Death Rises

by Brian Murray

  Frazellon smiled at his nanny and nodded.

  “Like I was saying, your father was madly in love with his wife, Preeya. He would do anything for her and when she became pregnant, he was over the moon with pure joy. But you were a breech and your mother had thin hips. She died giving you life and on that day something in your father died. He loves you, boy, but he cannot look you in the eyes. You have her beautiful golden-brown eyes. So, don’t be hard on him. He built his empire for you and for your future. He was so proud to hear of your rise in the army. When you reached the post of general, he held a party in the grounds here and told everyone you were his son and how proud he was. All I’m trying to say is don’t hate the man, please, for Nanny. He does love you.”

  Frazellon reached out and patted his nanny’s hand. “I hold nothing against him, but I also do not feel anything for him. I have his blood and that is all. I do not hate him nor do I love him and we will leave it at that.”

  His nanny looked into the man’s eyes and smiled, seeing he was not lying. “That’s fair. Now I have someone I want you to see.” The pair walked around the garden to the kennels. In one of the kennels lay a huge black war-hound. The hound was muzzled and this infuriated Frazellon, thinking of his own war-hound that he had loved.

  “She’s the great-granddaughter of Cleo, last of her line.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Cleo,” said his nanny, her tone tinged with sadness. “Unfortunately, no one can handle her and she’s due to be put down.”

  Frazellon looked at his nanny in disbelief. “They will not put her down,” he hissed stubbornly, walking towards the kennel.

  “Frazzy, I only wanted you to see her, not be eaten by her.”

  “She will not attack me. She has Cleo’s blood and she will know me.”

  The hound rose and started to growl when Frazellon approached the kennel. The hound pulled on her iron chain-linked leash, baring her sharp white teeth. Frazellon reached out with his hand. The hound leapt forward trying to bite the hand, but she could not open her mouth due to her muzzle. Frazellon approached the hound, saying soft soothing words. The hound turned to the side and he saw whip marks on her sleek flanks.

  “Who has whipped her?” asked Frazellon, barely controlling his rage.

  “They could not control her so they whipped her,” admitted his nanny, blushing as the feeling of guilt rose.

  The man approached the hound and she settled down.

  “Careful Frazzy, she’s a cunning bitch and will attack you.”

  “I do not think so,” said Frazellon, sitting down in front of the hound and reaching out, talking constantly in soft soothing tones.

  The hound lay down and growled at the man when he reached forward. “Know me, Cleo. It is Frazzy. Remember me, I’m in your blood. I healed your great-grandmother. I’m in your blood.” Frazellon reached out again and touched the hound’s thick black fur. He moved closer to the hound and scratched her behind the ears.

  “Leave us, Nanny, we will be fine.”

  His nanny left the man with the hound and walked slowly back to the main house. Before she got to the house, the huge black hound padded past her and she screamed.

  One of the grounds men ran from the house and saw the hound running free. He grabbed a rake and ran towards the hound, yelling at the top of his voice for the other grounds men. The hound crouched down onto her haunches and growled at the man with the rake. Another man ran forward with a whip and cracked it above the hound’s head.

  “Cleo! Come!” called Frazellon.

  The hound backed away from the two men, baring her teeth and growling. The hound then turned and ran to Frazellon’s side. Frazellon got closer to the two men and the hound moved in close to his legs, brushing her flank against the man’s thigh. Frazellon grabbed the whip and glared into the man’s frightened eyes. “This is my hound. If you touch her again, I will kill you,” he said coldly.

  “But . . . ” started one of the grounds men, his frightened eyes on the hound.

  “You leave her be from now on. She will be travelling with me, so you will not have to worry. Now go!”

  The two grounds men walked off at a hurried pace and his nanny came to stand by Frazellon. “That beast scared the life out of me,” she said, reaching down to the hound. The hound started to growl when her hand got closer. His nanny jerked her hands back and Frazellon laughed.

  “Fear not, Nanny, I think she only likes me and no one else. Don’t take it personally.”

