by Brian Murray
The Chosen rose groggily, seeking for another weapon. He reached up and snatched a decorative tulwar from the wall. He charged the zombie, wheeling the curved sword in his hand to increase speed. The zombie pulled the spear free and turned towards the charging emperor. The zombie raised his hands. That was not going to stop the Chosen. The tulwar sliced through the zombie’s hands and lodged deep in his neck. The Chosen yanked the blade free. Spinning on his heels, and with a roar of anger, the Chosen used his momentum to cleave the blade through the zombie’s neck, decapitating him. The zombie fell into a crumpled heap and twitched once with dark, almost black blood pumping from the gaping wound.
The Chosen looked around and saw the other zombie stalking towards Platos. “Platos! Catch and aim for the head,” shouted the Chosen, throwing the sword to him.
Platos caught the tulwar deftly, twisted his thick wrist and in one mighty swing, beheaded the zombie.
At that moment, the door burst open and several Imperial Guards swarmed into the Chosen’s private chambers with weapons drawn. They saw the Chosen on his knees, panting, and Platos standing before Ireen with a bloodied tulwar in his hand, looking down at the body poised as though expecting it to rise again.
The Chosen looked up at his master armourer and smiled weakly. “Thank you,” he said finally. Then he realised and looked towards the door. The senior priest had gone. “Where is the priest?” he asked one of the guards.
“He opened the door for us and ran out.”
“Hunt him down and bring me his head. He is no longer our senior priest, but a servant of our enemy.”
The guard bowed and with three other men left the room to find the priest. The Chosen rose to his feet, stepped over the body of the dead zombie, and sat next to Megan. The woman’s eyes were squeezed shut but tears ran freely down her face. The Chosen drew her into a hug and whispered, “It is over, Megan. They are gone.” The woman was unable to speak from fear. Rowet kissed his adopted daughter on the head and beckoned over Ireen. He kissed his daughter on her brow and whispered, “You two go to your room and wait for me there.”
“Where are you going, Father?” asked Ireen.
“There is one more of them in my home. I am going to defend my family.”
“Let the guards do it,” pleaded Ireen.
“This is something I have to do. He sent killers to my home.” To one of the guards he ordered, “Clear this mess up but keep the heads.”
The Chosen looked up at Platos. “Thank you again, my friend. Will you help me finish this?”
The master armourer saw the rage in his emperor’s eyes and nodded. “Let’s go.”
The Chosen stalked from the room. “You defiled my home. Now you will die,” he hissed coldly to the air around him.
Whilst Platos held onto the dripping tulwar, the Chosen went to his room and put on his sword harness. He left his room and looked at Platos who waited for him. Platos nodded. It was a nod that had one meaning—it meant, let’s go and finish this.
“Where do we go?”
“I think he will be heading to the priests’ sleeping rooms. We cannot let him get there.”
“Why?” asked Platos.
“He will create more of those beasts.”
“What are they? By heavens they were tough to kill.”
“They were vampire zombies, I think.”
“Vampire zombies? They are a myth. I mean . . . ”
“Not anymore. Let’s go hunting,” said the Chosen, leaving the bloody scene behind.
CHAPTER 8
THE ZOMBIE, ONCE the Senior Priest of the Chosen, headed for the sleeping quarters of the priests who resided in the palace, near the temple. Stealthily, the old man moved through the corridors, avoiding guards. He reached the temple and moved through the darkened hall to a small wooden door on the far side. He opened the door and crept up the marble stairs to the priests’ sleeping room.
***
The Chosen and Platos ran through the marble corridors of his palace towards the temple.
