Chapter 18c: The Wizard's Apprentice

Rachelle didn't think she had any tears left, but they soaked the chest of Wellan's tattered robe. She didn't know if the tears came from the stabbing pain in her head or her sense of loss with the passing of the wizard. Probably both.

Sharp spikes of torment shot through her head every few seconds and when the sharp pains ended a throbbing ache remained. Her mind fought to sort through the pictures that pulsed within her imagination, memories of ancient times, Wellan's life. Her thoughts remained a jumbled assortment of information, each piece floated in her mind like a single sentence or paragraph from a book, individually making sense, but not forming a whole story. Rachelle moaned as pain shot through her head with the force of an icicle being slammed between her eyes. Her mind tried to sort and catalogue centuries worth of knowledge and feelings. It overloaded her senses, making her brain feel as though it would explode at any second. Her existence had become pain and confusion, lost in a place between her world and Wellan's.

The creaking of hinges penetrated through the dull ache. The Duke, a guard, a memory? She didn't lift her head; a sphere of pain enfolded her and left little room for anything else.

Footsteps padded across the stone floor. The smell of mulch and decay filled her nose. A gurgling chuckle intruded on the pain, menacing. She looked up with bloodshot eyes.

A naked man stood at the foot of the bed. A silhouette stood before her, its skin glistened, slick and black like oil. Teeth that matched his skin shone from obsidian gums. Two black marbles glittered as they stared down at the wizard, studying the deceased with a proud smile.

The black eyes travelled to Rachelle. "Ud move, goshling. Der Shaaaman est mine."

She stood on legs that that threatened to betray her. The room tilted and the nude man disappeared from her vision as memories again flooded her mind. A thin man in baggy robes sat leaning against the gnarled tree bark looking up at her with a smile. He held out a smoking pipe with an inviting smile. The flash lasted mere seconds and when she returned a guard stood in the doorway.

She opened her mouth to call to him, beg him to help, but stopped. The armored man gazed at her with blank eyes. His mouth opened and closed, drool slid down his chin and dangled precariously as it swayed with the rolling of his jaw. The abominations are here, in the palace. All is lost.

The black man stepped around the bed with the grace of a dance and faced Rachelle, a black dagger pointed before him. "Ud move, goshling."

Without a seconds thought she lifted the chair and held it before her, the legs pointed at the black horror. Her pain betrayed her and she wobbled to the side as another spike of pain drove between her brows. Images flashed before her eyes for a mere fraction of a second. A night sky full of stars filled her vision. This slim light of a crescent moon shone in the heavens as a shooting star streaked across the sky and plunged into the earth with a blasting roar several miles away. The scene changed to a small dim room, a menacing chuckle greeted her return to the present. Black hands held a leg of the chair and jerked if from her hands, almost pulling her to the ground.

The black dagger rose into the air, poised to plunge into her heart. She cried out. Her hands rose before her face to block the blow she knew she couldn't prevent.

A bloodied hand, middle finger bitten to a stub, struck out from the bed, grasping the black arm and pulling the blade away from its target. The obsidian man snarled and turned to Wellan, driving the knife deep into his stomach. Runes on the knife glinted green then faded.

The wizard grunted, ignoring his attacker and turning his head to Rachelle. His eyes remained glazed over, but no pain shone from them. He grunted as the knife struck home again, then whispered, "Remember the demon in the cave...the wolf..."

Her mind grasped Wellan's words, flew through the images and information until they locked onto that one instant in the Wellan’s life. Again she saw the five men, the enormous wolf with red hot coals burning deep within his throat. Smoke drifted out between it’s yellow fangs. Once more she felt the power flare up within her, brought forth by her will. She felt it burst out of her and slam the demon into the wall. Power, raw energy flashed from her being, brought forth by her will to use it.

Before she realized it she stood before Wellan again. His weak hands tried to grasp his attacker’s arms as they plunged the dagger into his stomach over and over again. His hands slid off under the black man’s frenzied attack.

With a scream she reached deep into herself and grasped the golden light that represented that power. She sucked it up into a tight ball and sent it racing down her arm and through her hand. It burst forth with the sound of thunder, raw energy barely controlled. A golden radiance unleashed with the fury of the nine hells. It slammed into the obsidian man and sent him flying into the air, crashing through the window and sailing backwards to land somewhere in the courtyard three stories below. The bed flipped over and slammeded against the wall, trapping Wellan beneath it. The undead guard at the door flew four feet across the hall, slamming head first into the stone as though he were launched from a catapult, cracking bricks and splattering gore in a red spray across the rough surface.

Weakness touched her muscles, she felt drained. The room became a blur and she tasted blood. Bracing herself against the wall she wiped her forearm beneath her nose. Blood smeared the back of her arm.

Ignoring her exhaustion and blood for the moment she stumbled to the overturned bed. It wobbled and tipped over as Wellan crawled from beneath it. He knelt on the ground with his intestines hanging from his gutted stomach, the gashes he received outside the city walls opened again and dripping pus.

He looked up at Rachelle and gave her a crooked smile. "Get me something to wrap my waist in and I will try and get myself pulled back together. Then..." His nostils flared, sniffing the air like a hungry wolf, milky eyes open wide. His tongue licked cracked lips then he shivered and squeezed his eyes closed. His voice returned in a rough rasp, "Then we must flee."

Chapter 18b: A Simple Sermon

Piet Lithor stood behind the pulpit, rubbing his stubble ridden chin and looking at the fifteen or so people who sat in the dozen pews before him. He had been asked to speak to the people in the duke's private chapel, a dining room sized affair and seldom used. Everything in the chapel was at least as grand as the main temple with carved pews, a marble pulpit, soft cushioned chairs and pews, but somehow it didn't feel the same any longer. He felt as though he didn't belong in front of these people, he no longer felt worthy of representing Lord Vaspar.

An echoing cough and shuffle of feet pulled him from his thoughts. The people were getting anxious. He had been staring at them, consumed by his doubts, far too long. His hand ran from his rough beard to nervously comb through his greasy thinning hair. Lord Vaspar, what do I say to these people, men and women who are relying on me to guide them through these troubled times?

Deep down he had hoped that Lord Vaspar would tell him what to say, give him some direction. Silence answered him.

With a sigh he grasped the front of the pulpit and began. "I...I no longer feel worthy of leading you in Lord Vaspar's light. Time and again he has tested my metal and found me unworthy, but I ignored him. I went about my business, strutting around like the lead cock when in reality I was the lowest of you. My arrogance and my pride blinded me to the truth that is Lord Vaspar. You good people probably know him better than I do. You follow him in blind faith. You meet now expecting the grand Piet to give you words of comfort, something that will ease your troubled souls and allow you to sleep at night. I am sorry, but I can't give you people that. I would like to, but..but Lord Vaspar hasn't given me any great words of wisdom to impart on you. He hasn't told me comforting words that will ease your fears or loss.

"All I can do is relate my personal experience and tell you that Lord Vaspar saved me from this ravaged city. When my priests, Vaspar bless their lost souls, tried to get me and turn me into one of them Lord Vaspar was there to save me. He didn't show up in a golden ray of light as he did in the holy book of Chronis. He didn't offer his blessing upon me, didn't bestow upon me the power to beat my enemies. He didn't speak to me and tell me how this is going to turn out."

Piet Lithor rubbed his tired eyes. Hope. These people need hope and all I now do is blather on about how we are lost and Lord Vaspar has offered no aid. Get it together priest. Lead your people, Piet.

He looked at the small group gathered before him and shook his head. Is this all that is left? Are these the last followers of the faith within Renier?

Reaching down to his side he pulled the Holy Sword out of its scabbard and held it high before the people. He gazed at the silver sword, Vaspar's talisman. "This, my friends, is what the Lord Vaspar bestowed upon me. This holy sword is anathema to those retched souls. They can't touch it and are even distraught by the site of it. That is the power of Lord Vaspar. That is the power that saved me when all hope was gone."

He again looked through the group of people, hoping to see someone who survived from the Temple. He didn't recognize anyone. Surely someone else survived. I will need to find out as soon as I am done here.

"Another gift from the Lord Vaspar is his Temple, and I assume this chapel also. They are incapable of touching holy ground. It kills them faster than any sword will. Remember that in the days to come. Lord Vaspar still holds power over what is his and this madness can't take that away. Though the forces of evil...

The chapel doors burst open, banging against the wall like a sledge hammer and echoing through the room. Bos Spielter stumbled through, his hand on his neck and blood oozing between his fingers. He took a few steps into the chapel, his eyes never leaving the Piets, then fell on his knees as though about to pray.

"Nowhere is safe." He wheezed and coughed, blood coating his teeth and sprinkling the floor with red dew. "They're here, here in the palace. We're all gonna die..." The last words distorted and gurgled as blood welled up the Bos' throat and spilled over his bottom teeth. His eyes grew wide and he fell forward, blood formed a widening pool around his head.

Two men jumped up and ran to Bos' Spielter.

