Chapter 19:
The Rot within one's Mind.
Now I have to confess that I had originally decided not to include the gritty, dirty details of what it must be like to feel yourself weakening, and then dying slowly as you forget who you are and then become something else. I admit that revealing this, and the depths of sheer cruelty involved, makes it very clear that I'm not human, well not entirely human with regards to psychological and emotional definitions of humanity. Physically, my body has undergone so many changes that I know there is little left that's purely human about my body. In this case, I'm referring to what goes through a prisoner's mind as they die, before they are raised as a Skeleton Warrior, bound to serve me until death takes them a second time. That is why Skeleton Warriors make such effective shock troops. The sight of so many undead coming towards you, determined to kill you without making a sound, your spells having limited success at knocking them about while swords and arrows do no harm, is an unnerving sight to say the least.
I'm no longer human. That much I've figured out. I'm becoming something else… what exactly… I don't know and I doubt that I ever will understand it fully. I could confide my concerns, but that would make me look weak. I've had enough problems in my short time here, and I don't need more. Any sign of weakness will be exploited, and I'll have to either fight somebody to the death or put down an insurrection because my Inner Circle and some of my more powerful minions have this unfortunate problem where they aspire to be more than they are – they want to be Dungeon Keepers and wield the power that I wield. Power is one of those relatively fickle things. If you don't flex it often enough people assume that you do not have it or are unwilling to use it, which in turns means that you are weak, and should not be the Keeper. But abuse of power will mean insurrection. Using power, or abusing power… it's a fine line, and any Dungeon Keeper will tell you that it's a line that all Dungeon Keepers walk everyday, because our every move and every step is observed, with people waiting in the wings to take us out.
I can see their thoughts only because the prison saps their power and weakens them, to the point where their memories of anything of importance, whether tactical intelligence or actual knowledge is already lost. The mind can then be read like a book, because it has already been hacked and wide open. It's like a computer hacker who lacks skill and destroys the information inside a computer he actually wants and leaves himself with lots of worthless garbage. The "worthless garbage" in this particular scenario is the victim's sense of self, or their identity is ingrained in virtually every cell of their body.
I did promise you, dear reader, that I would provide you with a more accurate, more fulsome picture of events as they transpire. And in keeping with that promise, I give you, perhaps the last thoughts of the Warlock that proved to be far too stubborn for his own good. The words are his actual thoughts, in the last hours of his life, from the moment he rose from a slumber that did nothing to refresh him or heal his wounds, until he realized what fate awaited him. It would have been far more interesting to actually throw him in a Torture Chamber, to extract all the information he would have possessed, for he was actually one of the Mentors in the employ of my opponent in Lush-Meadow-On-Down. I do not, at the present time, have a Torture Chamber. I believe that I've rambled on about numerous inconsequential matters for long enough. I present you the thoughts of one unfortunate enemy Warlock, pure and unadulterated:
I am awake, I know that. I can see the bars of this small prison cell. The bars surround me on all sides, solid metal… steel… with magic that suppresses any magical ability and physical prowess. I know who I am. I am Cram-Naej, a Mentor, in the employ of a Keeper who refuses to use the title. I know not her true name, but then, none do… she calls herself Feral, and her banner… her banner is that of a swooping falcon, with its claws extended, mouth open as it cries, against a poison green background. She is my Keeper, though she scorns such a title.
There is no sense of time, no sense of place within this Prison. I can still recall, but with increasing blanks, how I was captured, my body bears the wounds from both blade and magic of those red things…. Red… Bile Demons… that tried to impale me, and the magic of those doglike Demon Spawn… and there was the thing that ripped through my defenses as if they did not exist. He was powerful, very strong and extremely dangerous. He would be a worthy opponent to my Keeper… whoever that is… Feral. Yes. Her name is Feral… but not Keeper Feral. Just Feral.
Suffice to say, it's rather embarrassing to be captured and now be forced to wait upon a rescue attempt, and there are so many of us, so many of us that bear the same mark, that shows we are brothers, kin of sorts, bound in service to someone. There are so many of us, and so many occupied prison cells, like little rooms in this massive place. I was captured, during combat. The patrol… captured, I think we were all captured. Yes… but some of those cells that held members of my patrol are now empty…. They are either dead or are being persuaded to convert. My own patrol was tasked, with… ensuring security… of the outlying positions that guarded against enemy attacks. I cannot recall who was amongst my patrol, only that there were six or seven, perhaps eight members of my patrol. I cannot recall who was among its number. When we arrived at one of the outlying positions… we were ambushed and cut asunder so quickly, I had not even the time to raise an alarm that we were attacked, and that there is an infestation from a Rival Keeper in her territory.
