Necropolis (Book One of Book One)

by Penn Fawn

  “Again, I bid you listen carefully, for this is a life and death matter. We will never have the means to reach their base if you fail to do as I say,” he added, and the men were all ears.

  “Now I want you to observe, then do as I do,” he added.

  Kifo stepped toward him.

  “Remove your headgear,” he said, and Kifo did so.

  Nyeusi procured a vessel and a bowl into which he emptied its contents.

  A wind strong enough to disperse any powder out onto the fields had been blowing. Yet, he could empty the bedeviled contents into the bowl with no fear or concern whatsoever of this happening.

  He applied some water to it, then he worked it in with his index finger until it had the consistency of a paste.

  He used that very finger to draw a white X onto Kifo’s forehead. He had Amri come forward, then he marked an X onto his forehead too.

  He faced and addressed the troops.

  “When I bring this vessel to you, do as I have done,” he ordered. “To both man and beast,” he added, and they wondered what could it all mean.

  “Have no fear about the paste ever coming to an end before all hath received the mark, for this won’t happen. Have no fear about the consistency of it changing for want of more water, for this won’t happen,” he added, and they wondered how on earth could any of what he said be true.

  “How come?” he asked. “Because it is a gift from the necromancer.”

  A noise emanated from the crowd.

  “That’s right,” he added. “He who receives the mark shall for a month become like that accursed tribe from the world beyond. Ye shall not suffer from hunger or thirst. Not for a month! Which is long enough for us to endure this mission.”

  “Is there any danger the spell stemming from the mark may have a permanent effect?” a fellow asked.

  “None,” Nyeusi replied. “The mark shall vanish from your foreheads no sooner or later than after the spell has taken effect. This, as I have said, will last for around a month.

  “No more questions. We will break to take care of this business now, then we resume the march.”

  Most of them had never been this far north. The only ones known to have seen this landscape were those who saw it from above while atop the backs of the kilman.

  There were, maybe, a total of five hundred of them, and this figure included those from all the Shetani strongholds with which this narrative is concerned.

  Most came from the Isle of the Maimed, a volcanic island roughly seven miles east of the mainland of the underworld’s second level. It was a place of confinement where men who lost a limb or limbs after attempting to combat or harm the Shetani were taken to spend a lifetime of contemplation about all the ‘wrongs’ they did.

  The place where they presently were, being semi-arid, unchartered, and largely unknown, is what bothered Nyeusi most.

  Those factors led him to consult the necromancer for some kind of insurance policy against trying to navigate it.

  There was a long stretch of dry land before them, and he was mindful of their dwindling supplies.

  The weather was warm but tolerably so, considering they were out in the open, under the sun’s direct rays. It was such that they welcomed the opportunity to relax for a bit while man and beast received the mark.

  A force of about five thousand more Shetani was nearly half-a-day’s journey behind them. These were foot soldiers, garbed in like manner of the frontline soldiers. They would be second in line to receive the mark.

  Aside from those who worked deep within the forest, the Shetani residing south of the plains never covered themselves in armor like their counterparts within the mountains.

  Presently, and for the most part, they wore the very type of armor their mountain-dwelling peers did, a plate with interlocking pieces that covered their shoulders and chests.

  All forsook wearing the forearm gear the guards there wore because these had three curved spikes.

  Fear of the spikes at some point inadvertently poking the elephants, and possibly contributing to a stampede, or otherwise harming their brethren while they were nearby, is what led to the decision to forsake it.

  They instead affixed a shield over one of their forearms.

  They were uniform in wearing a belt strung around their waists. These featured scabbards into which their daggers and swords were placed. Across their torsos were a bow and a quiver for their arrows.

  They continued to administer and receive the necromancer’s mark. The recipients were astounded to note what they heard about the paste from which it was drawn turned out to be true. Its quantity, no matter how many men or beasts received it, never appeared to diminish.

  All held it was the most bedeviling thing they had ever seen, so their faith in Nyeusi, the mission, and those who were skeptical about whether it came from the necromancer were reassured.

  The vessel was returned to him. He withdrew a lid from his person, covered and secured it, then he made way toward the foot soldiers with Kifo and Amri flying at his side.

  Amri’s brother, Dembele, who led the cavalry this far, led them onward toward Kimbilio.

  Many who had cheered when Darkwing brought the news about the Shetani heading toward them shivered when what appeared to be a dark line on the horizon became more recognizable.

  “My Lord and God,” a fellow said despondently. This was Feignmann, who presently was closest to Akua.

  No one gave the order for the immortals to stop. However, many froze with a mixture of awe and apprehension as they watched an army of ten thousand strong on elephant back loom larger with the passing of each second.

  Their entire army grounded to a halt. Men trembled, including those with the responsibility of manning the front line.

  “Advance no further!” Oluso barked. “Assume your positions!”

  Many Adam’s apples moved up and down in their throats, and their saliva felt like a lump of something solid after swallowing it.

  A glance at what lay in the distance led Amri to think he was looking at a herd of wildebeest. Or, was it?