  For the next few days, the hound did not leave Frazellon’s side. No one could come near the man without him soothing his hound first. She had become as protective of Frazellon as her namesake, her great-grandmother, all those years earlier.

  ***

  The voyage across the Endless Sea on the ship the Merry Storm, lasted over a month. The journey was pleasant with few incidents for Frazellon and his hound. Even the captain expressed his surprise that they had not encountered any storms or high winds. Just before noon, the ship docked in the port of Balasal far up the western coast of Rafftonia. The port surprised Frazellon, because it was a large bustling city of huge grey stone buildings with thousands of people bustling around like a busy swarm, each on their own mission. Frazellon’s father had given him plenty of coin for his travels and the name of an inn where he could stay in comfort. He found the inn, the Fort on the Hill, and arranged for a bed for a couple of nights.

  The young man spent the next couple of days touring the city getting lost on a few occasions, leaving Cleo to find their way back. He found many temples and libraries, but none satisfied his renewed quest for knowledge. Here, so far away from home, his desire to gain more knowledge about black sorcery began to filter back into his thoughts. One sunny day, Frazellon decided to take Cleo for a walk in the countryside that surrounded the city. He hired a horse from the innkeeper and rode out into the country. At noon, he stopped and ate the meal the innkeeper had provided. After eating, he lay out on his back and looked up at the skies. For almost an hour, the young man gazed up at the high wispy clouds with Cleo sprawled out at his side.

  His hound started to growl.

  Frazellon sat up, shielded his eyes against the sun’s glare, and watched an old man shuffle towards him. He wore an old, travel-stained brown robe and worn sandals. When he pushed his hood back, the sun gleamed against his bald scalp. Frazellon felt annoyed by the intrusion, enjoying the solitude. He was deciding whether to send him on his way, with help from Cleo, when the man called out to him.

  “Hello there, my friend!” The man’s voice was strong and powerful, belying his seemingly ancient age.

  “Greetings,” Frazellon heard himself say in a warm cheery voice, quite the opposite of how he wanted to sound.

  The old man shuffled forward and smiled at Frazellon. “Do you mind if I join you? I have been walking for some time now and my old bones are aching.”

  Frazellon forced a smile and motioned with his hand for the man to sit. As the man sat down, his joints creaked and cracked noisily. Frazellon chuckled.

  “There is no need to laugh, young man, it happens to all of us,” snapped the old man, frowning.

  “What happens to all of us?”

  “Age,” said the old man sincerely. “We all get old and that is the only certainty in life. We get old and all die at some stage.”

  “I will never get old. I intend to live forever,” stated the amused younger man.

  “The foolishness of youth,” said the old man softly, reaching out to stroke Cleo’s head.

  “Be careful old man, she does not like people.”

  “All animals like me,” countered the old man, gently scratching Cleo behind the ear.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. You’re the first person to get that close to her.”

  “Like I said, I have a way with animals.”

  The two men sat in a relaxed silence for a while. Frazellon looked at the old man, studying his creased, leathery face and surprisingly intellige
nt, bright blue eyes that contradicted his age.

  “Who are you?” asked the younger man.

  “I am what you seek,” answered the old man with a warm smile.

  “And what is it that I seek?”

  “Knowledge,” the old man simply answered. Frazellon cocked his head to one side, silently asking the man to expand his answer. “All in good time my friend, but first follow me. If I show you what you want, then you will stay, else you can leave. Is that fair?”

  “How far do we travel?”

  “A couple of days.”

  “What about supplies? I only had enough food for today.”

  “I will ensure you do not go hungry, my young friend,” answered the old man, rising slowly to his feet. “Do we have a deal, Frazellon?”

  “How do you know my name?” asked the young man, rising smoothly to his feet and looking down at the stooped old man.

  “I know many things,” he replied, his eyes glinting with mischievousness.

  Frazellon smiled broadly. “Fine, old man. I will come, lead the way.”

