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Xirminator -> RE: Fantasy Stuff (9/5/2009 10:17:12)
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Dead Curse - Rewrite
The innkeeper had been polishing his collection of wine bottles when the three strange men had arrived. They had stridden through the door with the air of powerful, rich men, men who were used to having their demands met quickly; the innkeeper assumed they were foreign merchants. They wore unusual garments; the one leading them wore a silky blue cloak with the matching hood pulled up. Underneath the cloak he wore a blue tunic and breeches of the same material. The other two wore plain black cloaks over sable tunics and matching pants; wide-brimmed hats that obscured their faces with their shadow and black leather gloves.
The innkeeper had not been expecting anyone at this time – it was very close to sundown and the usual patrons had already left. It was rather strange for people to arrive at this time. He had woven his way through the many tables, with a welcoming gesture, uttering all the usual pleasantries, but curiosity filled his eyes. The man in the blue silk had waved him away, turning down the offer of taking their cloaks.
“We need room to stay for the night,” he had said, “and some information regarding the town would be most appreciated. Money is no problem.”
“Yes, of course,” the innkeeper had said, bowing to them. “I’m afraid we’re lacking company at the moment – with the situation and all, it’s a bad time – but is there something I can get you? Anything at all.”
“Ale for me,” the man had replied. “My companions require nothing.”
The innkeeper had given the two other men an odd, suspicious look – they had not moved or spoken a single word, but remained behind their silk-wearing companion – and hurried to meet the man’s demands.
Now, they were sitting quietly at a table in the otherwise empty common room. The innkeeper was closing the doors and the windows, sliding thick wooden bars behind them. As the last bar fell into place an uncomfortable silence fell over the tavern. The innkeeper stared at them, trying to think of something to say, but the silk-wearing man was sipping slowly from his mug, and the other two sat silently, not moving at all. Words failed him and he withdrew behind the counter and resumed polishing his wine bottles. After a while he mustered the courage to inquire after their names.
They did not reply. Then the man in blue said, “Gariben.”
“I am honored,” the innkeeper bowed. His action was somewhat constrained due to his position behind the counter, but he rose gracefully and said, “Are you new to these parts?”
“Yes,” Gariben replied. He took a long draught from his mug and set it down with a clink. Silence fell again. After a long while, without looking at the innkeeper, Gariben asked, “Why did you lock and bar the doors and windows? Are thieves common here?”
The innkeeper wrung his hands. “It’s an annoying precaution, sir,” he said, “but necessary. Very necessary.” His expression had become a mixture of fear and anxiousness. “You see, two months ago, someone came to our town. Someone… bad – we think he was a sorcerer or a magician. He cursed a man in our town and disappeared.”
“What manner of curse was this?” Gariben inquired. He kept his gaze fixed on the mug in front of him, never giving the innkeeper his face, as if he was uninterested in what he had to say.
“A fatal one,” the innkeeper intoned sadly. “It’s a tragedy.”
“Why would the death of one man, two months ago, warrant such security?” Gariben asked pointedly, finally looking at the anxious innkeeper. His face was an unreadable mask.
The unnerved innkeeper’s voice cracked. “The man’s corpse returned to life,” he said quickly. “At night, he wandered the streets and claimed the lives of at least a dozen people. They too returned – and I suspect the numbers of these abominations have increased tenfold in the last month. However, they seem to fear the light of day.”
“So where do these corpses go during the day?” Gariben asked.
“Ruined buildings, old homes,” the innkeeper shrugged, “but mostly the sewers. Just avoid places of darkness during the day and you’ll be fine.”
“Has anybody tried to anything?”
“Of course they did!” the innkeeper said, seeming somewhat indignant that anyone would dare suggest his fellow villagers were afraid to try and fight. “The town people will not see their children fall prey to these creatures – we are burning down abandoned buildings, and we have left all the sewer gates open. The sunlight might get a couple of them as they crawl in the filth.”
“Good,” Gariben said. He paused, then said, “Has anyone fought one – in close combat?”
“Yes,” the innkeeper said. “Why do you ask?” he inquired, suspicion filling his face.
“I want to know,” Gariben said calmly. His relentless gaze drove into the innkeeper. In that one instant, the innkeeper realized that Gariben was not a man he should cross. There was a strange aura of self-confidence about him, not one that came from sheer spunk but rather from a full self-awareness, an awareness that alleged efficient lethality. Then Gariben looked away from him, and relief flooded the innkeeper. He realized that he had been holding his breath.
The innkeeper’s lungs deflated as he breathed out explosively, inwardly grateful that something had not befallen him. “Yes some have fought them – or tried to. They do not fall to swords or clubs. No matter the wounds we inflict upon them, they keep crawling. We simply burn them.”
“Good choice,” Gariben said. “Fire.” He smirked at one of his companions, who remained silent.
“Who are you?” the innkeeper asked. “You give me the impression that you know what’s going on here.”
“I do know,” Gariben replied. “I have just figured it out. Why do you think I was asking questions?”
