by Pedro Urvi
Many were the orgies he had attended as Rogdonian Ambassador to the Norghanian Royal House. Thoran was a monarch who knew how to have fun, there was no doubt of that. The lustful soirées at the Norghanian Court were notorious. All kinds of excess took place, and the fact was well-known. The feasts King Thoran organized for his powerful nobles and allies were famous. The Norghanian people knew how to enjoy themselves and have a good time. Albust was happy among those rough bon vivants of the frozen lands of the North. His own secret weaknesses, as he called them, went unnoticed in those lands, whereas at the Court of Rogdon his needs were not so well understood. This was the great difference between Norghanians and Rogdonians: the former lived life without restrictions, while the latter spent more time being moderate and correct than enjoying themselves. Albust was Rogdonian by birth but Norghanian by affinity.
Life had been kind to Albust; he was rich, far richer than he had ever dreamed he could be, and powerful. His connections in both royal houses and his direct access to both kings granted him a power shared by very few men in the continent. He spent most of the winter in Rogdon, away from the insufferable temperatures of the North with its snow-capped mountains and frozen cities. He spent the summer in Norghana, away from the humid Rogdonian weather. Life smiled at him, and the last fifteen years had been particularly splendid, ever since the peace had been agreed between both kingdoms.
Besides, to add the finishing touch to his good fortune, his faithful and somewhat naïve Rogdonian wife Lita had given him a male child the same year the peace treaty had been signed, just as his caustic Norghanian wife Olga had given him another son the following year. What else could a good man wish for? What? The answer was a very simple one: the thing you take for granted when you have it, then when you are on the point of losing it, shrivels up your heart to the size of a blackberry:
Peace.
The oh-so-necessary Peace.
And now, after so many years of good living, the situation had turned extremely complicated, at dizzying speed. The fateful events had caught the veteran diplomat unaware, and it was only by sheer luck that he had managed to save his head. When King Thoran’s brother the Great Duke Orten had been murdered, the King had thrown Albust out of the Royal Palace of Norghana. The friendship of the past fifteen years had evaporated in an instant, like a whiff of smoke. That was how volatile monarchs were! The words of the furious king, completely beside himself, were etched with fire on his mind:
“Tell that treacherous dog your King that I’ll raze every last Rogdonian house between here and Rilentor. I’ll kill every man, woman and child I come across, and when I arrive with my army of the snow in your capital, I’ll impale each and every one who defends the city!”
“But Your Majesty,” the diplomat had tried to reason, “there must be some misunderstanding… Rogdon, King Solin, would never attack the Norghanian Royal Family, never …”
“Shut up, you fool, before I tear your head off with my own hands!” Thoran shouted, drawing his sword Glacial, the sword of the King of the North. It was said of that sword that it had been forged before the time of men, and it was supposed to freeze the soul of whoever dared to oppose its blue steel.
Albust, terrified, thought his death was certain.
“Take the message to your King and tell him to prepare, I’ll gut him with my own hands! Tell him that before I kill him he’ll watch me rape his wife and cut the head off that blond weakling of a son he has! Tell him!”
Albust had been brutally beaten by Thoran’s guards, dragged through the Royal palace and thrown out to the street like a ragged beggar: he who knew them all by name, with whom he had drunk and feasted on so many occasions. They treated him like a mangy dog, but at least he had come out with his life. He did not hold it against them. He was a worldly man, and knew how these matters were handled. He had to get his wife Olga and son Octen out of Norghana urgently, for fear of retaliation. Those brutes would kill her without a second thought simply for being related by blood to a Rogdonian, a nobleman from Solin’s Court. Convincing Olga to leave everything had been difficult, very difficult, but in the end he had managed it. But his son Octen had been practically impossible to convince, he did not want to listen to reason. The young man was really more Norghanian than Rogdonian, having lived all his life in Norghania, the capital of the frozen kingdom, and he had spent practically the whole of it at King Thoran’s Court. After a heated and frantic argument Albust had finally managed to make him understand in no uncertain terms:
“My son, if we don’t escape tonight with whatever we can carry, King Thoran will cut our throats and watch us choke on our own blood.”
“But that’s not possible, father, I don’t believe you. The King’s a friend of our family, he’d never do anything like that.”
“Look at me, son. I’ve been beaten, dragged all over the floors of the palace and thrown out into the street. It was the King himself who gave the order.”
“It can’t be true, father, I don’t believe you. You’re deceiving us.”
“Thoran believes Rogdon has murdered his brother, he’s out of his mind.”
“But we have nothing to do with that, we’ve lived here all our lives, the king surely knows that.”
“Yes, my son, but you’re Rogdonian, don’t forget that.”
“I’m also Norghanian on my mother’s side.”
“Unfortunately, my son, in these feuds the father’s blood doesn’t usually go unnoticed. You’re my son, the son of the Rogdonian Ambassador in Norghana, the son of a Rogdonian noble.”
“Even so, I’ll take the risk. I’m staying.”
Albust drew his short sword, something he had not done for many years.
