Chapter 14a: Convincing a Wizard

"Don’t ye be goin’ out in the forest at night boy. There be more than wolves hidin’ amongst those trees. The boogeyman lives in them woods and he loves to eat little boys."
~A Grandfather’s words to his grandson

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Madame Rachelle stood and looked out the window of her small room, over the top of the palace walls, beyond the darkening forest and buildings in the distance. The rain had finally stopped and the moon floated in a hazy sky.

She had watched the soldiers gather around the front gate, saw the Duke and Wellan below talking to them, saw the colorfully dressed man and woman join the soldiers. Little of it sunk through the layers of her thought. Grief still skulked about in her mind like a melancholy guest, brushing against her emotions, pushing thoughts of her daughter to the surface, making her not want to do anything but stare into the dark heavens and think of nothing.

Knuckles pounded against wood floating up through her thoughts like bubbles in a pool. She looked around the room, not able to place the noise in her dreamy state. It came again, a loud rapping followed by, "Madame Rachelle, may I come in."

Whose voice? She recognized it, a voice she had heard very recently. Wellan?

She sighed, not wanting to be pulled from her inner thoughts. "I...I don’t feel like talking right now, Wellan. Maybe later?"

"I understand your grief, but we need to talk." A pause, then, "I need your help."

Why would the wizard need the help of a fortuneteller? Why can’t he just let me grieve for my daughter? She almost told him to go away whether he needed her help or not, but curiosity and common politeness won out. "Just a second."

She walked over to the nightstand and picked up a candle, the only light in the room, and used it to light other candles on her way to the door. When she opened the door the shadows still dominated the small room, but it didn’t look quite so glum.

Wellan’s awkward and concerned smile greeted her. "How are you feeling, Rachelle?"

How do you think I’m feeling? My daughter died this morning and them came back to life as a zombie, along with everyone else in the city. How am I supposed to be feeling? "Had better days, but I’m holding together."

He stepped into the room and put a comforting hand on her shoulder, "It will get better. I promise."

Emotions boiled up as his hand came to her shoulder. Tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Tears she didn’t think she still had.

"I don’t mean to trouble you, but we need to talk."

She gave a single not and sat on the corner of the bed. Wellan took a chair from the small table by the door and sat facing her.

"I know this is a terrible time to do this, but I would like to begin your training as a wizard, or at least awaken you to the experience."

Her mouth opened, closed. She looked away from him, thoughts and emotions boiling to the surface, showing in her eyes and on her face.

"I need you, Rachelle. The city needs another wizard besides myself.” He patted her leg and continued. “I started thinking about our conversation this morning. The one we had before this mess began. I remember the look in your eyes while we talked. I remember seeing something there, quite suddenly. Almost terror. You quickly covered it up. What is it you saw? I think I know, but I want to hear it from you."

She didn’t hesitate when she answered. Her voice was flat, like someone else spoke through her, "You’re aura was black, Wellan. You’re going to die."

Wellan’s lips pressed together, forming a tight line under his bushy mustache. "I thought that may have been what you saw."

He leaned forward in his chair and took her hands in his. "My aura is just one more reason why we need you. If I die the city will need another protector, someone who can see things they cannot and use forces that others don’t understand."

She raised her head, her face twisted with sarcasm and self-doubt. "I couldn’t save my own daughter, Wizard, how do you expect me to save myself when the city has already fallen, much less the rest of these poor people. You need to find someone who still cares because I don’t."

"You have been hurt, Rachelle. I understand that, but don’t let the rest of these people suffer because of it. Help me save them."

She pulled her hands away from his. "Find someone else, Wizard. Everything I cared about has been taken away. I’m just an empty shell now. I have nothing to fight for."

Wellan’s voice rose with frustration, "There is no one else. Not just anyone can become a wizard. Not everyone has the inborn power, or sees the world in such a way that will allow them to become a wizard. You do. No one else here does, and they need a wizard. If...when I fall someone will need to step in and take my place. Only you can do that, Rachelle. Only you have that power, the insight, to be a wizard."

When she didn’t say anything he reached behind him and grabbed a candle off the small table and held it between them. "Let me give you a taste of what you can do. Just a small thing to be sure, but one that nobody else here can do."

He held the candle up to her face. "What do you see here. What do you really see."

She shrugged. "Wax. A wick. A small flame."

"No. Look harder. Use your sight."

She let out an exasperated sigh and looked again at the candle. This time she squinted her eyes and concentrated, focusing on the small flame, seeing it in another light. "Plasma. White light jumping with the air currents. Vapors rising above the light and little sparks bursting within the plasma like tiny exploding fire flies."

A small smile brightened Wellan’s face. "Now, will it away. Concentrate on it not being there. Think about the Plasma wilting away until it is gone."

She looked past the flame, to the wizard. Surprise furrowed her brow. She had looked at many things with the aura, flames being one of the most fascinating, but she had never thought of altering anything she looked at. It had never occurred to her that she might have the power to change anything, to alter it from what it was.

Wellan nodded to her, wordlessly telling her to stay focused and concentrate on the flame. Her gaze focused again on the candle. The tiny exploding sparks, white light and vapor flickering with the lightly swirling air. She squinted her eyes tighter and thought about the light diminishing, shrinking into the wick. To her amazement the light dimmed and pulled in tighter to the little strand of string that fed it. The tiny exploding sparks moved slower and popped less. She willed it to diminish even more, causing it to pull in close to the little wick until it disappeared all together.

With her mouth open in amazement she stared at the wizard’s smiling face.

"What you just did is the basis for everything magical. Understanding a thing, seeing how it works, and then having the will to control it."

Still amazed by what she had done she gawked at the cooling wick. "I’m just a fortune teller, not a wizard."

Wellan beamed like a proud father. "Oh, you are much more than a fortune teller. Perhaps you aren’t a wizard yet, but I can see you doing far more than I have done. I can’t see auras in the way that you do, and it took me almost a month of frustrating effort before I could extinguish a flame when I first began my journey years and years ago. You are what these people need. That burst of energy that you used outside the walls earlier today is a powerful force, and it might just be the edge we need to get out of here."

"But I have no idea how I did it."

"Yes you do. I just showed you. Desperation and anger powered that first burst of magic and with a little practice you should be able to do it again…only with a bit more control. Yes, I see great things in you, great things indeed."

He lifted her hand from her lap and placed the candle in her palm before closing her fingers around the cool wax. "Now, let’s see you light it."

Chapter 13d: Another Trap

On the other side of the palace where the light of day had never reached, a robed figure crouched in the darkness, waiting.

Twelve hundred years ago he had been a man known as The King Killer, a well-earned nickname, a testament to his abilities. The civilized world knew him for his skills in dealing silent death, and for the right coin he boasted that he could kill anyone. It wasn’t an empty boast. The King Killer combined cunning genius with the stealth of a great cat to make him a life ending machine that brought fear to the hearts of friends and enemies alike. There hadn’t been a class of people he hadn’t brought death to, whether they be homeless drunks, wealthy merchants or even powerful kings, he had killed them all when the coin matched the job. Status, religion, skin color or sexual preference didn’t mean a thing to him, just the coin, just the reputation, just the kill. He brought assassinations to a new level in his day, changing it from simple brutish henchmen work to a true form of art.

His wonderful life had ended quite suddenly, but not in a way he thought it would. Pursued through a forest after his latest kill, a barbarian lord had forced him deep into the marshy woods. He had almost escaped, a mere mile or so from freedom, when he fell into a peat bog, banging his head on a root and drowning in the organic soup. He had always pictured himself dying in a sword fight, or even being vengefully stabbed in the back, but never drowning under putrid water with no one around to witness it.

Over the centuries his body had merged with the bog, taking in its minerals and rich organic makeup, preserving him to a great extend. Protecting his body against the ravages of time. Turning his skin to into a pliable leathery material, making it as dark as the murky water that surrounded it.

He probably would have stayed that way until the bog dried up if a hand hadn’t reached beneath the shallow waters and drug him to the surface, toting his black body to an even darker place. He was glad to be back, doing what he loved to do.

The King Killer grabbed his wrist and squeezed. He let go and gently ran his fingers along the indentions left by his grip as they slowly smoothed back over. He skin was pliable, like dough. Even his bones had softened up, Not to the point of making him a wobbly mess, but with a slight elasticity, allowing them more give, making them harder to break, almost like cartilage. Unlike dough, his skin glistened black, onyx. Not the blackness of a normal dark skinned man, but the blackness of night, the black of a crow. He liked his new self, the perfect representation of his inner self, his soul.

A light flickered just under the door. Dim voices whispered back and forth. The King Killer stood and waited.

As the clomp of footsteps echoed through the chamber just beyond the door noises became louder, clearer. A deep voice rumbled, "Help me with this here wine shelf, Champ. It’s heavy as the dickens and I don’t want to be droppin’ any of the wine."

Another voice, full of laugher, replied, "Then why don’t ya just take the bottles out. Set them off to the side."

