Death Rises

by Brian Murray

  He walked down the centre of the hall where a stone altar stood on a small dais. On the altar lay a large metal bowl stained with crusty crimson flakes. The prisoners knelt in the centre of the hall with Talon Hunters surrounding them. The Darklord started his spell. In his excitement, he shouted the words. He did not need to, but it felt good. He continued with the spell and the children among the prisoners started to wail. Fear rose from all the prisoners and the Darklord absorbed it, using it to feed his magic. He reached the climax of the spell and commanded the Talon Hunters. The beasts howled and charged into the prisoners. Blood flew in all directions. The beasts cleaved open the captives’ chests and ripped out their warm, beating hearts. The beasts placed the hearts in the bowl on the altar, letting the warm organs slip through their blood-dripping, clawed fingers. They returned amongst the prisoners, killing them until the last died.

  With all of the hearts in the bowl, the Darklord started the second phase of the spell. The temperature in the room rose and the hearts started to steam and hiss. He continued reciting the spell and the blood started to bubble. The Darklord reached the end of the spell and screamed the last few words. The hall plunged into darkness. The Darklord felt his body being charged with power—pure raw vileness. He groaned, stumbled, and fell to his knees in the darkness. Suddenly, the torches sprouted alight. The hearts and bodies had disappeared. The Darklord slowly climbed to his feet and looked up. Two glowing red eyes shone from deep within his shrouded hood.

  “I am ready,” said the Darklord, his voice booming.

  “The portal will open shortly, lord,” said one of the Caynians.

  “Good.” The Darklord followed the Caynian out of the Black Palace. They walked to the place where the portal would open. After a short wait, it opened. The Darklord took one last look at the Realm of Yallaz’oom. He turned back to the portal and stepped into the film between the black pillars with a knowing, smug smile on his face.

  ***

  Commander Fontis woke with a start and rose. Something had changed. He moved through the corridors and reached the door to the great hall. Something within the fortress had definitely changed, but he did not know what. He looked around at his men. They all had the same questioning expression on their faces. Fontis ordered the men to prepare. Within the great hall, he thought he heard chanting. He walked closer to the doors and pressed his ear against the stone. He was right—he could hear someone chanting. He stepped back, frowning. The air around him seemed to charge and crackle. Fontis stepped farther back. The hairs on his body began to rise as if static filled the air; not static, black magic. Fontis had lived for a while in an abbey when his parents had been killed. He knew the tell-tale signs of magic being used. Furthermore, he knew the magic being used was strong—very strong. He stepped farther back, his eyes locked on the door. The air continued to suffuse with energy. Sparks jumped around the doors. The tiny gap between them started to glow. The light got brighter and brighter, expanding outwards, covering the doors until it was not possible to look at it. As the light increased with intensity, a dull hum began to fill the corridor. The humming sound grew louder and louder.

  Commander Fontis shielded his eyes from the bright light. “HIT THE DECK!” he screamed over the drone. He dropped to the ground, lying flat on his stomach. Without question, the axe-wielders swiftly followed suit.

  ***

  Zane, Dax, and Thade travelled ahead of the main Rhaurien army to the first water hole three days away. The days on the Steppes were very hot and the nights bitterly cold. The first night for the friends was a good-humoured affair. They had not forgotten about the troubles of the past or future, but they decided to enjoy themselves. Dax picked on the two younger men and around midnight had another sparring session with them. As usual, the two younger men ended up on their backs while Dax roared with laughter.

  The next day went without much incident. The men slowly walked their horses through the Steppes. Occasionally, they dismounted and walked their horses so as not to overtire them. That night the sky was clear and the temperature plummeted. The men huddled around a small campfire. There was very little wood available to build large fires, but the men did not complain about the size, as there was no point. They ate a meal of dried, spiced meat and hard honey cakes.