“What is happening?” the innkeeper pleaded. “Can you help us, somehow?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Gariben yawned, suddenly relaxing. “But I will try, tomorrow at least. Show us to our room. I need to rest.”
The innkeeper lay in his bed, unable to sleep. It was like this every night. He became an exhausted audience to the eerie sounds of the tormented night outside. And he prayed. Eyes closed tightly against the darkness and lips moving in an incessant prayer, he asked for protection and for safety. He had secured the inn as best he could, but he could not help wondering. Was it enough? Could anything possibly be enough? He would have lighted a fire for comfort, but he was too afraid to get up and expose himself to the chilly darkness. It felt like an oppressive wall, waiting for him to expose himself to it.
The corpses were mindless, but people were saying that they were learning. Learning how to break into homes and which buildings accommodated their prey. Sweat broke out on his skin as he remembered what one of the regulars had said today, “Just a fortnight ago, they climbed on Johnson’s hut and pulled off the thatch, bit by bit. We found him and his kids in the morning, or what was left of them ‘nyway. Had to burn ‘em.”
He shivered. He could almost see dark shapes prowling in the room.
Something squeaked in the room, and he jumped wildly out of the bed, his blood turning to ice in his veins and his heart threatening
to leap out of his chest. “God!” he exclaimed. “Cursed mice!” Then something crashed downstairs. Every inch of him went numb as he remembered the window behind the stairwell. He had forgotten to lock it. More crashes sounded downstairs, tables and chairs being knocked down by the half-blind abominations. The innkeeper cracked – his fear overwhelmed and he broke into tears, sobbing like a child. They would find him – a flimsy door like the one to his room would not hold that reeking mass of bodies that was probably crawling up the stairs right now. It would be the end of him.
Someone knocked on his door. He stopped crying suddenly. For a brief moment something flared inside him like a spark of flame – he would go out fighting; his hands were groping for a weapon, anything, anything that could be used to hit those bodies. “Mister innkeeper,” Gariben’s voice called out. “It appears we have a slight problem.” The innkeeper hurried to the door and fumbled with its lock, before slamming it open. The fear and despair must have been evident on his face, because Gariben smiled lazily and said, “There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll take care of this.” He was standing with his two companions in the landing, just in front of the stairs. One of them was holding a candle. He could hear the undead staggering about downstairs rather clearly.
“I don’t want to die!” the innkeeper yelled. “Not like this! Not like this!”
Gariben stared at him in disgust. The movements downstairs paused; then seemed to abruptly change direction. “Nice way to reveal our position, man.” Shadows approached the base of the stairs. Decaying feet planted themselves on the lowest steps and rotting hands gripped the rails, and the corpses slowly dragged their way up.
“They’re coming! Do something! Do something!”
Gariben whirled around and drove his fist into the innkeeper’s jaw. The poor man crumpled to the ground, senseless. “Please,” he gestured at one of his companions. “Carry him for me, will you?” The black-cloaked man bent downwards silently, picked the innkeeper up like a sack of potatoes and threw him on his shoulders. “Now, where was that lantern?” he muttered as he groped around in his cloak. “Ah.” His hands emerged holding a crude, unlit oil lantern. He threw it on the stairs, where it smashed to pieces and spilt the oil over the stairs.
The undead slipped and slid on the stairs, but they still regained their footing and continued upwards. Gariben grinned. “If you fellows think it’s going to be that easy, you’re sorely mistaken.” He snatched the candle from his companion and threw it on the stairs. The steps erupted in an orange conflagration, the flames rearing as high as the ceiling. Bodies stumbled into the flames and turned into ashes. “I just love that oil,” Gariben said happily, watching the fire spread. “It’s a pity they don’t make oil lanterns like that today. A real pity!”
But the fire was a careless move; it quickly spread up and down the stairs, consuming more and more wood and filling the air with dark smoke. It reached the upper floor and spread to the walls with maddening speed. “Hmm, I see why that oil is so hard to find,” Gariben commented wryly. He looked around for an escape. “Quickly, out of the window!” The three of them, innkeeper in tow, ran to the end of the landing. The man bearing the innkeeper tore the lock off with uncanny strength and leapt through the swinging shutters, uncaring that he was fifteen feet above the ground.
Gariben felt the fire lick the soles of his boots as he threw himself out of the window after his companion. He saw the wall of the opposite buildings and smashed into it before he could tell what it was. His fingers scrabbled for a hold as he tumbled down. His foot snagged on something – a windowsill – and he somersaulted in the air and smashed down onto a cart. “Ouch,” he grunted. His other companion had followed him, landing on his feet with a heavy thud. His black cloak was singed at the edges. Above them the inn had turned into a blazing beacon. The flames towered into the air like a spire, surmounted by a thick column of rolling black smoke. Gariben sat up, wincing in pain. His left ankle was throbbing. “Very smooth, Gariben. Who’s going to pay for that now?” he said dryly.
