Tommy ignored the masked lunatic, preoccupied with panicking over his lack of skin. He was all bones! Bones, bones, bones! Bony arms, bony chest, bony legs, bony everything. Did the computer fry him? How was he even alive?
"What in the fudge is going on?" he muttered, observing his twitching fingers with some sick fascination.
The masked man raised his head and spoke again: "We have dragged your soul from the depths of the underworld, my lord."
"Underworld? What are you talking about?" Tommy asked.
The robed men gasped in unison, then turned to hushed chatter.
"Silence," yelled the masked man, quieting his fellow robe-wearers. "My lord, are you saying that your soul went to the heavens rather than the underworld?"
Great, that's great—now they're suspicious. Or, at the very least, inquisitive about things he didn't have answers to. This whole being-a-sentient-skeleton thing was freaky, but he needed to pull himself together before these weirdos did something else to him.
Tommy tore his gaze from his bony hands and set it upon the masked man. "Of course not. Forgive me, I'm rather disoriented."
"You need not apologize to us lowly servants. It is I who is at fault for troubling you so soon after your resurrection," the masked man said, pressing his head against the ground.
This was awkward. All his life, he'd been the one bowing at the feet of people, scraping for forgiveness. Being afforded such power felt very strange.
Tommy removed himself from the stone box with great difficulty, nearly tumbling down as his bony feet failed to stick to the floor. He loomed over the robed men like a tower, standing twice the height of their tallest and half the height of the enormous columns. "You may rise," he said, stretching his nonexistent muscles. "And, please, remove your mask, tell me who you are."
He lifted his mask, revealing an unremarkable, wrinkled visage. "I am Isaac, leader of the Black Tongue. Myself and these eleven others are all that remains of our cult," he said, rising to his feet.
The Black Tongue. Now that was an edgy name for a cult. Cool, but edgy. Plus, who willingly refers to their group as a cult? Isn't that term derogatory by nature?
"I see. And you say you resurrected me to serve as my disciples. Why?" Tommy asked.
"You are the great necromancer, the lich of legend, the ravager of the kingdoms of man. It would be the greatest honor imaginable to serve under you, my lord."
Excitement gripped him. He played enough Dungeons and Dragons to get what was going on. A skeleton necromancer summoned by strange cultists that hoped to worship him?
When in doubt—
He held his hand out, palm facing upwards at the high ceiling.
"Fireball."
A sphere of red fire sprung to life above his hand with a raucous roar. It swirled like clothes in a washing machine, flames dancing violently, ready to be tossed.
Well, sorry, Francesca, but this was way cooler than your invitation to dinner. In fact, the blonde-haired beauty already seemed like a distant memory thanks to this certified, genuine, real-life, actual fireball floating in his hand.
"Remarkable, my lord," praised Isaac.
Tommy tried to raise his brow but found he couldn't—a most infuriating thing. "It's merely a fifth-level spell. Nothing to get excited about."
What a bluff. Even though he didn't have a face, the cultists could, no doubt, tell he was excited about it. He was easier to read than an audiobook.
"You are too humble! Even the archmages of the Blue Hand would struggle to cast such an impressive spell."
Impressive spell? Either fireballs were stronger here, or people were far weaker than him. And what was with that weird tingling sensation he felt in his gut? Could that have been his mana being drained by casting the spell?
The fire disappeared with a thought, and with it, the sound and heat it carried.
"Thank you, Isaac. Now that I have demonstrated a fragment of my great power, I have several questions for you."
Isaac stood as straight as his body would allow, hands clasped behind his back. "Please, my lord, ask me anything and I shall answer truthfully."
Great. This would be a good opportunity to learn some more about what was going on. He'd need to phrase it carefully so they didn't think he was a dullard, though.
"If you wish to be my disciple, I expect you to know the basics of magic-casting."
Isaac nodded. "Myself and these eleven others are familiar with the fundamentals of magic. And, while it exhausts me to do so, I can even resurrect a zombie as a faithful servant." He seemed proud at his words, though the spell sounded rather basic.
"Very good, very good. Then these questions should be easy for you." Tommy gave a polite cough into his fist. "First question—what is that strange feeling in your insides when you cast a spell?"
Smooth. Real smooth.
Isaac's face lit up. He clearly knew the answer. "Why, the sensation of spending one's mana, of course."
Good, so his assumption was right; that feeling was having mana drained from his body. Now for the next question.
"Excellent. And how would a magic caster gauge how much mana they have left in their body?"
Isaac seemed overjoyed by the question. "I was taught to imagine water while drawing upon my magic. It will naturally mold itself into an image of one's remaining mana. Should I be well rested, I have the equivalent of three tankards' worth of mana," he boasted.
Oh, that was a clever idea. Three tankards, though? Really? That didn't sound like much. It'd be mean to judge the guy, though; he seemed pretty proud of it.
Tommy drew upon his magic and imagined water. An image of the Mediterranean Sea came to mind, but he quickly dismissed it. Then, it came again, then again, then once more, then a dozen times over. He huffed in frustration.
"Can you see how much mana I have, Isaac?"
Isaac looked like a kicked puppy, smile erased from his face. "No, my lord, I apologize. Such an ability is beyond me. To see such a thing, I would need to"—he averted his gaze—"touch you."
Tommy walked in front of him; casting a long shadow that swallowed him whole. "Please, do not be afraid."
Isaac gave an audible gulp and nodded. His shaky hand met Tommy's bony arm for but a second before his mouth flew agape. "By the gods, new and old," he whispered. "Surely this is impossible." He fell to his knees, looking up at his expressionless skull, a smile riding his face. "You stand a colossus amongst men, dwarfing all in power."
"Tell me—what did you see?" Tommy asked, stepping back from the teary-eyed man.
"A sea," he said, drawing excited chatter from the other cultists. "Water that stretched from the north to the south and from the east to the west, further than my eyes could ever hope to see."
So, he really did have as much mana as the Mediterranean Sea did water. That was great news! Could he just cast fireballs all day like it was nothing?
"You have answered all of my questions correctly. From this day forward, you and your eleven underlings will be my disciples."
"We will serve you faithfully," the cultists spoke in unison.
Creepy. They had to have rehearsed that.
"We await your orders, my lord," Isaac said, still kneeling before him.
Oh, right—disciples needed orders. Being a cult leader might be a tad more difficult than he originally thought.
"I'd like to go outside. Being stuck in the underworld for—" He cut his words short and tilted his head. "How long was I in the underworld for, exactly?"
"It is difficult to say. Even historical accounts of your true name are blurry. Most only know you as the lich of centuries past," Isaac replied. "And concerning your name, my lord—what might your humble servants call you?"
This was a momentous occasion. He could choose his own name, the name of his new body—his new ten-foot-tall magic skeleton cult leader body. It had to be a strong name, one that would strike fear into the hearts of those that dared to oppose him. The world would tremble before…
"Bones. Mister Bones."