"Stop! Don't touch him." Piet Lithor sprang from the pulpit and stood between the two men and the body.

The men's eyes grew wide as they stared behind the Piet. A woman screamed. A nauseating stench filled the room, rotting meat cooked over coals of garbage. He turned. A greasy black smoke rose from the Bos' convulsing body, billowing to the ceiling and covering it like a thunder cloud.

Piet Lithor almost told everyone to run from the Chapel, then remembered his sermon. They stood on holy ground, untouchable by the abominations. They would remain safe in the chapel.

He spoke through clenched teeth, fighting nausea brought about by the stench and watching the Bos' skin and organs dissolve until only charred bones remained. "Everyone stay here. You will be safe until I return. I'm going to inform the duke."

Everyone stared at the blackened bones. No one offered to accompany him. No one needed to. The well being of their souls was his duty. The preservation of their lives his responsibility, his penance for the vulgar life he had lived.

Lifting the holy sword before him he stepped out into the corridor to find the Duke.

Chapter 18a: The Mandolin

Part III
Exodus

"“Men, the children of God, share a common trait as the beast of the field. It is their ‘fight of flight’ instinct, the difference between being a predator or becoming prey.

~From Shantazar’s treatise on human behavior

---

For almost an hour Shanai had been looking over the edge of the counter, watching as people stumbled back and forth in front of the bakery window. Her nose slowly became immune to the enticing aroma of fresh baked bread until she hardly noticed the smell though her stomach still grumbled from time to time. The streets almost seemed like a busy city night, except for the blank stares and the lurching movements of the citizens. They searched for her as she watched in hiding, like a rabbit cornered in its burrow. She needed to get out there and find her brother, make sure nothing had happened to him. Of coarse, knowing Marchas, he's probably already outside the city walls guzzling down ale and telling the tale of his grand escape. She almost smiled at the thought, but deep down she knew better. Marchas wasn't going anywhere without his little sister.

"You're gonna have to do it." Ash whispered.

For the entire hour he had been sitting on the floor, staring at the wall and rubbing his bite. He had moved very little and said nothing.

She looked down at his pale face. Beads of sweat coated his forehead. "Do what?"

He looked up at her with bloodshot eyes and held up his bloody arm. "Off me. I ain't gonna be around much longer and when I come back I...I'm gonna be just like them. Don't want to be like them. You got to kill me before that can happen."

Grabbing his hand, she pushed his arm back down. "Don't talk about that. You aren't going to die from a single bite. We'll get out of here. Get you some help."

His brows arched and his mouth turned to a sneer. She didn't buy her own pep talk so how could she expect him to.

"You don't know what you're talking about. You haven't seen them, haven't seen people return once they die." He grabbed her arm with his bitten one. "If you don't agree to do it then I won't go any further with you."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he continued on. "I mean it. In here I can't get out and hurt anyone when I change, but if I go with you and you don't kill me when the time comes then I won't only be a danger to you, but to everyone in the city. I can't let that..."

He stopped and turned his head to the shop door, listening.

Following his lead she turned and listened too. Music. Mandolin music. One of Marchas' favorite tunes floated down the street on plucked strings. A fast paced dancing jig that, when accompanied by song, spoke of adventure, ale, women, and riches. A grin spread across her face. That crazy bastard!

Ash leaned back against the counter. "Well, it looks like your brother is doing all right, but if he doesn't stop playing he's gonna draw every undead in the city to himself."

Already the dead were picking up on the sound, shuffling across the front window by the droves, stumbling toward the music.

"Well, I give your brother points for having guts, but not so many in the brains department."

She smiled down at Ash. "Yeah, that's my brother. Always thinking with his..."

The music stopped and fear for her brother grabbed the back of her neck with icy fingers.

She breathed a sigh of relief when Marchas' voice echoed through the streets. "Shanai. Don't yell back, but I'm guessing you are still around here somewhere and thinkin' I've finally lost my mind. You might be right, but I got a plan. I'm gonna play this mandolin for a little longer, maybe go through some more of my favorite tunes, a naughty limerick or two, and then I'm gonna tell you to run. When I do go get your ass headed for the West gate as fast as you can. Don't stop for me. You get outside the gate and keep going till it's safe. If I don't meet up with you right away then head to the Baron Milchev’s town and I will meet you there. Stay safe, sis."

The music resumed with a racy dancing jig.

Ash looked over the counter and shook his head. "Your brother's definitely not paddling with both oars, but he's got guts. I'll give him that"

Watching the dead lumber across the window she smiled. "He never was all that good with paddles. I just hope he doesn't get himself killed with this plan of his."

The dead began to crowd the streets as they headed in the direction of the sound, hundreds of them lumbering in front of the bakery, a stream of flesh moving north, bumping into one another and falling to the ground in their quest for the player of the music.

Ash scratched his cheek and eased around the counter. "This plan might just work. They are starting to thin out, headed for wherever he is holed up. He's drawing them like flies to a carcass."

She cringed at his choice of words, but continued watching the last of the undead as they began to trickle past the backery. Without looking at Ash, Shanai replied, "I just hope he isn't getting himself cornered."

Ash wiped sweat from his brow and walked to the door as the last of the undead stumbled past the window. Shanai noticed his unsteady steps, telling herself that it was because of the long sit and not anything else.

A new song began, one that Marchas added his deep voice too. A song entitled Running with Sin, A fast song about a wild girl who lives life for the moment, always running from the law. A song that Shanai could certainly relate to, but she guessed Marchas had chosen it to let her know that the time to flee was close.

As soon as the song ended Marchas screamed in the distance. "Move your ass, sis! I'll see you on the other side of the gate."

Ash cracked the door opened and looked outside, then waved her to him.

Doing as her brother said she ran, grabbing Ash's clammy hand as she passed through the door.

Chapter 17a: Wizard's Apprentice

“Bravery is not a lack of fear. Bravery is being afraid and facing your fears, functioning for the betterment of all in the midst of terror.”

~Quote from unknown author

---

He looked old, sick. She squeezed his cold hand. Wellan shifted his head to the side and his dull gaze stared at her through a thin film. She didn’t think he recognized her until he smiled. It became a grimace that caused him to squeeze his eyes closed. She ran a damp rag over his sweaty brow, being careful not to open any of the wounds as her rag ran across his forehead.

She had been sitting in the room with him for the last hour, listening to him mumble then scream out. Watching him as his body fought a desperate war against a fate worse than death. She feared he would loose this one.

A whisper, like faint words on the wind. She bent her head down closer to Wellan’s mouth squeezing his limp hand. His mouth moved, but she still couldn’t hear the words he tried to speak. She lowered her head more, until her ear almost touched his lips. “Put…put my hands…on your temple. I want…I…to give…”

She sat up and nodded, grabbing both of his hands and placing the fingers against her temples without a clue as to what he wanted.

His eyes shut and his mouth began to more again, soundlessly. She lowered her head to try and catch his words again, pulling his hands from her temples to lay them across his chest. His hands stayed on her temples with more strength than she had credited him with having.

She gasped as a spike of ice slammed through her head, coring into the center of her being. Wellan disappeared from her sight, the bed no longer mattered, her mind left the little room, the palace, the city.

Darkness.

A raging campfire spun to life in front of her. Men and women danced around the undulating flames while sparks burst into the air to ride the currents until they cooled and died. The people were like none she had ever seen, dressed in wolf hides and leather, wearing bones and painted faces. She looked down at herself. A leather loin cloth, shirtless. Her chest looked like that of a young man or a girl, old claws from some fearsome beast hung on a leather thong around her neck.

The dancing stopped. She looked up as a bear of a man came towards her bearing a staff topped with the skull of a large bird. He spoke harsh words in a language she didn’t understand. He yanked her off her feet and spoke the words again, but this time she understood. “Come, apprentice.”

The darkness evaporated into a blinding white field. The heat and humidity that caused her skin to sweat moments before changed, becoming a cold like none she had ever known. It slammed against her face like an open-handed slap. She gasped. And gripped her staff tighter. Her staff?

The large bear of a man stood next to her. This time he did look like a bear, covered head to toe in a wooly fur. She didn’t know how she knew that it was the same man, but she knew. He grabbed her shoulder and pointed to the top of a white mound. “Watch. You may never see them again, Gwunwyvern.”

Dark brown shapes broke over the top of the hill, shaggy lumps with huge tusks. A snout raised into the air and trumpeted a deep call. Rachelle wondered how the mammoths didn’t sink to the bellies in the soft ground. Mammoths? No one had seen the great beasts in hundreds of years. What was happening to her? Did she suffer delusions? She turned to ask the bear of a man, Thornewulf, but before she could the scene changed again.

Tents. Leather cones with brightly painted symbols sat around her on a plain of grass, the flaps of their doors blowing in the steady breeze. Fires burned all around her, smoking meat lay out on sticks. The smell caused her mouth to water. He turned her head and something tickled her neck. She reached up to brush it off. Hair. A beard? She yanked on it, squinting her eyes from the pain.