The innkeeper moaned softly and stirred. “Thump him,” Gariben ordered ruthlessly. “This is a very bad time for him to wake up.” His companion followed his order without question. Now think! he thought. The situation is pretty bad. I’m outside, with an incapacitated fellow. I need to find shelter for him. Then I’ll see what I can do about this undead infestation.
A scream pierced the night and Gariben stilled, like a hound pricking his ear at the sound of his quarry. “More trouble,” he grunted. “Let’s move!”
He sprinted towards the direction of the scream, followed by his companions, their cloaks flapping behind them like raven wings. The unconscious innkeeper swung limply as they ran. Gariben cursed under his breath; he already had the innkeeper to worry about, and preferred not to take any additional responsibilities. They turned into a narrow, rubbish-filled alleyway and hurled through it. The light of the moon on the rooftops and the chimneys cast eerie shadows and silhouettes on the walls. Gariben’s eyes took them all in – each shadow outlined in the pale moonlight could be a lurking enemy.
One of the silhouettes above lurched and leapt towards Gariben from the rooftops. Gariben danced away as it landed catlike at the spot he had vacated. His right hand dipped into his cloak and a sword flashed out as he turned to face the thing – a bone-thin man dressed in rags. The blade arced towards the assailant, but the man ducked under it and lunged. Gariben sidestepped him; his sword flashed again and bit into his flesh, leaving a deep furrow in his back.
No blood had gushed out and the man did not howl in pain. Then Gariben realized what he was dealing with: undead. But how can it be so fast? The undead did not attack him again, but threw itself at the nearest target: one of his companions. The black-cloaked man stuck out his arm and his fist collided with the corpse’s head. The collision did not move him a single inch – he stood like an unmovable iron pillar – but it knocked the undead to the ground at his feet. With almost inhuman efficiency he kicked it hard, sending it flying into a heap of rubbish piled against the alley wall. Gariben heard bones snapping.
“I’m not sure it’s over,” Gariben said, slightly out of breath. “Phobos, stay back. We don’t want the innkeeper getting hurt.” The one bearing the innkeeper stepped back, leaving Gariben and the other companion on their own, facing the rubbish heap. A slight movement came from it, and a sack tipped over and split, sending rubbish flying everywhere. The corpse dragged itself out, pulling itself towards them with rotting hands, but it could no longer stand on its feet. Although it felt no pain, the cracked leg-bones could not support it. Gariben tightened his grip on his sword and plunged it through its head.
It suddenly went limp. “Just as I had expected,” Gariben muttered. He straightened and wiped his sword on his cloak, heedless of the fine silk. “Boys,” he announced, sheathing it, “The one responsible for this is still skulking around.” He frowned. Having recognized the spell that animated the undead, he knew it was a necromancer he was dealing with – a mage who dabbled with the darkest magic and attempted to defy death itself. Finding the dark mage was going to be difficult. This was a rather large town with plenty of hiding places. The necromancer could even be posing as one of the villagers, and would thus be almost undetectable.
Then the scream sounded again.
“Ah, I almost forgot,” Gariben muttered apologetically to nobody in particular. “Let’s move.”
They were not very far from the source of the scream. They traversed the alleyway, rounded a corner and came into a large clear space. He could see houses on the far end, just barely visible in the moonlight. Empty stalls stood in neat rows that stretched away over the cobbles. Gariben assumed it was the market square. His eyes roved over the stalls, trying to find where the commotion was. There was a strangely oppressive silence hanging over the motionless square; the fact it was there held very negative connotations regarding the well-being of the screamer.
Then a whimpering sound somewhere off to the left.
Gariben whirled around, peering into the darkness. He heard slow dragging footsteps, and then a thump as something fleshy collided with a presumably wooden thing. Gariben unsheathed his sword again. With his hand he motioned at Phobos to hang back, while he and the other companion walked forward.
There was a crash and a scream; and something came running out from behind one of the stalls towards them. Gariben almost struck but then he realized it was a small girl, fleeing from something that came barreling after her. “Phobos! Stop her!” he called. The black-cloaked figure advanced on her and grabbed her with his free hand. She could not break away from his iron grip, and he lifted her up easily and held her close to him, protectively, just as he did with the innkeeper.
Seeing that the girl was safe, Gariben faced the encroaching thing. It had once been a man – an obese man with a stomach the size of a cartwheel. It plodded along on fat, rotting legs, wide mouth gaping in a soundless snarl. “By the Red God!” Gariben cursed. “It can barely move!” He wrinkled his nose: the stink was fouler than it had been in the rubbish-filled alley. “Abaddon, we need to get the head,” Gariben said. “Striking the brain will kill it instantly – it’s in the upper hemisphere of the head. Do you understand?”
Abaddon gave a single curt nod. With a grating sound, a long blade slid out of his sleeve, its point clattering on the cobblestones. The obese monster swaggered forward, heedless of Abaddon’s terrible weapon. Abaddon effortlessly raised the great sword with one arm and with a perfect vertical slash clove the thing asunder.