***
The senior priest arrived at the sleeping chambers. Silently, he opened the first door and ducked inside to find five priests soundly sleeping. He knelt by the first bed. His left knee cracked loudly and the senior priest halted. The priest in the bed moaned and rolled over, exposing his neck. Slowly, the senior priest bit his lip then opened his mouth, exposing elongated conical teeth. Then he closed his maw around the younger priest’s tender neck. Suddenly, the younger priest’s eyes flared open in shock. His mouth gaped open, releasing a silent scream. The man’s eyes gradually lost their fear, becoming vacant, devoid of all emotion—the virus was taking hold. The senior priest withdrew, his mouth dripping crimson on the priest’s white sheets. The young priest looked around at the older man and nodded. The older man rose and moved to the next room. In the first room, the younger priest walked from bed to bed and bit the other priests as they slept, instantly infecting them. The five zombies left the room, walked silently down the stairs, and guarded the temple door that led to the sleeping rooms.
The Chosen and Platos reached the temple gathering ten Imperial Guards on the way; two others had been sent to wake their comrades. They paused by the door and peered in. The temple was dark, but the Chosen could just make out movement at the far side of the hall. He turned to his Imperial Guards.
“The men you will face are no longer priests but vampire zombies. The only way you can kill them is by decapitation.” He looked at the men and noticed that one or two appeared confused.
“Cut their bloody heads off,” snapped Platos.
All of the men now nodded. The Chosen with Platos at his side entered the temple. The Chosen drew his short swords and walked purposely farther in. They stopped and crouched down by his large throne.
In the sleeping quarters, one of the priests woke and sat up, rubbing his eyes. He saw a priest rise with fluid dripping from his mouth. He realised it was blood. All sleep instantly evaporated and he screamed. “MURDER!”
Havoc broke loose in his and other rooms. Doors were slammed shut and bolted. But thirty of the priests had been changed into zombies and they moved downstairs to complete their master’s command. The command was simple—kill the Children of the Light. But they had to pass the Chosen and he was not in a forgiving mood.
The Chosen saw more movement before him. He silently tapped Platos on the shoulder and pointed to their left. The large man nodded, then shuffled around to the throne and moved towards the door that led to the priest sleeping rooms. The Chosen rose from his hiding place and held his two short swords ready. The temple erupted in activity.
From all directions, the possessed priests dived at the Chosen, Platos, and the Imperial Guards. The Chosen aimed a slice towards a zombie that lunged at him. He mistimed the cut and his sword sliced the zombie across the chest. The creature did not scream, but landed, turned, and charged at the Chosen, its gaping wound spewing thick, dark blood.
***
Platos rose from behind the throne but was instantly knocked to the ground. He landed heavily, the tulwar spilling from his hand. The smithy rose quickly to his feet and looked for the sword, which lay a couple of paces to his right. He was moving towards the blade, when a possessed priest punched him in the jaw. Platos rolled with the punch, but not quickly enough. He again fell heavily, and the same priest kicked him in the chin. Stars exploded before the smithy’s eyes. With a grunt, he rose to his hands and knees. The priest kicked him in the side. Platos rolled over and again tried to rise. As he reached forward, his fingers touched the blade of his tulwar. His fingers curled around the hilt. He tasted blood in his mouth. Now the big man grew mad. The priest tried to kick Platos again, but this time the smithy raised his hand and caught the foot. Rising to his knees and with a roar, Platos sliced through the priest’s standing ankle. The priest collapsed onto the floor. Without mercy, Platos rolled his wrist, hacked down, and decapitated the zombie with the blade clanging loudly on the marble floor. He rose, bel
lowed a battle cry, and charged into the milling priests, hacking and chopping.
***
The Chosen rolled on the floor and stood in front of the injured zombie. He hacked horizontally. The priest’s head thudded onto the marble floor moments before its body crumpled into a heap. The Chosen turned and like Platos, he charged into the priests, hollering loudly. The Chosen cut high and stabbed low. He injured another priest, then chopped his head off. He reversed one of his swords and stabbed a priest who charged towards his back. Spinning, the Chosen yanked his sword free and with the other decapitated the zombie. Before the dead priest’s head hit the ground, another priest’s shoulder charged the emperor. The Chosen tripped and went sprawling across the marbled floor but held onto his swords. He rose quickly, spun, and stabbed out, piercing the priest’s chest. Pulling his sword free, the Chosen swept away the priest’s legs. Before the priest hit the ground, the emperor sliced upwards, cleaving through the falling priest’s neck.