A man gave her an odd look as he walked past. He wore only leather britches and a domed hat decorated much like the tents. She looked around and saw others moving back and forth between the tents, carrying clay pots, spears, and stone aged tools. The men wore the britches and strange hats while the women wore knee length leather dresses and flowers in their hair. She looked at her own attire, a leather robe reaching all the way to the ground, decorated with more patterns and colors than anyone else in the small nomadic village. In her right hand was the staff that she had held as she watched the mammoths.

Are these Wellan’s memories?

She looked over at a stack of wood. A man lay atop it. The bear of a man, her mentor, his face pointed at the sky and his hands across his chest. Dead. It was a funeral pyre.

She took two steps toward him before the scene changed again.

Darkness. Rock. Her staff glowed with the power of a hundred fireflies. Five brave warriors stood behind her, fear widened their eyes, their spears pointed at something before her. She turned. A wolf stood before her, but like none she had ever seen. It stood five feet at the shoulders and its eyes glowed a bright red. Its lips curled up and a rumbling growl rolled from its mouth. Between the teeth a fire raged lighting up the space between each fang with a flickering light. Its hackles stood. It leaped.

A blast of energy erupted from her outstretched hand. The light of her staff dimmed slightly. She recognized the energy as the same force she had used against the undead on the streets of Renier. She recognized the trigger that set it off, the mental push that her will activated.

The great wolf slammed into a wall and fell to the floor. It rose and paced back and forth, not done with the fight.

The scene shifted.

Salt air and a strong breeze greeted her. The world rocked up and down causing her to put a hand out to catch herself. The damned beard tickled her neck.

“Ok gru tom chay?” Are you all right? She didn’t recognize the language at all, but she understood it. She nodded at one of the three men who stood around a barrel on the deck of a ship. A map sat on the barrel, weighted down by a copper helmet. A crude map showing the coast line of Renier, something an explorer might have drawn.

The wind died, the sea smell disappeared.

She sat in front of a stone hearth in a wooden hall with a mug of mead in her hand and watched warriors wrestle and couples dancing. Her stomach felt nauseous from the constantly changing environment.

A hand grasped her shoulder. She turned to face a bearded man. He looked a great deal like the Duke except for the full beard and his wide girth. A grandfather or great grandfather perhaps?

He smiled, “Are ye enjoyin’ yerself wizard?”

Not trusting herself to speak she only nodded her head.

“Glad t’hear it. This here hall is just a start. I think with a little hard work and a bit o’planin’ we can have us a whole city right here in this very spot. Maybe even build a castle against the cliff. Ye tink I can do it, Wellan?”

She started to nod, but the scene shifted and shifted and shifted, faster and faster until she couldn’t take it all in. With a scream she opened her eyes.

Wellan lay before her, his mouth drawn and his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. His life had ended, but he had given her all he could before it was done.

Chapter 16d: The Duke and the Priest

Piet Lithor sat in the Dukes private chamber just like he had dozens of times before, but this time it felt different. Before the plague he had always wondered why the Duke, who could afford gold trim on all the walls and exotic tiles on the floor, always chose the simplest of rooms to hold his private meetings. He looked around at the few worn but comfortable chairs, the plain wood knee-high table that held a glass ashtray, a brass pitcher and two simple coffee teacups. Now it all made sense to him. While within this room Duke Renier had no intentions of putting on heirs, he wanted to feel relaxed and to make his guest feel the same way. The Piet had once looks on this with his nose turned up in the air, now he felt relaxed and thankful for a place where he could prop his feet up and leave the status and pomp behind him.

Duke Renier stepped into the room and sat in the chair across from Lithor. He poured them both tea and sat back, looking at the Piet over the rim of his cup. Lithor lifted his to his mouth and smiled as he noticed a small chip near the lip.

Leaning back the Duke asked, “So, Lithor, how did you make it out there for so long? Prayer and faith?”

Lithor smiled and set his cup down on the table. “I think prayer and faith had a lot to do with it. Vaspar kept his hand of protection over me, though I have no idea why. I’ve been an ass and I owe you and everyone else here an apology for the piety and arrogance.”

The Duke sat forward, attempting to interrupt, to politely argue with Lithor that he wasn’t an arrogant fool. Lithor knew better and stopped the duke’s protest with a wave of his hand.

“No, don’t say I wasn’t, because I was. I still am to some degree. It’s hard to retrain an old priest who thought he was above human.”

He picked his teacup back up and took a sip before continuing. He couldn’t look at the duke as he told his story so he stared at the brown liquid.

“I was in my home, complaining to one of the acolytes about the help not being around when it all began. Brother Clay…had prepared my lunch and brought it in when the other…priests…came into the room. They were in terrible shape. Vomit and blood stained their nightclothes. Their eyes were the worst thing, blank and dead. I stood up from the chair and…” He stopped, remembering Brother Clay’s sacrifice.

Leaning forward he switched his gaze from the cup to the stone tiled floor at his feet. “Brother Clay told me to run. I did. I…I left him to slow the other priests down. The great Piet left him to die so that I might live.” He wiped his eyes. His hand came away wet.

“I ran to my room and cowered behind my bed. The priests beat on the door. I prayed to Vaspar to save me. Nothing happened, They continued to beat on the door. My faith began to wane and in desperation I grabbed the holy sword of Tymra and scuttled back behind the bed. I knew I wouldn’t be able to use it, but having the weapon gave me some comfort. I continued my prayers and soon the priests left my door.

“I don’t know how long I sat there cowering, but I finally gained the courage to leave my room. I didn’t see any of the priests until I got to the front yard and looked out the door. Two of them shuffled through the rain in the front yard. Stoking what little courage I had I finally made a dash for the front gate. The gate was shut and they would have had me had it not been for the sword. It kept them at bay. They seemed to be afraid of it, like it was anathema to them.

“After making it through the gate I attempted to reach the palace, but there were far too many of the undead to make it so I ran to the Temple of Vaspar. Others were already there, surrounded by undead. The undead wouldn’t touch the temple grounds. Vaspar’s holiness kept them at bay. I ran through them with the sword held high, even knocked one over into the temple yard in my mad run. The thing began to burn as soon as it touched the holy ground. Anyway, I made it into the temple and did like the others, waited.”

He leaned back in the chair and looked at the duke. “I think you know the rest of my tale.”

Duke Renier leaned forward and put his hand on the Piet’s wrist. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Piet Lithor. It sounds to me as though Vaspar found you worthy enough to look after you. I have to say though. I do see a change. It’s a change for the better.”

The Piet patted the duke’s hand. “Thank you, my friend.”

“No, thank you for helping those people, and for helping Wellan get into the city. That took a great deal of courage.”

Lithor shook his head. “I owed him that much. I have been terrible to him over the years, spiteful and petty. As I saw him go down amongst the undead I realized that. By the way, how is he?”

Duke Renier frowned and rubbed his hand through his goatee. “Not very good I’m afraid. They tore him up, but he is a wizard and hopefully he will have a trick or two up his sleeve that will allow him to recover. He is with the Lady Rachelle right now. He requested that she, and only she, attend him for now.”

The duke sat up straight and smiled. “Wellan isn’t the only one with a trick or two up his sleeve. Now that you are here it won’t belong before we make our escape from the city. There is an emergency tunnel in the back of the palace that leads to the water on the East side. As soon as Wellan is well enough to walk we will get everyone together and leave.”

Lithor felt a weight being lifted off his shoulders as the dukes words gave him hope. “It sounds like you have a solid plan, my duke. I will pray to Vaspar that Wellan recovers soon and we make a safe exodus from here.”

“Thank you, Piet Lithor. I’m sure Wellan will appreciate that.”

Chapter 16c: Return to the Bakery

The hand tightened on Shanai’s mouth smelling of honing oil, blending with the smell of fresh baked bread. A hot breath touched her ear adding the odor of old meat and tobacco smoke. A whisper rode the harsh breath, Ash’s voice. “Quiet, girl! They are right outside.”

Shuffling could be heard in the dark, the sound dampened by a wooden door.

She struggled against him, pulling his hand away from her mouth. She hissed her answer. “Let me go! My brother’s out there, I have to help him.”

“Your brother is fine. Do you hear a struggle? Did you hear any screams?”

Her teeth remained clenched together. “No.”

His hand left her face and she felt him step back. “Your brother and my men are alive for now. They must have seen them and backed out of the alley as I pulled us into the back door of this shop. They are probably holed up somewhere right now just like us, waiting for the dead to disperse so that they can either look for us or make a run for the west gate.”

More feet shuffled past. Something slammed into the door, rattling the wood in its frame. Biting her lower lip she stepped back with her bow raised, uselessly pointed into the black in before her. Feet continued to slide against the stone, but nothing else banged against the door.

Something crashed to the floor behind her. Shanai spun around, her arrow pulled taut and blindly pointed to the darkness in front of her.

Ash’s sword hissed as it slid out of its sheath. His other hand pushed into her stomach and groped until it found her wrist. He yanked her forward until her fingers touch leather, his back. He whispered into the dark. “Stay behind me.”