Gariben stared. That was ridiculously easy. He sheathed his sword, slightly disappointed that he did not get to fight, and turned to the girl. She was hitting every part she could reach of Phobos - including the poor innkeeper – but he did not let her go. Her little fists definitely could not hurt him. “Calm down girl,” Gariben said. “He won’t hurt you. Neither will we. Look, it’s dead,” he pointed at the cloven, obese corpse.
She stared at it, and Phobos gently lowered her to the ground at a sign from Gariben. She looked between Gariben and his companions. “Are you hurt?” he asked her. She shook her mutely; tears sliding down her face. Tears of relief or pain, Gariben could not tell.
He considered her. “What are you doing outside at a time like this?” he said in fashion that was reminiscent of a fussy matron. “Shouldn’t you be at home?”
“He took me from my home,” she said.
“Who took you?”
“He sent me out here to die. He set that thing after me,” she continued, ignoring him.
“Who did?” Gariben held his patience in check. She was just a girl – who had apparently undergone a horrifying ordeal.
“The one they listen to,” she said. “The dead people all listen to him.”
Gariben paused. He was thinking. He sent her out here to die? Why? Why would he do that? He set that fat thing after her – did he want to get rid of her, or is he doing this for sport? To watch her die? Being a rather expansive place, this market place offers plenty of good viewpoints. That means – He unsheathed his sword. “Abaddon, Phobos, be careful,” he said in a low voice. “I expect we’ll have company very soon.” And if we do, I’ll be very happy.
He was right.
A strange voice suddenly echoed over the rooftops. It was dim, as if it came from a great distance. It was shouting a chant, almost singing, but there was something ominous about it. It reminded Gariben of a lonely, despairing spirit howling its agony. Then came the sound of pattering feet; of dragging feet; of plodding feet. Alleyways echoed with the sound, and the silence that hung over the streets crashed. The town was filled with the movements of the dead.
“Girl, stay close to Phobos,” Gariben told the wide-eyed, frightened girl. “Don’t run away; he’ll keep you safe.”
Then he turned his back to Phobos, facing an entire half of the market square. Abaddon did the same on the other side, dragging his massive sword, the tip of the blade grating over the cobblestones.
Then the undead emerged from the alleyways and the streets. Others appeared on the rooftops and crawled down the buildings. All of them headed towards the small group in the center of the market square. They never paused to search for their prey. They already knew where it was. Their mindless sense of direction and the chanting voice confirmed Gariben’s guesses and the girl’s claims. He felt no sense of elation. Faced with a vast horde of slavering, rotting bodies, he could not feel any satisfaction at all. Something writhed in his midriff, and he resisted the urge to run wildly. He gritted his teeth – fear was something that he had to forget; now more than ever.
“This might prove troubling,” he said aloud, in a jaunty voice. “Abaddon, we might have to take it up a notch.” His tall companion nodded once, then resumed waiting, waiting as the wall of the living dead came closer, trampling over stalls and old wooden boxes beneath their feet. The fastest of the undead outran the rest a good distance. They were small and scrawny, with every single bone showing against what was left of the skin. Gariben’s instinct kicked in; his sword flashed as he dealt with the foremost of them. He wove through them, dancing nimbly away when they lunged at him. His sword bit through bone and flesh again and again – sometimes even a head, but mostly not. It was difficult to aim for the head when a dozen hands were reaching towards him.
His small successes were costly, for he was only a man and he grew tired as time passed. The undead never tired. The only thing that could stop them was true death. Their complete disregard for their own bodies made them much tougher opponents. They threw themselves at him when he chopped off their hands, struggled on when he impaled them and crawled and grasped at him when he cut their legs. He had to run, dodge and jump between them, and always he came face to face with yet another one.
At the very edge of his vision he saw Phobos standing as still as a pillar. The girl was at his feet, and he had a firm hand on her shoulder. The innkeeper was still unconscious. Beyond them, Abaddon swung his great sword with the strength of a giant and the precision of a master. No matter how many threw themselves at him, he would cut them down with a single strike. And while Gariben had to try and cut their heads off to incapacitate them, Abaddon simply cut them until they could move no more.
Then when their numbers seem to lessen, and Gariben had a chance to draw breath, the mass of slower ones arrived. They threatened to crush Gariben and the others simply with their number. Being slow, they were less dangerous, but they were harder to kill, and every second a new opponent would come within range.
Anyone that managed to come close to Phobos was pushed away by an invisible force. Undead staggered back from him, to be caught unawares from behind by Abaddon or Gariben.
Gariben ducked a pair of grasping hands, swung at them and retreated. Suddenly he was tackled from behind and thrown to the ground. His sword clattered out of his hand. Ignoring the pain in his lower back, he turned and kicked at the thing that stood over him, then scrambled towards his sword.
But he saw that he could not reach it. An undead, similar in size to the one that had been chasing the girl, was lumbering towards him. Gariben rolled aside, but it swung its hand in arc by its side and knocked him down. “Abaddon!” he yelled. It reached down for him with rotting palms. He saw broken fingernails heading for his face. “Abaddon! Help me!”
