There was a sense when Zalrodal stood on the walls of his newly acquired castle, looking over the lands that he could now consider to be his. The ground under him seemed to shake as the strong mountain winds threw themselves against the castle walls, he placed his hands on the parapets and closed his eyes feeling the wind blow through his hair making his cloak billowing behind him.

From the top of the walls, all of Zalrodal’s new lands could be seen. Most of the territory consisted of deep forests hiding him away from any unwelcome visitors. He had however assigned some of the goblins to begin cutting down the trees on the outskirts. Not only did they need wood for the winter but also to begin the repairs on the castle. The castle was in a miserable state, it wouldn’t offer much defence especially as it was missing one of its walls completely and the others were in disrepair. They would have to make a structure out of wood for now as goblins were not known for their skills in masonry.

In a sense, it was relaxing listening to the goblins work, improvised axes swinging nearly in rhythmic motions, the heaving of logs up the hill and the sawing happening in the courtyard were the only noises that filled the castle grounds in the past days. That and the goblins yelling at one another from time to time. Zalrodal was happy to see that the separate goblin tribes had split up the work by themselves without much conflict, leaving the Blakhook tribe to carry the logs up into the castle which they did with surprising efficiency. They had gotten branches that were both thick and circular enough to be placed under the log and managed to roll it up the hill by pushing and pulling on the log while replacing the branches underneath. It seemed that not every goblin that had joined him was completely inept.

There was one goblin who supervised the entire castle’s repair, the gathering of food, the stopping of fights. Zalrodal’s most trusted underling, Guglak. Guglak rushed around from tribe to tribe spurring them on as they worked, he yelled screamed at him some of the lazier goblins who were then immediately put back to work by their tribe leaders. Perhaps it wasn’t as efficient as an organised workforce but it worked, besides Zalrodal did not have the patience to deal with goblins yelling all day. He had dedicated his attention to more important matters, such as future plans of conquest and raids and the apparent coming of mountain-dwelling creatures that some of his scouts reported.

The creatures were one of the reasons he wanted the castle finished sooner, they weren’t outright hostile at the moment but who knew how long that would last. The creatures were reportedly furry and not much larger than his goblins and carried weapons made of stone and crude iron, they weren’t so different from his goblins in that aspect. Regardless if they wished to live in these parts they would have to accept his authority sooner or later. He couldn’t allow anyone to continue ruling in his newly acquired lands. Secondly, he had received reports from his goblins working inside the castle. Apparently, they had found the entrance to a dungeon or at least a staircase leading down into complete darkness. Exploring his own castle would come before dealing with any creature observing him.

Zalrodal was slowly realising that being a Dark Lord entailed more than bringing death and darkness upon the land. It included an astounding amount of logistics, management and leadership. More than he could have expected. He realised that this must be the real reason why Dark Lords had generals and powerful servants working under them. Not as guards to be slain by heroes but as rulers of their territories. For now, he had left that duty to Guglak who wasn’t quite what one could call a Dark Lord’s general but he did his job well enough for the moment.

Zalrodal stopped leaning against the merlons and brushed off the dirt from his hands and sleeves. He looked at the courtyard behind him and was satisfied at the sight of the goblins being hard at work. He made his way down the wall’s stairs, the slabs of stone wobbling under him with every step. He walked past two goblins operating a handsaw and cutting a log into planks, the mud leaving a clear trail of where he went. He walked into the castle hall through the hole left by one of the missing doors. Immediately he felt the warmth of the fires against his skin and the smell of goblins unyielding due to the lack of wind.

Zalrodal walked through the hall, the goblins greeting and saluting him with their screeches as he passed. He grabbed a torch from the wall and made his way to the dais opposite to the doors. The dais was nothing more than a raised platform at the end of the room, usually, it would be filled with a throne or a dining table for the lord’s family looking over the entire hall. However, as most things left in the castle the original furniture was a rotten and worm filled mess. He stood on the dais imagining what the room would look like once it was done, for now, they had placed all his treasure along with one of the walls and a line of cooking pots, stirring up whatever it was the goblins wanted for dinner.