Another crash. The screech of furniture as it slid across the floor, closer and louder that the previous sound.

Shanai slid her bow over her shoulder. The arrow remained in her clenched fist like a daggar. She took a deep breath to try and calm her nerves; the sweet smell of baked bread filled her nostrils.

Feet rasp as they slid across the floor, getting closer with each lurch. Ash shifted to remain facing the sound. Shanai stepped to the side to remain behind him, or as much as she can in the dark void.

The feet shuffled closer. The leather beneath her fingers begins to slide back and forth as Ash’s sword swung wildly before him.

Shanai heard a thunk as steel wedged into flesh. Ash’s frame shifted, his center of gravity moved to his right side like a spring being wound tight before uncoiling with the speed of a viper. Another thunk of metal sinking into flesh, a cleaver chopping a roast. Something fell to the floor and Ash bent over to maintain the assault. Weight shifting to the right foot before the swing, over and over again, her heart pounded to the beat of Ash maintained. Other than an occasional grunt from Ash and the wet chopping noise the one sided battle took place in darkness and silence.

Something grabbed Shanai’s arm. She screamed and stumbled backward, tripping over her own feet and falling to the floor. Without thinking she crawled across the floor on her back, instinct and fear telling her to get away from the nightmare. She could hear feet scuffling across the floor in front of her. Something banged into the door. Ash let out a hiss and then a groan then the sound of steel sinking into flesh and a body hitting the floor. Liquid splashed onto her pants, then just the butchers sound of steel and meat.

Another slam against the door.

She flinched as something grabbed her arm and pulled.

“Shhhhh, “It’s me.” Ash whispered.

He yanked her to her feet and pulled her along the wall, away from the door and it’s haunting knocks.

Within twenty steps Ash led her through a swinging door and into a room filled with the cold blue light of the night. He pulled her down behind a counter, his eyes taking in what he could of the room before lifting his head above the counter. A frown covered his face as he dropped back down beside her and stared at the floor between his feet.

Shanai waited a few minutes before asking, “What now? Are they still out there?”

He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger before saying, “Yeah, they are still out there. It sounds like the ones who were banging on the back door have quit though, and other than the two in I kill…put down in the back room there aren’t any more in her, but we have to move and do it pretty quickly. We now have a deadline.”

She frowned. “Why is that?”

He held his arm out. A thumb-sized chunk of meat showed on his upper forearm, blood welling within it and dripping down the sides. Ash ripped his sleeve the rest of the way off and began binding it around the wound. The sleeve turned red and dripped before he could get it tied.

“That second one was a sneaky bastard with a hell of a bite. Anyway, we don’t have a lot of time to dally around now. I have to get you out of here before I…succumb to whatever this is.”

With her vision blurred by tears she reached over and touched his shoulder. She didn’t know how to reply.

Chapter 16b: The Brave Piet

Venomous hatred rose within Piet Lithor when he saw Wellan approaching from the castle walls. He gripped his sword tighter as the ghoulish leader walked through the mass of undead to meet the wizard. Righteous anger heated his blood as the two exchanged words in a language that the Piet found totally incomprehensible. He stood too far away to hear their talk very well, but what he did hear sounded like the speech of devils. The demon wizard is betraying us, selling our souls to that ghoul in exchange for more evil tricks and power. I mustn’t let that happen.

With his pulse pounding in his head and his sword gripped tight enough to whiten his knuckles he walked over to Stiles. He would warn the brave soldier of the sorcerer’s trechery.

The undead ranks began to shuffle and break apart.

Stiles watched, his gaze intently studying the twin demons as their talk took on a became louder and more heated.

Lithor raised his hand to Stiles’ shoulder. "Stiles, there is something I...."

A roar erupted in the midst of the corpses. The undead pushed against one another, trying to get to their master, to Wellan. The blue peak of the wizard’s cowl could be seen between the decomposing heads, but the large commander had disappeared in the throng.

"Run, Stiles! Get those people to the palace."

Wellan? Like water thrown over an open fire, the Piet’s hatred and anger vanished, leaving only the smoke of shame and despair. Oh, Vaspar. He didn’t conspire with the undead. Once again anger, prejudice and hatred have blinded me to the truth. How could I have been so wrong? How could I stand by while another man sacrifices himself for me? It’s not too late to pay my penance. I owe it to that man for the hatred I have felt and lies I have spread. I will not let another die in my place.

Something slammed into him, almost knocking him from his feet, pulling him from his thoughts. The woman with the baby, its cries tearing through the night, picked herself up and raced toward the castle. Others flashed by as they sped along with her. Stiles stood in place, waving the group through, encouraging them to run.

The Piet held the sword before him, pointed to where he had last seen Wellan. He began to walk into the mass of cold flesh.

Stiles screamed, "No, Piet Lithor. This way, there’s nothing you can do for Wellan now."

He continued walking, sparing a glance at Stiles. "Go, do as Wellan said and get those people to the castle." He let go of the sword with one hand to point at the undead that had broken from the mass to intercept the escaping refugees.

Stiles followed the Piet’s pointing finger as more ghouls poured in from the forest, already beginning to grab people as they passed. The newly married man became a widower as undead arms pulled his wife from her feet. He watched in horror, listening to hear screams, as they ate her alive. The young man stepped forward to help her, then turned and ran.

Stiles gave the priest a single nod then ran to protect the refugees.

The Piet continued his walk.

The undead paid no attention to him until he stood at their backs. They turned, scrambling out of his way, parting before him and his holy relic. He continued to walk through the corridor of dead bodies until the last ones fell to the side, revealing a torn and bloody wizard.

Wellan looked up. A smile touched his lips then disappeared in a grimace of pain. "I...I didn’t think you liked me, Lithor."

The priest spun around, presenting the sword like a shield to the cold reaching hands. "I didn’t like you. I was wrong." He reached down to help Wellan stand.

The wizard held his arm up, not in an effort to be helped, but to keep the priest back. Blood dribbled down the corner of his mouth as he rasped "Leave me. I’ve been infected. Get out of here with that sword. Help the Duke."

He reached down, grabbing the wizard’s robes and pulling him to his feet. Either the old man didn’t weight anything, or the priests adrenalin fueled system ignored the weight. When the wizard stood, leaning against the priest, Lithor said, "No one else is dying in my place, Wellan. Now, let’s get you..."

"Put him down." The large ghoul roared as he stepped through the surrounding undead.

Lithor’s sword flashed up. The parchment-skinned man flinched then relaxed, slowly bringing his own sword up. "I’m not one of these simpletons. I won’t be cowered by your relic."

The Piet backed away, swinging his sword as much as he could to push back the reaching corpses, dragging Wellan with him as he went.

The undead leader stepped up, sword raised for a killing blow.

Wellan’s hand shot out from beneath his robes. Lightning flew from his fingers, slamming into the armored chest and trailing the metal around the large body. The man let out a grunt and fell to his knees, sword dropping from his contracting fingers.

Without seeing if the thing had finally been killed Lithor turned and sped through the ghoulish crowd as they parted before his outstretched sword. Within seconds the gate came into sight. The priest almost stopped when he looked to the left and saw that more than half of the refugees didn’t make it. Ghouls stood over their torn bodies stuffing chunks of flesh into their red rimmed mouths. Cylus’ head and torso lay on the cobbled road in a puddle of blood as a woman with the skin color of a fish’s belly gnawed on his severed arm.

"Keep running, Piet Lithor. Run for the gate." The frantic scream of Stiles’ familiar voice bellowing from the castle walls pulled him from the horrid sight before him. He turned and sped to the gate. Armored soldiers, bows held ready, guarded the opening, awaiting his return.

Wellan mumbled phrases that didn’t make sense, in an incomprehensible language, as the Piet drug his body toward the gate. Bow strings twanged. Lines of death streaked overhead. The sounds of falling bodies close behind him. He ran the last fifty yards to the gate with the sword dragging behind him; too weak to hold it upright, but needing it’s presence to guard his back.

He crashed through the line of soldiers. They formed up around him and helped him pull Wellan through the gate as the wizard mumbled, "The blood...don’t touch...keep...off...you."

The Duke pushed through the crowd of guards as the gate boomed closed, kneeling beside the blood covered wizard. He cradled Wellan’s head in his arms and whispered, "It’s going to be all right, my friend. You’re safe with us now."

The Piet knelt on the other side of the wizard, noticing how old the man looked. Though he had never liked the old sorcerer he still had held a grudging respect for the man. Now, it broke his heart to see him like this.

Duke Renier turned to Lithor. Tears brimmed in the red spider web etched eyes. "Thank you, Lithor. Thank you for bringing my friend back to me."

Lithor nodded, for the first time in his life he didn’t know what to say.

Chapter 16a: The Wizard and the Warrior

“Men, this is war! Today some of you will fall and not get up. Fear not for you will be remembered as heroes. Should that happen to you then have a cup of mead with the god of war and share your bloody stories with him, for I guarantee we will be victorious!”

