Night had fully taken hold beyond the windows. The Cursed walked through all the corridors and halls of the palace, but still did not find an entrance to the dungeon. The floors were filled with the dead. Aside from the guards standing watch at the entrances, there were halls where senseless white figures lay on the floors. One hall with the dead, a second, a third. The Cursed had time to make sure that there were no exits from the palace either. He did not see a single door that led outside, onto the lifeless plain.
He approached one of the columns in the hall, sat down on the floor, leaned his back against it, and fell into thought.
Dark visions fell upon him like horrific nightmares. However, he already knew that when dreadful images came to him, they were in fact happening somewhere within the palace. Such was the nature of this grim place.
A mounted detachment was riding across the lifeless plain. He saw everything as if he were personally present in this deadly raid. Through the eyes of one of the dead. White warriors in light armor, mounted on dead horses. Black bands covered their faces up to the eyes. A cold night wind blew from the side. Cursed servants of a fallen lord—or of the most dreadful demon from the dungeon itself—were riding toward a celebration of death.
Vegetation and trees appeared ahead. The first small settlement for many miles around. A lonely island of life not yet extinguished. A thought flickered that they took care to ensure life continued to smolder and linger, allowing them to continue their grim rituals.
No lights shone in the houses. All the residents were asleep. The dead moved along a set route, passing by individual houses and heading to the designated place, as if their path had been planned in advance.
A silence, unbroken by anything or anyone, enveloped everything around. Only one dog barked somewhere, then fell silent when one of the riders raised his right hand. Was it a coincidence or did it mean something? Unknown.
They stopped around one large house. Several of the dead went to the front door. The first opened it as if it were unlocked and stepped inside. The others followed. They moved relentlessly through the corridors and rooms. From the darkness, men with sabers appeared and attacked them. But they were ruthlessly cut down. Chaos erupted in the house. Women in white nightclothes flailed about. The dead reached the far room in the center of the house and grabbed one girl. She struggled and screamed. But she was doomed. They seized her and carried her back to the palace.
A new vision.
A detachment of the dead in standard armor rode into another village. They rode to a specific house and entered it. They moved through the house, and everywhere they were met by empty, dark rooms. The one who lived here had prepared for their attack. The best warrior in the settlement. He struck suddenly from the darkness, severed a head, and vanished back into the dark. A good tactic—one that would have worked against other enemies. But these rose again after a time, their heads whole, and continued their search. Then he was caught and surrounded. Seized and taken away to the palace.
The Cursed shook his head, casting off the gloomy trance, and opened his eyes. He was still sitting on the floor, his back pressed against the column. Before him was the room, and in it—a window. Beyond the window—night and stars. And a terrible dark face. The stranger was hanging before the window, although the Cursed knew he was on the third floor of the palace.
The stranger beckoned to him with a hand bearing long black nails.
He rose and approached the window.
"Midnight has already come, and I have come for you," the mage said, baring long, sharp teeth. "But here is the trouble: there are no doors here, and I cannot enter through windows. But know this—at the hour when they appear, I will come and kill you."
The Cursed returned to his place by the column and closed his eyes. The third vision burst in on him.
A squad of heavily armed undead warriors in heavy armor. He understood that their armor magically kept them from decay and falling apart, because they were old dead. Light armor was meant for the freshest of the dead, not yet at risk of imminent decomposition. But the oldest, most experienced, and heavily armed were sent on the most dangerous missions, where they were to capture the hardest prey.
They stormed into a new settlement—and immediately suffered losses. Beyond the fence, several explosions thundered, and columns of fire shot up into the night sky. Three undead knights fell from their horses to the ground. A few more lost their heads, torn off in one of the streets. Only three knights reached the large house, whose windows suddenly flared with light. When one armored warrior opened the door, an explosion blew him away along with the door. The other two, drawing their two-handed swords, entered inside.
They were attacked by flying burning spheres that exploded on the surfaces of their armor. But the dead continued to move forward. They found the mage in one of the corridors and drove him through all the rooms. In one of the chambers, they cornered him. The mage tried to activate one of the traps. But at that moment, on a distant hill beyond the village, a death-knight rose, drawing a heavy bow with an arrow burning with blue light. He fired instantly, and the arrow, piercing through several houses, shattered the window behind the mage and drove into his right shoulder. The mage groaned, interrupted the trap activation, and dropped to one knee from the searing pain. It was useless to resist the grim, powerful magic of the Lords of the Palace of the Dead.
Suddenly, the Cursed snapped awake and realized that when these three— the mayor's daughter, the best warrior, and the mage—would be offered to the Touch of Death, the gates to the dungeons would open, because the demon dwelling within would wish to personally feast on the atmosphere and energy of those still alive.