Behind the place where the throne would traditionally be placed Zalrodal saw what the goblins had reported. They had set aside a large slab of stone on the floor leaving an opening in the ground. He looked down, seeing a long staircase leading deed underground in the direction of the mountain. He took the first steps into the darkness, torch held high illuminating the steps in front of him. The tunnel was in a much better state than the rest of the castle, its walls weren’t crumbling, the steps were solid and unmoving. The only thing that was similar was the state of abandonment, there didn’t seem to have been any signs of life in this place for a long time.

He had descended quite far into the deep, far enough to not be able to see the light of the main hall when he looked behind himself. He soon found a large wooden door finishing up the brief instance of a straight path. He placed his hand against the door and he pushed the wooden frames gave in and crumbled under his touch. A cloud of dust formed around him before revealing a large hall. Similar to the main hall above only grander. The sides of the walls were lined with great pillars of stone three or four steps apart from one another all directing Zalrodal’s gaze directly at the stone throne that stood imposing at the centre of it all. He walked towards the throne, taking in the hall. Old tattered banners flew from the pillars unrecognisable as the colour and cloth had long been deteriorating. The floor was lined with dust and the firepits gave not a sliver of warmth.

Zalrodal seated himself on the stone throne, crossed his legs and placed his arms on the rests. This is what it would feel like to be a ruler. He imagined his underlings in front of him awaiting his orders. He imagined the hall being illuminated by large fires and torches, he imagined the banners being replaced by his own, the hall being returned to its former glory. This was a place from where to rule. He looked around the room thinking about the first things that would have to be done, a smile couldn’t help but wander across his otherwise stern face. Finally, he came out of his trance and decided to continue exploring the dungeon. The larger the dungeon turned out to be the larger the seat of his rule would be.

Zalrodal dove deeper into the dungeon, exploring every nook and cranny that he had access to. The dungeon was filled to the brim with all sorts of rooms. Bedrooms, torture chambers, armoury, pantries, treasuries and many more. None of what was left in the rooms was however usable. It had to have been a long time since somebody had lived here. Fortunately, he had arrived to restore the dungeon, he would conquer the lands and bring riches to this place the likes had never been seen before. Zalrodal pushed deeper into the darkness, poking his axe at anything that seemed mildly suspicious. He had heard reports of adventurers being eaten by the furniture in some dungeons, especially chests, and he wasn’t planning to join the adventurers in their foolish deaths. He would be a Dark Lord and a Dark Lord is not beaten by furniture, however sentient it may be.

He had wandered for hours when he reached the last door of the dungeon. The room was blocked off by a door made of black steel. The door looked unaffected by the passing of time compared to the rest of the dungeon, the black metal still shining as it got struck by torchlight. Zalrodal pushed against the door to open it, but it did not budge. He took some steps back and readied himself, he sprinted at the door launching his full weight against its shoulders braced for impact and with a loud thud the door tumbled into the room.

He entered the room and immediately noticed it to be different. For one the furniture wasn’t completely broken down and rotten. The walls were lined with shelves filled to the brim with books of all sorts. The floor of the room had been completely taken over by what looked like a magic circle, although Zalrodal had not seen one of those in a long time. It glowed in a faint red light but was otherwise unreactive. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the shimmer of something shiny, a silvery metal poked out of a leather sack next to a pile of books. It looked very much like a piece of Visapis, the metal acted as a large pool of magical energy used by mages to cast spells if their other sources of energy had run out or their spells needed to be empowered. He approached the sack eager to attain the great treasure. With its contents he could also summon a servant from the portal, he wasn’t well versed in magic and would not have much use for the metal apart from selling it otherwise.