  For the next couple of days, the two men walked south through the Rafftonia countryside and its beauty amazed Frazellon. Rolling green hills and deep lush valleys extended out with crystal clear rivers meandering lazily. In the distance, a mountain range full of winter whites and greys stood proud against the spring blue sky. At night, the old man, who never tired, seemed to create a meal from nothing. During the third day as dusk threatened, the men entered a deep forest. They found a hollow next to a stream where they camped.

  “Go out into the next clearing and there will be a young deer. Kill and skin the animal and we will dine well,” said the old man, smiling.

  “I have never skinned an animal,” said Frazellon honestly.

  “Well, you will learn today or we do not eat,” countered the old man, who went off foraging for root vegetables and herbs, with Cleo bounding around behind him. Only after Frazellon left the hollow, did he realise what the man had said: “There will be a young deer.” Not, “Go and hunt a deer.” Frazellon reached the next clearing and in the centre, shaking with fear, stood a young deer. The man approached the shivering beast and looked at it for a long while. He crouched before the deer and looked into its large, terrified brown eyes. Then without a second thought, he drew his hunting knife and sliced it across the deer’s throat, releasing the animal’s life fluid. Then Frazellon struggled. He had never skinned nor quartered an animal in his life. He looked down at the dead beast, thinking what to do. Suddenly, words whispered into his head—the knowledge, the know how became clear.

  Within half an hour, Frazellon had skinned the beast, cut some prime pieces for their dinner, and hung the carcass beyond the reach of predators. He walked back to the camp and gave the old man the cuts, still confused. He sat down opposite the old man and looked down at his hands in disbelief. He looked up into the old man’s gleaming eyes and asked again, “Who are you?”

  “I am a friend,” replied the old man mysteriously. He said no more.

  At dusk the following day the two men arrived at an old, single-storey stone house built near the side of a cliff. Frazellon normally would have walked straight past the house. No paths led to it and tall dense trees and thorny bracken surrounded the building. The old man shuffled to the door and pushed it open. Once inside, he sat down in a deep leather seat in front of his hearth with a heavy sigh. Frazellon followed the man in and to his surprise found the house warm, with a fire blazing in the hearth.

  “Where are your servants?”

  “I have no servants.”

  “Then who . . . ”

  The old man interrupted Frazellon. “In the morning, my friend, for now I need to rest.” With that the old man shuffled off to an adjoining room and closed the door, leaving Frazellon standing before the hearth. Frazellon looked around the simple room. A couple of deeply cushioned leather chairs stood before the hearth and a plush woollen rug between them. The rest of the floor was bare wood, but it had been skilfully rubbed smooth. There was a small table next to each chair and a large wooden dining table in the corner. No pictures adorned the walls, only four lit, brass oil-filled lanterns.

  Frazellon shrugged his shoulders, found the kitchen, and made himself a meal of gritty bread and cheese. What surprised him was that everything was still fresh. After eating, Frazellon found a room with a bed. With Cleo stretched out on the floor next to the bed he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  ***

  The next morning, Frazellon woke up feeling refreshed. He walked out of the house and stretched, looking at the beautiful view before him. In front of the house was a short-cropped lawn surrounded by huge, ancient gnarled trees. Beyond the trees, rolling green hills extended into the distance, meeting a white dominant mountain range whose peaks were lost in low grey clouds. Then he realised the old man had not risen. On their walk to the house, the old man had always awoken first. Maybe he’s tired, thought Frazellon.

  He broke his fast on toasted bread with fried eggs, then waited in the living area for the old man to emerge. Noon passed and the old man had still not emerged. Frazellon began to worry. He walked to the old man’s door and gently knocked. He received no answer. He turned the handle and pushed open the creaky door.

  CHAPTER 2

  FRAZELLON ENTERED THE gloomy, fusty room and looked around. The room appeared surprisingly big, but with shelves lining the walls, stuffed with books and parchments, it felt claustrophobic and the air heavy. There were no windows in the room; the only light came through the open door and sparkled against floating dust. Frazellon opened the door wider, lifting more dust into the air. Then he saw a lantern sitting on the desk. Frazellon took the oil lantern to the main living room, where he lit the wick on a burning twig from the fire. He turned to face the door. His heart pounded in his chest with excitement. Why? What was in there? Frazellon took a deep breath, rolled his neck, then re-entered the room.