  The Shetani at the front of the herd stared on yonder.

  Dembele’s heart rate increased. He felt the eyes of his peers to his left then his right upon him.

  Astonished, perhaps every bit as the immortals were, they could only imagine how many they might amount to.

  He turned to both sides.

  He signaled to keep advancing, and the cavalry marched without breaking stride.

  “You know,” a certain Pseudomann mused, “I got to thinking the implausibility of being here is not so bad a thing after all.”

  “What do you mean?” Feignmann asked.

  “To stay hydrated without the need for water, nourished without the need for food. The inability to enjoy either without having any painful effect,” he replied.

  “What a time to be thinking such things,” Feignmann remarked.

  “Point is, like I said, at this time, I think it’s not such a torturous existence after all,” Pseudomann replied.

  “You don’t want to die despite what we’re denied in this life, is what you’re saying?” Feignmann said. “I mean common pleasures we took for granted.”

  Pseudomann was pensive.

  “I think few ever do,” Feignmann added. “Except for the most trying situations, people don’t hope to die. They hope for things to get better.”

  “Well, it sure looks like we have a lot of hoping to do now,” Pseudomann said.

  Mbou overhead their talk. “They are many but so are we,” he chimed in, “and our arrows are tipped with the deadliest of poisons, the likes of nothing we’ve seen from where we came. Takes minutes for paralysis to set in, not hours, and hours, not days to cause death.”

  “I hope we have as many as we need to stop them. I mean, from what I can see, their numbers appear unlimited,” Feignmann remarked.

  “We can only do what we can do,” Mbou said. “And, I don’t think you suspect this engagement, all
of it, will be from a distance.”

  “Of course not,” he replied.

  “Good,” Mbou added. “You’ve been trained as well as any of us about how to fight with the sword.”

  “Right,” Feignmann replied.

  He became impatient with what he held was the painfully slow advancement. It seemed to serve no purpose other than to jangle his nerves.

  Zaeim, who was at some distance away from him, and leading the men over at that end, was one of many who felt the same way.

  All became silent and focused, for there was nothing else that mattered in the world other than that which drew nearer.

  They could clearly hear the elephants speak now in that language no immortal could understand. Palms became sweaty. Patience wore thin.

  Thousands toward the front of their ranks were on bent knee, with their bows and arrows pointed upwards toward the sky, all mindful it was critical to have a preemptive strike, lest they ended up being on defense against such an imposing force.

  “Give the order to fire already,” Pseudomann whispered.

  His words were meant for his ears only, but Mbou overhead him and responded.

  “Patience. The first of their ranks are almost within striking distance,” he said.

  Pseudomann’s fear of being a fraction too late to fire led to a vision of his ranks cowering under their shields.

  In his vivid imagination, the enemy had struck first, and now he could hear the uncommonly large herd of elephants charging toward them while they were in so vulnerable a state. Many would be trampled to death before getting a shot off!

  “Fire!” Oluso barked, and within a fraction of a second, the immortals dispatched a volley of arrows. They free fell far and wide, hurtling with the impressionable pull of gravity toward the enemy.

  The Shetani uniformly held their shields out before them. It was done in near perfect unison, but their defenses could deflect but so much.

  Many an arrow lodged into some of their warriors’ legs, prompting a howling and grimacing in intolerable agony.

  What didn’t bounce off the metal-plated armor covering the heads of their elephants lodged in other body parts of their beasts.

  Many elephants rose onto their hind legs.

  Riders who didn’t fall or were cast aside struggled to hang on. Within a matter of seconds, the Shetani toward the front of their ranks were in the middle of a commotion.

  “Fire!” Zaeim yelled at the top of his lungs, and another volley of arrows was dispatched. The vulnerable and frenzied beasts took more lethal fire, and the fallen were crushed beneath their feet or under those animals which fell on them.

  Nyeusi, atop the back of his kilman, reached the front of his army by this time. His eyes widened.

  Amri and Kifo, also atop their flying beasts, looked on in horror.

  Following Nyeusi’s lead, they flew past the dead and dying toward the immortals.

  Men who weren’t awestruck by the beasts’ wingspan and stupendousness held their arms aloft and released several arrows. “Focus on what’s on the ground!” Oluso bellowed. “They can do us no harm from up there! Let those further back take aim!”

  Few did, yet a concerned Nyeusi, who feared his animal may be struck, managed to fly higher, then beyond striking distance of the sparse number of arrows released.

  Hitherto, not one fellow from the immortal army was slain. None, for that matter, was wounded, and the commotion they caused was such that the Shetani failed to dispatch so much as one arrow.

  Amri and Kifo continued to follow their leader.

  Observing from a birdseye view what the enemy army amounted to astounded them.

  They were sure to fly past the breath of it, taking pains to estimate their numbers, then Nyeusi made a hand gesture which they understood meant they were to turn around.

  More and more arrows came hurtling toward his men. They fell like rain, and immortals near the front line took to mercilessly firing directly into the flesh of frenzied man and beast.