~General Faygen (Famous battle speech)

---

The undead didn't notice the wizard's approach until he stood a few yards behind them. They turned to him. A few shuffled out of rank, eager to devour the old man. The breeze wafted a mildly sweet smell of soured meat toward Wellan. They are starting to rot. It won't be long until their putrid bodies begin to affect the few who still live with a more natural form of plague.

They stopped and a deep voice bellowed a name that the wizard hadn't heard in centuries. "Welkgund!"

Wellan dipped his head down in a guarded bow. "Faygen, old friend. Why have you invaded this city?"

The ranks of undead parted as the general walked through their midst. He didn't speak until he had passed the rows of corpses and stood before Wellan. Instead of replying in the common tongue he spoke Croshan. "Welkgund, why don't we continue this conversation in the tongue of men, instead of the yapping of dogs."

Faygen looked terrible. His skin stretched over his bones like parchment placed against a rock and his eyes, if they still existed, sat far back in their sockets. The heavy armor rode his frame loosely, as if built for a much larger man.

The wizard replied in the same language, though the harsh vocabulary no longer rode easily on his tongue. "As you wish. Now, why are you here?"

The general smiled, pitted yellow teeth shone between time cracked lips. "Always right to the point with you, Welkgund. No asking me how I've been doing. No pleasantries."

Faygen's flippant attitude surprised and angered the wizard. The man Wellan had known would never have taken the current situation so casually.

The undead began to shuffle, becoming restless.

"Unfortunately neither this city nor I have the time to spend on the nicer things in life."

The ranks of ghouls became unorganized as bodies moved back and forth, slowly merging with the rear formation.

Thin arms crossed over an armored chest, elbow joints pushing the grainy skin tight. "I've noticed that, so I'm going to let you know how my life's been going without you having to ask. As you can probably tell from my appearance I haven't been doing so well. To be honest with you I've been dead. Some might say I've gotten better in the last month, but I wouldn't agree with them. I would love to return to the slumber of death, but the necromatic bastard that brought me back won't allow that."

Wellan opened his mouth to speak, but Faygen held a joint knotted hand up to silence him. "Let me finish. You might also be asking yourself how the noble general of the mighty Croshan's found himself leading an army of undead. I can assure you it is not out of choice. Do you remember my daughter, Welkgund? Eyliasa?"

He nodded. Her death had haunted him for years. He remembered Faygen's pain and guilt.

The edges of the rear formation of corpses crumbled as they bumped and pushed against one another, slowly surrounding the two old friends.

The wizard looked into the the general's face and saw the pain again. He saw it even through the dry, cracked skin.

"He has raised her, Welkgund. Raised her from the dead. She lives. Not like myself, but whole and unblemished. If I don't take this city, if I don't turn this city over to that monster, he will do it to her again. She will be cut into pieces and tortured, her head brought before me once more. I can't do that to her, not again." His hand rose to his eyes as his head lowered, as if to wipe away tears that didn't exist.

Wellan and Faygen stood in a ring of the undead, dozens deep. They swayed back and forth, but made no menacing motions. He saw the danger, but remained hopeful that his old friend wouldn’t harm him.

Wellan's arm rose, fingers splayed, as if to comfort an old friend, then it dropped back to his side. "Let me help you, Faygen. Let these people go and let me help you."

The general's shoulders shook and a raspy laugh escaped his throat, making Wellan wonder if he had gone mad. "No. There is no escape from this demon. I'm not afraid for myself. I fear for her. If I don't do as commanded he can piece her up again. Not only that, but I wouldn't put it past this creature to raise her again and again to get his revenge, making my precious Eyliasa live through that hell time after time. I think it would enjoy not only her suffering, but my own as well, maybe even more so."

He didn't know what to say, didn't know how to help. As he watched Faygen he realized that there would be no talking the general out of taking the city, but he had to try. "Let these people through. Allow them to go to the palace. I will talk to Duke Renier about leaving the city. There is no reason to harm anyone else."

The armored head shook left and right. "My master doesn't allow mercy. I may be risking my daughter's suffering even by speaking to you of these things. Besides, as you may have guessed, the refugees are only the bait. You or the Duke are the actual targets of this gathering. Still, I can't allow anyone to leave. My master wants them all."

With that he drew his sword, red dust puffed out as the ancient blade left its worn scabbard. Five of the armored undead burst through the ranks with surprising speed and agility, racing to Wellan with swords drawn.

His arms sprang up at his side, fingers twitching archaic symbols, a long dead language spewed from his mouth. His fists closed then pounced open. A bubble of force flashed from him, throwing Faygen and his five undead into the mass of corpses.

“Run, Stiles! Get those people to the palace.”

Flames erupted from his fingertips, torching the nearest undead, but there were too many. Within seconds he disappeared under a mass of flesh.

Chapter 15d: Wellan Takes a Chance

The night brought with it a cool, damp breeze that blew over the sea from the south, filled with humidity and the salty smell of the sea. A full moon shone on empty streets, clouds occasionally blocking the shining orb. Renier sat quiet and peaceful. The silence uncommon for the large bustling city, the peaceful appearance decieving. Men paced back and forth along the palace walls, anticipating the return of Stiles and the group from the temple, dreading the return of the undead. The eerie quiet adding to their nervousness.

Wellan stood on the wall, looking down the road where the refugees would be returning any moment. A shadow moved within the trees and then another. Soon the forest came to live as swaying figured trampled into the open. The undead. They gathered on the Temple Way Road, just beyond arrow range. Their heads protected by hemets, guards and soldiers, even a few city residents wore battered helmets that appeared to have been keepsakes of someone's grandfather.

"The refugees will never be able to return if those things don't get out of the way." a guard grumbled.

Wellan couldn't disagree. This new move showed organization, thought, a planned of attack.

Further down the wall Duke Renier frantically discussed a rescue strategy with a handful of men. Each looked grim and determined as they nodded their heads and commented on his plans.

The wizard ignored them for the moment, studying the ghouls. Each stood still, gazing down the road, waiting on the refugees. They looked like soldiers formed up for an attack.

A large man stepped out of the woods wearing armor of frayed leather and rusted steel. He marched to the middle of the road and stood before the undead. Wellan gasped, not believing his eyes.

The man reminded him of someone he knew from centuries past, but it couldn't be him.

He closed his eyes and whispered an archaic phrase. When he opened them again the world stood out clearer as night became day to his eyes alone. He focused on the large man. There could be no doubt. General Faygen led the undead.

The ghouls behind Faygen shuffled their feet in excited anticipation. Further down the road dim shapes became clear as they sped toward the ranks of corpses. The refugees. They stopped several yards away from the ghastly line. The general stepped forward as an armored form detached itself from the group of refugees, Stiles. The two exchanged words, but Wellan couldn't hear.

He turned and walked to the Duke as the man mounted the stairs, preparing to go outside the city walls and rescue the refugees.

"Come to help us, Wellan?"

Wellan shook his head. "You can't go out there. It is a trap. He's trying to bait you to leave the safety of the palace walls."

The Duke smiled. "I know it's a trap, and a damned fine one at that because I can't just leave those people to die at the hands of those...things. Knowing it's a trap gives me the ability to avoid it."

"No, my friend. Did you see that large man that came out at the last, the one Stiles was talking to. That is Faygen, General of the Croshans."

Duke Renier gave Wellan a blank stare. The Croshan's hadn't existed as a people for seven hundred years.

"Faygen never lost a battle, even when grossly outnumber he would always find a way to win. If HE prepared the trap there will be no escape."

"How do you know so much about this General Faygen?"

"I'm far older than you think. Keep your men inside the walls. I will go out and speak with the General."

The Duke shook his head. "If the trap is so perilous, leaving no means of escape, why do you think you will get out of it any easier than my men and I would?"

"I know Faygen, we were friends once. He is a good man and I don't think he will harm me. Let me talk to him, find out what's going on, possibly talk him into letting the refugees through, maybe even leaving our city all together."

The Duke thought about it for a moment, hand on his bearded chin, then looked Wellan in the eyes. "I don't like this idea. I don't like it at all, but I trust you to know what you are doing," The Duke's serious expression broke into a mischievous grin. "After all you've been around for what seven, eight hundred years?"

Wellan's grin matched the Dukes as he replied, "If you only knew."

The duke turned to the men in the courtyard, just inside the gates, and roared, "Crack the gates open. Let the Wizard of Renier through." Then he turned to Wellan and in a softer voice said, "I hope you know what your doing."

Wellan smiled, but didn't say anything.

The guards had opened the gate just enough to let the wizard through by the time they reached the courtyard. As Wellan turned to slide through the crack the Duke grasped his forearm. "May the gods watch over you, my friend."

Wellan returned the gesture with a smile then squeezed through the opening.

Chapter 15c: The Obsidian Man

Something tugged her hand from behind. Her head throbbed. Her stomach churned in a nauseous battle. She ran her tongue across her lips. Blood. Something tugged her hands again, then pushed her back. Her eyes opened, two narrow slits letting in the pain. She shut them again.