The Imperial Guards held the door leading to the Chosen’s private chambers, hacking and chopping the attacking zombie priests. Heads thudded onto the marble ground and rolled in their own blood.
Deeper in the temple, both the Chosen and Platos were covered in blood as they continued to fight. Dead bodies and heads surrounded the two men. One priest had not been decapitated but had lost the use of his legs. Still the zombie priest tried to reach the two fighting men, dragging its body with its arms, its face twisted into a menacing snarl. Platos watched the zombie crawl towards him. Taking two running steps, he kicked the zombie under its chin. For an instant, the sounds of snapping bones filled the temple as the zombie spun backwards in the air, landing heavily on its stomach. To Platos’s surprise, the creature rose again with its head drooped back onto its spine so the zombie stared up at the ceiling. Without a second thought, the smithy hacked down through the zombie’s neck, lodging the blade in its spine. Platos wrenched his blade free as the loosened head thudded onto the floor. He turned and readied himself for another attack.
Suddenly, the main doors to the temple burst open and fifty Imperial Guards charged in. The fighting from that point on was fierce and frenetic and ended swiftly. Many of the Imperial Guards fell, but they outnumbered the zombie priests and soon mercilessly hacked them to pieces, and blood pooled throughout the temple.
The Chosen’s chest heaved as he looked around to see if all of the priests had been killed. He shouted at one of the guards by the door leading to his private chambers to bring the heads of Scanion and Chrisk.
When the guard returned, Rowet ordered the man to follow him.
“Where are you going?” asked Platos. The Chosen turned and Platos saw that he too was covered in blood. But what chilled the smithy was the cold rage that blazed in the Chosen’s eyes.
When the warrior returned with two sacks, the Chosen walked from the temple with Platos and the other guards in tow. The Chosen walked through the city. The cool evening air did nothing to calm his anger. As he passed homes, people looked out and were astonished to see their emperor covered in blood. Many grabbed their coats and cloaks and followed the Chosen. Word soon spread and more and more people followed the Chosen. He stalked menacingly through the city not saying a word, his expression fixed. He reached the barracks by the western gate. Hearing the commotion outside, many warriors woke and walked out into the night.
The Chosen walked up to the top of the mound. He looked out at the sea of blinking red, orange, and yellow eyes. He turned and beckoned an Imperial Guard forward and took the two bundles he carried.
“Dark One, you treacherous cur. It is I, the Chosen. Face me if you dare!” boomed the Chosen coldly to the enemy camp. “DARK ONE!”
There was movement amongst the creatures and several flickering torches moved towards the moat. The Chosen watched and saw three silver-armoured warriors flanking the Dark One as he walked forward. The Dark One stopped before the moat.
“You called, mortal?” called the Dark One, his voice rumbling like thunder.
“You whoreson, you tried to kill my girls with these.” The Chosen lifted the heads of Chrisk and Scanion that still dripped blood, but the silvery moonlight changed the colour from deep crimson to black. “They were good men and you corrupted their souls and turned them against me. That is the one and only time you will send creatures to my home. You want my girls, you come and I will kill you. Do not send any of your beasts or your scum warriors. You want my children, you come and face me . . . Come face me and die.” Then with a roar of defiance, the Chosen threw both of the heads which arced towards the motionless moat. The two heads splashed noisily in the water and ripples flowed outwards concentrically to the banks. The Chosen stared and beckoned the Dark One to him. “Come on you scum! I will be waiting.”
The Dark One just glared up at the man. But before he could answer, the Chosen turned his back on the Dark One and stalked away from the mound. The crowds of people who had gathered silently parted as Platos led the Chosen back to his home.