Twenty-five cells, at least that many… there are four in a row and I can see at least five rows of them. Each one is small, just large enough for one, with barely enough room to lie down. Many were occupied with every kind of warrior from the lowly and pathetic Giant Beetle and Giant Fly, to Demon Spawn and Bile Demons. Three cells away from me held three of my brother Warlocks: Kane… Tiberius and… and… I can't remember his name… I think he was new in our Keeper's employ. That is most likely why I do not remember his, or is it her name? Ferocious… no Feral. Feral. I must remember that name.
My mind, I have noticed that it is not the fabulous instrument that it once was. It seems to me to be far slower, somehow weaker. I know that my wounds are not healing as they should, and that… how long have I been here? I don't remember how long it has been? I can't say whether it has been hours? It could also be days…. Perhaps it has been a week…. No… it cannot be a week. It must be at least days… I woke up here and I don't remember being knocked unconscious to be the last memory I have before awakening in this cell. No matter, a rescue would soon be coming and… did I manage to alert my Keeper…. I don't think… I don't know where this enemy of my Keeper has built his Dungeon. Even a rescue will not come in time, for they don't know where to search for me and the others who have been captured.
These Prison cells are well designed, as they suppress magical ability and are surely sturdy enough to prevent anyone from physically breaking the bars to attempt an escape. Every prisoner is isolated from the other with a Cone of … Silence … around the individual cell…. It prevents us from talking to each other to even try to come up with some method of escape. But surely there is a way to escape…. Wait… those thoughts… I have had them before. It is Déjà vu… I am reliving the same day? Am I in some kind of perverse nightmare from which I cannot awake? My physical form is weakening, and there is no mana in the air. I can't feel it while normally I can, because I'm a Warlock. What is happening to me?
I cannot gather any mana for even the simplest of spells… my powers… my ability, it's as if I have none and it has taken… Two? Three days for my powers to become so depleted, and for me to feel like I'm floating. It could be dizziness due to a lack of food and water, but it's my mind… my precious mind, my most precious asset…. It is dying while I continue to live… I have memories, but there are fragments, like drawings and designs upon crumpled parchment… not clear no matter how much I try to remember. My, memory … memories, are fading, dissipating like dust clouds before the wind.
My hands! What has happened to my hands! They should not look like this…. All pale, and gaunt – mere skin bone and sinew where there was once flesh and blood within. There is nothing but bone! There were others I saw… I remember something but it's so clouded, I can't remember what happened to them. Those empty prison cells… there were others there. Bile Demons and Trolls…. but, I can't remember who they were and I cannot remember what happened to them! As prisoners or as…. as …. I can't remember… me! They were like me! But what am I?
What have the fates planned for me?
Hours pass – I think, or it could be days, I don't know. I can't tell. My mind, my most valuable possession is nothing but broken fragments of what it once was… thoughts, images, pictures… I cannot focus, I cannot maintain a coherent stream of thought…everything just flashes by, - images and displays of pyrotechnical light and sound. What is happening to me? Are those my memories? Are these images being forced into my mind? I do not know! I need someone to help me, to explain what is happening! Nothing makes sense! Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
Nothing? What is nothing? What was I thinking about just now? How long ago was just… have I had these thoughts before? I have a feeling of something, akin to de… de ja vu? Why don't I remember? What am I supposed to remember?
I hear the gasp and turn to see the impact as one of the Beetles in a neighboring cell falls to the floor, convulsing while he takes one, two, three more raspy breaths, undoubtedly his last breaths. It must have been days since we were given any food or water. What happened, what did I do to deserve such a fate? I have served my… master loyally and without fail. What is happening to me?
The flesh, what little of it that remained, sloughed off the body, the carapace, disintegrating, breaking down to a slime along with most of the internal organs, death and decay and putrefying, the smell of damp rot and stale blood heavy in the air. The torches along the walls add light and shadow, giving the entire event a macabre air to it.