Abaddon’s massive sword whirled through the air and impaled the corpse’s chest with a fleshy thump. The force of the throw caused the undead to lose its balance and it toppled to the ground. Gariben scrambled up, looking around for his sword. Both he and Abaddon were unarmed, but his companion was simply using his fists. “Abaddon, fire! Fire!” Gariben screamed. He leapt aside as an undead lunged at him.
Then, a blinding flare of red light appeared around Abaddon. Trails of red energy blossomed outwards from his body. The undead did not understand the implications of this, and kept coming. Then Abaddon’s mouth opened slowly, like the gaping maw of some giant about to swallow the world. There were no teeth, or tongue. It was simply a gaping void into his head. A dim red glow appeared in that darkness, and then a jet of flame surge out. It expanded with a roar into a huge cloud of fire that billowed towards the undead.
The undead scattered, but they could not outrun the onrushing inferno. It engulfed them one by one. Once the cloud dissipated, the market square was left burning. The stalls were on fire, and bodies charred black with the flames lay everywhere on the cobblestones. Thick black smoke rolled into the air accompanied by a cloud of embers that was much like a swarm of fireflies.
“Nice work,” Gariben told Abaddon. He retrieved his sword from beneath a smoldering body. He saw that over a hundred undead had fallen – their numbers had seemed far larger during the fight – and he estimated that was almost half the total. Then he noticed a red glow in the sky. The sun was rising. “It looks like we’re getting a break,” he said. It was exactly the kind of break he needed, as he had to find shelter for both the girl and the innkeeper. He also needed to rest. He stretched, wincing at the sore pangs that needled his muscles.
He diverted his attention to the girl. “Everything is fine,” he said, “The sun is coming up.”
“I noticed,” she said with uncharacteristic sarcasm. “I think he’s waking up…” she added, pointing at the innkeeper.
Gariben looked at the innkeeper, whom Phobos had lowered to the ground. He was moaning softly and stirring. Eventually his eyes opened and he stared at the sky above him. He blinked, at loss for a moment, and then sat up wildly, turning his furious gaze on Gariben. “You hit me!” he said indignantly. “You hit me! Why – what the hell happened?”
Gariben considered him for a moment, as if sizing him up. “I acted as best as I could. You were mad with fear, and you would have been a liability in a fight. It was easier for one of my companions to carry you while I took care of the business.”
The innkeeper snorted, looking away. “What are your companions exactly?” he shot at Gariben. “And how did you kill so many of them? Are you a sorcerer?”
Gariben laughed, but it was a false, mirthless laugh. “I am a powerless man, my innkeeper friend. A mere mortal, doomed to suffer according to the plans and schemes of the immortals.”
“And your companions?”
“What about them?” Gariben said, turning away from him.
“I am not a fool,” the innkeeper said. “I can see they are not men.”
“Astute observation,” he said coldly.
“They do not eat, they do not speak,” the innkeeper persisted, “and they follow your orders unquestionably. No man is that loyal.” The innkeeper stood up. “Tell me.”
“Why should I answer to you?”
“Because you owe me an explanation Gariben… and if you did this here,” he pointed at the still burning stalls “I shudder to think what happened to the inn.”
Gariben grimaced. “I had to burn it down, there was no other way.” He paused. “My companions… you are right. They’re not men. They’re golems.” A strange emotion crept into his voice. “Constructions of metal, stone and wood. The last of my power lives on inside them.”
There was an awkward silence. Then a voice spoke up, “I heard a tale of a man called Gariben.” It was the girl. “Legend tells of a man with the name of Gariben,” she recited. “He is a man who has slept among dragons and lived to speak of it. He is a man who has spoken to both gods and demons. He is a man who has tamed the wind. No one knows where he abides, but the stories whisper of Sciargoth’s name and Gariben’s end. It is said he had a son–”
“Child,” he said sternly, as if he feared that her imagination would carry her away. “That is just a story.”
“My mother always said stories come from somewhere,” the girl replied.
He smiled. “Regardless, I am not a man of legend. I have not slept with dragons or spoken to gods. I have not tamed the wind. I am a powerless man.”
“I think you’re lying,” she said.
“And I think you’re a brat,” he said, scowling at her. They glared at each other for a moment, and then she looked away huffily. The innkeeper shook his head.
“Stop this childish behavior,” he said. “We must think of something… how shall we scourge the rest of these abominations? You have destroyed this man, I’m sure you could–”
“I have an idea, but I will need to ask you both a few questions before I can think of a proper plan,” Gariben said. He crouched down.
“Girl, you first. Do you remember what the man that took you looked like? It’s important that you tell me everything you can remember.”
“I never saw his face,” she said, somewhat sulkily. “He always had his hood up. It was part of a black cloak he wore. And his hands were pale – like white spiders.” She shuddered. “He was always touching an amulet hanging from his neck and muttering under his breath.”
“What did the amulet look like?”