"Awe come on. You want me to move pull all these here bottles just to move this shelf over a few feet and then put them all back. That’ll take half n’ hour when movin’ the stinkin’ shelf with the bottles’ll only take a couple of minutes. Besides, it ain’t like we’s gonna come back here and drink it after this."

Some of the laughter died from the second voice, "Yeah, you be right about that. I figure once we leave here the dead’s gonna be the only ones drinkin’ the wine, and I doubt they would appreciate it much."

Another set of footsteps moved in. A third voice echoed off the walls with military authority. "You two shut it up and just get that shelf out of the way. We need to make sure the door to the caverns is accessible and not stuck. We will be needing to use it in the next day or so."

The deep voice replied, "Yes sir. I’m sure glad that the Renier’s never closed this secret exit off. Coarse, it ain’t so secret no more, or won’t be for long. What, with everyone traipsin’ through here to escape."

"Well, come on Grommy. You’re the one that asked me to get the other end of this here shelf and now ya just stand there flappin’ yer trap. Let’s do this already."

Grumbles escaped the lips of the deep voiced one and then the chamber filled with a loud screech as the wine rack skidded across the floor.

Footsteps. Keyes jingling. Clicking inside the door. A bar being lifted. The door opened.

The King Killer moved deeper into the shadows as three men stood in a pool of torchlight. One of them raised his torch high into the air and pointed it down the cavern shaft. "Don’t look too inviting, does it, sir?"

The skinny man with the laughing voice replied, "Looks like freedom to me Grommy."

The one in the center, wearing leather armor, put his hands on their shoulders and said, "Okay, let’s lock it back up and tell Duke Renier that the exit is ready."

He had to slip through the door before they closed it and locked him out, but he couldn’t do that while they stood in the way, and he couldn’t kill them yet without alarming everyone in the palace, and he wasn’t ready to do that just yet. With a flick of his wrist he launched a small stone into the darkness, further down the stone corridor.

The men spun around as the stone met a wall and clattered to the floor.

Grommy held his torch out towards the darkness. "Did you hear that, sir? Somethin’s down there."

"Sssssshhhhhh"

They waited, listening to the darkness, hearing nothing.

The armored one drew his sword and walked into the corridor, the other two followed his example. They walked past The King Killer, oblivious to his presence as their eyes and ears focused on something further down the passageway.

He let them walk a little further into the darkness before creeping out and sliding through the door. As he walked past the wine rack he glanced back into the darkness, where three forms silently crept over the rough stone floor. He smiled and thought, Thank you gentlemen. I couldn’t have done it without your help. Then he walked on, into the palace to earn his keep.

Chapter 13c: Setting the Trap

Within the darkening forest outside the palace walls General Faygen watched as the gate cracked open and thirteen people crept from the safety of the city walls. One of the individuals even looked to be a young woman, dressed in an outlandishly bright blouse.

A thousand years has passed and men are just as stupid as they ever were. Faygen thought to himself, shaking his head back and forth. He had heard the ringing of the church bell. He had seen the message from the city walls. The men in the palace desperately wanted to rescue the poor souls trapped in the temple, they only needed an opportunity. Faygen had given them that opportunity, pulling back the undead and giving the brave men of the palace the incentive they needed to attempt a rescue. It was almost too easy, unfair even. Those poor bastards think they are only dealing with the mindless undead. They are about to learn a hard lesson.

He watched the potential saviors as they crept down the road, swords drawn and arrows notched. They didn’t hold themselves like soldiers; bar room brawlers perhaps, but not soldiers. They had no formation and their steps radiated nervous energy, fear. Have men fallen so far since my day? Are they now cowardly and stupid? If this is the best they can do I will have the palace under my control by dawn. At least they had enough sense to send a few archers.

Faygen almost pitied them, especially the girl. She reminded him of a slightly older version of his own daughter, his sweet Eyliasa.

He couldn’t get distracted by such thoughts. He couldn’t allow himself to sympathize with the enemy. He didn’t want to think of them as the enemy though. He didn’t want to see himself as the bad guy, the evil one in the battle, but he couldn’t see himself as anything else. The people of this city had been destroyed by a great evil. An evil that he was helping, but what choice did he have. He couldn’t allow Eyliasa to be hurt again because of him. Not again.

The heroes faded from sight as darkness claimed the road and the forest. Faygen looked at the undead around him. The white disk of dead eyes stared back at him. All over the forest the dead eyes stared. Thousands of them, just far enough into the woods so that they couldn’t be seen from the palace walls, hidden almost in plain sight. They waited for his commands. They waited to feast. They wouldn’t have to wait much longer.

He turned, facing deeper into the wet forest, and gave his mental command. Wait! Stay here until I return.

He felt some resistance to the command. Singly they didn’t have much will, but in such large numbers their willpower became a force to be reckoned with. Luck fully his own willpower was up to the task, at least at this point. He didn’t know what would happen if he gave a command in the middle of a feeding frenzy. Hopefully by that time things would be under control and he could let these disgusting creatures go about their business.

He walked into the forest, the damp undergrowth soaking his britches. His body no longer generated any heat, so it didn’t give him chills, but it was damned uncomfortable none-the-less. He could feel his dry skin soaking up the moisture, wrinkling as dry skin pulled in the water like a sponge. He could also feel himself beginning to rot. His wet skin itched constantly, giving off a sour odor. Gasses built within him and he had to belch and fart every few minutes to ease the discomfort of bloating. He didn’t enjoy being one of the living dead.

Belching, he put these thoughts behind him. He had to beat the heroes to the temple in time to evacuate the undead. He couldn’t do it too early or the people in the temple would realize their jailers were gone and flee, but if the beat the heroes there by a few minutes everything would work out perfectly. He widened his stride and picked up speed.

Chapter 13b: To the Temple

Ten men stood next to the front gates of the palace. A light drizzle misted the air, hazing the fading light and adding to the gloom that shadowed over the men’s faces. Stiles ran a hand through his damp hair as he walked up to them. They knew something would happen soon, they just didn’t know what. He dreaded telling them.

Before he could say anything Ash stepped to the front and said, “Did you tell Duke Renier what a wonderful job you did on our escape from his dungeons? Was he so impressed with your bravery that he told you to go out and vanquish the rest of the undead? Did you tell him how you let Horn die?”

“That’ll be enough of that, Ash.” Stiles could feel his cheeks turning red with the conflicting emotions of both anger and shame. He didn’t know if he wanted to hit Ash or walk up to him and apologize. Instead of doing either he kept his emotions pushed down and stuck to business. People needed saving.

“That ain’t nearly enough…”

“Ash, please. You are partially right. The Duke did give us an assignment.”

To be given an assignment by Duke Renier was an honor, an honor that even Ash couldn’t balk at. The other men shifted their feet. Their brows furrowed inquisitively while their eyes shone with pride. Their nervous shuffled betrayed their fear.

Blade stepped in and put a firm hand on Ash’s shoulder, “What did he give us, Stiles?”

Stiles hand rose to the back of his neck and rubbed it nervously. “This is a great honor, but I’m not sure that you guys are going to like this one.”

Royd’s rough voice spoke up from the line. “Well, considerin’ that the last assignment started out with ale and story tellin’ and ended with us havin’ an undead jailer, getting a tough assignment might not turn out so bad, if you get my meanin’”

“I hope your right, Royd. I really do.”

He took a deep breath and folded his arms over his chest before continuing on. “Duke Renier wants us to go to the Temple of Vaspar and save some people who are trapped inside.”

Blade raised his hand but spoke before Stiles could acknowledge him. “How do they know anyone is there?”

“They have been ringing the Temple bell, I believe it’s called The Bell of Saint Renando. There are also people moving around in the bell tower. Nobody knows who’s in there but it looks like at least one teenager and maybe a priest.”

Another guard spoke up, “I don’t mean to sound like a coward or anything, but does it make sense to anyone for eleven people to be going out to save two. I know my counting ain’t so good, but this just don’t add up.”

“Jamee, I’m not going to force anyone to go. If I have to I will go by myself. The Duke asked me to do this and no matter what else has happened he is still my Duke and this assignment is an honor that I’m not going to shun. You can do what you want.”

Blade forced a smile, giving Ash’s shoulder a squeeze. “Well, you can count me in. Do we leave in the morning?”

“No, you will need to leave right now.” The voice came from the side and caught the men by surprise, the voice of the Duke.

The men straightened, trying to make themselves presentable, but the Duke waved his hand, telling them to relax. Behind him, a grin stretched Wellan’s lips.

“Like Stiles stated, I won’t force any of you to go. It’s true that we aren’t sure how many people there are in there. There may only be two, or there may be two dozen. I just want to give them a fighting chance. I don’t want to leave them stranded, to starve or become one of the undead. There aren’t many of us left. I want to save the ones that remain.”

Blade raised his hand, index finger pointed to the heavens. When the Duke nodded to him he asked, “Why now, sir? Why at dusk?”

