Anglinor’s Exciting Day

Anglinor the Undying, Lich King of the Nether Kingdoms, Festering Void and Keeper of the Weeping Souls, sat on his throne, literally bored out of his skull. The borderland raiders had been stamped out. The local rebellion had been ruthlessly crushed. The prisoners had been executed in a boiling pit of ravenous slug monsters. And he’d already had three baths.

There was nothing left to do.

So he sat, slowly decomposing, so incredibly desperate for entertainment that he’d left his body behind, sending his mind’s eye forth to watch the petty squabbles of his peasants. It was amazing how even after backbreaking labor, day after day, they still had the energy to scream at each other. He made a mental note to step up the floggings.

“Yes, yes,” he cackled. “Is it not obvious, Reynaldo, that your child is truly from the seed of your wicked twin brother Esteban? Your wife wishes to tell you, but how can she now, with the boating accident that has given her amnesia? Shout away your brief pitiful lives, tiny- ”

“Mr. Anglinor, sir? You have someone here to see you.”

“What?” he rasped, yanked suddenly back to his rotting body. A green eldritch fire floated above his chair. He peered with eyes near blind with cobwebs and cataracts to see the nervous face of his secretary in the heart of the flames.

“There’s a human here to see you, Mr. Anglinor. He says it’s important.”

Anglinor creaked into an upright position. “Ms. Tern, I am to be addressed by my full title. Do we need to have a meeting to discuss management protocols again?” He quite enjoyed management protocol meetings. The last one had involved a pit of molten lava and a bucket of kittens.

His secretary’s face went pale. “No, sir, uh, Mr. Anglinor the Undying, Lich King of the Nether Kingdoms, Festering Void and Keeper of the Weeping Souls, that won’t be necessary. At all.”

“Hmmm. Well, keep it on the agenda for Monday. If the gladiator fights don’t stretch too late we could probably slip it in.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, dejectedly. Anglinor’s dessicated lips crackled into a grin. He had found that for all the conquering, and enslaving, and crushing his enemies and driving them forth and hearing the lamentations of their women, it did him good to take time to enjoy the little things. Brutal tyranny was all well and good, but it was sheer petty dickishness that gave him the energy to keep from crumbling into dust every day. “Um, the human, sir?”

Anglinor ran a bony finger along one of his throne skulls. This could turn out to be a fun day after all. “Send him to Dungeon Three, Ms. Tern, and set up the viewing cage. Has Golog the Spider Queen come back from maternity leave?”

“No sir, but the were-hyenas came in today. They’re very eager to start.”

“Good, good. Tell them that there’s a bright future ahead of them if they manage to impress me today. Keep me posted.”

“Yes, sir.”

Anglinor settled back into his throne, sending his mind out again. It seemed that Esteban’s lover Margotta, once thought dead, had returned to expose him, pregnant with his child. But all was for naught, for a stray bar of soap had struck Reynaldo and sent him into a deep coma from which he may never recover. He idly wondered if-

Once again, he was sucked back to the physical plane, this time by a blaring alarm. Another fire, scarlet this time, poured out the sound of beaten gongs. He twitched his fingers irritably, and the noise stopped. “Yes? What? What is it?”

His secretary’s face popped up into the fire, somewhat dirtier and more terrified than before. “The human, sir!” she said. “He’s killed the skeleton guards, sir! Heading directly for the throne room!”

Anglinor rubbed his hands together, with the sound of fine-grit sandpaper. The day was turning out to be positively exciting. “Sound the general alert, Ms. Tern. I want all of our security activated. I want doors barred, traps primed, monsters ravenous, and guards… er, guarding. Get the hyena men on his scent, and see if you can set up the recording wisps. I’d like to add this to my collection.” Anglinor had extensive footage on the heroes who had tried to storm his castle. They were always a hit at the Dark Conclave buffet dinners.

“Right away, sir!” The flame winked out. Anglinor considered sending his mind out to watch this invader’s progress, but thought better of it. One ethereal encounter with a shaman had led to him being trapped in a doll for a century and a half. Very embarrassing. Better to wait until the carnage was all over.

A scarlet fire popped into existence at his shoulder. “He’s broken through first containment! All our ghouls are dead!” Another fire sprung up. “The giant snake is down, repeat down!” Anglinor chuckled before it turned into a spasm of coughing. This hero was promising. He began to mark his progress by the fires coming to life around the throne.

A new fire. “He choked the Roper with its own tentacles!” Another. “The trolls are all hiding in the corner!” Another. “Hyena men are down, there’s blood everywhere, there’s so much blood, oh my go-“. And another. And another.

And another.

Anglinor’s throne was brilliantly lit by dozens of points of red light, steadily burning away.

He couldn’t- no. He couldn’t. Not at all. Impossible. Inconceivable. He couldn’t-

He couldn’t actually reach the throne room, could he?

There wasn’t much space left for fires anymore.

Anglinor came to a decision. Fiercely grasping the arms of his throne with pallid claws, he managed the laborious task of standing upright. A wave of an arm wiped all the flames from the room.

Slowly, ceremoniously, he donned his moldering royal gown. He wrestled magical rings past swollen, arthritic finger joints. And with great care, he lowered his massive, spiky crown onto his slate-gray scalp.

A boom thundered from the door. Anglinor moved to the most dramatic spot in the room, and waited. A second boom. On the third, the door burst open.

The human strode in. He was covered in steel plate that had probably been quite shiny before all the blood got onto it. In one hand he held a notched sword. With the other he secured a massive bag slung over his shoulder. The only ornamentation of his armor was two golden wings mounted onto the sides of his helmet.

Anglinor summoned all the dark magic at his command. He rose to hover a foot above the ground. Lightning spun off from his fingertips in all directions. The very walls and floor thrummed with power.

When he spoke, magic wound round his words, making them echo with a physical force. “So, the righteous hero has made it to the end. But it is your end, not mine! I, Anglinor the Undying, Lich King of the Nether Kingdoms, Festering Void, and the Keeper of Weeping Souls, will not be cast down this day! What say you?”

The human rummaged through the enormous bag, bringing out a tattered letter. “Here’s your mail.”

“My mail.” Anglinor abruptly dropped back to the floor.

“Yessir.” the human said. “Royal Hyborean Postal Service.” He snapped a salute. “Neither rain nor snow nor acid pit traps will stay these couriers in the execution of their duty, sir. Now, I just need you to sign here, and I’ll be on my way.”

Anglinor signed in stunned silence. The human handed him the letter, and walked out the shattered door, stepping over the piles and parts of corpses on the way out, whistling cheerfully.

Long after he had gone, Anglinor still sat there, staring at the letter in his hand. Finally, he tucked a rotting finger under the seal and tore it open. He looked at the paper inside.

It read, “Dear sir and/or madam, I am writing to you with an urgent request and an amazing opportunity. I am the wrongfully deposed prince of Urganlia, and I need your donation to help me regain the throne…”