***
The Dark One watched the two men’s heads bob in the moat. Then he turned and walked back to his tent with his three bodyguards in tow. He threw back the flap to his tent and entered the fabric room. He sat in his chair and removed his helm. His eyes blazed and his brow creased with anger. He looked up at his three warriors but did not say anything, trying to calm his rage. Then he spoke.
“The mortal thinks I can easily be threatened. The mortal thinks he can talk to me—the Dark One—in such a manner. I will teach him what anger is, what a threat is,” he raged. “Malice, I think a lesson needs to be taught. I said the city will not be attacked for another two weeks, but I think we will unleash our minions and show this mortal what power is.”
“What do you command?” asked Malice.
“There is a town to the southeast. I want it utterly destroyed.”
“Yes master,” replied Malice bowing deeply, unhampered by his armour.
“And Malice . . . ”
The silver-clad warrior stopped at the tent’s flap, looking back over his shoulder.
“I want to send a message like we have done before.” The Dark One grinned.
“I understand, master,” replied Malice knowingly.
The three warriors left their brooding leader. Once outside, Malice summoned two of the Caynian leaders and organised two hundred of them to ride. Within an hour, two hundred Caynians and one thousand Talon Hunters and Shadows thundered southeast. They had one thought on their minds—blood.
***
The town of Negrilton lay a half-day’s casual ride southeast of Kal-Pharina. It was the third largest non-coastal city or town. The town had grown in its location, as it was a perfect distance for travellers from the coast. If a caravan travelled from the south coast to the capital, then the town of Negrilton was ideal for travellers to stop overnight. The travellers would then be fresh for the relatively short journey to the capital, where they could trade their wares.
Weeks earlier, the Chosen had visited Negrilton and advised the town elders and their priests of the threat coming to Kal-Pharina. The priests were concerned with the threat, but the town elders argued they were far enough from the capital for it not to concern them. The Chosen had disagreed, telling them the army could reach the town in a couple of hours and it was not an army of men. The town elders had insisted there would be no evacuation of the town until a definite threat against them beckoned. They agreed to send out scouts to monitor the situation and if an army marched to the southeast, then they would evacuate the town. The Chosen insisted that they would not have enough time to get everyone out. But the town elders said no army could move that fast and the townsfolk would have plenty of time. Moreover, they did not want to believe an army of beasts existed. The Chosen knew he had lost the argument and wished the town elders all the best. He left the town disappointed, but he had to resume his tour.
The town elders did send out a few scouts and they were informed that there was an army
holding the white city under siege. They were also advised that the army was making no movement to travel southeast. Remaining cautious, the town elders ensured they always had two scouts monitoring the army’s movements, but they still believed they had enough time to evacuate if the need arose.
On this particular night, two men sat on a lonely hill a few hours from the town.
***
Ayfar and Rokal, two scouts from Negrilton, sat on the hill staring to the northwest. Well, Ayfar watched whilst Rokal snoozed. The older man looked up at the skies and smiled. He was Dar-Phadrin and even though he had lived in the town for twenty years, he still loved to be out in the open. The darker-skinned, older man was born on the Steppes and had spent much of his youth riding the arid lands with his clan, the Soaring Eagle. His mind drifted back to his eventful youth, and his smile grew.
He sighed and looked over the low, undulating hills. His friend stirred, but Ayfar did not wake him. They should have changed guard an hour earlier, but he enjoyed the night’s peace away from the crowded town. In the twenty years since arriving at the town, Ayfar had joined the local militia. He rose slowly through the ranks and now was Captain of the Scouts. The leader of six men, a great step, thought the man. He could be leading a clan with a thousand warriors, but there were few threats to the town and he had married a soft, plump Tan-Phadrin woman. He owned a small house and his wife had blessed him with two sons and a girl. In truth, he could not complain.