“The undead have left our walls. We don’t know where they have gone or for how long, but this is the best opportunity we have had to get to the Temple of Vaspar. I don’t know if Stiles has brought this up, but I would like a group of you to rescue the people at the temple, another group to scout out the city and see where everyone has gone, and a final group to leave the city and go to the Baron Milchev. His people need to be warned. Stiles will split you up into different groups when you arrive at the temple.”

Splashing interrupted the Duke as two people sloshed through the muddy puddles; a man and a woman, wearing flamboyant clothing and packed to travel. They stopped at the end of the guard line.

Wellen stepped around Duke Renier. “Shannai, what are you doing here?”

The man spoke before she could answer, “We want to go. Get outside the city while there is a chance.”

The duke’s brows furrowed. “You and your wife are safe here. There is no reason to take a chance in the city if you don’t have to.”

Stiles bristled as the man glanced at the woman and rolled his eyes. “First off, she is my sister, and secondly I don’t want to be trapped in here if those things come back. We’re getting out while the getting is good.”

The Duke’s arms folded over his chest. “I won’t force you to stay. It’s your decision, but I think you and your sister would be better off here. We are making plans to leave the city. Plans that don’t involve dealing with the undead any more than we have to.”

Wellan spoke before the man could reply. “Is this what you want Shannai?”

The woman stared at the Dukes boots as she replied. “I will follow Marchas. He’s never let me down yet.”

Marchas’ teeth gleamed through his smug grin, but Stiles noticed that his sister never looked the wizard in the eye as she answered, and her voice barely rose above a whisper.

Duke Renier frowned. “So be it. Marchas and Shannai will join the group that leaves the city to warn Baron Milchev. I wish you all the best of luck, and may Vaspar be with you as you go about your appointed tasks.”

Chapter 13a: Brother and Sister

"The body is a vessel for the soul and nothing more. We, our true self, dwells within, waiting for release, waiting for the day that we can be judged for our actions. "

~Dokken the Wise
Brother and Sister

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“Where have you been?” Marchas spit the question out like an accusation.

“Since when did I have to start reporting myself to you?” Shannai spat back.

Seeing their way of life destroyed filled them with tension. Instead of bringing them closer together they struck out at one another. Directing their fear and aggression at the ones closest to them. Arguing more than they had since they were little.

Her brother’s nostrils flared, and he pursed his lips in anger. He opened his mouth to reply and stopped. His face relaxed and he sighed. “Sorry, Shan. You’re right. I’m just worried is all.”

She sat on the edge of the bed while he buttoned up his shirt. “I hope you’re not worried on my account. You’re the troublemaker.”

He placed his hand over his heart, feigning injury. “Me, a trouble maker. Who started that bar fight in Tholog? If I remember correctly I was minding my own business, entertaining some very fine young ladies, when you hit that trapper across the head with your beer stein. Put a hell of a dent in the stein too, if I remember correctly.”

She laughed and threw a pillow at him. “You know that wasn’t my fault, Marchas. That bear of a man had all the manners of a wild boar, and the smell to go with it. If he had kept his paws to himself that would have been a pleasant evening.”

“It would have been for me. No doubt about that. I was doing pretty well that night.”

She started to comment on his philandering, but stopped as he sat on the bed next to her. His eyes shined with fear, and his brows furrowed in concentration.

“Shannai, we are in trouble like we haven’t been before.”

She looked at her lap, where her fingers twisted a button on her blouse, and nodded her head. Her voice shook in a cracked whisper, “Yeah. We are, aren’t we?”

He put his arm over her shoulder and pulled her close. “I’m not trying to frighten you, but I don’t want you to think that just because we are here at the duke’s grand palace everything is okay, because it isn’t.”

“At least we aren’t alone. There are others here. City guards. The wizard…”

He stood up and walked to the window. “Have you seen how many city guards are here? Not hardly enough to stop a bar fight, and, though I was a bit out of it when I met him, it looks like the wizard has met his match. There’s too many of them. You saw. There’s not a city block that doesn’t have ten or more of the damned things trying to kill you. I’m guessing that they’re congregating around the palace walls even as we speak. Trying to get in here and have their way with us. It’s just a matter of time before that finally happens, and I don’t want to be here when it does.”

She twisted her shoulders to face him. “You aren’t thinking of going back out there again? By ourselves? They will get us for sure this time. Besides, I think they are stacked ten deep around the palace walls, just like you said. There is no way we could get through, even if the guards allowed it.”

He slammed his fist into his palm. “I’m thinking it will be easier and safer for two people to sneak out of the city instead of everyone in the palace to try and walk out of there. We know what to expect now, I think we can do it. We just can’t wait here for them to get in.”

“Marchas, think about it. They can’t climb the wall. We are safe here. It’s also a long walk to the city gates. The palace is backed up against the Barclaves at the furthest point in the city from any of the walls. I think it’s too far for just too people. I don’t even think we can get out of the palace. There are just too many of them waiting right outside the palace walls for us.”

He turned from her and grasped the window seal, leaning against tense arms. “Well, I just can’t wait here for them to break through, or for us to starve to death. There has to be something we can do to get out of this.”

“Let’s wait, see what the Duke…”

Rapid knocking on the door interrupted Shannai. Marchas whirled around and looked at her. She shrugged and then turned to the door. “Come in.”

The door opened and a teenage boy stepped into the room. Grime covered his face in the fading light, making this toothy smile stand out. “I didn’t mean to bother you, but I just heard that we might be saved. I’m going around and lettin’ everyone know.”

Marchas stepped up to the boy, his voice reflected the boy’s excitement. “Saved? How?”

The boy hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I’m so stupid. The people. The infected ones. They have walked away from the wall. They aren’t blocking us in no more.”

Marchas thanked the boy and walked him to the door. When the boy left he shut the door and leaned back against it. His smile shone through his goatee with as much enthusiasm as the boys. “I think this is out chance.”

Chapter 12d: Drummen in the Cave

The water had risen to his upper thighs, soaking his britches with cold. He didn’t care. His brothers and sisters had been arriving, a few at a time, for hours. They stood around him. He couldn’t see them but the stone cavern echoed the sloshing water as they shifted in anticipation of the feast to come.

The dreams of rending flesh, warm blood and screaming voices continued. They pacified him, temporarily quenching his hunger, but they hardly controlled his need. The visions barely kept him under control. His tongue licked moisture from his upper lip. His teeth chewed the soft flesh of the lower one. He craved flesh, a hunger that the dreams wouldn’t be able to fulfill much longer.

A splash echoed. A low growl thrummed over the rippling water and reverberated off the walls of the cave. The growl grew into a roar. Water splashed. Bones crunched. The rich smell of blood wafted through the air, a faint aroma that stood out from the smell of rot and mildew. The odor drifted through the air like a steak cooked over an open pit. He hungered. It almost drove Drummen to action. Almost.

He didn’t turn to look, but he could hear the wet feasting stirring the water behind him. A beast had entered the cave; a beast like himself, but different. A predator had taken one of his brethren. A predator sent by the Voice. Another creature slid through the water behind the predator; one like himself, but different.

The two new presences were also brothers, older brothers; wiser brothers. The Voice told Drummen to obey them, to follow their commands. They would show him a cornucopia of flesh, rivers of blood.

He could hear the beast snapping and tearing meat from bones. Water splashed and rippled, soaking more of his pants. He didn’t care. The creature feasted in the humid darkness. The beast devoured one of his brothers. He hardly noticed as the wet smacking continued for minutes, maybe hours. Time no longer mattered. He only cared about his hunger, his hunger and the Voice.

Finally the meal ended. The ripples and splashes lessened.

The beast and the stranger moved through the liquid water, the black void. They moved by him, an arms length away. The predator splashed through the water; proud, daring any of his brethren to approach him. The other one moved with a fluid grace, a smooth wake ripped through the waters behind him. The beast and the stranger moved with intent, a hunter’s stride.

The beast thoughts radiated to Drummen; a kindred spirit living for hunger, anger, and hate. The stranger’s mind shone like green swamp gas, vile and shapeless. Alien.

The beasts splashing stopped, but the smooth wake of the stranger continued up the dark cavern corridor. It had another purpose, one that didn’t involve waiting with the beast, or Drummen.

Within minutes the echoes of the strangers ripples diminished and again water dripping from the ceiling and the occasional shifting of his brethren were the only sounds to be heard other than the occasional growl of the beast.

Chapter 12c: Rescue Plans

Stiles stood next to the War Room door rubbing his temples. The War Room. He had never been within the palace walls before being rescued from the training yard. Just a few short hours ago he had been a lackey for Drummen and now he stood in the palace waiting to be called to a private conference with the Duke and his top advisors. I bet Wellan’s in there. Thinking the Wizard would be in attendance comforted him a little, but there would also be generals and maybe even that haughty Priest, Piet Lithor. Thinking about the Piet stole the comfort Stiles gained from imagining the Wizard’s presence.

What if they think I did a terrible job of getting my men out of the dungeon? What if they want to demote me, put me under Ash, or even throw me out of the city guard all together? His hand rubbed up and down the leg of his britches. His stomach twisted into a knot.