  They woke at dawn and continued their trek. By dusk, they should reach the first watering hole. The day was hot and the ground seemed to shimmer before them. Each of the men wore a wide-brimmed hat to shield his eyes from the glaring sun. They looked like the hat worn by their friend Tanas, but theirs were made from canvas instead of leather. At noon, the men stopped for a light meal. At the same time, they watered their mounts and wiped the sand from the animals’ nostrils. As the sun began to set they saw no signs of the next watering hole. The sky was brushed with various shades of red, orange, and pink as the sun continued to dip below the horizon.

  Dax stood in his stirrups and stared out to the east.

  “Where is it, Dax?” asked Zane.

  “You are the one reading the map,” replied Dax, shrugging his shoulders. “You tell me.”

  “It should be here,” countered Zane.

  “Well, guess what? It is not.”

  Without further conversation, the three men moved off. The sky started to darken as the day died and stars began to twinkle to life. The men remained on their easterly course where the waterhole should be. The wind changed direction and Dax’s horse’s head came up. It angled its course to the north.

  “Where’re you going?” asked Zane, swivelling in his saddle.

  “One thing I trust a lot more than your navigation skills, is the ability of a horse to smell water.”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “This time I am not. The waterhole is to the north.”

  Thade left a marker for the following scouts and the men progressed north. Within half an hour, there were on the top of a knoll looking down at a large waterhole. The three men peered down into the shallow valley and looked at the campfires of a large clan.

  “What do we do?” asked Zane.

  “We take advantage of Phadrine custom,” Dax said with a smile, heeling his horse forward.

  “And what might that be?”

  “Hospitality of their camp,” answered Thade, following Dax down the slope.

  Dax stared forward at the camp. He was known by many of the clansmen, he but needed to know which camp this was. A grin grew on the old warrior’s face as the three men entered the camp. Several young clansmen approached the riders and they were halted.

  “What’s this?” said Dax, speaking the Phadrine tongue, his voice cold and even.

  “Who are you?” asked one of the clansmen.

  “Is this how you treat visitors to your camp?”

  “You light skins are not welcome in our camp.”

  Dax leaned forward in his saddle and grabbed the clansman speaking by his jerkin. Straightening, he lifted the man from his feet. “You will defile a waterhole by fighting me?”

  The clansman looked into Dax’s gleaming violet eyes that danced in the firelight. “You know our customs?”

  “I know you are Landbow clan. Where is Membis?” Dax asked.

  Hearing the commotion, an old man emerged from his tent and shuffled forward to the horsemen. He squinted up at Dax.

  “How goes it, Membis?”

  A smiled graced the old man’s weathered face, deepening his wrinkles. “Violet Eyes, is that you?”

  “Aye, Membis, it is I, Dax.”

  “Dax, long time no see. Come, come, let us share a meal. Ghinsu, I do not think you want to fight this man. This is Dax, once Gladiator Prime at Kal-Pharina. Do you still have your axes, Dax?”

  “Aye, and my death-dealers are still sharp,” replied Dax, releasing the young clansman and dismounting from his horse. He stood before the small thin chieftain with his arms on his hips. “You look well, old man.”

  “Old man?” snorted Membis. “Could still give you a good fight, hey?”<
br />
  Dax smiled. “Sure, you could.”

  “Come, come let us share some Daarina. Bring your friends.” The chieftain and Dax disappeared into a large brown canvas tent.

  Zane and Thade dismounted warily. Clansmen glared at the Rhaurns as they moved to the chieftain’s tent. They could feel anger hovering in the air around the clansmen; it was almost palpable.

  Zane and Thade entered the conical tent, thankful it was warm. A small fire had been laid in the middle of the tent and a hole in the peak allowed the smoke to disburse. The flames gave the tent a welcome feel with shadows dancing on the fabric walls. They joined Dax, who sat on a rug opposite the small chieftain.

  “So, what brings you to my Steppes, Dax?” asked Membis, who clapped his hands twice. Before Dax answered, a beautiful young woman entered the tent and poured out drinks into clay goblets.

  “You have not met my youngest, have you, Dax?”

  “Little Oosera?”

