Death Rises

by Brian Murray

  “We have known each other for many years and I do not lecture unless it is needed, you know that,” started the big druid. He raised his hand to silence the man. “Was I not the man who saw your joy when you wedded?”

  “That isn’t the point,” sneered the man, surging to his feet and slamming his open hands on his wooden desk.

  “That is the point,” said the druid softly, but firmly. “Your wife must be turning in her grave. You have treated your son badly. What has he done to you?”

  “He killed my Preeya,” growled the man with meaning.

  “Your Preeya could have saved herself. I do not know for certain, but by dying I believe she passed her gift onto your son, a gift that should be nurtured with love and care.”

  The man slowly sank down into his seat. He knew his wife had had the gift of healing, their secret. The only other people to know about it were the druid and the nanny who had been his wife’s personal maid. When the two had been courting, they went riding and one of the horses had stumbled and become lame. She had healed the horse and he learned the truth.

  “Why?” asked the man softly.

  “I do not know why she did not save herself and the child. But I suspect she thought you would be a good father and love your son as much as you loved her. How wrong was she?”

  “I miss her so much,” said the man, his voice choked with emotion.

  “Aye, that was never in doubt, she was a fine lass. But is that an excuse to neglect your son—her son?”

  The man bowed his head and looked down at his hands, which shook uncontrollably. He did not look up into the druid’s hard, dark gaze when he spoke. “I have done wrong by my son, which I will admit. But it is now time for you to teach him about his gift. Will you teach him?”

  “Aye, I will teach him,” said the druid sadly. “I will teach him about his gift and about love, something that has been sorely missing in his life.”

  The man looked up, his eyes full of anger and loss. “Be careful druid, I’m not known as a forgiving man.”

  “Aye, but you once were.”

  The man held the druid’s gaze, his eyes hooded and his fists clenched. “Leave and take the boy with you,” hissed the man vehemently.

  The man did not see his son off. He did not watch the druid walk down the path with the crying child. The child was convinced he had done something wrong and was being punished. It took years for the boy to understand he was not being punished. But that one moment scarred the child and the once happy boy rarely smiled or laughed again.

  ***

  The early years of his stay at the monastery were not happy for Frazellon. Being the youngest child, he suffered constant bullying and taunting from the older boys. But one day the tables would turn and he would become the one to fear . . .

  Frazellon, aged ten, walked quietly in the gardens of the monastery looking at the roses and other flowers which were in full bloom. He felt at peace in the gardens, surrounded by flowers with their bright colours and sweet fragrant scents. He strolled on, deep in his own thoughts, when he came to a rose bush that had not bloomed. The plant looked limp and weak. Frazellon knelt by the plant, careful not to dirty his pale grey robes. He touched the plant, avoiding many sharp thorns, and let his powers flow. He closed his eyes and concentrated as instructed by Druid Bilal. The bush grew and strengthened. Its trunk expanded and its leaves multiplied and grew. Then a bud appeared. The boy continued to concentrate. Another bud appeared, then another and another. The buds started to open, large roses bloomed, and a sweet scent filled the air. The boy opened his eyes and looked at his work.

  “You deserved better my friend, grow strong,” he said softly, looking at the large yellow blooms.

  The boy stood and smiled broadly at his achievement. He looked around but there was no one to tell. Sadness touched the boy’s heart—always alone. The lunch bell sounded and he turned to walk to the main building. He turned a corner where three older boys stood talking. When he came into view, the boys stopped talking and all looked at the younger pupil.

  The largest boy, named Kieran, stepped into the middle of the path and approached Frazellon. “You will do my chores tonight as I want to sleep early,” he announced.

  Anger touched the young Frazellon, but he did not answer and kept his eyes down. He went to walk past Kieran but the teenager reached out and stopped the younger boy.

  “Did you hear me, squirt?”

  Frazellon looked up slowly, his tawny-brown eyes gleaming with malevolence, but still he did not say anything.

  The older boy stared into Frazellon’s eyes and something touched him—fear. But the teenager could not back down now, his friends were watching him. The teenager pushed Frazellon back, causing him to trip and fall sprawled on the path.