"Ud est up?" A guttural sound, cracked and ancient.

Her eyes snapped open. A black face, inches from hers. Black orbs gazed into her brown eyes. The smell of compost and rot wafted across her skin, noticeable even through her blood-clogged nose, a familiar smell.

It all came back to her. Tomay flirting, his surprised face, the black hand...

She began to scream, but a filthy cloth filled her mouth. She tried to sit up and fell back. Her hands bound behind her.

The thing smiled, teeth as black as night. It pushed her flat against the wall. "Ud watch."

The obsidian man stood and pulled a thin black cloth out of his robes. She noticed Tomay lying on the floor behind her assailant in a pool of liquid. Blood? His chest rose and fell. He lived.

"Dis ud man? Ud watch." She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders, not understand the message that the cryptic figure tried to convey.

He reached out, cupping her chin with his greasy palm, squeezing her cheeks until her teeth cut into the sides. He pointed her face towards Tomay’s prone figure. "Ud watch." You watch.

She nodded her head, but her eyes filled with rage.

He laid the thin black cloth over Tomay’s face. It stuck tight to his flesh, like a mask. A thumb-sized dimple rose and fell with his breathing. The thing reached into its robes and brought forth a dagger as dark as his flesh with runes that shone like emeralds. He turned back to Clowey. "Ud watch. Ud shee."

Oh gods! I don’t want to see this. Oh Tomay. Get up, please. Tears slid from the corners of her rage-filled eyes.

The obsidian creature straddled Tomay then raised the dagger and plunged it into his throat, jerking the blade to the side. Blood splashed over Clowey’s legs. Tomay convulsed beneath his killer then lay still. The cloth covering his face shimmered bright green then dimmed back to black. The killer rose over his victim and stepped to the side, his eyes never leaving the young soldier.

Tomay’s eyes opened and he sat up. Blood dribbled down his neck. His head turned to Clowey. She looked into his blank eyes and knew that Tomay’s soul had departed his body.

She screamed against the gag.

Tomay crawled to Clowey. She tried to scoot away, but the obsidian man grabbed her foot and drew her back. His laughter brought forth images of spiders and slugs. The man she had considered marrying jerked toward her on hands and elbows, legs dragging behind him. He grasped her shoulder and pulled it to his mouth. She tried to pull away, but her strength couldn’t break his hold. She screamed into the gag as his teeth tore into her flesh and ripped a chunk away.

"Ud go." The killer waved Tomay away. The soldier, now undead, withdrew to the far wall, chewing on his prize.

The monster squatted next to her injured shoulder. She moaned as he squeezed the wound. Red seeped between her fingers and dripped from her elbow. He brought his blood-coated hand before her eyes, wiped the blood on across her cheek and then brought the hand to his mouth and licked his palm. "Gud. Gud blood."

In a fraction of a second her fear turned to rage. The animal within her took over, instinct beat down her fear. She jerked onto her back and lashed out with her foot, planting her heal into his dark jaw. His head snapped backward, then fell back into place. She felt bile rise in the back of her throat. An egg-sized concave deformed the monster’s jaw. His hand rubbed the deformity, kneading it back into shape.

He reached into his robes and she kicked again. His hand flashed out and grabbed her ankle. He drove the rune knife into her thigh with the other hand. Blood gushed from the wound.

"Ud bith!" He yanked the knife free and fell on top of her, driving her flush with the floor. She heard a snap and pain flared from her wrist. Another scream threatened to tear through the gag.

He brought his rage-contorted face to hers, nose to nose. "Ud bith. Ud be fur me. Ud be mine." The words hissed from his mouth. His breath merging with hers, filling her mouth with sewage, even through the gag. The black cloth fell over her face, blocking out the murderer’s.

No. Not like this. Noooooo...

Pain sliced into her side. Fire stabbed into her body and withdrew, returning at her shoulder and withdrawing again. The slicing pain opened her bicep. Her clothes clung to her, wet and sticky as she wiggled and squirmed beneath the man, her strength slowly fading. New pains assaulted her body, but they weren’t as bad. She felt weak, drowsy. The pain faded as she tired. A green flash embodied her world, then nothing.

Chapter 15b: A Meeting in the Dark

"What do ya tink yer doin', Tomay Raish?"

"Just trying to comfort you a little."

She pushed him back. "Well, ye won't be confortin' me like tat, so ye jus keep yer hands to yerself. For gods' sakes, me ma and pa might be dead. Ye tink for one minute tat I'm wantin' to let ye have yer way wit' me r'now. Ye must be daft!"

They stood near the wall of a dark, seldom used corridor. For the past several months they had met here to be away from prying eyes. Not the most romantic place, but they could call it their own, one of the few easily accessible spots in the palace that offered privacy. The unlikely location had given them some memorable moments.

She could just make out Tomay's frown, his eyes narrowed.

"I'm sorry Clowey. It's just with all that's happened...well...I thought...I figured this might be our last chance. I just want to be with you one more time before the end."

She placed her hand on his cheek. "Tat be awfully sweet of ye, but I knows ye better tan tat. T'end of t'world ain't got a durn ting to do wit' it. Yer always wantin to rut, tis ere jus' gives ye an excuse." She pulled her hand away and gave him a playful slap on the cheek. "Now, ye needs to be tinkin' aboot soldierin' so ye can get us out o' tis mess. Ye do dat an' I promise ye tat ye'll be tired o' ruttin' before I's trough wit ye."

His teeth shown in the darkness, the first smile she had seen from him all day. "I guess I'm gonna have to start soldiering if I'm gonna make you pay up on that promise."

She placed her arms on his shoulders, locking her fingers behind his head as he held her waist. "Ye certainly will, Sir Raish. Ye certainly will."

He tipped his head down and gave her a passionate kiss, keeping his hands in the neutral area of her waist. She crossed her arms over the back of his neck, returning his affection and giving a final squeeze before breaking the kiss.

"We'd best stop tis now or yer gonna start gettin' ideas again."

A stench assaulted her nostrils as Tomay wrapped his arms around her waist and squeezed. His lips went to her neck. "Yeah, I got an idea or two..."

"Stop it Tomay! Do ye smell tat smell?"

His breath tickled her neck. "All I smell is you Clowey and it smells damned fine."

She shoved him away. "Not me ye bloody stooge. Do ye smell it now dat ye got yer nose outa me hair? A rottin', mulchy smell. Like a compost pile."

He sniffed. "Yeah, I do smell someth..."

A hand, obsidian black, grasped his shoulder from behind as his eyes widened and his mouth grew into a silent 'O'.

Clowey stepped back, her mouth open to scream. A fist shot out of the dark. Instead of a scream she heard a loud crack as pain exploded in the middle of her face and bright sparks filled her vision. The force of the blow threw her backwards where her head slammed against the wall. She slid to the ground. Everything went dark.

Chapter 15a: Undead Ambush

“Walls of stone and doors of steel mean naught to the beings of the spectral world. How can thou keep out what has no substance? How can thou stop a spirit? Will you rely on ye ramparts and shields, or will ye build yerself a wall of faith?”

~Sermon of the Piet Logan

---

"I’m sorry I got you into this, Sis." Marchas whispered as he gazed into the cemetery through one of the rear windows of the Temple.

Ash, Arolyn, and Wolf stood by another window whispering in hushed voices, trying to decide on the best rout through the city. Owl stood in the shadows outside the door and looked for undead.

"It’s not your fault, bro." She gave him a lopsided grin to go along with her bro reference. Teasing him for calling her Sis. She hated to be called that, but she also knew he only said it to tease her just a bit, to relieve some of the tension. "We were just at the wrong place at the wrong time."

He cocked his head, angling his eyes toward her. No hint of teasing remained in his voice, "No, I’m not talking about us being in this city, that was purely bad luck. I’m talking about getting you to leave the Palace. That might not have been one of my better ideas. I just figured...hoped that the dead had left. Found themselves something better to do. I guess I was wrong."

Though fear, her new constant companion, crawled up her back with whispy spider legs, she still kept her voice light-hearted as she replied. "Well, it’s not like it’s the first time you’ve been wrong. Hopefully it won’t be the last."

He slapped her shoulder and started laughing. "Come on, Shannai. Give me a break. I’m trying to be serious here."

"Oh, and you think I’m not."

"Shhhhhh." Ash hissed. "This isn’t one of your damned tavern parties. That sort of noise will get us all killed. So either shut it up or get the hell away from me and my men."

Shannai grabbed Marchas, squeezing his forearm, trying to calm him. They needed the help of the soldiers and the last thing she wanted to see was a confrontation between her hot tempered brother and the equally dispositional Ash.

The door creaked open just enough to allow Owl’s thin frame to slide through. Marchas sat back down with a final glare at Ash. Ash returned the glare before turning to Owl. "Did you see any of them? Is the way clear through the graveyard."

