by J. L. Ficks
Xzoron’s wail was answered by a hundred wretched moans in some horrific undead call to arms. The ground hummed with the moaning of the dead. He began to see the bodies moving through the smog. The dead rose from the earth, mounds of flesh and bone lurching and limping into writhing existence. Skeletons of the ancient dead stripped of all flesh, eye sockets burning with eerie violet glowing spheres. Men of centuries past: soldiers, mercenaries and poachers…slaves to the black will of Xzoron. Zombies with flesh still hanging and rotting on their bones. Xzoron’s latest brood. Shade could even make out their tribe; reckless Braznian warriors, scheming Shamite merchants, simple Durnish traders who had chanced the ruins. Death cloaked all its servants.
A skeletal hand broke through a patch of soil up ahead. He watched in horror as it clenched its fist and dug its fingers into the earth. He saw a skeleton’s mud-streaked skull emerge. Its jawbone dropped as it emitted a roar filled with contempt for the living. The skeleton wrenched its right shoulder blade free and pulled out its other bony limbs. The skeleton was at last free with one final frightful yank of its left leg bone. The skeletal fiend bent over. It pulled a long rusty scythe from the muddy earth. The undead menace turned and blocked the assassin’s path.
Shade dashed for a thin alley between two stone huts, but more skeletons and zombies closed off the gap. He shot a glance behind him. They were everywhere! They closed him in between the many large square buildings. He froze. At long last the unbreakable assassin felt fear, coursing through his veins like a sudden jolt of ice water. The minions of death lurched forward, moaning with mindless hunger. Their cold ashen hands reached for him. They raised their old rusted swords and axes, pitchforks and meat cleavers, eager to hack him to brutal pieces. He stood…an instrument of death rendered helpless by its eternal slaves. The assassin closed his eyes and prepared himself to feel the icy hands of death tear him violently from the land of the living…
Shade was surrounded. The wretched undead horde lurched forward. They climbed and struggled over one another, moaning from toothless mouths for the taste of warm blood. The words of the spooky old hag echoed in his ears, ‘And they will taste your highborn Elvish blood, Dark Elf!’ The assassin wasn’t certain what seized hold of him. He froze. His thoughts screamed, trapped in the impotent prison of his mind, but his body refused to respond. He felt cold lifeless hands grab hold of his flesh. He winced. Their touch burned like infernal frostbite. The undead raised their rusted blades and crude tools. Yet he did nothing!
‘WAKE UP!!!’ Shade’s consciousness finally reawakened him. His fingers closed around his blades and he whirled around, slicing through hands and fingers. His momentum sent long dead limbs flying.
A zombie roared enraged. He sliced its jaw clean off.
Shade cut two more skeletons at the legs. He kicked another zombie straight through his putrefied chest. He flipped backward vaulting smoothly into a reverse handspring. Free of the horde, he went on the attack. He aimed at the fragile joints of the skeletons and the loose ligaments of zombies. If he could not slay them, he would maim them beyond any capability of pursuit. Shade cut a path through the moaning undead. He aimed at every appendage or limp body part that would slow them down.
The Dark Elf searched the stone huts wildly and worked his way toward the hut he had been searching for. The relentless assassin cut through the walking dead like a finely sharpened sickle through dry grass. Soon dozens of hapless undead could do nothing, but crawl and drag their undulating bodies after him. The grasses were littered with wriggling hands, flopping legs and moaning heads. He looked up and scanned his position. He took in a long deep breath. He was almost there.
Another skeleton swung a rake down. It got lodged in the earth.
Shade slammed his boot down on the skeleton’s bony forearms. Its skull jerked forward. The assassin cut cleanly through its neck. The skeleton’s vertebrae broke to pieces. The skull rolled through the brown Bullgrasses. The decapitated skeleton was left patting the ground in a desperate search for its head. He spotted his destination at long last. All that marked the hut from the dozens of other crude buildings were overgrown shoots of dried vines and dead ivy that covered the broad faces of the monolithic stones.
Shade gasped relieved. Refuge was near. Nothing could stop him now.