  “Did you hear me? You will do my chores, and I will have your lunch.” The other two boys started to giggle and jeered the teenager on.

  Frazellon slowly rose to his feet, his anger growing—his hatred building inside of him. Kieran had been bullying Frazellon for the last year and over the last week Frazellon had done the boy’s chores three times. Frazellon did not say a word. He stepped in close to the older boy. No fear altered the younger boy’s expression, only the hatred festering inside. The teenager wanted to step back, but raw terror stopped him. Frazellon reached up towards the teenager’s face, then . . . blackness.

  ***

  Frazellon stood in Brother Bilal’s office waiting for the old druid to arrive. He looked around the office, amazed at the mess. The room was reasonably small but there were parchments and old books everywhere, cluttering up the place. He smiled for he liked the old druid and still could not believe such an apparent organised man lived in such chaos. The door opened and Brother Bilal entered his room without saying a word. The druid walked around his desk, sank down into an old creaking leather chair, and sighed as he straightened his long, earthy brown robe.

  “What am I to do with you, Frazellon?” asked the druid, looking up.

  “I was defending myself, sir.”

  “What is the rule, Frazellon?”

  “I don’t understand, sir,” said the young boy honestly.

  “Kieran is with the healers getting treatment for severe burns. His friends have told me that you attacked him for no reason.”

  “That’s not true,” snapped Frazellon, his anger rising, his face flushing.

  “Then will you tell me what happened?”

  “I was walking in the gardens. I healed a rose tree, a yellow rose with a sweet scent—just like you taught me. Anyway, I heard the lunch bell and decided to walk back to the dining hall when Kieran and his friends stopped me. Kieran said that I had to do his chores and give him my lunch. Then . . . then . . . ” The boy’s voice faded.

  “Then what, boy?” roared the druid, slapping the palm of his hand hard down onto his desk, causing Frazellon to jump and sending parchments spilling onto the floor. In five years, he had never seen the druid angry and never heard him raise his voice.

  “I don’t remember,” replied Frazellon worriedly.

  “You do not remember? The boy has burns to his face and you do not remember?”

  “Honestly, sir, I don’t remember what happened. I remember the hate I felt towards Kieran, but don’t remember what I did. Everything went black.”

  The druid took a deep breath and calmed himself. The boy had told him the truth and he knew it. One of the druid’s talents was the ability to tell if someone had lied. In the past, a local baron had used the druid’s talents to settle disputes. Bilal was sure the boy had no idea what he had done or how he had done it. This last part gladdened, but also worried the old druid.

  “Is he badly hurt?” asked Frazellon, who had not wanted to hurt anyone—or rather told himself that.

  “What?” asked the druid, deep in thought.

  “Kieran, is he badly hurt?”

  “Yes, he has severe burns to his face, not from fire, but his flesh has been scorched with magic, dark .
. . umm . . . I mean, the druids with healing powers are working on him. He should be fine, but . . . ” The druid paused.

  “But what, Master Druid?”

  Bilal sighed again. “He will be badly disfigured.”

  “I will pray for him.”

  “Pray, boy—I should punish you.”

  “I was defending myself. For five years, the older boys have been taunting me and today I fought back. I thought you said I should learn to defend myself? Well, today I did.”

  “Yes, I did,” snapped the druid sharply. “But you should not knowingly be using your powers to cause harm to anyone. That’s against our beliefs and rules.”

  “But I did not,” said Frazellon, confused.

  “Unfortunately, there was no fire nearby and the boys said that you touched Kieran’s face and it started to bubble and hiss.”

  “Oh,” was all Frazellon could say, then . . . “How?”

  Brother Bilal clasped his hands as though praying and bowed his head. He liked the young boy standing in front of him. He knew the boy had been bullied, and did have to learn to defend himself. The druid took a deep breath, then announced the boy’s punishment.

  “You have the power to heal Frazellon, but that also gives you the power to cause harm. If you intentionally use your powers to do harm or actually do harm yourself for malicious reasons, you will lose your powers.” He paused. “You will spend the next month in the gardens—you will not have breakfast nor lunch. During those times, you will sit in the temple and pray for control.”

