There used to be a type of fish, imported by merchants from the farthest reaches of Casmaron, that people held in small glass containers, the size of a cup or even smaller. It didn't need more, since it could breathe air as well as water. (Or perhaps it did need more, but nobody cared.) It was only allowed enough space to spread its fins and swagger about in a threatening way whenever it was shown another specimen of its kind, or even its own reflection in a mirror. It was fun to observe, until one day it inevitably threw itself out of the tiny container in a desperate attempt to escape its fate, and its body slowly dried to death between the tassels of the rug.

  The small wisp of a soul in the vial between Vordakai's bony fingers was strikingly similar to such a fish. Except all the fight had gone out of it. It only twitched, almost imperceptibly, whenever Vordakai's jade ring, recovered from the cold, dead hand of its body, clinked against the glass. Ever since it had caught a glimpse of the events unfolding somewhere near Weshili's tomb, reflected in the polished red surface of the Oculus of Abaddon embedded into Vordakai's single eye socket, it didn't do much but cower at the bottom of the vial. The sight of its most devoted servant being stabbed to death like a pig had broken it terminally. Served it right. Arrogant fool of a two-eyes, thinking it could rule a land that had never been its rightful property – along with its people, hardly bigger than rats and of similar nature. It didn't even appreciate the undeserved honour that Vordakai had imprisoned him in this particular vial, no different from all the others in appearance, and still so special.

  The Call had worked excellently on all inhabitants of the land (except some lowly stragglers Vordakai had no interest in, like spriggan or goblins). However, the fur-clad newcomers had escaped it, thanks to the powerful, shrouded sorceresses leading them. Those seemed old, maybe as old as he was, and were strong enough to protect their charges against his mind control. Also, they knew cyclopean passwords that opened ancient doors, and were searching for the three censers buried with Vordakai's underlings that had once betrayed and imprisoned him. Nobody wanted to obtain those censers unless they planned to open the gates to the valley. And nobody wanted to open those gates unless they planned to get their sticky hands on the Oculus of Abaddon. Well, good luck stealing an all-seeing eye from the Chosen of Charon's very eye socket. Vordakai was looking forward to the challenge. To stretch those shriveled mental muscles and get back into shape, he needed worthy opponents. Alas, the wisp in the vial was more suited to the role of a pet or, even better, a toy.

  So much was going on at the same time, after millennia of undisturbed silence. It was hard to keep track, even after slurping up the contents of a couple soul vials for better general situation awareness.

  Surprisingly, the shrouded women were not as skilled as they thought themselves to be. One had fallen victim to the protective glyph on the lid of Idiba's sarcophagus and perished in agony beside it, all the time clutching the barely obtained censer to her chest. Another one got trapped in Nazihe's grave, without a chance for anyone to free her. The third one was too scared to leave the camp of the fur-clad humans. As to the fourth one, snooping in the sepulchre where Weshili and a few other heroes lay forgotten, along with a bunch of unfortunate two-eyed grave robbers – that was getting interesting.

  Oh, Weshili. He had always been the most creative and the most paranoid of the three. Nazihe had contented himself with a single door of stone, which perfectly served its purpose in and of itself. Idiba had added a few traps, keeping it reasonable, though. That, too, worked like a treat. But Weshili? He'd had to build an entire labyrinth of a tomb, trying to rival the Valley of the Dead with his limited means, adding switches that remotely moved sections of the walls, opening or closing off chambers, some of them even equipped with a timer. An excellent way to splinter the odd party of adventurers that descended into the tomb for treasure... or for a censer. Weshili had also included a couple soul eaters misappropriated from Vordakai's supplies, and the dead laid to rest in the tomb were a force to be reckoned with, too. He'd even added warning signage on the walls: "When Vordakai calls, we go." When, not if. It was nice to know that the treacherous servant had never felt safe, either in life or in death.

  Well, this time Vordakai was calling.

  The fourth shrouded woman had somehow made her way to Weshili's resting place, bypassing the traps and other defences, and was about to open his sarcophagus to get to the censer. The corpses in the other sarcophagi lined along the wall began to stir. It took time for them to rise, though. The woman was racing against time, and even if she obtained the censer before the zombies were upon her, there was no guarantee that she would make it out alive. Meanwhile, a group of adventurers arrived in the tomb, looking for the shrouded woman, and were testing the defences right now.

  The little wisp was wiggling excitedly in its vial, flattening itself against the glass in an effort to see better what was reflected in the Oculus. Vordakai observed it, wishing to find out the reason for its sudden change of behaviour. It seemed to be particularly interested in the female elf leading the group. Of course it was. Elves were the only race among two-eyes that almost met the standard to qualify as people.

  Vordakai took mercy on the wisp. Not only did he resist the urge to munch on the brain material of its former body (he reserved it for later, as he had yet to decide how best to use it), but also lifted the vial to the Oculus, like he'd done when the nosy redhead was being executed. Was the elf another servant of the self-proclaimed ruler, an ally, or a rival?

  Whatever she was, now she found herself deep in trouble.