He had botched the dungeon breakout. He had hesitated when he should have know what to do and acted. Ash shouldn’t have been the one making the decisions. Stiles had the responsibility of keeping his men together, keeping them from being killed. Maybe I should step down, suggest to the Duke that Ash be put in charge? Ash had the men’s respect. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t crumble under pressure.

What if they have another assignment for me? Maybe they want me to sneak out and get help? The thought didn’t ease his anxiety.

He spun around as pounding footsteps raced toward him, a guard. The man stopped in front of the oaken War Room door, straightening his helmet. He beat on the door with a glove-covered hand.

“Come in.” a muffled voice from behind the door.

The guard pushed the door open and strode into the room. Stiles peaked around the corner. Inside the room sat a large table with a map of the city laid across it, painted wooden markers stood at different points across the map. Three men leaned over the table, the Duke himself, Wellan, and an upper ranking guard that Stiles barely knew, but not a general, and no Piet.

The guard snapped his hand to his chest in a salute before speaking in a winded voice, “My lord Duke. The people are moving away from the palace, further into the city.”

The Duke straightened from his bent position over the table, his brows coming together at the bridge of his nose. “They are retreating?”

“To be honest, sir, we are not sure what they are doing. About ten minutes ago they turned and started walking away from the palace. The areas around the walls are cleared of them for the moment.”

Duke Renier turned to Wellan, a what do you think look on his face. Wellan shrugged. The Duke turned back to the guard. “Groyce. Your name is Groyce isn’t it?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well, Groyce, did you see where they went?”

“No, my lord. The drizzle is starting to slacken, but visibility is still poor and the surrounding trees and buildings hid them from us pretty quickly.”

The Duke faced Wellan. “Well, my friend, do you have any idea as to what may be happening?”

Wellan shook his head. “I haven’t got a clue, but I don’t think they are retreating. Whatever is going on, I don’t believe it bodes well for us.”

“Well, I think we should use this to our advantage.” He turned back to Groyce. “Thank you for that information, Groyce. You’re dismissed.”

The guard saluted once more before turning and striding out of the room.

The Duke waved to Stiles. “Come in Stiles.”

He walked into the room. Every step felt more awkward and clumsy than the last, a duck waddling through a room full of hawks. He could feel his face turning red. He stopped in front of the Duke. His salute seemed lame after seeing the other guard do it. “You wished to see me, my lord?”

“Yes, Stiles, I have a job for you and it looks like the Fates are smiling on you today.”

“A…a job, sir?”

“Yes. A few hours ago someone rang the bell on top of the Temple of Vaspar. The guards on the wall said they saw at least three men moving about in the bell tower and there could be more people below. I would like you and your men to go to the Temple and bring those people back. I don’t know how they have survived there this long. I would send some of my personal guards, but there are few left.”

He wasn’t being demoted, not even reprimanded. The Duke had handed him an important assignment. He stood straighter. “You can count on me, Sir.”

The Duke smiled, “I knew I could, Stiles. When you and your men reach the church I would like half of your men to keep going, to get out of the city and go to Baron Milchev’s castle. I need to warn him of this epidemic and see if he can send help, though I’m not sure he will. He is an ornery bastard to say the least, but he needs to be warned of what happened here. Hopefully it will keep him from suffering our fate.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Wellan cleared his throat. “You might also want to send some of the men into the city. Let them find out where the people have gone and report back here.”

“That is an excellent idea. Send a quarter of your men to warn Baron Milchev and another quarter to find out where the people are and what they are doing. You can decide which men will be scouting and which will go to the Baron.”

“Yes, Sir. They are good men. I know they can do as you ask.” They aren’t going to be happy to hear about this assignment. Not happy at all.

Duke Renier rubbed his chin, thinking. “Wellan and I had discussed causing a distraction to pull the people away from a section of the wall and then lowering your men down on ropes, but since they have left the area around the walls I think you should try and go out the front gates. What do you think Wellan?”

The wizard’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He smiled. “Their retreat at this moment is fortunate. I think we should give it a try.”

“Then the front gate it is. If they don’t return you can come back that way also. If they do return we will keep an eye out for you. If we see you coming we will distract them as we planned and lower ropes down to pull you to the top of the wall.”

Stiles clasped his hands behind his back. “That sounds good. Anything else, my Lord?”

“No. That will be all.”

“Yes, Sir.” Stiles’ salute remained as awkward as ever.

Chapter 12b: Observations

"How long are we to sit here and wait?” Lurok Bos Spielter grumbled. He squatted on the tiled alter steps with his hand propped under his chin, staring at his feet. Lithor didn’t care for his choice of seats, the alter being the holiest of ground, but under the circumstances he didn’t think it worth mentioning. Brother Cylus, on the other hand, fumed and glared at the merchant. His mouth had even opened once or twice to say something, but the rant never got past his wrinkled lips. Bos Spielter didn’t move and no one, not even Brother Cylus, wanted to start an argument that wasn’t necessary.

“If Duke Renier is still alive, and I have no doubt that he is, then help will come as soon as he can arrange something.” Though he spoke to the group with confidence, his words were spoken to comfort himself as much as the others.

When no one replied, Lithor walked to the window. He could only take so much of the merchants’ growling and complaining. Thank Vaspar the man had finally tired of his own grumblings. He desperately wanted to put the merchant in his place, to do what the old Piet would have done, but he didn’t want to return to being that man, the one who ran. He didn’t want to ever see himself cowering behind a bed again while a friend, a brother in Vaspar, stood in his place against the forces of evil. No, he wanted that man to be gone forever. If he had to sacrifice his pride in order for that to happen then so be it. The loss of his status would just be one of the many penances he planned on paying for a lifetime of sin and arrogance.

He watched the mass of pale bodies meander aimlessly back and forth at the edge of the safe zone. Their numbers had decreased, but not knowing where they all were bothered the Piet more than watching them stumbling about in front of the temple. Maybe they will get bored and find somewhere else to haunt. Or should I be doing something? Did the lord Vaspar save me and give me a weapon to combat them? If so then why do I cower behind the walls of His temple? What does He have destined for me? What is Your will, my lord?

Brother Cylus’ liver spotted hand grasped the window frame, interrupting the Piet’s thoughts. His raspy voice asked, “Why do they stay? What are they waiting for?”

“Us, I think.”

Two of the bodies walked into one another’s path. Each turned to avoid a collision.

“Why don’t they attack their own?”

Lithor’s thumb rubbed up and down the pommel of the sword. His eyes focused on the crowd. “I don’t know.”

“Why do they hate us?”

He pulled his gaze from the window and looked at Brother Cylus. “I don’t believe they do. I’ve looked into their eyes. I didn’t see hatred; longing perhaps. Hunger, desire, need maybe, but not hatred. I believe I even saw fear or revulsion when they looked upon the holy sword, but hatred…no that I haven’t yet seen.”

“Do you think they still have souls?”

Lithor returned his gaze to the window. Since entering the temple he had asked himself that question over and over again. He wanted to think they still had souls, a part of themselves that could be redeemed and brought back. He shuddered to think that they could be lost in the void, without any hope of return or salvation. Or worse yet, trapped within those mindless bodies, forced to see themselves committing atrocities they couldn’t control. He tried to tell himself that they were still in there somewhere, blind to their actions and desperately trying to escape the prison of their own bodies. He wanted to see them returned to the lives they had lived only hours earlier. He wanted to put the world back where it had been less than a day ago. Though he wanted to put everything back like it was, he couldn’t’ see how things could be put right as he watched them aimlessly stumble through their environment. They ignored everything, walking around objects and occasionally into them, only becoming driven in the presence of the uninfected. Violence and desire seemed to be their only motivation.

“Piet Lithor, do you think they still have souls?”

“I wish I could tell you that they do, Brother Cylus. I honestly do, but to be honest with myself…I don’t think so. I don’t know what evil causes them to hunt us, but I think their souls are gone. I only hope that they are in a better place and not devoured by the force that created them.”

“Where do…”

“Please, Brother Cylus. No more questions. I’m…”

Footsteps pounded on the bell tower stairs. Both priests turned as Tollis raced down the steps. Everyone stood. The newborn let out a whimper in his mother’s arms. Two hands clasped as the newlywed couple tried to comfort one another. A mother pulled her two sons close to her sides.

Tollis looked at each person, searching. A grin lit his face as his eyes fell on the Piet. “They want us to wait.”

Bos Spielter growled, “What are you talking about, boy? Who wants us to wait?”

His smile faltered. “The guards, Bos. The guards want us to wait.”

Lithor spoke up, before Bos Spielter could snarl at the boy again, “How do you know this, Tollis?”

“A sign, your excellency. They spelled out ‘wait’ on a sheet and unfolded it down the side of the castle wall.”

The Piet turned to Bos Spielter, “I told you the Duke wouldn’t let us down.”

Chapter 12a: Awakening

"Who can know the depths of evil, and is there an equally good force to compare it with?"

~Secret Holy Scriptures of the Waken Book

---

"Come here, Tanilla. Come to mommy.”