  “Aye,” replied the chieftain proudly. He looked at the young woman with love. Oosera looked at her father and smiled, then she bowed and backed out of the tent.

  “My, she was only a babe last time I saw her. Has it been that long?”

  “Yes, many seasons have passed since our paths last crossed.”

  “Too many, my friend,” replied Dax, sipping his drink, enjoying the warm feeling of the strong liquor oozing down his throat.

  “What brings you here?” asked the chieftain again.

  “We are travelling to Kal-Pharina to aid the Chosen.”

  “Three of you? I have been told there is an army of beasts attacking the white city. What can three men like you do? I know you are a great warrior Dax, but only the three of you?”

  “We do not travel alone,” answered Dax, smiling at the chieftain. In the firelight Dax’s smile took on a demonic look, but his mirth showed.

  “So, who are your friends?” asked Membis, turning his gaze upon the two young warriors.

  “Membis chieftain of the Landbow, let me introduce you to Thade. He . . . ”

  “You are Thade the gladiator?” interrupted Membis.

  Thade nodded. He understood the Phadrine language, but found it hard to pronounce.

  “Ah,” replied Membis. “Much coin I have won on you. Dax trained you and I always said you would be Gladiator Prime. I won a gold coin on you, but alas I had to trade it. I did hold it for a while.” The chieftain had a smug expression.

  Thade smiled. “Good,” he said, sipping his drink. Suddenly, burning in his throat grabbed him. He coughed violently as tears welled in his eyes. He never drank much Daarina. He found the taste too sweet, but he had to be polite.

  “And this, Membis, is King Zane of the Rhaurien.”

  “King Zane? Son of Logan?”

  “Yes,” replied Dax proudly.

  Zane grinned his crooked grin. “Greetings,” said the young king.

  “You speak our tongue?”

  “Yes, but very badly,” replied Zane, smiling.

  “Good. Your father camped here when he came to help the Chosen regain his throne. Fine man.”

  “You’ve met my father?”

  “Yes, we drank Daarina together and shared a meal. I liked Logan; a fine man, a good man. I was saddened to hear of his death.” The old chieftain paused. “So, you go and help the Chosen again?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are going to bring an army.”

  “It follows, and will be here just after dawn,” announced Dax.

  “Good,” responded Membis.

  Membis’s daughter returned to the tent, with her another woman bearing trays of food. The men ate a meal of a rich stew with flat bread. Dax spoke and laughed with Membis while Zane and Thade ate in virtual silence. After the meal, Membis enjoyed a pipe and the tent filled with thick, blue smoke that hovered around the guests. The smoke was sweetly scented and not unpleasant for the others. Dax shared the pipe, but Zane and Thade politely refused.

  “So, you are going to help the Chosen against the beast army?” asked Membis.

  “Yes, he is a friend of ours and we help our friends.”

  “That is good to hear. Men should always stand by their friends. Friends are most important. Even one’s wife should be your best friend, for only then will your relationship work and last. Men stand by their wives if they are friends. There are many amongst the Dar-Phadrin who would like to fight alongside the Chosen, but the call to his banner came too late for many of us.”

  “You could travel with us,” offered Dax, looking hard into the chieftain’s eyes.

  “Maybe,” replied Membis, his tone noncommittal. “Please enjoy my tent. I will wake you at dawn.” With that the old chieftain rose and left the three friends alone.

  “Do you think we will get help from him?” asked Thade.

  “Pardon,” said Zane, confused, and Dax explained the conversation he had with Membis as Zane had only caught pieces of the discussion.

  “I hope he has some warriors to spare.”

  “That’s one thing about Membis. He is a man who can surprise you,” said Dax with a wry, childish smirk.

  ***

  The double doors exploded outwards, showering the men with dust and rubble. Commander Fontis was the first to rise to his feet and he bellowed his commands. “Axe-wielders, on your feet, crossbows and spears at the ready!”