  Frazellon knew the punishment was light, but out of respect, he bowed his head and said, “Yes sir, I will pray for control and for Kieran.”

  From that day on no one taunted or bullied young Frazellon—later, he would learn the true power of fear.

  ***

  For the next five years, Frazellon continued to learn to control his gift. His powers developed and grew to extraordinary levels. He had not left the monastery since his arrival and quickly rose up the ranks. He became a brother in the order and wore the sacred brown robes of a druid. But throughout the years, one question constantly nagged in the back of his mind—how did he burn Kieran on that day? He learnt to use his powers for good, to heal, and he had cured many people, but his young mind reeled over the problem. Shortly, after Frazellon’s eighteenth birthday, Brother Bilal died suddenly from a weak heart. After a long period of mourning, the senior brothers left it to Frazellon to clear out Bilal’s room and add his books and parchments to the library.

  Frazellon spent days in the man’s room, reading through his books, scrolls, and parchments, putting them into an order ready for transfer to the main library. Then on the top shelf, he found a large book bound in black leather. When he touched the cracked cover, his fingers and his whole body tingled. The book appeared old, very dusty, and had a large brass clasp keeping it closed. The young man’s heart raced but he did not know why. He undid the clasp and started to read the book. For two days, the young man did not leave the room and read the book that contained texts, passages, and spells about black sorcery, a subject forbidden in the monastery. Frazellon finished the book, but his hunger for more knowledge drove him to finish his task in a rush, hoping he would find more books or parchments on the same topic. There were no more on the subject. Frazellon felt unfulfilled and searched the library seeking more knowledge—but there were no other books in the monastery’s library.

  After completing the task of clearing Bilal’s room, Frazellon went to one of the older brother’s room. “Have you read any book on sorcery?” he asked as casually as he could.

  Frazellon’s friend rose and went to his door. His eyes ferreted up and down the corridor, then he quietly closed the door to his room. “What do you mean?”

  “Have you read any books . . . ”

  “Yes, I heard you the first time,” interrupted his friend, Chari, a young druid who specialised in studying herbs and potions. “Do not ask that question again. That’s not a subject discussed in the monastery. Only foulness comes to one who seeks such knowledge. Trust me, my friend, do not seek such knowledge. It will be your undoing if you do.”

  “I found a book in Brother Bilal’s room and just found it interesting,” countered the young druid innocently.

  “It is an interest that is better left alone. And you should forget about it. Moreover, do not mention the book to anyone here and get rid of it.”

  Frazellon did as his friend suggested and did not mention the subject again, but he kept the book hidden in his room, reading it over and over again. The need for more text and passages always niggled in the back of his mind. From that day on, Frazellon thought constantly about black sorcery and desperately wanted to study the subject, like an addictive craving he could not satisfy. He knew one thing: to gain such knowledge he would have to leave the sanctuary of the monastery.

  Later during the same year, an army officer came to the monastery seeking healers for their campaign against the barbarians that resided south of the Cecillians. Frazellon volunteered to help the army and left the monastery for the first time since arriving. During the early battles, Frazellon helped the Cecillian army by healing the sick and wounded, walking freely amongst them in his traditional earthy-brown druid robes. In the beginning, the fighting appalled the young druid, but soon his tolerance grew. Gradually, his tolerance turned into a strange understanding, then into morbid fascination. He began to like the sounds of battle—the screaming, the clashing of steel on steel, arrows whizzing through the air, metal shields clashing, the rending of flesh, and the smashing of bones. Adrenaline surged through his body as he walked among the injured and dying, savouring the taste of fear that hung in the air, like a murderous, voracious shroud. Wars and battles were beasts the young druid came to enjoy, to the point of becoming fixated. He started to learn, watching the general make his decisions, and quickly picked up the rudiments of battle strategy and warfare. He had no one to talk to about his penchant for war, so he sought solace in prayer. Unfortunately, this did not stop his morbid lust. His eyes would dance when he looked down at bloody battlefields, his eyes ferreting left and right as he tried to absorb every murderous act. Only when he got close, walking in the bloody aftermath of a battle, completing his duties healing, did he feel exhilaration. His only problem was that he could not get close enough to see the actual killing.