The baby took a wobbly step forward. A pudgy hand stretched out, narrowing the gap between mother and toddler. The other stayed on the chair seat.

“Come on, honey. Let go of the chair and come to Mommy.” Rachelle motioned the baby to her, arms open, enticing the child with promises of a hug.

She smiled as the toddler took two awkward steps then stopped. Tanilla looked at her mommy as if to say, where seat go? The baby glanced over her shoulder at the chair. She tipped back and forth as she kept her newfound balance, and then turned back to Rachelle. Her face lit up with a triumphant grin. See what I did, Mommy! With a squeal of delight the baby gave herself a single clap, almost falling over, and then looked down at her feet to verify the truth of matters.

The room darkened. The golden glow of sunlight shifted to the hazy light of dusk. Shadows crawled across the floor and walls, giving the quaint room an ominous appearance.

Tanilla’s head snapped up, far quicker than a baby should have been capable of. Her once happy eyes turned completely white, the faint hint of pupils hidden beneath layers of milky film. None of the blue showed. Blood coated her mouth and dripped from her chin as lips pinched together in an ominous grin. The toddler opened her arms and walked toward Rachelle. The unsure stagger gone, heal to toe, heal to toe. The child moved like a predator. Her mouth opened, revealing dozens of narrow bloodstained fangs, more teeth than could possibly fit within the child’s closed mouth. In a deep voice that reverberated throughout the room the child screamed, “MOMMMMMEEEEEEEE!”

“Madame Rachelle. Are you alright?”

She jerked away from the voice, shifting to the center of the bed. Her heart pounded in her chest. A scream threatened to leap from her throat.

Wellan stood beside her, his brows furrowed together with worry.

She sat up in the bed. Tears dribbled from the corners of her eyes and became diluted in the sweat that covered her cheeks. The gray light of dusk shone through the window, filling the small room with long, menacing shadows.

Wellan’s knobby hand gently touched her shoulder. Rachelle jumped. “You must have had a bad dream. It’s not surprising…considering…”

She pulled the covers to her chest and held them tight, a thin wall against the horrible nightmare, against a world gone mad.

The wizard’s voice softened to a gentle whisper, “I…I need to talk to you, to ask you a few questions. Are you up to it?”

She turned away. My baby, Tanilla. Gone, taken away by disease, a plague…or the man with the bow. No, she was gone before he shot her, but had she moved. I felt her move within the blankets. I saw her stand. I saw her try…try and…bite. Fresh tears rolled down her cheek, starting a flow she couldn’t stop, a flood of grief that couldn’t be dammed away with glad thoughts or logic. Her shoulders shook. Her breath hitched in her throat. My baby lost her soul.

She shook her head. No, I can’t talk right now. I just lost the only thing that meant anything to me, and I’m having a little trouble putting it behind me right now. If you could come back in say…a year or two then maybe, just maybe I will have something to say.

Though she faced away from Wellan she could almost feel him nod his head as he said. “I understand. I will come back later when you feel better.”

The door creaked open.

“Wait.” The whispered word left her mouth before she could stop it. She didn’t want him there. She didn’t want to speak with anyone. She couldn’t bear sharing her grief, but she couldn’t be alone. The thought of not having someone near frightened her more than letting him see her pain.

“Do you want to talk?”

“No...Yes…I…I just don’t want to be alone. Not right now.”

“I understand.”

She paused, staring at the floor, she needed to tell him something, say anything. Nothing came to mind, nothing but her baby lying on the floor of her cottage, the look in her eyes as she came back to life, the hunger. She couldn’t just sit and stare at the wall. Wellan had more important things to do than console her.

She focused on a dark corner of the room and tried to clear her mind.

“My daughter. I found her in my house. Dead.”

Light footsteps followed by the rustle of robes, a chair creaked. “I’m so sorry.”

She thanked him for his sympathy with a single nod. Her eyes closed, taking away the distraction of the dim light shining through the window, the texture of the wall. She visualized the morning again as she spoke, stepping through every heart wrenching moment. “I raised Tanilla by myself. Her father disappeared at sea when she was small. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe he just didn’t want to be a father. I don’t know and I don’t guess it really matters. She was all that mattered, the only thing I cared about. Now she’s gone.”

“Madam Rachelle, I…”

“I picked her up, held her close. Cold. She was so cold. I don’t know how long I sat like that, I lost track of time. I wrapped her in a blanket, the blanket that Miss Whorton made. It had little animals all over it. Tanilla loved animals. I wrapped her up like a baby, an infant, with only her face showing. She always reminded me that she was a big girl, but at that moment she was my baby. I think I wiped the blood from her mouth. I’m not sure.”

“I carried her outside. I don’t know where I planned to go, maybe nowhere, maybe to bring her to you. I don’t know. I just walked.”

“People, blood covered people, followed us. I became afraid. I thought they would try and take my little girl. I couldn’t allow that, but I couldn’t prevent it. She started moving, struggling beneath the blanket. My heart surged with hope. I think I sat her down.”

Seconds passed in silence. Madame Rachelle wiped her closed eyes with the palms of her hand. The memory of those next moments twisted her stomach. A fresh wave of despair washed over her. Her shoulders shook with renewed sobs.

Finish the story. Get it all out. It will consume me if I don’t release it.

“I don’t remember…I…her face. Her eyes, the dead eyes, they looked at me with a need, a hunger. Like…like an addict. I can’t explain the feeling that came over me. Fear. Shock. Despair. It was then that she…her head…an arrow. That…that’s all I can remember.”

She turned to the wizard, her eyes swollen and bleary with tears. “That’s all I can remember.”

“Madame Rachelle, I’m so sorry.”

She nodded once and turned away.

“I do have some news that might make you feel better.”

Air stuttered to her lungs. New tears trickled down her cheeks. She hadn’t thought there were any left.

“I think the…the situation awoke the magic within you. I think you could be a wizard.”

She didn’t smile. She didn’t care.

Chapter 11b: The Unwilling Servant

Guilt wracked him. Years before the battle of Sipha, Eyliasa had been abducted by the Ryshans. They were a barbaric people men who would hold a fifteen-year-old girl for ransom as blackmail to assure their victory, men who sent pieces of her as evidence with taunting messages of how they abused her in every way imaginable. He hadn’t given in then. His heart had felt like it would burst through his chest, but he hadn’t given in. The good of the kingdom weighed heavier than the abuse and murder of his daughter. Or so he kept telling himself. He wanted to believe it, but underneath the hard exterior, it tore his soul apart.

In the end she had died, her head mounted to a staff at the forefront of the enemy formation. He made them pay for the abuses. With tears wetting his cheeks, he had made every one of those bastards pay. When the battle ended corpses covered the field. They showed the enemy no mercy. He had their villages razed and their people killed; down to the last child. The vengeance only fueled his self-loathing, but he couldn’t make himself stop, torn between mercy and a hatred he couldn’t stop.

General Faygen had his revenge, but it didn’t matter. He had wanted to die. A boon he didn’t receive until decades later.

He couldn’t live through that again. Undead or not, he couldn’t repeat that burden.

He raised his clouded eyes and glared into the necromancer’s cowl. Hatred burned in his heart that he hadn’t felt in ages.

The wolf smile widened, fueling Faygen’s anger and hate.

The creature motioned him off the table with a wave of his hand. “Dispise me all you want, General. I wouldn’t expect any less, but act on that hatred and you will find your daughter’s head once again left on a pike. Now, do as I told you and stand up.”

The plight of his daughter broken his will. He kept a hand on the stone to support himself as he slid off the table and stood on legs that wobbled, legs that hadn’t been used in centuries. He would obey.

He pushed the dark memories to the back of his mind and watched his two companions step off the ship. They were an odd pair. The first one looked like a wolfhound that had been crossed with a saber tooth tiger, a massive creature whose shoulders stood almost chest high. The beast carried itself like a predator, shoulders swaying with each step, sniffing the air and constantly glancing back and forth as if in search of something to hunt. Huge fangs stretched and deformed its lips and jutted below its lower jaw. Faygen would have thought it was alive if not for the gray, mold-covered skin showing through the creature’s thin hair and the milky eyes that didn’t miss anything.

His other companion seemed to be more wraith than human as it glided down the gangplank to the dock. Cloaked like its dark master, nothing could be seen of the creature beneath. Unlike the necromancer, it gave nothing away within the blackness of its cowl. Neither the eyes or teeth gleamed. The robe contained a moving void as far as Faygen could tell.

I wonder if that demon has some hold over him, something the wraith would do anything for, or is the creature helping for its own ends?

During the voyage they had stayed in their separate quarters. Faygen could sense everyone on the ship, the five lower undead and these other two, as if their return from death created a bond in their souls, shining like a sickly green beacon in the darkness. None of the undead had made any attempt to communicate with the others. He hadn’t expected the lower undead to even try. They only lived to feast on living flesh. Of coarse, he hadn’t expected the mutated wolfhound to try and communicate either, but he had expected more from the wraith creature. It seemed to have a mind of its own, like himself, having desires for things other than the destruction that the necromancer pursued.