  As the dust settled, an eerie howling oozed from the great hall. The crossbowmen primed their weapons and took aim. The men with the lancers raised their weapons, levelled them, and waited for the inevitable attack. At the rear, the others readied themselves to plug any breaches. From the dust, the first Talon Hunter leapt at the men only to be peppered with iron bolts. The crossbowmen rotated. The second beast bounded from the hall and was instantly impaled on several spears. The weight of the dying creature snapped three weapons. Two more Talon Hunters raced from the hall. Both were peppered with crossbow bolts that thudded home. The crossbowmen rotated again.

  A deafening howl blasted from the hall and several more beasts loped out. Crossbow bolts killed one instantly and it lay on the floor with projectiles jutting from its bloodied body. The second beast ran straight onto lances and more of the weapons snapped. Two creatures got through the first two lines of defence. They turned to attack the men, but the axemen behind them buried their blades into the beasts’ exposed backs. More and more beasts ran from the hall. Not until the first Shadow raced from the hall did the first axe-wielder fall. The beast did not last long. The fallen man’s comrades killed it as it delivered the fatal blow.

  A pause in the attack followed.

  Already fifteen beasts lay dead before the axe-wielders and they had lost only three men. Commander Fontis was proud of his men. They had not known what they would face, but none of his men flinched when the first beast charged them. In this moment of quiet, Fontis had more lances brought forward. The howling started in the hall and echoed down the corridors.

  “Prepare lads!” shouted Fontis. “Give them hell!”

  More beasts leapt through the doorway and pounced on the men. More and more creatures charged. Blood started to flow—human blood. Shrill screams echoed along the corridors, bouncing off the bare stonewalls, floor, and ceiling—screams of death.

  ***

  Councillor Rigden made the long journey north across the Rafftonia in pure misery, his mood melancholy. He had to explain to the council how the Rafftons had been defeated. He cursed General Conn and his over eagerness to attack the Rhaurns. Rigden had convinced himself that he had tried to talk the general out of the attack. Then the man had the audacity to die. The carriage lurched and Rigden swore loudly. He travelled in one of the senior officer’s carriages as his own plush carriage had been destroyed when the Rhaurns devastated the Raffton’s camp north of Reach Pass.

  Rigden had coin and so stayed in comfort when the men arrived in towns or villages. Yet during the long journey, he had longed for the city. He longed for his servants, the many baths, the
dining houses, and his women. He was married but like many men in his high position, he had many young mistresses. The councillor had enough coin to keep all of his women happy. But now he returned in shame. He turned the problem over in his mind as they neared the city.

  At dusk, a couple of weeks after the battle at Reach Pass, Councillor Rigden arrived at the city gates. He had not delayed and journeyed straight to his favourite mistress. He arrived at the door and she ushered him in. Shortly, he was soaking in a hot perfumed bath with the woman. Afterwards, she massaged his tired, knotted muscles and then they ate. A few hours before dawn, Rigden left the woman to journey home. There his manservant met him warmly at the door. Rigden did not say anything to the man when questioned, instead walking straight to his room. In silence, he stripped and climbed into bed. He loved his wife, but she lacked excitement. She had blessed him with two fine sons and he was proud of both boys. One had made his way rapidly through the army ranks while the other was in partnership with a trader and their business rapidly grew. His wife stirred, but he turned over to sleep. He would have to face the council and their accusing eyes in the morn.

  Later that morning, Rigden left for the Council House before his wife rose. He could not face her and tell her he had failed. He would see the reaction of the other council members before talking to his wife. He dressed in his blue councillor’s robes with a gold sash tied around the flowing garment at his waist. He stopped at his club and had breakfast. The club was for members only and the price of membership was high. One could not just buy himself membership, as he had to be invited. Only the elite Rafftons were members of this club, the oldest in the country. All of the councillors were members, together with many important traders and senior military men.

  Rigden ate toasted bread sweetened with honey, reading his mail, when a man stood before his table.

  “When did you get back, Rigden?”

  Rigden looked up and smiled without any mirth. “Greetings, Warrell. How are you?”