Owl glanced at Marchas, his mouth drawn up in a frown and his eyes narrowed in suspicion, before answering Ash. "Yeah, the graveyard is clear of them. I saw a few milling around outside the fence, but the weren’t tryin’ to get in or nothin’. I still don’t like the idea of goin’ through the graveyard. It just seems like that would be the last place we would want to go."

"I can’t argue with you, other than there ain’t no reason to go through the front of the Temple and walk around the outside to get to the back when all we got to do is start back here in the first place. Plus, we won’t be going through the woods, where they can hide. It’s all open in the cemetery all the way to the first block of buildings. We can see them way before they can catch us."

Owl’s mouth drew up into an arched frown, making him resemble a fish. "I see the sense of it an’ all, Ash. That don’t mean I got to like it none."

"Yeah, I don’t like it any myself."

Ash strolled to the door, motioning his men to get ready with a wave of his hand. Shannai and Marcus stood, the spidery fear lightly crawled around the base of her skull. She shivered. Marchas put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed. He would be there for her. He wouldn’t let her down.

With a last look at everyone Ash opened the door and stepped onto the rear porch of the Temple of Vaspar. The trees swayed in the wind, dark shapes dancing to the sound of the ocean breeze. The movement all around her didn’t help to shed Shannai’s fear. It would make the undead harder to spot, harder to hear. Maybe it will do the same for us, she told herself. She doubted her thoughts and tightened her grip on her bow.

The walked down the steps and onto the leaf littered ground of the cemetery. Headstones rose from the ground, crafted stones, reminding her of how death should be.

As she walked through the graveyard, near the back of the group, her imagination began to take hold. Her gaze fell to the mounds of grass-covered dirt, where bodies lay in eternal rest. Her mind began to create another scenario for those people buried beneath her feet. A scenario where mummified corpses pushed against the moldy cloth deteriorating around them, beat against the rotting lids of their coffins, trying to dig their way to the surface. In her mind she saw thin hands shoveling dirt behind them with slow determination, filthy skeletal fingers breaking through the ground. She imagined both hands coming up, pulling the undead from the ground like a baby escaping a womb, to be born again.

She almost stumbled and fell when Marchas whispered, "Are you okay?"

She nodded, looking over the graveyard and only seeing mounds highlighted in moonlight. Focus! Quit letting your imagination run away with you. This is bad enough without that.

Marchas grabbed her upper arm, bringing his forehead close to hers. His eyes questioning again, Are you okay? She answered with another quick nod and a tight-lipped smile. He gave her arm one more squeeze before releasing it. She wasn’t okay, and he knew it.

Within moments the cemetery gates stood before them. A waist high stonewall topped with spiked iron bars. Four undead stumbled back and forth before the open gate, slapping at the opening between the iron posts with pale hands, but not attempting to cross the invisible line that represented the soil of the graveyard.

Four bows sang out. An arrow fletching sprouted from each undead forehead. They fell to the ground in a bloodless pile. One twisted and twitched, a snake in its death throws.

Without slowing the guard put fresh arrows in their bows, Ash yanked his from the corpse he had shot, and walked on, towards the line of buildings across the road from the graveyard.

They had gone only halfway across the road when the blank eyed men and women began to stumble into view between the buildings. Dozens of people, the once peaceful residents of Renier, now a mindless mob of rotting flesh, their clouded eyes wide and fixed on the small group.

Ash veered toward an opening between two buildings, steering the group to one of the few alleyways that didn’t have undead pouring from it. When he got to the opening he stopped and fired his bow down the alleyway, then waved everyone on before entering the blackness between the structures.

Shannai followed him, her brother just behind her. The buildings to either side of the alley blocked the moonlight, forcing her to slow down and walk with care.

Her foot stepped on something soft. She looked down. Two silver, coin-sized circles shown at her feet, the white fletching of Ash’s arrow sticking up from a pale skull like a road sign. Her mouth opened to scream, but a rough hand slid over her mouth, arms drug her further into the alley, and then sidewise into complete darkness.

Chapter 14d: Race to the Palace

Piet Lithor stood near the front of the motley group, sword in hand. He glanced at one of the soldiers to see if he held the weapon correctly. The man saw his glance and smiled, crooked teeth shone through bristly beard, shaking his sword back and forth before him with bravado. Let’s go kill us some undead. The Piet gripped his sword tighter and decided to look somewhere else.

The survivors stood behind the double wooden doors, nervously waiting for Stiles to open them so they could begin their run for the Palace. A sad little group indeed. Bos Spielter stood to the side with a table leg in a knuckle-whitening grasp. A woman with an infant stayed in the middle of the group, holding the baby close to her breasts. Brother Cylus stood next to the Piet, a steak knife protruding above his cloth belt. The young man, Tollis Mayer actually looked excited about the prospect of leaving the temple in the company of the brave men. The Piet turned his head to the group of soldiers that milled around the outside of the group. City guards, not palace guards, real soldiers, or mercenaries. Just city guards. The fact that Duke Renier had sent city guards to rescue the Piet spoke volumes about the state of the Palace. The situation didn’t look good at all.

Stiles waved to his men to get ready, then turned to the dozen survivors. "Just stay grouped together. Keep up with us and don’t get out of the group. We’re going to go to the palace and a brisk walk, but we won’t run unless we have to, so just follow my lead and everything should work out fine."

He nodded to his men again before turning and opening the door. Stiles’ head disappeared around the corner of the door as he looked about, then pulled his head back and waved everyone on. "Okay, let’s do this."

One by one they walked through the door and into the night. The first thing Lithor noticed was the brisk breeze blowing in from the port, carrying the salty sea smell and dead fish. Tree limbs swayed back and forth, giving the surrounding woods an eerie life of their own. He looked deep into those woods as he set his foot onto the road, hoping to see the shadowed forest free of undead, but just as afraid not to see where they hid. He gripped the sword tighter in his pudgy grasp and followed Stiles over the cobbled road.

Everyone huddled close together, a mass of bodies moving forward. The guards remained on the outside perimeter, bows held ready and eyes constantly scanning back and forth over the floor of the forest. They looked as scared as the crowd they guarded. Their gazes didn’t burrow into the woods like a predator would. No, their nervous glances flagged them as prey, skittishly trying to get past the lair of a hungry beast. The Piet didn’t have much faith in this rag-tag group, but there weren’t a lot of other options. He tried to push the fear out of his mind by concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. The great Lord Vaspar would see him through.

A guard in the back of the group gasped. The twang of a bowstring followed by the thunk of an arrow splitting flesh brought everyone to a halt. Hundreds of dark figures stumbled from the woods onto the trail behind the group. The moon highlighted the tops of their heads, their shoulders, and their raised arms. Their eyes shined like crisp silver, coins for their voyage to the afterlife.

All the guards raised their bows, strings pulled into V’s.

"Lower your bows!" Stiles hissed.

Six bows lowered, but the strings remained pulled tight. Everyone turned to Stiles.

"Let's save the fight for when it’s necessary. If we speed up we should stay ahead of them." Without looking to see if anyone followed his order he turned and began jogging toward the palace. Everyone followed his lead, glancing over their shoulders to make sure the undead hadn’t caught up.

Lithor's confidence in the young commander rose as he struggled to keep up. The man had made the right decision, choosing not to begin a battle that would do nothing but slow them down. He just hoped that Stiles had enough skill as a leader to get them to the palace.

Bushes shook to the Piet's left. The undead spilled onto the road behind the rear soldiers as if the forest had decided to vomit their filth from its midst, to purge their vile flesh from its natural beauty.

His heart raced. Blood pounded in his ears and sweat burned his eyes as he looked ahead and saw the palace walls getting closer in the distance. His heavy form wasn’t made for such a long run and he slowly fell further toward the back of the group, almost to the rearguard. His side felt like someone had reached under his lowest rib and pulled. Sweat drenched his clothes, a combination of overexertion and fear. His heart pounded harder. He could feel each pulse as it thrummed against his temple. He wasn’t going to make it to the palace. The great Piet Lithor would die within sight of the walls, almost in their shadow. It wasn’t fair. He deserved bet...

He stumbled into the woman with the baby, causing it to let out a shrill wail then a cry that almost became lost in the panting group.

They had stopped.

He bent over, placing both hands on his knees, staring at the ground. The sudden stop made him feel feverish. His stomach clenched, his last meal rose up his throat and splashed onto the ground in front of him. He ignored the mess and looked over his shoulder. The undead had stopped.

He stood, wiping the filth from his half-open mouth and gawking at the undead. They stared back, pinpricks of silver against grisly silhouettes.

Stiles shout rose over the wailing baby and panting people. "Move aside and let us pass."

The Piet spun around; the sudden movement made his head swirl with dizziness. Stiles faced a large man in archaic armor. The armored form stood at least six and a half feet tall. The moonlight cut his face into blacks and whites, an older man with a stern face that seemed to be chiseled out of stone. His thick arms crossed over his chest, the skin rough textured, like parchment. A sad smile crossed his cracked lips. "I am truly sorry, but I can’t allow you to go any farther."