He turned away from his companions, following the dock along the waterfront toward Renier’s Port Gate. For the last two days he had heard the sound of men working on the dock, ships coming in full of cargo or fish. Now all he heard was the lapping of the water, the wind gusting over the ocean waters, and the boards of the dock occasionally creak as his companions followed behind him. Are they following me, or do we just happen to be going in the same direction?

He didn’t know their purpose and didn’t really care. He only knew that they had nothing to do with him directly. No orders had been given to him concerning them.

Within minutes the three stood before the Port Gate. Faygen looked through the gates and saw a silent city, a dead city. If his ancient tear ducts hadn’t dried up centuries ago, he would have cried.

A thing that was once a man trudged through the drizzle further down the road, aimlessly walking from one side of the street to the other in a haphazard, zigzag pattern. Faygen sent out a mental command. Come. The thing stopped, its balding head turning toward the three. It turned and stumbled toward Faygen, eyes locked on the general. The creature didn’t zigzag or deviate, walking straight to the three. The ghoul’s feet drug along the ground, making even the straight path take some time. Within moments he stood before Faygen.

He had just started to turn, to see what his companions were going to do, when the wolfhound bolted around him and grasped the mindless undead in its wide jaws. Bone cracked as fangs sank deep into its skull. The wolfhound swung the undead back and forth, popping vertebrae and slinging half-congealed blood. The beast slung it back and forth several more times before allowing the corpse to fall onto the ground. Without a pause, the creature’s head dove to the ghoul’s stomach. Massive teeth bit into the soft flesh and pulled. The corpse jerked up and down with the jerking of the wolfhound’s head, until flesh ripped and a stew of organs oozed out of the ragged hole. The beast swallowed the flap of skin then dove into the quivering innards, yanking out a length of intestine and devouring it, as any dog would do to a string of sausages.

Faygen knew the sight should have sickened him, but he felt nothing, or at best puzzled. Why would the creature kill one of the undead? Is the beast that vicious, or does it need food before continuing its mission?

He turned to the wraith, hoping to get an answer, but the mysterious man simply bowed his head and walked down the wall, away from the gate.

The wet snapping and swallowing continued for several more seconds before it pulled its bloody muzzle up and trotted after the other.

He watched the two walk down the wall until they disappeared around the corner, towards the mountains. Their presence would remain a mystery until another day.

Without sparing any more thought for his companions, Faygen walked into Renier. He had work of his own to do.

Chapter 11a: General Faygen's Return

Part II
Siege

"Who can know the depths of evil, and is there an equally good force to compare it with?"

~Secret Holy Scriptures of the Waken Book

---

General Faygen placed his feet on solid ground for the first time in almost two weeks.

During the ten-day sea voyage he had stayed in the hold, staring at the plank ceiling and thinking about the hell his resurrection had become. He had done little else as the ship rocked across the ocean. Once the craft had docked he remained in the hold for two more days listening to workers yell back and forth across the docks, while the five lower undead entered the city to perform their terrible deed. He was glad to have land underneath him once again. He hated the hold, a dark and humid place that swelled the gasses within him, making his innards gurgle and swell.

Thankfully he couldn’t smell the gaseous expulsions or his rotting carcass. The sense of smell hadn’t returned to him with his resurrection, though his other senses seemed to work just fine. The constant itch of larvae rooting beneath his skin made him wish his sense of touch had been removed as well. Occasionally he would catch one as it bore through his flesh, or cough one of the little white buggers up as it tickled the back of his throat. He took his frustrations out on the tiny vermin with a pinch of his fingers.

The rain began almost fourteen hours ago, the screaming started shortly after that, then died down to an occasional screech, breaking the lulling rhythm of the rain. He had ignored the distant cries, concentrating on his mission. He listened to the screams and blocked them out, willing them away. He had enough self-loathing to deal with; he didn’t need the added guilt of more victims he couldn’t help. The screams of men being transformed into his mindless army were more than he could bear.

Twelve days in the hold had given him a lot of time to reflect on his situation, both his first life and this new one. Death had claimed his soul almost a thousand years ago in the glorious battle of Sipha. Outnumbered two to one, the Croshans had still claimed victory, thanks to General Faygen’s military genius. They won, but at a high cost; almost two thirds of his men would never walk away from the battlefield and a sword through the back for himself. He died moments after victory had been proclaimed - a glorious death, a warrior’s death.

Faygens last moments consisted of terrible pain then darkness. Not only the absence of light, but of smell, sound, touch, self …everything. Almost a thousand years of nothing. No glorious warrior’s greeting by Roke, the god of war. No glorious mansion for the great leader of the Croshans. No gold and jewels. No beautiful concubines. No great meeting with long lost relatives and no reconciliation with his daughter. Nothing.

His god granted him a thankless death for years of service and loyalty.

Consciousness. No great swirling lights or a voice from heaven, only self-awareness. A dim thought in the center of his mind, I am. The thought grew into complex ideas, then foggy pieces of memory that fit together to form a puzzle of a man. The puzzle displayed a man with friends, comrades, lovers, and a daughter. A man named Faygen.

He became aware, but darkness still held reign over his vision. No sounds. No smells. No feeling, no pounding of a beating heart to contrast the silence. Even with the panic he felt there was still no heartbeat. Am I still dead?

The pain started as pinpricks in his joints. The stinging grew and multiplied until burning torment flooded his body, focusing where bone met bone. His body twitched and convulsed, grinding joints and increasing the torture. He suddenly realized he could feel, though he wished he couldn’t.

His eyes snapped open, grating his corneas like sandpaper rubbed over a grape. They burned but didn’t moisten. Through fog clouded vision he saw two mummified arms, skin as broken and dry as bark, frantically rising and falling, striking a hard surface. A dim beat came to his ears, wood striking stone. The arm rose for another strike. Through slowly ebbing pain he willed the arm to stop. The appendage stayed in the air, thin fingers outstretched like twigs. He willed them to flex and they twitched, sending fresh tendrils of pain to his throbbing mind. My fingers. My arm. What have I become?

The deep rumble of laughter, low and mirthless, erupted to his right. His hearing hadn’t completely returned, making the laughter sound as though it came through a thick wall. He willed his head to turn. His chin swung an inch to the right before pain knifed down his spine from the base of his skull to the middle of his shoulders. The sound of popping vertebrae crackled like thunder, traveling through his dry flesh directly to his ears. An involuntary gasp escaped his mouth. The attempt to move air through the withered bags of his lungs created a new torture from deep within his chest. Dust filled his throat.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” the voice whispered with a smoker’s rasp. It was a deep and grating sound, two rocks being rubbed together to create words. A face leered over him, hidden within the shadows of a cowl. Only a wide smile shown, filled with yellowed wolfish teeth.

Fear of creating more anguish for himself stopped Faygen from nodding his head in reply.

The creature seemed to understand. “You awakened sooner than I expected, though I really shouldn’t be surprised. After all, it is the mighty General Faygen that I have brought back from the darkness. I will try and work quicker to make your entry back into the land of the living more accommodating.”

A hand reached from a black sleeve and lay on his forehead, while the other hand reached out to grasp his knee. The hand that grasped Faygen’s forehead was black with rot. Knuckles stood out like the ends of cypress roots, stretching the skin until it looked ready to rip. Hundreds of small boils covered the tendons that tried to protrude from the skin at the wrist, lightening the dark skin stretched over then at the head.

He didn’t want the vile thing touching him.

The foul thing began to chant in a guttural language that Faygen didn’t understand. He tensed as ice filled his veins, running from where the creature touched his forehead to the other hand at his knee. A pain far greater than any he had yet experienced flashed through his body. His back arched and his fingers clenched against the chill. He didn’t notice the aching in his joints; a greater pain had taken its place. The hands stayed on him, holding him down against the torment, until warmth began to melt the ice. Like the ice the warmth began at the hand on his head and flowed down his body, thawing the icy pain and replacing it with warm relief.

The chanting stopped. The diseased hands pulled away from him.

“Feel better now, General?”

When Faygen didn’t turn his head or respond his healer said, “You can look at me now. The pain is gone and your body is restored to its former state.”

He turned his head and faced the thing that had brought him back. It stood hunched over a foot or so away from him, surrounded by walls of stone, a thing hidden beneath tattered robes, face hidden within a deep cowl.

In a low voice the diseased thing said, “I think you should know what has happened since your demise. How the world has changed and how I expect you to help me change it even more.”

Before Faygen could reply the creature mouthed another guttural word and the room suddenly became overlaid with images. Events that had taken place over the past thousand years flashed across a backdrop of stone. Thousands of images, important evens, everything of significance that he had missed while sleeping. Then he saw the future. A future where the his resurrector controlled everything, a future of death, where the undead became ghouls like himself. Some roamed around as mindless things, performing simple tasks or stumbling forward until given instructions. Others were more like himself, with the capability to think, but everyone could be controlled at any time by the horrid creature. A world full of abominations like himself.