  The Shetani behind those in front, those closer to the middle of their army, found they could neither move forward nor backward and down the arrows continued to fall.

  Those who focused on blocking them with their shields were thrown off their alarmed animals for want of firmly holding on to them.

  Those who held on dearly were often too late in trying to avoid being hit while attempting to fend off arrows.

  Like so many who almost always are the architects of their own misfortune and downfall, the panicked Shetani wondered how they got themselves in this situation.

  What started out as such a bright and sunny day, one full of promise, turned out to be quite dark. Yet as dark as things seemed, they hoped and prayed there must be a way out.

  They prayed there must be some saving grace that would give them just one more chance. They vowed to never partake in the mindless activity that is open warfare again, but hope soon turned to despair.

  What became clear—or so they now believed—was they were going to face death one way or another, by an arrow or by being crushed, or maybe by some combination of the two.

  A preoccupation with avoiding the inevitable end tortured them, and it was then that the uncommonly lethal poison from the arrow tips that penetrated or grazed them began to take effect.

  Muscular paralysis damned hope of those who’d been praying the hardest.

  The most optimistic among them felt that optimism die, for not only had the hope they would somehow be able to maneuver themselves out of harm’s way vanished, now they found they were unable to move much or move period.

  What new form of devilry is this? The afflicted and incapacitated wondered. They would never know as they agonizingly took their last gasps of air.

  Those who escaped being trampled or crushed by a fallen animal would expire within the hour. Although much larger, their animals were struck much more frequently and would not fare much better.

  Those who only despised and thought little of common men now feared them, conceding they were far more an inventive, enterprising, and parasitical scourge than they had imagined.

  Those toward the back of the ranks, those who were beyond the range of the arrows, made a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and headed back toward the direction from which they came, as man after man, beast after beast, continued to fall.

  The notion of crushing their enemy like they were no more a match for them than mere ants was now long gone.

  The idea of dismounting from their beasts to run them through with dagger or sword, while those still atop their elephants trampled the personal belongings in their villages, was now considered folly.

  The idea of an invasion where every immortal would be put to the sword was now thought to be fantasy—and so their aggressors, those fortunate enough to have the opportunity to run, ran toward where they came from.

  Nyeusi’s thoughts raced. He agonized over whether he should tell his advancing foot soldiers to hold their ground or retreat.

  He wondered whether it made any sense at all to retreat, or should they fight to the last man to try and prevent the immortals from advancing toward their lands, or did the enemy have any intent on doing so?

  Why were they so far out from their village?

  What was their motive, and what prompted them to arrive at where they were, and in such numbers?

  There was so much about them he didn’t know, so much about them and the developments that addled his mind.

  He swooped down and flew low, in a parallel line to the advancing foot soldiers.

  ’Twas an act which meant they were to halt any further advancement, which they did.

  He directed his mighty beast to fly higher, then to his left, and they headed back to the direction from which they had come.

  Amri and Kifo, who watched his every move, directed their beasts to follow his, and as to what should he do next? ’Twas the question that gave his mind no rest.

  He was sure he wanted a firsthand account on how
matters were progressing on the battlefront. He headed there with haste.

  “They’re all but a spent force,” Mbou shouted. “Look at them. What did they have to offer? Nothing!”

  “Not one damn thing,” Pseudomann said.

  Feignmann smiled, and everyone was in good cheer.

  “What now, oh leader?” Feignmann asked. “They’re retreating. Are we to pursue them?”

  “We will not,” Mbou replied. “Once we can be assured we’re no longer under any threat, we will return home.”

  No further threat presented itself. Rather, many fleeing Shetani not quite out of firing range were struck in areas where they had no body armor.

  Many of their elephants were struck in the buttocks or at the back of their hind legs or shoulders. The poison in their bloodstream from the arrow tips would ensure all failed to reach their intended destination.

  “We were fools,” Akua said. “They’re but a specter of the fearsome image they would have us believe they are.”

  “They are fearsome, but it is our cunning and their stupidity that gave us this overwhelming advantage. We were better prepared,” Mbou said.

  Akua listened.

  “Intimidating as their beasts appeared to be, now we all know they’re a liability,” Oluso said.

  “There was no need for Dalia and the others to evacuate,” Akua said.

  “Perhaps, but we had no way of knowing that. Did we?” Oluso replied.

  “Right,” Akua said.

  Nyeusi drew nearer to the battlefront and, in the distance, saw that his troops, or what was left of them, had aborted their positions and were heading back in the direction from which they came.

  Further ahead were the stricken, those who tried to retreat but made it only so far before the poison-tipped arrows rendered them immobile. Of this group, who weren’t already dead were dying, and their carcasses were strewn like litter upon the open field.

  Nyeusi’s face grew long, and his heart felt heavy, but further ahead still, or so he suspected, was what he thought he had to face above all else.

  He didn’t have to fly much further before he saw the heap of Shetani and elephant carcasses. The fallen constituted the larger portion of his army. They all died during the melee and fell atop or alongside each other.