Chapter 14c: Meeting at the Temple

She let out a generous sigh when the temple came into view and still none of the undead threatened them. Though she had seen them throughout the entire trip, eyes shinning through the trees, they hadn’t moved. There stoic silence almost terrified her more than a blatant attack would. She realized that every step she made towards the temple put her one more step away from the palace and put more undead between herself and safety. She didn’t know what was going on, but she didn’t like it.

The temple stood out of the forest like a beacon of civilization in the middle of the wilds. Shannai had grown up in a city, spending most of her life walking down cobbled streets and only seeing forests from the safety of a city wall, so the woods, especially at night, put her in an unfamiliar environment that spooked her even without being full of undead. The stone and stained glass building, with its high porch supported by marble columns gave her a sense of security, of familiarity, after her short walk through the dark forest. She wanted to run up the steps, rush through the wooden double doors and lock them behind her. A glance at her brother told her that he felt the same way.

Stiles halted the group, taking a hard look at the temple before going any further. Dim light shown through a few of the windows. A silhouette crossed in front of a candle, a dark blue and red blur behind the colored glass. Stiles motioned everyone forward. They passed a well; the grass looked charred and covered with an oily film. A blackened skeleton protruded from the ground like the charred wood left over after a campfire.

They walked past the well and up the wide steps. Stiles rapped his knuckles against the wooden doors. She knew his knocking couldn’t have been very loud, but in the silence under the stone porch it sounded like thunder. It opened immediately, as if someone had been waiting behind the door. A portly man, with a robe designating him as a servant of Vaspar, stared around the door at them. A finely crafted sword held before him. Behind him stood an elderly priest and almost a dozen other people. Most looked relieved, some angry, but they all shared a deep fear. It showed in their wide eyes.

The priest lowered the sword and grabbed Stiles upper arm, drawing him into the Temple. "I’m so glad to see you. We’ve been waiting here all day to be rescued."

The other soldiers followed Stiles into the pew lined sanctuary. Owl took a last look into the forest before shutting the doors behind him.

Stiles bowed his head to the priest and said, "I’m sorry we couldn’t be here sooner, Piet Lithor. It’s been almost impossible to leave Palace Renier due to all of the undead piling up around the walls. When they retreated we came right out."

Piet Lithor? Even Shanai had heard that name; the high priest of Vaspar, responsible for most of the souls in Renier. The rumors described him as an arrogant and pious man, one who liked to get his boots licked and deemed himself only slightly less important than the Duke himself. The man she saw before her didn’t seem anything like the man she had heard of. The Piet seemed almost…humble. She reminded herself again not to listen to every rumor she heard.

Piet Lithor’s eyes widened in surprise. "They retreated from the walls? You didn’t scare them off or defeat them?"

"No, your excellency. They are all standing in the woods, a little ways off the road."

The Piet seemed to consider this for long moments before commenting, "How odd."

Ash stepped in beside Stiles and spoke, "What do you mean? Do you know something?"

Stiles glared at Ash then turned to listen to the Piet. "No, I don’t really know anything. I said it was odd because the undead have been standing out there all day, beyond the edge of the property, until just before you showed up. I just thought that you had scared them off."

Stiles rubbed his chin, deep in thought. "They left just before we showed up, and they never came any closer than the edge of the property?"

"Yes, it seems the holiness of our Lord Vaspar keeps them at bay."

Ash folded his arms over his chest. "Sounds like a trap to me."

"Yeah, me too. I just don’t see how or why. They could have surrounded us anywhere along the road between the palace and here. It just doesn’t make sense."

Ash walked to the window and looked out at the well. "Well, no reason in dragging this out. Who do you want to go with me to warn the Baron?"

A man pushed himself past the Piet and growled, "What’s he talkin’ about, warnin' the Baron? You have to get us out of here and it’s gonna take all of you to do it."

Stiles looked to the Piet as he replied, "Duke Renier gave us orders that once we reached the Temple we are to split into three groups. One group has the responsibility of seeing you all safely to the Palace. A second group is to try and leave the city through one of the main gates and warn Baron Milchev about the fate of Renier. Finally, the third group is to scout through the city and find out where the dead have gone." He looked to Ash before continuing. "I think we know where the dead are so the third group should be unnecessary."

Ash gave Stiles an approving nod before the soldier turned back to the Piet. "So, the group returning to the castle will actually be larger than the Duke anticipated."

Stiles’ explanation didn’t appease the man at all. "Trying to get to the outer wall is pure folly. I barely survived getting here, and I was only a few blocks from the Temple when it happened. Surely the Duke must have more sense..."

The Piet stepped between Stiles and the angry man. "Duke Renier is correct, Bos Spielter. The neighboring cities need to be warned. I’m sure the Duke knew what he was doing when he sent these men. I trust his judgment and thereby the judgment of this brave soldier."

Piet Lithor looked over his shoulder, towards Stiles as he continued, "I’m sure he won’t let us down."

Chapter 14b: A Trip to the Temple

Shannai walked in the center of the group of men with an arrow notched into her bow. Her eyes scanned the dark forest. An eerie silence filled the forest-lined road. Their footsteps and the occasional rustling from the woods were the only sounds that broke the quiet walk to the Temple.

She still couldn’t believe that Marchas had talked her into leaving the safety of the Palace. Her brother had made a good point when he said the palace had become a trap with no way out, and with the dead mysteriously gone from the walls they could easily escape. Besides, there just weren’t enough people left within the walls to fight through the ranks of undead she had seen. Still, the duke didn’t seem like a man who would let himself become cornered, and even if he were he still seemed to be smart enough to figure a way out of a trap like that, and if not him there was still the wizard and Wellan certainly wasn’t one to be brought down easily.

A noise caught her attention. Leaves rustling deep within the oak filled woods. Something ran parallel to the road. Trying to get ahead of them?

She stopped raised her bow and focused on the darkness between the trees, past the rough trunks. Shannai could just make out the outline of a figure standing deep within, a faint highlight on a cheek, the dark silhouette of a shoulder breaking up the vertical pattern of the tree trunks. The black woods made it difficult to tell if the shapes were real, or only her eyes playing tricks on her, and she had to be sure before she alerted the others. Everyone’s nerves were frayed and having false alarms was the last thing they needed.

"What do you see?" Her brother whispered in her ear causing her to jump and release her arrow into the forest.

She turned to scold him for scaring her when she saw a sight that made her heart race, the twinkle of eyes deep in the forest. Ignoring her brother she pulled another arrow from her quiver and notched it, never taking her sight from the small round disks.

Shannai whispered to her brother and pointed her arrow at a tree, "Look into the forest, just to the right of that tree. Do you see..."

Another set of eyes opened, and another. As she watched, pairs of glowing disks opened throughout the forest. She turned to face the other side of the road and saw the same thing. Hundreds of the undead stood in eerie silence, watching them.

Her brother croaked, "Oh my Gods!"

"Yeah, at the moment it doesn’t seem like such a good idea to be away from the palace."

The leader, a short blond fellow named Stiles, hissed, "Shut it up you two."

"But the undead..." Shannai tried to tell him.

"Yeah, I see them. There’s nothing to be done about it now, and so far they aren’t doing anything but standing there. We’re gonna keep moving forward like we have been. If something threatens us then we will do something about it, but for right now the best thing we can do is keep going."

Shannai nodded and followed Stiles as he walked down the road, towards the temple; her eyes never leaving the eyes that peered at her from the dark forest.

Chapter 14a: Convincing a Wizard

"Don’t ye be goin’ out in the forest at night boy. There be more than wolves hidin’ amongst those trees. The boogeyman lives in them woods and he loves to eat little boys."
~A Grandfather’s words to his grandson

---

Madame Rachelle stood and looked out the window of her small room, over the top of the palace walls, beyond the darkening forest and buildings in the distance. The rain had finally stopped and the moon floated in a hazy sky.

She had watched the soldiers gather around the front gate, saw the Duke and Wellan below talking to them, saw the colorfully dressed man and woman join the soldiers. Little of it sunk through the layers of her thought. Grief still skulked about in her mind like a melancholy guest, brushing against her emotions, pushing thoughts of her daughter to the surface, making her not want to do anything but stare into the dark heavens and think of nothing.

Knuckles pounded against wood floating up through her thoughts like bubbles in a pool. She looked around the room, not able to place the noise in her dreamy state. It came again, a loud rapping followed by, "Madame Rachelle, may I come in."

Whose voice? She recognized it, a voice she had heard very recently. Wellan?

She sighed, not wanting to be pulled from her inner thoughts. "I...I don’t feel like talking right now, Wellan. Maybe later?"

"I understand your grief, but we need to talk." A pause, then, "I need your help."

Why would the wizard need the help of a fortuneteller? Why can’t he just let me grieve for my daughter? She almost told him to go away whether he needed her help or not, but curiosity and common politeness won out. "Just a second."

She walked over to the nightstand and picked up a candle, the only light in the room, and used it to light other candles on her way to the door. When she opened the door the