The Bell of the Underworld part. 1

"Hello, good sir. Can I ask for your help?"
Robert, a peasant of his condition, turned to see who had just addressed him thus. He was an elderly man, dressed in an ample black dress embroidered with silver stars. But what struck him about the arrival was the foul odor that seemed to emanate from him, a smell of marsh and putrefaction.

"Sir, please go away, you smell horrendously. Are you hiding a corpse in there?"

"I happen not to be at the moment, but I'm afraid the reason you smell this is that you are, in fact, dead, and that I'm a necromancer."
"I am?"
"Indeed. You're a ghost, and a very powerful one at that."
"Oh, and... Are you going to enslave me, or something of the sort? Cast Engledorf's Gruesome Ghost Enslavement on me?"
"My, my, of course not. I was merely going to ask for directions. Have you by any chance seen an old, wizened man smelling like I do?”
“- Uh ...”

“- Do not worry, I cannot ask you to remember everyone. But if you wish to accompany me, I will make conversation to pass the time while I find this man.”

“- Well, I do not remember what I was supposed to do, so why not. But can you do something about the smell?”

__________________

The villagers of Sainte-Colombe had been caught by surprise by the arrival of Zamioculcas at dawn.

Without warning, a troop of monstrous undead had presented itself at the entrance of the village; Father Henri, who had come to present the surrender of the inhabitants, had been the first target to the terrifying powers of the dark magician; in a few moments, his body was nothing more than an empty husk animated by an enslaved soul.

Zamioculcas savored the sensation of the soul of his victim sinking slowly into his stomach and threw his horde to the village. He expected to have at least fifty prisoners in this hamlet of two hundred and eight souls and hoped for a hundred casualties among the inhabitants.

With his hands raised, he chanted the incantations of his spells, and shot down the walls of the houses with fireballs and waves of death while his zombies and skeletons dragged their victims in line outside the small town.

"Demon, answer my call," mumbled the old man, stroking his long beard. How many years do you think I will be able to get from the souls of these unfortunate people? "
Immediately, from the long sleeves of the wizard appeared a small creature holding an oversized book in its arms. Adjusting an eyeglass on his scaly, red face, the miniature devil looked through his grimoire with astonishing quickness.

"By hell," he said after a few seconds, "I'll be able to answer you once you've given me three of their lives.

- Three? Usually, devouring the souls of three humans offers me almost half a century of life! The information cannot be worth that much!

- Three lives, my lord. Take it or leave it. "

With a scowl, Zamioculcas triturated his beard again, then pulled a ragged wand from his cloak.

"Well, I accept, but this is truly the last time I'm being scammed in such a way!"

And, grabbing Quilloro's Wand with his right hand, he magically snuffed the life of three peasants as if they had been nothing but flickering candles. The demon lodged in his sleeve seized their essence in a small vial that he held at his belt, then mechanically adjusted the appendage of glass on his nose.

"If you devour the souls of all the peasants here, I fear you can hardly get more than twenty years, thirty if you do not keep any slaves.”

“What? shouted the mage with irritated gestures. This is theft! A scandal! Since when do you not steal the remaining years of life of your victims? My magic cannot have gotten weaker!”

"Oh, no, quite the opposite," the devil recited monotonously, staring at the crying silhouettes waiting meet their fate. “It's your body, your physical envelope that faults you. If you do not discover the secret of immortality within a few centuries, you will have to eat several souls a day if you do not want your very own bones to turn to dust. Of course, you can always choose to look for the method of vampirism, or to create a phylactery that will...

“No, no, no and no! I will discover this damn elixir of immortality and abandoning my body is out of the question. What would I do with the dumb brain of a miserable beggar who has nothing to offer but his muscles? I keep my skin, as wrinkled as it is!"

The tiny devil did not answer and plunged back into the wizard's sleeve without saying goodbye. Zamioculcas did not pay attention, already lost in his thoughts; those could last for days if he did not pay attention. He had already spent far too long looking through grimoires in a shabby attic; from now on, he would lead his own army. He imagined the plans for his future home, the organization of the library, the size of the bed, and by the time he felt satisfied with his designs the sun was already close to setting.

Abandoning his reverie, the dark wizard killed most of the inhabitants of the village before heading to the city hall, awakening all the corpses he found on his way. He hoped to find a better chair, maybe even a decent bed - you had to be comfortable to be properly thinking.

The chair the mayor - whose soul had been particularly tasty - was a little too mellow to be comfortable, but the dark wizard decided that it would be appropriate as a temporary throne. Once seated, he found an oaken secretary which took four skeletons to be carried to the cellar. The room smelled a little stale, but Zamioculcas felt more comfortable there: he never liked light that much.

For a day or two – he wasn’t sure - he scanned his grimoires, laboriously translating the ancient languages, their complex grammar and uncanny alphabets he hoped would open the way to the desired elixir. When he closed the heavy volume hours later, he felt satisfied: he was progressing, without a doubt. Within a decade, he would probably have an experimental formula that would help him last long enough to reach his goal.

"Sentry! he called in a loud voice. Come to me immediately!"

The sound echoed for a few moments in the empty house, without anything coming to answer the wizard's call.