  During one battle, the Cecillians attacked a small township. They killed all of the men while the women and children were herded together to be sold on the slave markets. Several Cecillian soldiers were wounded, so Frazellon went into the town to help the injured. He walked past a wooden shack and heard muffled screams. Thinking someone may be hurt, Frazellon entered the house. Inside the single room, five Cecillian men were raping a young woman. Frazellon wanted to cry out for the men to stop, but something stopped him, something dark and sinister, and he shuffled back into a shadowy corner. The soldiers did not notice the druid hiding in the shadows and he watched the men repeatedly rape the woman. The woman saw the robed druid and her pleading eyes met his gaze. Her eyes felt like they bore into Frazellon’s soul, but the druid just smiled and slipped silently out of the shack, his eyes aglow with excitement. Once outside, Frazellon suddenly felt horrified with himself for not stopping the men. In that moment, a shrill feminine scream tore from the hut, suddenly, wickedly cut short in a way that could only mean death. Shortly afterwards, the five Cecillian soldiers stalked out of the shack. Their shame and guilt stopped them from meeting the druid’s gaze.

  Frazellon waited for the soldiers to leave, then he re-entered the shack. On the floor the woman lay naked, with her legs still spread apart and her throat cut. Blood had stopped flowing from the gaping wound but it had pooled on the floor around her like a morbid crimson halo. One of the rapists had stepped in the crimson fluid, leaving his footprints heading to the door. The druid gazed down at the woman and something inside him twinge—a feeling stirred. He looked into the woman’s eyes and saw dead fear in the
m. Not only dead fear but a questioning expression—why? The druid turned and stumbled from the shack, this time mystified by the feelings. He felt absolutely no pity for the woman; instead, he felt an urge that he could not explain. The druid left the settlement, scampered into the hills, and prayed while the soldiers put the town to the torch. He prayed for the woman and for forgiveness. He could have saved the woman, but he had not—why? Frazellon sat alone that night deep in melancholy thought—what was happening to him? He seemed to be losing his compassion and he could not explain it. He also seemed to be losing his faith and there was no one to help him correct his ways.

  The next couple of days were emotionally hard for Frazellon. When camped, he sat away from the soldiers. His eyes were sunken and smudged with circles of black from lack of sleep. If the young druid slept, the woman’s dead fearful eyes haunted his dreams. In his nightmares, the woman would look at him, her eyes constantly ask him, why—why did he not save her? Why? In his dreams, he could not answer and he pleaded for the woman to stop haunting him, but the dream always ended the same—Frazellon watched himself rape, then slash the woman’s throat. He could feel the blood splatter against him and taste the coppery fluid in the air. In his dreams, he smiled—a twisted, cruel expression. The druid would wake in the middle of the night sweating profusely, his mouth dry and open, screaming silently. So, he could not sleep.

  On a cloudless night, several days after another raid, the barbarians attacked the Cecillians’ camp, killing the general and many of the senior officers. The soldiers were in disarray without leadership and on the brink of defeat.

  Frazellon woke to the sounds of death, hysterical shouting, and screams. He emerged from his tent to see Cecillians running about with barbarians hacking them without mercy. Something within the druid switched. The sight, the stench, the sounds of death surrounding him, swamped him and oozed into his very being. Within a heartbeat, the druid’s code was forgotten and . . .

  Frazellon rose from the mayhem to rally and lead the men. He gathered the Cecillians around him and formed a defensive ring, locking their shields together. Finding some leadership, the soldiers fought back against the barbarians with renewed hope. The barbarians threw themselves at the wall of shields, but they were easily repelled or killed. Time and time again, the barbarians charged, but the Cecillians held them back, viciously stabbing at the enemy with their short swords. Frazellon was not happy with just defending and he forced the Cecillian soldiers to take the fight to the enemy. During that first long night, they killed all of the barbarians who had attacked them.