“It was a round silver piece with a bird painted on it,” she said.
“Is there anything you remember?”
“He was a cruel bastard,” she said vehemently. “He hurt me for the fun of it. Then when he got tired of me he threw me out to die…”
“And that’s where I found you,” Gariben cut her short. He was impressed by her tone; there was a fire in her eyes that was unlikely from a ten year old who had undergone such an experience. “Now, innkeeper–”
“The name’s Sam.”
“Yes – Sam – have there been any newcomers to the village? People that settled here the last two months?”
“Not that I know of,” Sam said. “Anyone deciding to stay here would be out of his mind, and I haven’t heard a thing. The patrons that show up for beer and ale in the common room gossip like women, and they would have said.”
Gariben stared at one of the smoking corpses, lost in thought. “You said they come from the sewers,” he said finally.
“Yes I did. If anyone were mad enough to run around just after sundown, he would have seen them coming out,” Sam replied. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m trying to figure out where he is, “Gariben said. “I will think about that later.”
“I advise you to stop thinking and go look,” Sam replied. “You will not find him just by sitting down.”
“Oh?” Gariben said, a condescending expression crossing his face momentarily. “Listen, I know he’s here. I’ve heard him ordering the undead around when we saved her,” he pointed at the girl, “he ordered all these bodies after us. You said no one has settled here recently and I’m assuming he has not chosen a derelict building for his hideout, simply because you said the villagers were burning them down. That would eventually mean he’d be found out. That leaves the sewers. There, he’d have access to many points of the town and since no villager dares go down there, it’s impossible to get near him.”
“I see what you mean about thinking,” Sam said. “What do you plan to do?”
“I have to go down there and find him,” Gariben replied. “It will probably take a long time, but I must do it.”
“It won’t be very long,” the girl said. “I remember where he used to hold me prisoner, and I could hear him moving close by, all the time.”
Gariben sighed. “Why didn’t you say he was in the sewers? I spent all this time–”
“You never asked,” the girl said, sounding annoyed. “You only asked me what he looked like.”
“Fine,” Gariben snapped, cutting the argument short. “Are you suggesting that you can lead me there?”
“Yes I am.”
“Alright,” Gariben said. “If you get hurt, I will not be held responsible for you. What is your name anyway?”
“Nena,” she replied.
“Very well then, take me to him.”
The sewers stank. It was not only the smell of sewage, but also the reeking stench of decaying corpses. Gariben wrinkled his nose and helped Nena climb down the slippery metal rungs set into the sewer walls. Sam’s anxious face appeared at the entrance. He lowered down two burning torches. “We shall be fine,” Gariben called out impatiently, taking them. “Just don’t come down here, no matter what. There are probably more undead down here.”
He waited for Abaddon and Phobos to climb down the ladder and then turned to have a look around. There were only two possible ways to go, left and right, along a narrow ledge of stone. On the opposite side of the tunnel was a similar ledge. Just beneath the ledges flowed a river of sewage and filth.
“Which way?” he said, trying not to breathe.
“That way,” she said, pointing. “Follow me.”
He scowled at her authoritative attitude. “Abaddon, protect her.”
She led them through a maze of twisting tunnels. Gariben could not fathom how she knew the way. The tunnels were all the same, low grimy ceilings and the same slimy ledges and the green-brown river of muck always flowing. They took a turn occasionally, delving deeper into the undecipherable riddle of the sewers, their way lit by their flickering torches.
Nena stopped suddenly, before the gaping entrance of a side tunnel.
“What?” Gariben said, reaching her.
“Shush,” she whispered. “We’re here.”
“Don’t shush me!” he hissed.
She gave him a disgusted look and peered round the corner.
“Get back here,” he ordered. “What if there are undead there?”
“There are undead there,” she said. “They’re standing still, doing nothing.”
“How many?”
“About a dozen.”
“Abaddon,” Gariben said, straightening with the air of one about to give an order. “Go inside an eliminate them. Do not damage the walls. I do not want everything collapsing round my ears.”
The golem immediately took off, and they waited in silence. After a while, Abaddon returned. Gariben looked around the corner and saw a small circular room full of broken bodies. Its domed ceiling was tipped with a series of iron rails. Gariben assumed it was a disused entrance into the sewers. “Nice work,” he said appreciatively.
Then, walking along the opposite ledge of the central tunnel came a figure robed in black.
They froze, looking at each other.
“Abaddon, attack!”
Abaddon spat a huge cloud of fire at the necromancer, who threw himself to the side. Gariben grinned as the robed man splashed into the water. That must stink, he thought. Then, something huge and black splashed out of the water. Gariben pushed Nena aside; she tripped and fell into the sewage.
“Phobos, don’t let her drown,” he yelled as he drew his sword. The huge black thing had crashed into the wall, and was now creeping towards him. He saw it was a huge hand of darkness, crawling on monstrously thick fingers. “Abadd–”
The hand launched itself at the golem with such force that it dragged him into the water with it. The necromancer surfaced near the opposite ledge, clinging to it for dear life. Gariben stared at the water where Abaddon had been pulled down. The remnants of the golem floated to the murky surface and spiraled away in the flowing current.