A savage bovine low pierced the air like the jarring of some cacophonic horn.
Shade felt the very warmth drain from his blood. Half a wall, a huge monolithic stone, flew forward. The assassin flipped backward. He barely avoided being crushed by the massive block which tumbled end over end. The monolith crashed to the ground and stirred up a cloud of dust. The assassin coughed. The dust stung his eyes. He could not see his enemy yet, but he knew what manner of horrible new foe he faced…a Deadhorn, an undead Minotaur.
Two massive shoots of steam pierced the dust. The Deadhorn burst from the hut roaring and steaming with rage. The nearly ten-foot undead Mino swung a massive stone mallet. The assassin managed to sidestep the crude hammer by a hair. Its shaft was the length and thickness of a thin pine. The head was capped with a roughhewn rock the size of a grindstone. The Deadhorn’s hide was black, blackened with age from its natural red parlor, and held the look of old leather—dried and cracked. Shade could see the bone in some areas. Balding tufts of hair swelled under masses of old dried out muscles.
The assassin surged forward, but the Deadhorn brought his mallet up with a surprising swiftness.
It charged forward and swung his huge mallet.
Shade ducked barely missing the blow that would have shattered his body. He knew it was foolish to try to outrun a Minotaur, never mind the closeness of his shelter. He spun to face his foe. The dead Mino slowly recoiled this time, but the assassin knew that once these hulking brutes threw their weight into a swing they could catch you with an alarming quickness. The key to fighting Minotaur was to turn their powerful momentum against them. If he could not slay this accursed creature, he would have to make a clean break.
The undead Mino brought his hammer down again. The Dark Elf wheeled to the side. The Deadhorn swung his mallet up and down in a battle tantrum. Shade’s muscles groaned as he danced around his untiring foe. His leather armor was soaked with sweat. His pounding heart rattled in his quaking ribcage. The huge hammerhead whiffed past his jaw again and again. It became increasingly difficult to evade the colossal deathblows. He realized to his terror that had this Mino been alive he would have already driven it beyond exhaustion, but the dead felt no fatigue.
Shade saw the human undead closing in around him again out of the corners of his eyes. The Mino swung his hammer in wild abandon. The hammer ripped through the ranks of skeletons and zombies. Chunks of corpses and chipped bone scattered amongst the dead Bullgrasses.
The assassin felt something grab hold of his ankle. Its touch burned. He cried out as it squeezed his ankle hard. A flaming numbness shot up his leg. The sudden distraction caused him to trip over his feet. He fell backward and landed on his bottom. A severed skeletal hand had wrapped its bony fingers around his ankles. He gaped up in horror as the undead Minotaur pulled its huge hammer back. There was no escape. Not even he could dodge this blow. His only consolation was that this Deadhorn was not Xzoron himself. Then he remembered—the necklace.
The assassin reached into his cloak and took hold of an object wrapped in black cloth. He unwrapped the cloth and took out a bone necklace. The bones had been carved with eerie arcane symbols.
The undead froze suddenly. Even the Deadhorn lowered its hammer. Its big dumb head stared at the charm as if in a trance. The necklace was a Wickovan charm Shade had once found in a witch’s den in the fading woods of Fogrim Forest. The assassin was unsure of its meaning or its magic, but he had noticed such artifacts held power over undead when passing through these ruins before. He just never had been forced to test the necklace at such close range. He could not believe his luck.
Shade brandished the Wickovan charm and scrambled to his feet. He held the charm u
p. He waved it in front of the undead Minotaur’s cold dead face. Icy snorts, reeking of death and decay, steamed from the Mino’s massive snout, but it held its ground. The Deadhorn remained so still that Shade could see the mud and maggots spilling from its ribs.
The assassin backed slowly away, staring up in paralyzing awe at the bull-man’s sheer horrific countenance. Its eye sockets were empty chasms that held no gaze, except for the worms which wriggled in those cold black holes. Shade’s stomach turned and yet he could feel its icy stare glowering back at him from beyond the grave. The undead behemoth’s tongue, teeth and ears had fallen out, although one could still discern the bovine shape of its ringed snout. Two massive coal black horns protruded from its thick dead skull.