He didn’t try and fool himself. He was still dead. No heartbeat, no breathing. He had been made into a ghoul, an abomination in the eyes of the gods.

Next, the creature showed him a city named Renier, a city full of undead waiting for a leader; an army in need of someone who could breach the walls of the castle, piercing the heart of the once beautiful city and claiming it for the necromancer.

He wouldn’t do it!

The toothy smile widened and images of his daughter flooded his mind. Eyliasa! Her body lay on a stone table much like his, but unlike himself, she had been restored to her former beauty. His precious fifteen-year-old daughter.

Chapter 10d: Calling all the Faithful

Piet Lithor looked out the window, at the crowd of people gathered outside the temple. Hundreds of blank eyes stared back. Hundreds of arms grasped out, as though they could reach through the yards of empty air, past the invisible line they couldn’t cross. Hundreds of mouths opened their hungry maws at the few remaining men and women trapped within the temple. “Look at all the people gathered around the temple, brother Cylus. It reminds me of the days when Piet Pearson preached the gospel. Oh, but he could draw a crowd.”

Brother Cylus looked out the window. “Yes, Piet Lithor. Piet Pearson did have a way with the masses.”

A baby cried from among the pews while a mother rocked it back and forth, calming the child.

“Yeah, you got a hell of a crowd out there, Piet.” The angry voice belonged to Lurok Bos Spielter, a local merchant mariner and owner of almost a dozen ships. His tithes had payed for many of Piet Lithor’s excesses. Now he looked as though he planned to make Piet Lithor earn the money.

Brother Cylus bristled and opened his mouth, ready to give Bos Spielter a lesson in manners, but Piet Lithor halted the angry priest with a wave of his hand.

Bos Spielter twisted the end of his bushy mustache, his eyes shifting from the old priest to Piet Lithor as if the old man was of no consequence. “I don’t mean to sound rude or speak heresy here, Piet, but exactly what have my tithes bought me? Year after year I dumped coins in your lap in the hopes of gaining some favor from the almighty Vaspar, but I got up this morning to find that your god left me with nothing. Got any answers, priest?”

Just a day ago, Piet Lithor would have ruined the man for saying such things. The words still infuriated the Piet, and he wanted nothing more than to throw the arrogant merchant out of the temple and into the ghastly crowd. But in the man’s ranting heresy, he saw a reflection of himself. An example of how others must see him. It made him feel disgusted more at his own tainted soul than at Bos Spielter. None of that showed as he looked the merchant in the eye. His voice rolled with more authority than he felt. “You are still alive Lurok. Maybe those tithes bought you a fate that is better than those out there. Maybe all those coins bought you salvation from a fate that is worse than death.”

“Yeah, Piet? Well, I look out there, into that crowd, and I see a bunch of faces. Some faces I even recognize. I look out there, and I see that we’re a little school of minnows surrounded by sharks. So, you will have to forgive me if I miss the blessings that the almighty Vaspar has bestowed upon me.”

“He has made the ground holy, Bos Spielter! He has given us sanctuary.” Brother Cylus spoke up, an angry quiver in his voice.

Bos Spielter waved his hand in the air, brushing the comment away. “He’s given us a beautiful tomb, priest; a place where we can starve to death in the holiness of his presence. I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel all that fortunate right now.”

Before Brother Cylus could argue the point any further, a loud gong reverberated through the temple. All the men cringed at the unexpected noise, and the baby began wailing from among the pews with renewed vigor.

“The bell of Saint Renando. Someone is ringing the bell.” Brother Cylus' voice shook with fear. The temple bell gonged again.

Bos Spielter twisted his mustache all the harder and growled. “Someone better get up there and stop whatever idiot is pulling that cord, or we’re gonna have everyone in the city waiting outside this temple to get it. Though I’m not really sure if it matters at this point.”

The three men rushed to the stairs leading to the bell tower, Piet Lithor leading as the bell chimed once again.

He had run only halfway up the stairs, sweat shining on his face, air heaving in and out of his lungs, when he halted and yelled, “Stop ringing the bell! You’re calling them all down on us! Stop ringing the bell!”

An exited voice, the voice of a young man, called down to him. “Piet Lithor! There are men moving around on the walls of the castle. Guards, I think.”

The youth continued to chatter as Piet Lithor climbed the rest of the stairs to the open bell tower. It rose above the trees, giving a bird’s eye view of the entire city. A young man stood with the bell tower rope in his hand, held taut, and pointed toward the castle. Though his eyes lacked the strength they once held, Piet Lithor looked across and saw guards rushing along the top of the outer castle wall.

“Is that rope they are carrying?”

Piet Lithor had no idea how the merchant could see such details through the haze of drizzle that thickened the air between the temple and the castle. Not that it mattered. What did matter was that men still occupied the castle, and guards at that. They still stood a chance of rescue if only someone would notice their presence.

He turned back to the young man. “What is your name, my son?”

The boy smiled, “Tollis Mayer, son of Royce Mayer.”

Piet Lithor gave the young man an equally wide smile and replied, “Well Tollis, keep pulling that rope until someone spots us.”

He turned back to watch the guards on the castle wall and said, “You may have just saved all our lives.”

Chapter 10c: Running Blind

A faint tinkling, the sound of a muffled bell , drifted through the air. The noise repeated again and again, getting louder with each recurrence. Shannai frowned at her brother, who shrugged and looked into the distance, toward the odd sound.

As the sound increased, Marchas stepped forward and notched an arrow into his bow, nodding to Shannai to do the same.

With arrows notched and pointed at the ground, they stood and waited as shapes took form in the misty rain. The outline of the damned stumbled forward, becoming clearer as the group marched toward Shannai and her brother. A dozen pale bodies shuffled forward. The bell noise became obvious as an indentured servant, scarred with the shoulder branding of a slave, shuffled with the crowd. A length of chain shackled to his leg dragging behind him.

Marchas raised his bow, then lowered it. He grabbed his sister by the elbow and pulled her away from the slow-moving crowd. “There’s got to be a better way than this! I’m not shooting anybody till I have to. We run. We run till we don’t have a choice, then we’ll do what we have to.”

Shannai nodded, fear filling her with anxious energy and tears clouding her vision.

Her memories became a blur of rain, running, and terror as her brother led her through the city, always forced to move deeper into the metropolis, towards the Barclave Mountain and Castle Renier. Her brain blocked out everything around her, turning her into a sleepwaker with one thing in mind; following Marchas. She could ignore the corrupted humanity around her. She could pretend the city wasn’t a lair for the damned. She could just continue to follow her brother and everything would be all right. Marchas would take care of her. He always did.

“Don’t just sit there. Run!” The noise burst through her half conscious mind with explosive force, breaking her out of her melancholy. Her brother screamed at a woman as he notched another arrow. Tears streamed down her face as she raised her own bow and released an arrow into the crowd. She didn’t look to see whom she hit, if she even hit anyone. As soon as the shaft left her bow her gaze focused on the weapon and she notched another arrow.

Suddenly everything changed. A scream. A burst of blue light. Her brother flying through the air.

How did you do that? She asked herself as she stared at the sleeping woman.

The wizard had come in and saved the day. Just when she thought they were about to be initiated into the ranks of the dead, the wizard had shown up, clearing a path through the crowd with bursts of fire. He had picked up the witch, while Shannai helped her brother stand. Then they raced to the front gate of the castle and safety.

The door opened to the small room, breaking her thoughts. She straightened as Wellan walked through. He looked down at the sleeping woman, then at Shannai. A smile crossed his face as he waved her into the corridor. She pushed herself from the wall and followed.

“How is your brother?”

She shrugged, “A little sore, but he’ll live.”

Shannai looked down at her feet, not sure what she should say to the wizard. Finally she mumbled, “Thanks for saving us out there.”

He gave her a fatherly grin. “Think nothing of it. I felt Madame Rachelle’s burst of power and couldn’t help but follow it to its source. It looks like we were both at the right place at the right time.”

“Yeah.”

His grin melted, replaced by a more serious expression. “What are you doing in Madame Rachelle’s room?”

She didn’t look up from the floor, watching her booted toe make short arcs on the tiles. “Nothing…I just…I was wondering why she did that to Marchas. Why she slung him against that tree like that…and how.”

His comforting smile returned, “I’m here to ask the same question. To at least find out how she did it. As far as why…did you see the child, the one she fell on top of when she feinted?”

“No. I was too busy helping my brother.” Tears blurred her vision as she asked the question. A question she feared she already knew the answer to. “Who was she?”

His smile fell again, replaced by a sad frown. “I will have to ask her to know for sure, but I believe it was her daughter.”

He held up a small pendant on a gold chain. “I found this around the child’s neck. It is Madame Rachelle’s symbol.”

A tear rolled down Shannai’s cheek. She brought her eyes up to face the wizard and whispered, “I don’t think I need to speak to Madame Rachelle when she wakes up.”

She turned and strode down the corridor, not looking back as she said, “I’m gonna check on my brother now.”

Chapter 10b: Into the Streets

When they had gathered their things, they raced back down the stairs and opened the front door. Marchas stopped in the doorway.