He stretched his hand out towards the sack, brushing past a number of books. A hand shot out from underneath the pile grabbing his forearm. The hand was a mixture of bone and rotten flesh, the light of the torch not allowing Zalrodal to see more closely. “Who are you?” a voice drier than any dessert spoke. The body rose from amidst the books, rotten flesh hanging from its ancient bones. Books dropped around it as it leaned towards Zalrodal staring him in the face. “Are you Mernur? Have you returned to me my lord?” the question was spoken as in a whisper but the voice carried itself across the room.

“My name is Zalrodal, I am the new lord of this place. Surrender yourself and I will allow you to serve me,” Zalrodal said, releasing his arm from the creature’s grip.

“You have not returned then my master?” the voice asked into the void, “Have you truly forsaken me?” the creature looked at Zalrodal, “I swore to protect this place from intruders, leave now and I shall spare you.”

“Spare me?” Zalrodal asked incredulously, he grabbed his axe and pointed it at the creature, “if anyone is going to spare someone it will be me.”

With surprising speed, the creature raised its hand to rise to the challenge of Zalrodal’s axe, three bolts of purple fire formed in its palm and were immediately shot out towards Zalrodal. He dodged the first two ducking under them as they vanished behind him, the third firebolt struck him in the shoulder making him recoil. Zalrodal retreated, ever wary of magicians since his last encounter with one. The creature spread out its arms and around the room a circle of purple fire emerged, tendrils of flame grabbing at Zalrodal scorching his flame at the slightest touch. He retreated further, stepping backwards his axe held high. He hit the end of the room, the flames grew closer.

He turned his vision away from the flames and to the bookcase, he had struck. His eyes darted from title to title until he picked out an old book bound in red leather. The title of the book was a word that brought fear into his heart. A word that had spelt out the end of many that followed evil ways. A word that would once have been his own end. Fireball. He ripped the book from its shelf and started flipping through the pages. With an outstretched arm, he started chanting the words he so vividly held in mind as he himself had been engulfed in fire. He could see the fear in the decomposing face of the creature that had once painted his own.

As he approached the final words of the chant he rushed forward and launched the book at his opponent. The heavy spellbook flew through the air striking the creature in the head. Immediately the flames subsided and the creature dived after the book before it struck the ground. “Do not destroy my treasures.” The creature clutched the book to its chest, all attention away from Zalrodal. Finally, it looked around as it felt a cold sting at the back of its neck. The last thing it saw was Zalrodal’s axe swinging from above decapitating it. The head fell to the ground with a thump. The blood that would usually stream out like a fountain was coagulated in its neck. “I hate mages,” he mumbled to himself.

Zalrodal picked up the sacks of Visapis and turned his attention back to the bookcase, there would have to be something on summonings. He saw a number of interesting titles ranging from the management of kingdoms and armies to magical spells. Perhaps he should study its contents further some other time. He did find the book he was searching for after a while, it bore the same symbol as the magic circle on the floor. He flipped through the pages until he found the summoning ritual requiring the largest amount of energy and started chanting. Visapis started glowing in his hands, emanating heat and light alike. The red circle under him started glowing brighter as he continued his slow chant. As he pronounced the last syllable the Visapis disappeared from his hands turned to dust as all the magical energy in it disappeared. Fog engulfed the room and the circle stopped glowing.

As the fog dissipated he seemed to be alone in the room. Did the summoning fail? Perhaps he didn’t have enough of the powerful metal? Did he make a mistake in the chant? “Ahem,” a voice filled the room. Zalrodal looked around to find its source without success, “down here,” the voice said. Zalrodal looked down and saw his summoned companion. He had envisioned a great warrior or a hellish beast but in its place was an animal. A rather small animal at that. A ferret with black fur and little horns growing from behind its ears, the ferret was also clothed in fine aristocratic wear. Seeing that it finally received attention the ferret gave a slight bow of its head, “Migaal, at your service oh my Darknificence.”