He offered it to his son and looking at Olga said:
“Then kill her yourself, my son, because if you don’t come she won’t either and you’ll doom her to a horrible death. She’ll be raped and tortured without mercy, then when they tire of it they’ll kill her, and in all likelihood they’ll make you watch. They’ll torture you in ways you can’t even begin to imagine before they kill you too. Is that what you want, my son? Is that what you wish for your mother?”
Octen shook his head, understanding at last the seriousness of the situation.
“All right, father, I’ll come. Let’s escape to Rogdon.”
He had sent them to Silanda, on the southern border. He could not take them to Rilentor, as his Rogdonian wife Lita lived there at Court with their son Loctun. He had to keep both wives separated, or else he would be in real trouble. Albust, like the consummate diplomat he was, had managed to keep his two wives unaware of each other’s existence. They did not even suspect, and so it had to continue. Bigamy was not legal in Rogdon, and what was even worse, King Solin would not be in the least amused if he found out. It was not the time to displease the King. He thought about the Priests of the Light and their never-ending sermons, and just thinking about what they would say if they found out gave him the shivers.
It was a few weeks since all that had happened, but now he was returning to the north and he was not happy about it at all. He was riding towards the Pass of the Half Moon, escorted by a column of fifty Lancers. They had been traveling for almost two weeks, and the rigors of the journey were taking their toll on his chubby body. The good life has a negative side as well. I’m no longer the muscular, robust man of yore. My muscles have lost their power, and this incipient belly tugging at my tunic is really something shameful I just try to conceal. They would soon reach the Pass and he would be able to rest quietly inside the Fortress. Perhaps the rigor of the journey would be good for him and he would lose some of his excess fat.
A knot in his stomach was a clear indicator that the mission he was entrusted with involved great risk. After those years of experience he was well qualified. This diplomatic mission might end very badly, and he needed to be alert. But he could do nothing about it, since these were direct orders from King Solin. His Majesty had called him and Gelbin, the Ambassador to th
e Nocean Empire. The King’s orders had been crystal clear. They had to leave immediately to negotiate with both kingdoms and try by all possible means to avert an attack on Rogdon, in particular a joint attack. Both Ambassadors had conferred with King Solin until the small hours about the different scenarios they might encounter in their approach to the two hostile kingdoms. Finally the Ambassadors had left with treaties of peace and cooperation to be delivered.
Albust very much doubted whether he would be allowed to see King Thoran even to deliver the treaty. But he had to try by any means, by order of King Solin, he had to exhaust all diplomatic pathways. Through his contacts Albust had managed to reach the Generals of the Norghanian Army, specifically Generals Olagson and Rangulfsen. For some unknown reason which he found deeply worrying, his friend and partner in dialogue Count Volgren, First General of the Norghanian armies, had refused his plea for a meeting. He had ignored him completely.
The Count’s refusal to help doesn’t bode well. He’s now the second most important man in the kingdom after His Majesty King Thoran. Why should he have ignored my request to meet him? After all, we’ve been friends for many years. Why keep his distance from me, from Rogdon, in this hour of need? I don’t like this at all, I can smell the stink of treachery, I can almost taste it in my mouth.
But his problems were nothing compared to the ones Gelbin was facing, the Ambassador to the Nocean Empire. He would have to deal with that slippery viper Zecly, the Sorcerer and Counselor to the Regent of the North. The possibilities of coming out alive from an encounter were very slim, and Gelbin was well aware of that. Unfortunately there was nothing he could do about it. King’s orders. He had set off in the direction of Silanda to meet up later with Zecly further south, on the border.
I don’t think we’ll ever see each other again, old friend. I’ll miss you.
They camped at the foot of the mountains, in a prairie crossed by a singing brook which came down from the high peaks. One more day of traveling and they would reach the Fortress of the Half Moon. Albust was happy, his spirit more cheerful. The Lancers had lit several fires and put up his elegant blue and silver tent with curtains of rich silk. He liked to travel as comfortably as he could, since after all he was a nobleman and very close to the King.
Night had already fallen over the camp. Having nothing to fear since they were in Rogdonian territory, Albust relaxed with a glass of sweet wine. He intended to sleep early to let his body recover from the journey. The next morning he would go to the Fortress with a hard day of work in front of him; he needed to be fresh for it. He could hear the Lancers chatting animatedly around the fires.
He leaned back, savoring the excellent wine, and let his mind drift pleasantly…
An untimely sound brought him back to reality, a metallic sound.
He got to his feet, disturbed by this interruption of his well-deserved rest, and was immediately overcome by unease. Restlessly, he reached for his sword. Suddenly screams sounded from the western side of the camp.
“Alarm! Alarm! We’re under attack!” shouted one of the Lancers on watch duty.
More screams followed the initial cry, and the sound of steel on steel filled the camp in the blink of an eye. Albust understood straight away that they were coming for him. An attack on a column of Lancers in Rogdonian territory was an almost unthinkable audacity, and one with a single goal: to put an end to his life. There was no room for doubt. Shouts broke out in the camp, armed men fought for their lives. Albust tried to calm himself, the Lancers were soldiers of great valor and honor, they would defend him to the death, they would not allow the enemy to get to him.
