not among them. Instead, he ranged his wild and confusing mindscape and came to rest upon a woman he knew but could not recall.

She had the most arresting eyes.  

Sometime later there was a commotion outside. His eyes flickered to the door. Reluctantly he left behind the distant shores that he’d found – memories of a loved one who’d passed away. He blinked. What was going on out there? Presently his question was answered as the great door swung open. There were loud squawks of protest and a thundering voice that tugged at memories. A feeling stirred in his chest, but he could not recognise it. Was it a heartbeat? No, that couldn’t be, that was supposed to happen more often than that.