Shade stepped carefully backward. He trembled, but kept his fears in check. He backed up to the vine-covered hut. He skirted around the building and ducked inside. He exhaled hot desperate breaths.
The Deadhorn roared as soon as he was out of sight. He heard it charge the hut. Dust rained down from the ceiling. The hut walls had been marked with similar arcane symbols like those found on his bone necklace. The Wickovan, or witch men, as they were better known, had cast a spell on this hut to keep the undead out. Shade had discovered it years ago and used it as a shelter whenever passing through these grounds, but he doubted it would protect him now. The walls shook. He feared for a second the ward would not hold.
The blood drained from his face. He heard the undead Mino’s hooves trample the earth. More dust kicked up from underneath the cracks and crevices in the stone walls. He gasped. He knew one wallop from that mighty mallet could cave the wall in and bring the weighty blocks down on his head. The Minotaur stopped suddenly just outside. He heard the ceaseless moaning of the undead humans. He saw their lurching shadows closing in around the hut. The assassin’s heart fluttered with a building terror. For the first time in decades he chewed on the bitter taste of fear. He remembered what it was like to feel helpless and alone.
The undead reached into the hut through the holes. Hands grabbed for him from every angle. He waved the bone necklace at the shriveled hands, but they did not retract. The Deadhorn’s infuriated snorts steamed through the cracks and crevices. Even its cold breaths stirred up the dust. The scent of death was overpowering. Bugs wriggled from the mud and crawled up Shade’s leg. He swatted them off. He heard the Mino pacing back and forth as if awaiting the command of some diabolical overlord.
Then suddenly the pacing ceased and the hands withdrew from the hut. The dust settled and the night filled with the chirping of crickets. He exhaled deeply. It’s over. They’re gone. He slid back down. He rested against a stone wall. The charm must have worked. He brought it to his lips to shower it with kisses of gratitude when he felt a chilling pressure at his ankle.
Shade looked down.
The skeletal hand was still wrapped tightly around his ankle.
The assassin ripped it off. The hand hit the ground, fingers still wriggling. He picked up a large rock. He screamed in rage. He beat the skeletal hand beyond recognition. He pounded it into a fine dust and the late winter gusts swept it away on the wind. He sunk back against the wall in exhaustion, sleep stealing over him. His last waking thought was whether these Wickovan wards really worked at all…
Chapter Five:
Of True Worth
to the Order
The screams of horror echoed down the eerie black corridors of the Sada’Korum. Shade did not let the screams break his concentration. This place was always filled with screaming, of the living or dead one could never tell. He had simply learned to drown out the din of it all and focus on his goal of ascending to the most elite ranks in all Jui-Sae.
The ancient and abandoned Faelin dungeons had been reclaimed in recent decades, converted into the Unseen’s secret training facility. The Unseen who moved in shadow and killed in shadow kept many secrets. The clueless masses living on the surface above were ill-prepared to do the deeds necessary to keep their forests safe, so the Unseen concealed their methods from foe and friend alike. Such were the ways of the Unseen. The young recruit was proud to serve the order that enabled the rest of his midnight kingdom to live in peace.
Shade’s chiseled youthful frame glistened with sweat. He sparred barefoot with his training partner in the arena the ancient wardens had once used to pit murderers and thieves against one another for their own amusement. The pit was illumed by the low flicker of thousands of black candles, which filled nearly every riser to the highest stand of the old underground arena.
Shade wore nothing but a thin loincloth over his groin just like the other first year recruits and yet he felt no shame. Veteran trainees stood in the audience heckling and poking fun at the fresh bloods, but no one dared mock Shade. He was a natural. He danced around the pit floor with a lethal elegance, performing the exercises to such jaw-dropping perfection that his partner scrambled to keep up. He put even the other so-called shining potentials to shame.
Shade saw other members of his class stumbling out of the corner of his eye. One by one they cried out and crashed to the floor, clutching their bloody feet. He heard the trainers crack their whips. His classmates cried out in anguish. The whips cut deeply into their backs and they had to scramble back to their feet, lest they face the wrath of additional lashes.