Within minutes, all that remain of that… that Beetle are its pure, bleached white bones. The blinding flash… my eyes… arrggghhh… the pain… I know my hands are covering my eyes… why can't I see? I've moved my hands… all I see is darkness. And more darkness! No! I cannot be! I cannot be blind!
Wait… sight is returning… what is that? It's a skeleton… with a sword and shield? By the Dark Gods! That cell... it held the skeleton before… but it was the dead skeleton of some minion that had been a fellow warrior of the Feral! It was not possible for it to be dead, and now walking around and moving. No wait… that is possible. That fallen creature is now one of the undead … and it serves the master of this twisted, demented place! Its cell door was open and it is walking away, leaving me to die and join it in eternal servitude. This cannot be my fate!
It can't be that I have seen this before, but I know that I've seen this before, I know that I have. How could I see such a thing and not remember seeing it until I see it again? What is this diabolical place supposed to be? This is not a prison, or a holding place….
Is this is some form of magical manufacturing? This is a factory to convert the living in undead warriors who will serve the Keeper of the Black Flame. Wait... how do I know that? That name? Black Flame? I will die, and rise again to assist them in wresting control of this land. My former master would be hard pressed to replace the losses to her forces… her portals are all but exhausted. My former Master's? Mistresses? … Her army would grow steadily weaker…. And Keeper Firestorm's was growing in strength.
Black Flame? Former Master? Keeper Firestorm? Who do I serve? I know the name! The name of my true Keeper! His, no her name…. her name is… I am… I am… by the powers…"
I admit that, as the Keeper of the Black Flame this is my doing… and I'd left every prisoner to die in this slow and painful fashion. The mind is a terrible thing to waste… especially one as powerful and talented as that one. I don't have any excuses or anything that I can say to morally and spiritually justify what I have done to those unfortunate creatures. It is not something that you, the one reading this sordid tale of misadventure, can understand because I am not sure how to explain why I do it. I could just kill them, which would be far kinder, but I do not. I admit that I included that unfortunate bastards thoughts for only one reason. I don't want to be too biased. I admit that as the pen holder and writer, I get to write what I want, how I want and there will be few people alive to contradict my words, and no minion dumb enough to. But I include that to make you aware that I am aware that every day I spent out here, fighting and killing, a small part of the human me, dies inside. I can protect a part of it, to keep myself whole, and to keep myself from losing everything that makes me human.
Being a Keeper, sometimes I have caught myself wondering whether my life would have been easier if I had not been cast in this particular role, which has left me with pretty much nowhere to go, and no one to turn too. Guess you could say that I pour out what's left of my human heart and soul in this "journal," just to get everything, or as much as I can at any rate, off my chest so that I can have a little bit of peace and sleep at night. I know who I am. I know what I was. I just wished I knew, for the life of me, what exactly I am changing into.
In a sense, I'm trying to give myself a place, to preserve just what makes me human. To ensure that when I return home, whenever that might be, that I can take something that I can use as some kind of reminder that I am human. Laugh if you will reader, smile if you want to at my pathetic attempt at humor but don't you dare, for one moment actually pitying me. I do what I do because I am the Keeper of the Black Flame, and this is what it is going to take for me to return home.
Perhaps some of you reading this wonder whether it would have been "kinder" or perhaps more "merciful" to allow that particular unfortunate creature to serve the Black Flame. The thought did cross my mind, but the question becomes how can I actually secure his loyalty? It would be next to impossible without the Torture Chamber, to break his will and then subvert him to my cause. If I had the necessary facilities, I would not have left him to perish like that, or left any of his fellow warriors to perish in such a fashion, unless they truly refused to repent and serve me. Don't get me wrong. Traitors of my enemy that convert to the Black Flame would be those that draw suicidal missions, or at the forefront of any battle. I cannot trust a traitor or a turncoat, even if it is one that I myself have created.
Not that it matters. The relative stability of this land is about to be shattered. My warriors stand ready, and my enemy will sooner be standing before me. I'm going to cut down this pestilent wench, and once I'm done offering her blood and her skull to the Dark Gods, I'm going to mount her head alongside those of the Lord of the Lands who have tried, and failed, to stand against me. Hers would be a fine skull and offering to Kharnax. It is very true that in the middle of a war, when battle is fought to the knife's edge, the war cry upon your lips, what exactly a "sin" is, is easily forgot, swept away by the tide of battle and blood lust.
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