From the noise he could hear, Albust gathered that the fight had turned fierce. Muffled shouts of wounded men, the ring of metal on metal: it was clear that death was hovering over the camp with her sharp carrion nails.
Overwhelmed with nerves, he went to the entrance of the tent, sword in hand, and drew back the cloth slightly to see what was going on. The Lancers had formed a barrier in front of his tent and were repelling the attack of several men in purple clothing whose faces were covered by violet masks. They wore armor of reinforced leather and carried small round shields for protection. In their hands they brandished short swords. They outnumbered the Lancers who were protecting the tent, preventing them from reaching it. The brave Lancers fought with honor, more than half had already fallen but the rest held their ground. This worried the Ambassador: too many casualties. The men in purple charged against the Lancers again and again, yet the latter, forming an unbreakable defensive wall held as firmly as a breakwater in a storm.
After the last attack, he took a closer look at the assailants and saw with relief that there were very few left, around a dozen, and they were retreating in defeat. The Lancers, still with a score of them standing, did not move, but held their position. Albust breathed with relief; his men had repelled the attack. The enemy assailants had not been able to reach him and were stepping down. He calmed down and thanked the Light for those magnificent soldiers who protected him.
From among the shadows of the night there appeared a figure behind the dozen or so surviving attackers. A sinister figure that froze the Ambassador’s heart. This man oozed danger, Albust could almost smell it. He too was dressed in purple and wore a mask of the same color with a silver line at eye level. In the hand of that sinister individual shone a short axe decorated with silver. But what frightened Albust was the skull he carried under his arm. A skull with two red jewels set in the eye-sockets. The macabre sight made the Ambassador take a step back into his tent.
A lugubrious chant from the strange man sounded in the night. The attackers came to stand around him, protecting him as he intoned the eerie melody. Albust looked at the sinister figure once again: he saw his arms outstretched, his chest swollen; in one hand he carried the axe, in the other the skull with ruby eyes. Looking up at the sky of the black night he intoned that funereal chant. And then Albust realized what was going on.
He’s a mage, some kind of mage or sorcerer. He must be stopped!
“Attack that sorcerer! Charge! He’s casting some spell, dark magic!”
The Lancers looked at the Ambassador without understanding.
“Charge him!” he shouted.
But it was too late.
Before the astonished looks of the line of soldiers the bodies of the fallen fighters were covered by a dark mist coming from the Sorcerer. It penetrated the lifeless bodies on the ground. The brave Rogdonians watched, not understanding, as the dead began to shake their limbs convulsively. Lancers and attackers were being imbued with a dark arcane magic which was bringing them back to life, or rather to a state beyond life.
And before the astonished Rogdonians…
The dead rose.
They began to get to their feet, oblivious of the tremendous wounds which had caused their death, trying to keep their balance, with uncoordinated, clumsy movements.
Albust watched the scene in horror, his knees gave and he nearly fell to the ground. The dead were coming back to life! They were rising to fight for that evil sorcerer. But those men had not come back to life in reality. The sorcerer had raised them, yet it was not life he had imbued them with but death. They were living-dead, their eyes lost on the horizon, their hearts stopped, never to beat again, their unhinged mouths looking for flesh to feed a hunger they would never sate.
It was then that Albust became fully aware of what he was up against.
By all the heavens! A Necromancer! We’re lost!
Fear took hold of his soul. He had heard rumors about secret dark arts used by maleficent Necromancers from faraway lands, but he had always dismissed them as inventions of weak noblemen with little to do and too much imagination.
Until that dreadful moment.
A terrified Lancer, still in shock at what he was seeing, was caught by two living-dead who began to eat his flesh. The Lancer fell to the ground, screaming desperately, while other living-dead lunged at him with clumsy movements, seek
ing to join the feast. The Lancers yelled in horror, unable to believe the scene unfolding before their eyes. Fear overcame the faithful soldiers when they saw the dead rise and advance, searching for their flesh with an irrational voracity. Several Lancers fell in panic as fear of what they were seeing devoured their spirits. Chaos engulfed them.
The living-dead went on attacking with demented ferocity. Every time a Lancer died, the maleficent Sorcerer used his dark power and made him rise, transformed now into a voracious animated corpse. The surviving soldiers tried to hold the line, but the living-dead were growing more numerous. They fought bravely in the midst of the chaos and nightmare, but those abominations did not feel pain, or fear, they fell on the soldiers indifferent to the wounds they received, guided only by an avid hunger, trying to bite off chunks of the defenders’ flesh. The Lancers fought hard, but in the end they were outnumbered and the line broke.
Only two soldiers remained alive.
They ran into the tent. When Albust looked at them, he saw in their faces a mirror of the terror they felt.
“Let’s get away through the back, sir, quick!”
All three ran to the back of the tent. With their swords they cut the thick cloth and bolted out into the dark night. The living-dead went in pursuit of them, walking slowly with horrible panting breaths, their wounds open and their limbs mutilated. But they kept coming after the three fugitives, following the orders of the Necromancer who commanded them.