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  As Weshili had planned, her group was splintered, some of them assigned to operate switches, the more capable-looking warriors sticking together and proceeding through the dungeon. As a result of some messing around and finding out, the elf remained alone with a switch, behind a double wall that had just slid into place between her and her teammates. She didn't seem to mind it too much, until her pointy ears perked up at the sound of footsteps shuffling on the flagstones. The first two of Weshili's followers had forced their way out of their sarcophagi and were slowly drifting in a direction where they sensed delicious, warm, live zombie fodder.

  The wisp was twirling round and round in nervous excitement. If it had fists, they would be hammering at the glass. Vordakai made a mental note to try and reanimate the redhead's corpse later on, sharing the experience with the wisp in real time. Alas, his grip on human bodies was a bit flimsy without soul vials. They either responded to the wholesome necromantic energy permeating the land, or they didn't. Still, that woman irked him, even after death. How had she resisted his call? Not that it had done so much good to her. He would claim her corpse and make it do a little dance, just for the wisp's entertainment. But that had to wait.

  Back to the elf.

  Teetering on the verge of panic, the elf still believed she could make it out. She scattered something from her pocket on the flagstones, then raised her fists, as though grabbing something and pulling it upwards – and a tangle of vines and tendrils enveloped the first incoming zombie. Putting the delay to good use, the elf hurried to the switch in the floor and stepped on it. Nothing happened. Either she was too lightweight to trigger it (back in the day, no architect had calculated with the needs and demands of puny, semi-sentient two-eyes), or it simply got stuck. The millennia had not been kind to Weshili's devious mechanisms. Her servants, two layers of hewn stone away from her, were getting worried, shouting through the walls, her feline pet scratching the stone desperately to get through to her. A second zombie emerged from the corridor, pushing past the entangled one, swinging its club at the elf, who was now growing spikes from the floor to make her attackers' unlife miserable, all the way frantically trying to make the switch work. What was her plan? Making a jungle out of a perfectly good tomb? Would she finally turn into an animal and disappear in the undergrowth, or what?

  Before the second zombie could make it through the spikes, the elf clutched her spear in a one-hand grip, and raised her other hand. A ray of light burst forth from her palm, hitting the approaching zombie square in the chest. It staggered from the impact, and Vordakai almost shuddered as he imagined holy energy searing through his bones. Still, his people were tough as the sole of a boot, even in death. Ignoring the damage, the zombie waded through the spikes and struck.

  The elf dodged the first blow, but the second one hit her in the ribs, sending her sprawled across the floor. The Oculus didn't pick up sounds, yet Vordakai could almost hear her bones snapping. The wisp twisted around itself in a silent scream of horrified despair. Vordakai put the vial down and turned away, letting it enjoy the cliffhanger and use its imagination to contemplate the elf's horrific demise. He watched alone as she scrambled to her feet and, indeed, turned into a bear, adding her increased body weight to the pressure on the switch tile, then, when this approach failed, trying to lure her more mobile enemy onto the switch to see if its weight would make it work.

  How resourceful.

  Meanwhile, the shrouded woman was still struggling with the lid of Weshili's sarcophagus. If she were a little more patient, she could see him climb out all by himself and spank her bottom with the coveted censer.

  Vordakai sent a mental reminder to Horagnamon the raven to step up its game and bring him names. So far, the wretched bird had failed to learn the shrouded women's names, but considering how incompetent those four were, Vordakai was increasingly certain that those wouldn't make it through the gates to the valley. The elf (now reunited with her servants and getting healed up, after the two zombies were annihilated) was a different matter. She stood a chance to fight her way through Weshili's tomb and obtain the censer. And if she collected the other two from the unlucky sorceresses, she would probably pay a visit to Vordakai himself in search of the Oculus of Abaddon. And Vordakai needed competent servants, either dead or alive. If the elf managed to pass through all the obstacles to his throne room, she would earn her chance to serve him. If not, he would find some use for her corpse. He was already quite good with zombie clerics, and if he rifled through his brand-new soul collection, he would surely be able to deploy other spellcasting undead units as well. Zombie druids, for instance, would be a delicious self-contradiction.

  He left the throne room and checked into the side chamber where the other soul vials were amassed, loads and loads of them. It was time to prepare for the arrival of his guests: place the bodies at strategic points of the dungeon, adding a shred of the respective souls to activate them. In this way, a corpse could be reused multiple times, and it was even possible to use it for intellect-based tasks. The wizard who had most recently opened the gates would be a prime example of that. The rest would be sword fodder.

  Also, it was time to feed the soul eaters. Considering the sheer number of souls stored in the side chamber, there was enough food for them for several weeks, even months. Of course, there was no reason to keep them well-fed. They were much more useful when hungry.

  Three vials for seven soul eaters would do for today. As Vordakai randomly picked out the lucky vials, the Oculus cast a side glance at his pet wisp raging in vain inside its glass home. It has already witnessed a few feedings from close up. Vordakai couldn't decide which sight he relished more: the soul eaters ripping their food to pieces and brawling for the tastiest bits, or the wisp throwing a tantrum at what it was being made to watch.

  And in case he ever noticed the wisp becoming callous and indifferent, he had a few more ideas up his threadbare sleeves.