Vordakai felt cheated. One of the things he liked most about lichdom was to strike fear into the hearts of his enemies with his mere existence, all the while being free from such weakness himself. A lich should never, ever experience fear. And yet...

  He'd wanted to be challenged, pushed to his limits, forced to step up his game in order to regain his old powers, and now his wish was being fulfilled.

  The elf and her servants were more of a nuisance than they'd first seemed. The accursed woman had single-handedly disabled the best trap of the entire tomb, apparently for good. Her thumb-sized cleric, the one that wore his own facial hair as a bib, had caused unthinkable damage to the tomb's devices, damage that would take a terrible amount of effort to repair, if at all.

  And worst of all, the Oculus was acting strange.

  Vordakai had spotted two more adventurers (if they could be called by this name) lurking at the entrance of his tomb. One of them was the baffling red-haired woman who'd defied his call in her life and wiggled out of his grip in death. Why was her soul so unnaturally smooth and slippery, as though parts of it had been removed or filed off to make it harder to hold onto? And like the cunning little slave she was, she'd chosen a powerful new master for herself: a heavenly being disguised as a puny, squishy two-eyed cleric, strong enough to challenge Vordakai and snatch the redhead's body and soul away from under his very nasal aperture.

  They'd entered the tomb, then... disappeared.

  Over time, Vordakai realised that the operation of the Oculus was being disrupted by a shrouding spell the disguised celestial was using on himself and his new servant. Vordakai could only follow his moves by tracking an annoying blur in the images conveyed into his mind by the artifact. He deployed zombie cyclops patrols in the part of the tomb already cleared (and wrecked) by the elf, but these two evaded them with marvellous skill, even in cases where he directed his undead thugs straight to the fuzzy spot.

  That meant the elf was an unexpectedly smart tactician. She'd entered with a full group, pretending it was all she had, causing Vordakai to use up most of his resources to make the last hours of her life miserable – and then, staggered in time, she'd unleashed her secret walking superweapon, able to pass through the complex like a knife through soft butter and, eventually, to strike at Vordakai when he was distracted by the fight with the elf and her servants. But how could a simple druid have captured a celestial and made him do her bidding?

  What Vordakai needed to do now was split his forces and attention, instead of focusing only on the elf as he'd done before. It was exhausting for his mind still hampered by the aftereffects of his long slumber, but also a welcome challenge. Once he knew what to look for, the Oculus was more than capable of monitoring both parties at the same time, and it had some other functions he shouldn't sleep on, either.

  And, of course, he still had his pack of soul eaters.

  Horagnamon had proved itself deplorably incompetent at getting the names of the elf's servants. Vordakai didn't cancel the mission, letting the bird have its share of challenge and excitement, but he knew better than to rely on it completely. For someone embarking upon a dangerous mission to seize an all-seeing eye, these adventurers were all too careless with regard to the content of their backpacks. They might have outwitted the raven with their childish nicknames, but that didn't mean they had outwitted Vordakai himself. All he had to do was consume a soul to learn the two-eyes' language and writing system (which he'd done at the first available occasion anyway), then focus the Oculus on the thick volume of The Chronicles of Nightvale sitting in the smallest adventurer's bag. It was a rudimentary piece of primitive human literature, poorly written and painful to read, but it contained all the names Vordakai had needed, and then some. If he fancied, he could now deploy a custom soul eater for every single member of the two groups, including the cat. Except, of course, the barbarian, who now belonged to his collection of puppets and, on a different note, was temporarily out of his reach.

  He finally decided to only honour the leaders with a personalised foe each. The slaves would scatter once the master was beaten to death. Three ancient, ferocious homing soul eaters should be enough to stop them. One for Guelder Summer Breeze, one for the elusive Tristian, and one for Felicia Darlac, for good measure. Good luck to hiding from those.

  Out in the world, as witnessed through the Oculus, the sun was just about to rise above the eastern horizon somewhere in Casmaron. The fur-clad two-eyes had split into three groups over the last days. One led by the last shrouded woman was gone, as suddenly as they'd arrived. Two smaller units remained, both taking pains to stay out of the other's way. In the wisp's capital, now manned by soldiers from the west, the last shift of the night watch was coming to an end. Soon it would be time for another Call to recruit them, too.

  Inside the tomb, a trio of zombie cyclopes were testing the defences of the "cleric" and his red-haired sidekick. The shrouding spell had expired during the night and revealed the two of them huddled together in a corner, wrapped up in layers of blankets. Vordakai could almost feel the unsettling vibration of holy energy in the air. The redhead threw herself at the attackers, claiming their full attention, distracting them from the "cleric." She was weaving her way quickly among the lumbering oafs, her path marked by stab wounds spurting zombie juice and one of the cyclopes crashing into the ground. Meanwhile, her master sneaked up on another one from behind and brought it down with pure, terrifying holy power, without even breaking its skin. The one zombie that remained standing was hellbent on avenging its comrades (Vordakai sometimes found it entertaining to attribute emotions to them) and crushing the pesky redhead to pulp. She dodged its club once, danced away twice... and the third blow finally connected. It was a miracle her head didn't explode when she hit the wall. Now the "cleric" was on his own...