“Not so tough without your golem, are you?” the necromancer said. His voice was rough and cracked, like that of an old man. A silver amulet glinted on his chest.
“Is Sciargoth your master?” Gariben demanded.
The necromancer did not reply, and the massive shadowy hand climbed out of the water at his feet, moving like a five-legged spider. Gariben eyed it warily, knowing how far it could jump. His sword seemed very small and blunt compared to the crushing force of the massive fingers. Behind him, he heard Phobos lifting the struggling girl out of the water, and with some private satisfaction heard her spitting sewage out of her mouth.
“Phobos, take her and get out,” Gariben ordered. “Now!”
The golem picked up the girl then looked back at Gariben. It hesitated for a moment before running into the side tunnel.
“Is that a golem?” the necromancer inquired. “Very unusual behavior…”
“Shut up,” Gariben said shortly. He wanted to say something like ‘prepare to die’ or ‘this is the end’, but his words would have been empty, because there was nothing he could actually do. Firstly, he would have to leap ten feet of sewage, then confront the golem-crushing hand and deal with the necromancer himself. So, he waited.
The necromancer watched him carefully, and then laughed. “See where arrogance leads you? You were under the impression you could stop me, now you find yourself armed with only a sword. I would love to watch you stand there, helpless, knowing the futility of your position, but I require you to die and join my army.”
Gariben ground his teeth together. The necromancer was very perceptive and such a comment hurt Gariben’s pride.
Then the hand jumped again, leaping easily over the ten feet that separated them. Gariben huddled against the wall and slashed with the sword. With a huge effort he managed to knock the hand off course. It smashed into the wall next to him. His arms were trembling; it felt as if he had swung his sword at a stone pillar. The black fingers reached out and curled around the edges of the gaping hole, but Gariben did not give it time to crawl out. He stabbed with all his might and heard the satisfying sound of metal sliding into flesh and grinding against bones. The hand seemed to shimmer, and then it vanished into clouds of dark smoke.
A momentary sense of elation flared within him, but he repressed it and turned back towards the necromancer. “Anything else?” he asked with more poise than was appropriate.
The necromancer gestured negligently. A spear of darkness appeared in mid air. “That was just the start,” he said. The spear flew at Gariben like a falcon diving for prey. Gariben threw himself to the side, careful not to fall in the water. He rolled and came to a stand, then jumped back as another spear buried itself at his feet.
He threw away his torch and took off at a sprint along the ledge. His hand dipped into his cloak and he drew out a small dagger. Another spear formed in mid air and flew towards him. He ducked and threw the dagger at the necromancer, who stepped aside neatly. The next spear pinned his cloak to the wall. He struggled briefly then slashed the cloak.
He yelled as excruciating pain exploded in his leg and set every nerve on fire. His fumbling fingers found the spear in his left thigh and he attempted to pull it out, but that only filled his leg with a staggering agony and made his head spin. Dimly, in the background, he heard laughter. A lone thought came to him… the spear was poisoned.
The necromancer’s voice cut through his confused senses like a knife into flesh. “What now, Gariben? Why don’t you throw another
dagger at me?” He laughed again, and through his fuzzy vision Gariben saw a shadowy hand appearing at the necromancer’s feet. “You think I have not recognized you? You think I will not take this opportunity to rid my master of such a pest?”
The fingers of the massive hand twitched, then it hurled itself at Gariben. He gave the spear one last futile tug, and then gave up. It was over.
A huge black shape careened from left, colliding with the hand. It was Phobos. One word resounded in Gariben’s consciousness: Gabriel. “Stop,” he said feebly. His vision was clouding over. Gabriel, please stop. But the words would no longer come out. The mist in front of his eyes thickened and he heard something snapping to his right. Gabriel.
He closed his eyes as the poison took its toll. His mind went out his control as it spun images and dreams on the blackness of his vision. Visions and hallucinations whirled by, but one memory cut clear through all the blinding colors. Gabriel.
He stooped over his son’s broken body, tears sliding down his face. His wife, his wife was dead. His son was dead. All he had, all his power and skill, it was worthless. Without his family, he was nothing.
The colors writhed and shifted. A new memory surfaced.
A hideous red face with a maw of fangs leered at him as he kneeled on the ground, half-clouded with the fire and smoke that rose from the hell around him. “You want me to return them?” it said in voice that sounded like bones grinding together.
“Yes,” Gariben said firmly. His tears had crusted into lines of salt on his face, salt which he had not wiped away. “I want them back, both of them.”
The fanged mouth curled into a grin and a slippery black tongue slobbered inside. “What are you willing to give in return?” Malicious yellow eyes glittered at him from the smoke.
“Anything.”
The monstrous face watched him with inhuman amusement. “You do not have anything that is worth two souls, Gariben. Choose one of them, and perhaps we may yet settle this.”
