Oh, for the love of—
Mister Bones? Seriously? A gazillion different combinations of letters and words, and his brain chose Mister Bones? These guys were going to think he was a loser now. Maybe he could salvage this, maybe there was a way to—
"Prostrate yourselves before the mighty Mister Bones," cried Isaac.
"Please, just call me Bones," Tommy pleaded.
"All hail Lord Bones," the cultists roared.
Oh, okay, that wasn't too bad. Lord Bones actually sounded pretty cool. He could work with that. Anything but Mister Bones.
"Rise, my disciples," Tommy boomed. "It is time that I left this tomb. I have been absent from this world for far too long." He moved towards the only door in the room, waddling across the tiled floor like a concussed penguin, each step a formidable challenge.
The cultists were quieter than a sedated mime, studying his embarrassing walk to the door as though it were the key to the universe. They burst into applause when he wrapped his bony hand around the door's handle.
"Well done, my lord," came one of the cultists.
"Excellent job," spoke another.
Were he in possession of a face, he had no doubt it would be red. Still, he supposed the positive reinforcement was nice, however patronizing it seemed.
A vast meadow greeted him when he left the mausoleum, painted with fleets of flowers of every shade, doused in light by the smiling sun. To the north sat stone ranges—mountains whose peaks pierced the heavens as though whetted blades. It was a landscape that any artist worth his pepper would yearn to strike upon a canvas.
It stole his breath away. Well, not literally; his new body didn't really breathe. It was certainly an impressive sight, though—more impressive than any he'd seen back on Earth.
"Where are we?" he asked.
"We are in the freelands of Alyria. In your time, I believe it would have been called Erasil, the nation of the half-men," Isaac explained.
What in the heck were half-men? Were those like halflings? Or maybe they were half-elves. Did elves even exist? Questions for later.
"Yes, I recall the half-men well," Tommy bluffed. "Would you happen to have a map on hand?"
"Certainly, my lord." Isaac stole a rolled map from his knapsack and handed it over. "We are"—he poked a spot on the map—"here—a few dozen miles north of the Starry Hollow."
"Why was my body buried in such a strange place? A mausoleum in the middle of nowhere is hardly a suitable resting place for a man of my renown, is it not?"
"History tells of your dark legions wresting your body from the Holy Army after your death. I cannot comment as to why they chose to bury you here, though. It perplexes me as well, I admit."
Questions, questions, questions. It seemed all he had were questions. It was lucky he had a friendly cultist willing to explain things to him.
"It says we're near a town called Newhorn. What do you know of this place?"
"It is one of the many independent cities of Alyria. They boast a well-trained and well-stocked militia but have no foreign allies. You could crush the city beneath your feet as though it were an ant, and none would come to help them."
"You assume I wish to conquer them. Why?"
Isaac chuckled. "Surely you jest, my lord. Mere centuries ago, most of the world rested beneath your heel, and it will once more. Who are you if not a conqueror of mortals?"
A box salesman, actually. Being a conqueror certainly sounded more appealing, though. Maybe he could give it a shot, just without the whole murdering schtick. It could be fun for everyone.
"My days of conquering through violence are over. Brute force led to my downfall. I will not make the same mistake twice."
"I see," Isaac said, stroking his shaven chin. "Whatever path you decide, I shall follow you. Though, I must confess—I find it difficult to believe that conquering the world can be done without violence."
Tommy attempted a grin, but his lack of skin or lips made it rather difficult. "My time in the underworld has taught me many strange things. Coupled with my powerful magic, conquering the world peacefully should be possible."
It didn't seem like such a long shot, really. If this world was anything like a Dungeons and Dragons campaign, these people would be primitive. Twisting a couple of cogs should bring them to heel in no time. What he needed was knowledge. What spells he could cast, what goods these people traded in, how their social hierarchy was structured—he needed to know it all.
"First, we'll need a head office. Does the Black Tongue have a base of operations? A headquarters?"
"I'm afraid not. We have been a nomadic cult for decades, scouring the world for your tomb."
Well, that threw a wrench in things. Maybe he could use magic to build something. Problem was, he didn't know what types of spells existed in this world.
"Do you have a spellbook, by any chance?"
"Of course, Lord Bones." Isaac withdrew a thick tome from his knapsack and traded it for the map.
There were several hundred spells organized into eight schools, though one seemed to be missing.
"Are there no necromancy spells in this book?"
"During the Great Book Burning of 913, the Holy Church destroyed most spellbooks containing black magic. In our travels, we have assembled some few pages of dark spells, but they are far too advanced for us to cast them." He snapped his fingers, beckoning one of the cultists. "Show our lord the book, Alice."
A girl of no more than twenty years approached. Golden locks spilled from the inside of her hood, dripping down her heart-shaped face and ending at her hulking honkers. "Here, my lord," she murmured, offering up a thin, leatherbound series of pages—an insult to all books.
"Thank you," Tommy said, struggling to tear his gaze from her bosom.
He flipped through the dozen-or-so pages of the book, finding only one spell that caught his eye.
"Raise bone knight," he bellowed, pointing his palm towards the ground.
A vortex of swirling purple came alive amidst the flowers, and with it, the noise of warbling birds, twisted and distorted as though they were trapped in a washing machine. When it faded, a skeleton stood in its wake, armed with a chipped greatsword, clad in rusted plate armor.
"Remarkable," Isaac shouted, a wide grin on his face.
The cultists behind them rushed forward, eager to observe the armored undead.
Tommy feigned indifference, though it was easily the coolest thing he had ever seen. "Why are you unable to cast this spell, Isaac?" he asked, stroking his invisible beard.
Isaac winced at his words. "I assure you, my lord, it is not from a lack of trying. I simply do not possess enough mana to summon such a powerful monster."
"Do all magic casters possess such little mana?"
He nodded. "Yes, of course. Your strategy worked well, Lord Bones—too well, one might say."
"Permit me to test your knowledge. What strategy do you speak of?"
"Why, the Mana Purge, of course. It was the most brilliant of all your maneuvers during the War of the Damned. You and your dark legions slaughtered any possessing the gift of mana, their families with them. By the end of the war, nearly all magical bloodlines had been stamped out."
What in the flaming fork? Just how desperate for power was the original owner of this body? Maybe it was a good thing he was still trapped in the underworld.
"You continue to impress, Isaac," Tommy praised. "Tell me—how long do you believe this bone knight will last?"
Isaac answered without hesitation: "Twenty-four hours before it crumbles to dust. Were you to use a corpse to supplement the spell, it would last forever."
Sounded simple enough. He wasn't a psychopath, so ravaging a nearby hamlet for corpses was out of the question, though that would certainly be efficient. He supposed the next best thing would be a cemetery.
"We're going grave robbing, Isaac."