  The lantern brought a new feel to the room. It looked comfortable with a large stone table in the middle of the floor and a leather chair on the far side. Frazellon walked slowly around the table and gasped when he saw the old man lying on the ground. His skin was ashen and stretched tight over his bones. His eyes were blank, distant, staring up at the ceiling. Frazellon put the lantern on the table and knelt down next to the skeletal body. He reached forward to see if he could find a pulse. Suddenly, the man’s hand snapped up, grabbing Frazellon’s wrist. Frazellon jumped and tried to pull away, but the old man’s grip was surprisingly strong. The man tried to say something, but Frazellon could not hear. He bent down so his left ear was close to the man’s mouth.

  “I . . . could not do it,” whispered the old man. “I do not have the ability to master the dark magic. I was sent out to find you and bring you here. Here you will learn everything there is to know about dark magic. I hope you master the art or you will end up like me. There is no escape . . . no escape.”

  The old man’s mouth dropped open, letting out a dying, rasping breath of stagnant air. With his face still close to the old man’s, Frazellon turned his head to look the old man in the eyes. Suddenly, a large serpent slithered from the man’s mouth and seething maggots forced his eyes from their sockets, spilling out onto his hollow cheeks. Frazellon fell back onto his backside, ripping the old man’s arm from his shoulder as he landed. No blood oozed from the severed limb, only dry, grey dust plumed into the air. Frazellon heard a faint hoarse laughter, or was it the wind? No, definitely laughter. He looked at the man’s face. There was no snake, no maggots, only the man’s twisted death expression. Frazellon raced from the room and bolted out of the house. He ran through the woodland surrounding the building, not knowing or caring where he headed. After several minutes, he slowed his run to a jog, then stopped by a knotted hardwood tree. He caught his breath, then walked on. He re-entered the clearing and faced the stone house. Frazellon cursed and again sprinted from the house in a different direction, racing through dense, thorny br
acken that pulled and tore his clothes. The man’s death had not made Frazellon fearful but . . . He re-entered the clearing again. His words burnt in his mind. The young man shook his head and sat on the grass, staring at the stone building. Cleo plodded from the house and lay down next to him. He thought of running again, but something told him he would always return to the clearing. He seemed trapped—he had no choice. The old man’s words were true—he had no escape.

  For several hours, Frazellon sat staring at the building, knowing his fate lay within its stone walls. His future appeared linked to the building and he knew one thing. He had to succeed where the old man had failed. But how had he failed? Perhaps he would succeed, or perhaps he would not; at that moment, Frazellon did not care. Finally, at dusk and with a heavy sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and walked to the house. He entered with Cleo one step behind.

  Finding an old shovel, Frazellon buried the old man at the edge of the clearing near a large, warped tree. When he returned, he washed the dirt from his hands. He slowly re-entered the room and picked up a scroll. He slumped into a chair and began to scan the scroll. It was not right so he discarded it. He picked another. . . again not what he wanted. Next a parchment, then another, then a book, then another. His interest was piqued—he was reading about dark magic.

  ***

  It would be three years before the young man left the strange house, living like a hermit, only venturing out for short periods when absolutely necessary.

  ***

  When Frazellon left the house for a walk, he appeared not to have aged a day. Even Cleo, his large war-hound seemed the same age as the day they had arrived. Yet, something felt different. Frazellon had gained knowledge he so desperately sought, and yet he still felt hollow. He needed, yearned for more. The man walked his dog through the woodlands and to a nearby lake. The sun sat high and the temperature warm. Frazellon stripped off his clothes and waded into the lake. The water was clear and cool against his skin. The man swam out to the middle of the lake, learning to do so as a child at his father’s house, leaving his troubles on the shore. Feeling tired, he swam back and walked out. After gathering some wood, he used magic to light a fire and allowed the warmth to dry him. Once dry, he put his clothes back on and with Cleo at his side, walked slowly back to the house deep in thought.