This is something we wrote a long time ago. Enjoy!

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Upon the Great Plain of Bolox, overlooked by the Dark Tower of Sarmokath, the army of Pelidar, led by High King Kilroy, fought with strength and determination. They were aided by the Dwarves of the mountains, and men of the Kingdom of Romin and they were there to challenge the power of the Dread Lord, but they were badly outnumbered. The hordes of Sarmokath surrounded them on all sides and pressed in with savagery and fury. Yet, Lord Kilroy knew this seemingly futile attack was actually vital, for unbeknownst to the Dread Lord, two small, insignificant spies were creeping towards the Fire Mountain, in the heart of the realm, the one place where could be destroyed the Burning Brazier, that profane font of magical power upon which the power of Sarmokath was built. As he watched the battle unfolding around him, Kilroy could only think about his infant son, hoping that someday he would grow into a wise king to rule over the land in peace and never need know such dark times as these.

Suddenly, the sky grew dim and the ground began to shake. In the distance all could see the Fire Mountain erupting, and the army of Sarmokath quailed in fear as the will of its Master was abruptly drawn away. But it was too late for him to do anything to change his fate. The Burning Brazier, that most unholy artifact of evil and power, upon whose strength all the Evil Overlord’s works had been done and without which he himself would be reduced to a small and petty spirit of malice, unable to harm even the lowest worm, was destroyed. The Evil Overlord’s power was broken and his time had ended. With the swiftness of the wind, cracks began to run through the foundation and walls of the Dark Tower. Chips began to fall from it, then large blocks, and then it shattered, like a tall and slender rod of glass that had been struck by a hammer. In a terrible cataclysm of stone and dust and the screams of the men and orcs within, the Dark Tower fell to the ground and was no more. The dust began to clear, blown away by a fresh, strong breeze that sprang up from the northwest. At this, the free army took heart and reformed it’s ranks, and the remaining parts of the army of Sarmokath drew back and huddled together, even though they still vastly outnumbered their foes.

From the hilltop where he had set his banner, the fair Lord Kilroy shouted out for all to hear, his voice ringing in the hills and canyons surrounding this place. “The Evil Overlord has fallen! His power and realm are no more! Hear me, servants of Sarmokath, your lord is defeated, but you need not join him in ruin. Lay down your arms and the throne of Pelidar will give you mercy, for you were enslaved by his evil and cannot be held wholely to blame for your actions.”

At these words, a figure came out from of the shattered army of Sarmokath and rode slowly forward on a mighty destrier, larger than any other horse on the field. He was covered from head to foot in black armor, cruelly covered with spikes. Each knuckle of each finger of the gauntlets had a 1 inch spike on it. The backs of the hands had five such spikes set at the points of a pentagram. There were rows of spikes running up the arm greaves, and the edges of the greaves were razor sharp. Large spikes came out from the shoulders. Spikes covered the back. Spikes covered the front. There were spikes on the front and sides of the legs, and the steel boots he wore had spikes on the back for spurring his horse, and spikes on the front for kicking his foes.

This was Morthos. This was the Lieutenant of the Dark Tower, who had been sent forth by his master to slay the Lords of the Northwest, but who had never forseen such a disastrous defeat for his Master. “For 20 years I served the Dread Lord. For 20 years I have worn this armor, and this helmet that he gave unto me with his own hand. But no more.” With that he took off his helmet – being careful not to impale himself on the spikes – and threw it to the ground. The orcs in the army behind him began to murmur uneasily. Morthos turned to address them. “The Dread Lord … had really bad fashion sense.” He grinned, and the orcs began chuckling and laughing.

“What does he mean by that, Torvalt,” asked Lord Kilroy.

“I know not,” said Torvalt, court wizard of Pelidar. “Excuse me.” At that he stepped behind a horse where the Sarmokathians could not see him and began muttering and making slight gestures with his staff.

Morthos now addressed the free army. “My Lord Kilroy,” he began, “you have defeated the Dread Lord Daros, and I no longer have to put up with this ludicrous armor that he made me wear. I thank you for that. I also thank you for promoting me.”

“Oh no,” thought Kilroy.

“As the new Evil Overlord, I wish to say … CHARGE!”

With that, the army of Sarmokath surged forward, filled with glee that their dimwitted, but very powerful Evil Overlord was now replaced by a new Evil Overlord with a much more practical and businesslike manner about him. A man who they could trust not to do silly things like leave the Fire Mountain unguarded when it is the only place where the enemy could actually do any harm. A man who would buy scaling ladders instead of expecting them to die and pile up their bodies at the base of the walls of cities under seige. A man like Morthos, Evil Overlord of Sarmokath!

The battle went swiftly, as the still vast army of orcs fought with a vigour and efficiency heretofore unseen. Thorsten, King of the Dwarves of Eredon, fell under a wave of arrows, and his mighty axe never had a chance to taste the blood of his enemies, nor did he hew them down with his arms like tree trunks. Likewise, Prince Gretlav the Greatheart, of the sea march, was killed along with all the fair knights of his court. They were making a bold charge across the grounds to attack a regiment of orcs, when long and wicked spears attached to hinges and a spring mechanism suddenly rose up from the ground in front of them. No song was ever sung in Gretlav’s court about how he was killed by one of the oldest and most common of traps used by orcs when they can get to the battlefield first. The people of the sea march preferred to forget the whole incident.

Finally, only Lord Kilroy and his personal company remained atop the hill. They were being killed slowly but surely. “Torvalt!” he called. “Can you do nothing? What good is a wizard if not for blasting his enemies with sorcery?” In fact, Torvalt had been doing something, and had killed many orcs with fire from his staff, and it was for this reason that Kilroy’s hill still survived.

“Quit being such a sore loser, Kilroy,” he said. “You had your chance to defeat the Evil Overlord, and you blew it.”

“What?! I am the rightful King!”

A soldier fell bewteen them with an arrow in his throat.

“You won’t be the rightful King for long, at this rate.”

“I did everything right. By the book! Even when it came to trusting those two idiots to destroy the magic doohickey in the Fire Mountain.”

“It’s not a ‘doohickey’, it’s a brazier. In any event, someone else is going to have to carry on from here. Your son, I expect. I’ll take good care of him, I assure you.”

“You’ll what?”

A great dark shadow fell over them all, and for a moment the rain of arrows ceased. “Get on”, a loud but hoarse voice said. Torvalt reached up and caught hold of a talon and started climbing up the side of the giant eagle that had suddenly appeared.

“Where did he come from,” shouted Kilroy, as the arrows started up again and two more of his soldiers died.

“I summoned him when that Morthos fellow started sounding like he wouldn’t surrender. It seemed a wise precaution,” replied Torvalt, spitting downy feathers out of his mouth as he clung to the eagle’s back, and with that the eagle rose majestically into the air carrying Torvalt to safety far away.

“Couldn’t…” said Lord Kilroy, and pushed a soldier’s body off of him. “Couldn’t you have summoned two?!”

Another soldier fell on Kilroy, from behind this time, and as he turned to get out from under it he found himself facing Morthos, lately Lieutenant of the Dark Tower, now promoted by attrition to the rank of Evil Overlord of Sarmokath. All of Kilroy’s men were dead, the last one having been killed by Morthos himself. And now Morthos hugged Lord Kilroy. Hugged him lovingly and pulled him into a close and intimate embrace.

As Kilroy stood there looking into the eyes of his enemy, all he could think to say was “gguuuurrrghghhhhhhh.” Morthos let go and Kilroy fell to the ground, dead. “What do you know,” said Morthos. “All these spikes proved useful after all.”