Shannai adjusted the straps on her pack and asked, “What’s wrong? Why are you stopping?”

“There’s nobody on the streets.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

He shook his head; eyes never leaving the silent road. “Yeah, normally it would be, but something just doesn’t seem right about this.” With a shrug, he stepped into the street. She followed close behind, looking from side to side, but seeing no one.

Other than the wind whipping through the empty road and the drip of water from the drizzle, the city stood eerily silent. Their boots clicked against the wet stone as they traveled through the streets, walking close to the buildings and under the eaves; staying out sight and the weather. As they crossed an alleyway, Shannai glanced between the buildings. A black cloud of smoke rose in the distance, deep within the forest of buildings. She stopped her brother and pointed. He looked at it and shrugged. Not our problem.

A splash drew their attention. The gray form of a man stumbled across the road, staggering in their direction. He approached another ten feet before Marchas stepped back, pulling Shannai behind him. The man’s throat glistened red with blood around a hole where his Adam’s apple had once been. His mouth hung open and his eyes stared at them, their moist shine coated in a dull film. His movements reminded Shannai of Bos Talle.

Marchas kept his focus on the stranger as he reached back and grasped her arm, his grip painfully tight. He pulled her with him as he raced under the eaves, away from the grisly sight. The man followed, but his wobbly gait couldn’t keep up. Within moments he became a faint shadow within the drizzle.

After a few blocks Shannai stopped. “What’s going on, Marchas?”

He shook his head, running his fingers through his damp hair. “I don’t know, but something is seriously wrong.” His gaze traveled from her to the door of the shop they had stopped in front of. Carved into the door was the symbol of a bow and knife, painted in red and black.

He put his hand on the handle and turned to her. “I think that this would be a good time to get some better weapons.”

Stopping didn’t seem like one of his better ideas, but she followed him into the store anyway. He paused in the doorway, causing her to run into his back. Her mouth opened to grumble a complaint and froze as she looked around his shoulder.

A thin man slumped over the counter, his face lying in a pool of blood. She put her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.

Marchas pulled her through the door and pushed it shut. “Stay right there,” he said, striding to the counter.

He placed the back of his hand in front of the man’s mouth. “He’s dead. It looks like he almost turned himself inside out with his vomiting.”

She still had her hand over her mouth as she looked up at the ceiling, trying not to look at the bloody site; trying not to be sick.

Shannai looked back at her brother as he moved away from the body. Several short bows hung from the wall at the far end of the counter. He grabbed two of them, then ran to another wall and grasp two empty quivers, filling them from a barrel of arrows sitting next to the counter. He handed her one of the quivers and slung the other over his back, then he strung both bows and handed her one.

She didn’t say a word as he worked on the bows, and neither did he. His silence indicated that he was brooding about what needed to be done. Her brother was a kind and jovial man, but when stressed he would quickly become vicious with his comments. She decided to let him work instead of starting a fight.

On the way out, he stopped and grabbed a sword prominently displayed in a plaque on the wall.

The wet streets remained silent as they stepped out of the shop.

“We’ll go to the South Gate. It’s the closest one.” Marchas whispered over his shoulder as he walked south, staying near the buildings.

Shannai looked at the quite buildings and a nervous flutter crept up her spine, making her want to cower in the doorway of the arms shop. A noise made her look back, into the shop. The storekeeper stood, his face a blood-caked mess. Like a man waking from a dream, he looked around his shop. His eyes fixed on her. His mouth opened and his arms rose. He stumbled towards her.

She gasped, grabbing the door and slamming it shut with a thunderous bang.

Marchas twisted around. “What in the hell did you do that for?”

“The shopkeeper…he…he got up…he was coming for me…he…”

The anger in Marchas’ face melted away. His hand grasped hers with a reassuring squeezed as he turned around and pulled her behind him. They continued, hand in hand.

Something was wrong, seriously wrong. The fluttering in her stomach grew with every step, until she thought she would freeze with terror. She saw a ghoul in every shadow, a walking corpse in every alley, felt a cold hand grasp the back of her neck with each gust of wind. They needed to get out of the city as quickly as possible. She released her brother's hand. The reasuring gesture would only slow them down.

They had only gone a few blocks before a noise caught her attention. She stopped, causing Marchas to stop and turn. A what the hell’s wrong now look covered his face. She put her finger to her lips and cocked her head to the side, listening for the sound.

Chapter 10a: Shannai’s Story

"The party’s over, the night’s done.

Let’s go home, we’ve had our fun."

~A popular bard closing

Shannai stood in the back corner of the room, arms folded across her chest and her shoulder leaning against the wall while she watched the sleeping woman. She waited in the shadows, not wanting the woman to see her when she awakened. The woman was dangerous; she knew that the moment the witch used magic, throwing her brother thirty feet through the air. Shannai also suspected why the woman had done it, but she needed to talk to her to know for certain, and patch things up if her suspicions were correct.

She couldn’t believe how bad things had gotten. The whole city lost.

She and Marchas, her older brother, had been in Renier for almost a week, entertaining crowds at the local taverns and inns with their music and stories. They were bards, and it was a life unlike any other. She and her brother received coins for doing the one thing they loved to do. Every night they partied, and they didn’t pay homage to any man, god, or employer. They lived a free life and she had thought they held a firm grasp on their destiny; that misconception faded away in the mid morning hours, when they woke up to a city of the dead.

Being bards, they kept late hours and late mornings, usually not getting out of their rented beds until almost lunchtime. The morning the city died was no different, except for the piercing scream that woke her at mid-morning instead of her usual lunchtime awakening.

Her bleary eyes snapped opened, her hand darting to the dagger tucked beneath the pillow as she listened for more noises. Silence. She released the dagger and sat up. It must have only been a dream. Hell of a way to wake up, though.

Marchas lay in the bed next to her own. His loud snoring attested to the amount of alcohol he had consumed the night before. There would be no getting back to sleep with that ruckus filling the room.

If his snoring is gonna keep me awake then he’s getting up too, Shannai thought. Her lips twisting into a lopsided smirk. She reached for the water pitcher on the nightstand. Only a cup of water remained, sloshing in the pitcher, but she slung the water at him anyway. The rhythm of his snoring quickened and grew louder as the water soaked through his blanket, but he remained fast asleep. Her smirk turned down, forming a frown. Guess I’m gonna have to do this the hard way.

Picking one of her boots from the side of the bed, she leaned back and tossed it at Marchas’ head. His snoring became a growling snarl as he sat up. He held his dagger held in front of him, ready to combat thieves.

“Rise and shine, you lazy bastard!” Though the words were harsh, her mischievous smile let him know she didn’t mean it.

Rubbing the back of his head in feigned hurt, Marchas replied, “What did you get me up for? We don’t have to be anywhere until this evening.”

“Had a nightmare that woke me up, and I couldn’t fall back to sleep on account of your snoring. Figured this would be a good morning to actually see why everyone raves about breakfast.”

“Had it once. Trust me, it ain’t all that special.” He grinned back, throwing her boot back to her.

Fifteen minutes later, dressed in their colorful gypsy clothes, they walked down the stairs to see what the innkeeper served for breakfast. Shannai wasn’t fond of the brightly colored clothing, her in reds and purples, and Marchas in his yellow and orange outfit. She often called it his squash clothes. She wore the outfit because the clothing announced her occupation as a bard and often brought unlikely clients to them.

The main room of the inn contrasted with its appearance from the night before, empty of both patrons and noises. The enticing aroma of bacon filled the air, driving her hunger and making her wonder why she didn’t try and eat breakfast more often.

Looking around as he took a seat at one of the small tables, Marchas commented, “Sure don’t look like it did last night, does it?”

“Nope, but it smells better. I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

“Yeah, it’s been a while since I chowed on any bacon. I remember that smell though. Smell goooood!”

Shannai laughed at her brother, then leaned back in her chair to look into the kitchen. She wanted to catch the attention of Bos Talle, the tavern owner. Her laughter stopped and a frown took its place as she saw smoke drifting through the kitchen.

“What’s wrong?”

She shrugged and leaned her chair back down. “I don’t guess it’s anything. There’s just a lot of smoke in the kitchen. I guess they burned something.”

Propping his head onto his hand Marchas replied, “Maybe that’s why nobody’s out here yet to serve us breakfast?”

“I’m sure…”

The crash of metal, grabbed their attention. She jumped in her seat and glanced into the kitchen again, hoping to see what had fallen.

Shannai looked at Marchas and he shrugged, but his eyes only widened in shock. She turned her attention back to the kitchen.

Bos Talle lumbered through the kitchen door, his apron trailing flames along his right side, and a frying pan dangled from his left hand, dripping grease onto the wooden floor. He didn’t care about the flames, or the grease dripping slimy puddles onto his clean floors.

Marchas leaped from his seat and ran to Bos Talle, knocking knocking the portly man to the floor. Shannai remained in her seat, frozen in shock by the flaming innkeeper and by her brother’s actions. When the innkeeper hit the floor her brother gra