  Stolen novel; please report.

  To improve his multitasking ability, Vordakai focused part of his mind on the other group, still asleep after their nighttime battle with one of their own. It was time to whittle down their numbers a bit more. He primed the Oculus at the elf ranger keeping watch over the others, the one that seemed to be the closest confidant of the leader (obviously, more advanced life forms stuck together). It made perfect sense to gain control of them and make them use a lesser servant for target practice. Perhaps the bib-bearded one. The less enemy clerics around, the better.

  It wasn't as easy as it should be. Even though this group was clearly visible at all times, it was well protected by an aura repelling any evil attempt of intrusion. Vordakai had to feed the Oculus with an extra dose of pain to empower it for a breakthrough. Alas, physical pain was not something he could inflict upon himself in his elevated state of existence. That left him with mental pain. Humiliation by the hands of the disguised celestial... failure to perform a simple reanimation on the redhead... No, that was not the right sort of pain. The mighty Vordakai should not make himself feel flawed and insufficient, just to power up his eye. He shoved those thoughts away from his consciousness. Instead, he thought back to The Chronicles of Nightvale, immersing himself into details of the uncouth prose stuck in his mind, feeble attempts of semi-sentient races at creating culture, at even trying to mimic the greatness of his ancient empire... To imagine these vile and insignificant creatures taking over the world, instead of crawling back under the rocks where they belonged... The pain was real, almost physical, so much that it sufficed for ramping up the artifact's power output to the next level. Just a little more... and Vordakai had the elf's mind firmly in his mental grip. The pushback from the aura was uncomfortable but too weak to stop him. Delightful. Farewell, shortie. That's what you get for unmaking the ancient, glorious creations of your betters. Now to move the hands... grab the bow... nock an arrow... take aim, straight to the eye...

  "Hrkhm."

  Snapped out of his concentration, Vordakai finally noticed the new arrival, and for the first time in his life and unlife, started to think that two eyes were actually better than one. Besides the all-seeing Oculus, it would be nice to have an ordinary eye, too, for mundane tasks like spotting the skeletal thanadaemon that stood before him. Its hunched frame was enveloped in a ragged black cloak, its bony fingers clutching a lantern that flooded the throne room with tremulous blue light.

  Except it wasn't a thanadaemon. Its looks would have deceived anyone else who didn't have the power of the Oculus at his disposal at all times. Vordakai, however, saw straight through the disguise, even through the disguise underneath the disguise, down to the entity's essence of blazing... hilarity (whatever that phrase was supposed to mean). Also, thanadaemons needed no lantern to navigate the misty waters of the river Styx. Still, it somehow felt like a bad idea to confront the newcomer about its identity. Not playing along would bring about unwelcome consequences, and Vordakai would never have got where he was without a certain sense of diplomacy.

  "Has the Rider of Death sent a message to His humble servant?"

  The newcomer's voice was like wind hissing through a tibia.

  "You are in grave danger, Lord Vordakai."

  Sadly, one thing the Oculus was incapable of was to convey the emotions of its wielder in a readily understandable form. He couldn't just rely on a weary glance to communicate how bad he found this pun. For good measure, Vordakai gave a mental command to Horagnamon to do its masterful caw-cackle, and hoped his guest would be content with that. In fact, it was. Its skull-face reshaped itself into an amused grin, completely out of place.

  "You are not hopeless, my lord. Not at all. Most liches have just as much sense of humour as a handful of dried butterflies, but you are exceptional in this regard, too. If only you embraced this neglected side of your nature..."

  "To the point, daemon. Technically, I have as much time on my hands as anyone could wish for and then some, but that does not mean I want to spend it all conversing with you."

  "A battle is coming. The enemy is formidable, even for an all-powerful lord of death like yourself. Traditional resources, like unwieldy zombie cyclopes or half-starved soul eaters, will not be enough to secure your victory."

  Normally, Vordakai would have unceremoniously strangled anyone who voiced his own doubts so clearly. In the present situation, however, it didn't feel advisable. Also, eternity was boring if one shut himself off from new ideas.

  "What do you advise, then?"

  "Creativity. A practical joke, if you like."

  A joke. Why a joke? Vordakai found himself itching to ask whether the newcomer mistook him for his own court jester, dead for millennia and never appreciated enough to be reused in any role. Once again, he was tempted to kick the pseudo-daemon out into next century... if only its energy wasn't so eerily familiar, reminiscent of his unexpected awakening. This strange being had been there, guiding and nudging forward the pitiful two-eyed thief Vordakai had later on forced to eat his own soul and vomit it up again a couple of times. Vordakai resolved to listen carefully, and maybe even consider following the advice he'd be given.

  That joke had better be funny enough to let a lich have the last laugh.