He watched as another bumbling bastard son of Duke Qitaar stepped on a hot coal. The bastard screamed out as the coal seared into his flesh. Shade gracefully spun around another clumsy rich boy who sat bitterly yanking pieces of glass and barbs out of his foot. The trainers had scattered the floor with shards of obsidian glass, barbs and even hot coals.
An Unseen’s movements must betray no mistake. They must move in complete silence. ‘I must be aware of every step,’ he thought, repeating his master’s words, ‘snap not even a twig, brush not even a leaf…that is the bar I strive for.’
Shade glared hotly at the other highbred pit trash. He began to see them through his master’s cold dark eyes…their every mistake; their every inexcusable weakness enraged him. What pampered, simpering weaklings! You are supposed to be the pride of Jui-Sae! He only wished his master, Lord Sadora, was present. The Shadowlord would weed out more of the fodder. He would take pleasure in executing these spoiled rich boys of no worth to the order! Shade’s eyes flooded with hatred. ‘You know nothing!’ he thought accusingly, ‘Nothing of the honors granted you by right of nobility!’ If only his master had not gone to convene in his study with his head servant who had just returned from a journey.
Shade brought his wooden training dagger up and clinked with his sparring partner. He spun around. They touched parrying daggers as well. It was on the second spin that he caught a look from another recruit Savanesse. Shade had trained himself to need no one, not since his mother died all those years ago. He did not burden himself with relationships, but part of him had to admit he liked the daring young nobleman. Savanesse was the closest thing Shade ever had to a friend.
Savanesse’s long wavy indigo hair fell across his heavily pierced face. He brushed the hair out of his eyes. The balled earring he wore on his left ear jiggled in mid exercise. Savanesse was the rightful heir of the monstrous Shaltanoan Estate, but he shirked his life of privilege. He had a propensity for foreign jewelry and wild living, much to his parent’s chagrin. The house of Shaltanoa was so rich that it boasted it owned half of Jui-Sae. Savanesse could have easily avoided the war and lived a life of fat privilege, but he lived best among the dregs. He was more at home in taverns and brothels than in any of his family’s sprawling estates.
Savanesse’s emerald green eyes twinkled back at him. Shade noted a distinct twinkle of concern in his friend’s gaze. Savanesse made no noise, but Shade read the words off his lips. He could see the words as clear as day, ‘He knows!’
Shade felt as if his friend had just stabbed him through the heart. He found it difficult to move. He kept in step, but his heartbeat pounded in his ears. He nearly lost control. He glanced at the wid
e open gate, the only tunnel that led out to the surface above. His every instinct screamed at him to run. His eyes swept around the pit. Of course, he should have known! His rival, Jeshrim, was missing. The jealous pig noble had been using the considerable resources of his highbred upbringing to dig into Shade’s past. Shade would no longer be welcome here. The penalty was death and yet he lingered still.
The recruit kept in rhythm carrying out the motions that his very blood had been poured for until now. ‘Run, Shade,’ his every instinct screamed at him, ‘run!’ He had no place here anymore, but where would he go? What did he have to go back to? Back to Nefar to wallow in the mud? He clashed blades with his training partner. He spun backward demonstrating the pinnacle of lethal grace and perfect form. He caught another alarmed glance from Savanesse urging him again to flee.
Shade shook his head and smiled back at his friend. If he would die, he would die here and proud among his shadow brethren. He would not belittle himself to running and force his master to chase him down like a dog. His blood chilled over. His Elvish ears picked up the approaching sound of hard leather boot heels walking purposefully across stone. His master must have descended the spiral staircase and was making his way down the entry hall to the training pit. It was too late now. There was no escape. There was no mistaking the angry footsteps of the dauntless Shadowlord, but his master’s steps rung uncharacteristically loud. ‘He must be really angry,’ he thought, ‘for the Lord of the Shadows betrays no sound.’
Shade never broke out of exercise, even as other recruits paused to cast curious glances over their shoulders at the entryway. They quickly fell back into step. The wounded scrambled back to their feet, grunting through the pain.