Gariben swore. “I’ll give you my life as well,” he declared. “Just bring them back!”
“One, choose one. Or leave with neither.”
“Damn you!”
“Choose, or leave.”
Gariben slammed his fist into the ground. There was no other way.
“Whom will you choose?” the face drawled, its voice cracking with nightmarish intentions. “Tara, your beautiful mistress. Loving,
caring, the bearer of your son Gabriel…that innocent face…”
“Damn you Sciargoth,” Gariben spat.
“My patience is at an end, Gariben…choose…”
He swore again. Then he reached a choice. His son was young – he had not lived his life. She would want this. She would understand.
She would want his son to live. For his sake, he had to forsake her. “I choose Gabriel,” he finally said. “My son.”
“Very well,” the voice said. “Your son it shall be. When you pay me, that is.”
“Name your price.”
“Your power. The power that raised you in the eyes of all men, that made you a god among those pathetic mortals. I will have that from you.”
“On one condition,” Gariben said warily.
“I believe the condition is the return of your son…”
“It is, but you are a demon,” Gariben said. “I do not trust the likes of you. You will not hinder me as I leave, and you shall never cause harm to my son, directly, or indirectly, intentionally or unintentionally.”
The face went thoughtful for a moment, then the fires around it flared. “Agreed.”
Then together they both sealed the intrinsically magical deal. Gariben felt his power trickle out of him, lost to the demon’s own power. Then the drain ceased. “I have left you with but an insignificant bit, to help you leave this place,” Sciargoth said. A dark shadowy hand extended from the flames. “Your son, as agreed.” He dropped a small white pearl onto the ground before Gariben’s feet.
“What is this?” Gariben said, picking it up.
“Your son’s body has been destroyed. It would be futile to give you a free soul. How would you carry it?” Then, the laughing the demon disappeared and Gariben stared at the little prison the demon had forged for his son’s soul. Gariben could feel it inside. He felt the fear and confusion of that innocent boy, as he felt that little pearl which had become his world. Gabriel would have been better where he was in death than in this false life, enclosed in that small pearl forever more.
“DAMN YOU!” he screamed.
The hollow laughter cackled over the hellish landscape once last time.
Memories lurched and contested with each other. In the swirling maelstrom of colors, he saw how he had built a body for his son and with the last of his power turned it into a golem. It would obey his orders, but it could also respond to the boy’s thoughts. But it never did. It was silent and motionless, unless Gariben commanded it with the word ‘Phobos’.
In his dying throes, Gariben screamed out his lungs in anger at how one being destroyed his life.
A hollow, wooden voice sounded to his right. It brought him back to his senses and he became aware of an object near his free right foot. He realized it was Phobos’s head. The wooden voice sounded again. “Gah… Gahru…”
Gariben gave the spear a feeble wrench and let his hands drop to his sides. “Gabriel?”
“Gariben… Gariben. Father.”
Then the massive hand of darkness took the head in its grip and crushed it with one mighty squeeze. A small white pearl rolled out of the debris, a singular crack on its surface. Tears brimmed Gariben’s eyes. Be free, my son, and please forgive me.
The necromancer was still standing on that ledge and the hand was destroying the rest of the body. “What was all that, friend Gariben? Are you going to die mad?”
Gariben looked at him, eyes hard. “The pact is void.”
“What?”
His raised one hand and gestured. The spear that impaled his foot vanished, and the flesh knitted itself together as skin flowed over the opening in his leg. With another gesture, he sent the trashing hand flying.
The necromancer drew back. “How – what–”
Gariben turned his hand towards the necromancer, eyes cold as ice. “Farewell.” A massive force drove into the robed man like a charging bull and crushed him into the wall. Gariben breathed out and stopped himself from breaking down to cry like a child.
His eternal pain had ended. After so many years, he could–
“See, I knew it!” a voice said.
He turned around, recognizing the voice. “Nena,” he said.
“I knew it! I knew who you were,” she said smugly, her pale face glowing in the light of her torch.
He scowled at her. “I felt inclined to lie,” he said laconically, standing up. He brushed the rocky dust off his cloak and looked about him. Phobos’s broken body lay on the ledge with that small cracked pearl beside it. The necromancer’s body was crushed against the wall, as if he had been pressed flat between two walls. Blood pooled at his feet and dripped down into the sewage.
He sighed. “Do you have any parents, back at the village?”
“My parents are resting now,” she said sadly.
“What?”
“They are free to move on.”
“I see,” he said. So her parents had fallen to him. Poor girl. “I’m sorry,” he added, trying to sound comforting.
“I’m over it,” she said loftily, turning her back to him. “It was some time ago. And I wouldn’t need your comfort anyway.”
He grinned. “Any relatives?”
“No…”
“How about you come with me? I can assure you of a promising future.”
“You? Why would I come–” Then she caught herself, and said, “Perhaps,” with composure.
He concealed a smile behind his hand as he wiped the lines of salt his tears had left on his face. It’s over.
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