Keys to the Demon Prison

"You guys have got to be the shabbiest dead people I’ve ever seen," Seth accused. He strode forward, passing between the unmoving corpses. "You’re what’s left after the vultures give up. You make zombies look healthy. If you want to scare people, you better pool your funds and rent a wraith or something."

Making fun of them helped his spirits, and the Standing Dead didn’t seem to mind. He saw them with new eyes, pathetic puppets without wills of their own. Slaves to his mood, unable to harm him if he simply refused. Decrepit, frail, pathetic. He hurried past them, too full of purpose and new confidence to leave room for doubt.

A black door stood at the back of the room. It had no knob, no keyhole. When he pressed on it with his free hand, the door swung inward.

The torch went out immediately. One instant it was blazing, the next not a spark remained, leaving behind impenetrable darkness. Trying to keep his courage steady, Seth stepped into the room and closed the door, relieved to have a barrier between himself and the Standing Dead. He dropped the torch and pulled the flashlight from his pocket. He switched it on, but no light came out.

"Why have you intruded on my privacy?" a weary, male voice rasped from further in the room.

"Who’s there?" Seth asked.

"It took courage to pass the Standing Dead," the voice said. "Especially after you initially lost your composure. Yet they are nothing compared to me. I could slay you with a word."

"Who are you?" Seth asked again.

"I am one of the undead," the voice answered. "Aren’t you supposed to be a shadow charmer, Seth? Can’t you probe my thoughts?"

"How do you know my name?"

"Your mind was open to me the moment you entered the Alder Door. More open than most would be. What do you suppose your parents are doing right now? Dying, perchance, like your friend Coulter?"

Seth squeezed his flashlight. "I don’t care what you are, you better shut up."

"Careful," the voice warned. "Down here, I am judge, jury, and executioner. Why do you want Vasilis?"

"Well," Seth said, gathering his thoughts, wondering what the voice wanted to hear.

"Don’t bother with words," the voice said. "I just needed to get you thinking along the right track. Zzyzx is really so close to falling? And Graulas is running the Society?"

"Yes. You know about Zzyzx?"

"Perhaps I should introduce myself." A sword appeared toward the back of the room, standing vertically, blade in the ground, visible only as a black silhouette, but surrounded by a corona of pristine white light that illuminated the entire chamber. It was not a large room, round with a domed ceiling. One other person inhabited the room, off to one side, a strange, decaying zombie. Every part of his body except his head and one arm had turned to stone.

"What happened to you?" Seth asked, aghast.

"I am Morisant," the zombie answered. His voice seemed very lucid considering how corroded his head and arm appeared. "I can tell the name means nothing to you."

"Sorry," Seth said. "Should it?"

"I was the chief architect of Zzyzx."

"What? I thought wizards made Zzyzx."

"Precisely," the semipetrified zombie answered.

"You’re a wizard?" Seth asked.

"I am all that remains of a once powerful wizard. Ages ago, some might have considered me the most influential wizard in the world. I see you know Agad. I am glad to know he is well. He assisted me with Zzyzx."

"How did you end up here?" Seth asked.

"There is more than one answer to that question. I am here because Agad put me here. That is an accurate response. I am here because I was master of Vasilis. Also accurate. Best answer? I am here because of hubris."

"Hubris?"

"That unhealthy variety of pride which leads a man to destroy himself. You see, sometimes, when a person gains too much power, he believes he is above the rules that apply to others. You’re aware that wizards live a long time."

"Right."

"I was the eldest of the wizards who created Zzyzx. The eldest by far. Wizards age slowly, but nevertheless we age. To a human, we may seem immortal, but death still awaits us in the end. Even enormous quantities of time inevitably pass. When my end drew near, in defiance of the wisdom my long life should have granted, I opted to cheat death."

"What happened?" Seth asked, fascinated.

"I turned myself into one of the undead," Morisant said with regret. "I wove a complicated spell of my own design, a spell so complex and potent that I believed I could fully preserve my mental faculties and continue my life in an undead body."

"Sounds like it failed."

"Something was lost," Morisant said. "I did manage to sustain most of my intellect. But certain sensitivities abandoned me, unforeseen appetites wakened, and my sword, Vasilis, began to lose its luster. I found ways to ignore the changes. I refused to admit my mistake, particularly to myself. Over time, I became a different person. Indeed, I became a threat to the safety of the world. My most trusted colleagues were forced to capture me and bind me here in this prison, changing most of my body to stone in the process. I vowed they would never take my sword, and, as they lacked the power to do so, they chose to hide me away with Vasilis, making me the guardian of the blade I had wielded in life."

"Wow," Seth said. "You seem to be back in control of yourself."

"Do I? Centuries trapped in this cell have provided ample opportunity for reflection. I have recognized my mistakes and mastered my inability to slake my appetites. But don’t be fooled. I am no longer the same man I used to be. My nature is fundamentally corrupted. I fought against darkness my whole life, only to become everything I despised. My only hope for atonement is to undo the perversions I sired and submit to the inevitable."

Seth glanced at the sword. "So what now? Do I have to pass a test?"

"I have waited a long time for the arrival of one worthy to wield Vasilis. Some candidates have been slain by the Standing Dead. The rest were slain by me, after I examined their minds. Your need is just, as are your intentions. Should you fail, Vasilis will have been honorably employed. Should you succeed, the Singing Sisters will serve as suitable guardians. They will certainly never wield it. The sword is yours under one condition."

"What?"

"You use it to dispatch me, then put to rest the Standing Dead."

Seth stared at the pathetic zombie. He had almost forgotten that part of his mission was to rid this area of evil. "But you’re nice."