"Sentry! he called again, without further success. "Sentry! "

At the third call, a light footstep was heard on the stairs, and a long figure in a black cloak and a white featureless mask made his appearance.

"I answer your call, Master," said the creature in a dismal voice.

"Answer faster, in the future," Zamioculcas growled. “What did you observe from the roof of this house?”

“The sunrise, the shudder of the grass, the rustle of the animals, and a single man with a scepter walking in the direction of this village. "

The sentinel's monotonous voice stopped, but the wizard did not even bother to dismiss her: immediately, he was lost in thought, and began to express them in a low voice.

"No, it's impossible, Mandévilus cannot have found me already, he's too busy with his own problems... Maistreblois has no interest in negotiating with me and does not care about deeds of necromancy anyway. Marie of Vilice, then? Or... "

He paused, then paced up and down the room, paying no attention to the sentry who was still waiting for his orders.

"Yet, it's a man armed with a scepter, so unless that witch has disguised herself, she's not her, which means it's likely to be... Machronus!"

Suddenly, as if he had just woken up, the magician turned and barked at his motionless servant.

"Do not wait a second, go back to the roof, give alarm to gather the dead, and send some of them to harvest the neighboring villages. Demon!”

As the black silhouette slid away, the little devil stepped out of his owner's sleeve and opened his book with his expert hand.

"What is it, master?”

"I offer you twelve ounces of silver in exchange for a superficial knowledge of Machronus's army.”

“Twelve ounces, you say? Go up to fifteen, and I'll reveal ...”

“Go for fifteen but give me the incantations of a ritual of invocation of minor demons too. But be quick!”
____________________________


When the silhouette of Machronus appeared on the horizon, the little village was surrounded by a palisade bristling with stakes erected in haste, and ragged dead roamed round barely finished paths. A good part of the grove that had adjoined the village had disappeared, and dozens of trunks without apparent utility had been forgotten outside the village. Looking severe, Zamioculcas frantically looked through the window of the second floor of the city hall, hoping to see the vanguard of Machronus' undead troops.

"It's no use, master," said the sentinel's voice through the ceiling above him. “He is still too far for your eyes to see.”

"That's not what I'm trying to do, you moron," the wizard lied, nervously fiddling with his death wand which he usually kept hidden in his cloak.

No longer bearing to wait, he summoned one of his zombies and cast a spell of Sherpavent's Speaking Object on its head, and mentally ordered him to throw itself under the feet of the first army of undead he would meet. Trailing his muddy gaiters, the walking corpse sprang with his hesitant footstep that Sentry pointed with a stoic gesture.

"All right," muttered Zamioculcas. Now, let's see if this hideous hypocrite accepts negotiations. Skeletons! Bring me the potion grimoires and the magical ingredients. We'll see which of us is better prepared in the end. "
_____________

"Look, sir, an undead! Cripes, it's awful!”

"My friend, do not say such things. You are a ghost, after all, and therefore a bit of an undead, too.”

“Oh yes, it's true. I really cannot get the thought that I’m alive out of my head.”

“It's normal. No force in the universe is stronger than habit"said Machronus with a warm smile. “But it is of no importance, let us see what this poor wretch here has to say to us."

The poor wretch in question was a woman, whose formerly blue dress had been almost entirely soiled by the dirt and her own blood. It was, however, relatively in good shape compared to other zombies that the mage had been able to cross.

"MACHRONUS! MACHRONUS, CAN YOU HEAR ME? "

The voice of Zamioculcas resounded with such extreme force that even Robert, though dead, wanted to cover his ears.

"Loud and clear, dear colleague. A little too loud, perhaps.

“Very good, perfect” the voice replied more gently, the mouth of the deceased gaping motionless and edentulous. “I am Zamioculcas, sorcerer, and this is my territory. What are you doing here?”

"I am Machronus, necromancer, and I come as an invader," the other calmly replied, smoothing his short black beard. “If you wish, I propose that we meet dueling to death in the plain a league east of here. What do you think, confrere necromancer?”

“It's absurd, absurd! I do not wish you any harm, and I will not do you any harm unless you take a step further on my estate. Turn around, and you will keep your life, probably your body and possibly your soul.”

“Sorry, but I'm afraid I have to refuse. I came specifically to put an end to your harmful actions, Zamioculcas. I think the only way to do this is a clash between fellow necromancers. If you prefer, I can always set fire to your workshop with a Supreme Blaze of Zander the Great Incan…”

“No, out of the question, never! All right, you hypocrite, get ready to suffer. In the plain, tomorrow, at midnight. I hope your zombies are sharp! "

Shrugging his shoulders, Machronus raised his arm to the animated corpse, and a score of arms tore the earth out of the ground. Pale-skinned hands gripped the woman in a blue dress, then pulled her with them into the dusty earth. After a few seconds, a collapsed crater of earth stood in the place where the creature had conversed with Machronus a few seconds earlier.

"How rude," said Robert, floating near his companion's head, "he did not even say hello.”

“Forgive him, he did not see you, and we magicians tend to ignore the formalities. What matters is that he accepted. Now, we have to get to work.”

“What do you mean? Do you need my help to suck the lives of your victims and make them flesh puppets?”

“No, no, absolutely not, I just wanted to say that I have to revise some incantations.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon.”

“You are all excused”