Midnight Meeting

[McIan]

“All right, listen! I’ve had just about enough of this…”

“Stink?”

The two voices overlapped. They came from two men, Yewians, who sat together at a table with four others like them: farmers and former militia of the same town. The flickering candlelight in the center of the table cast a warm amber glow on their facial features: furrowed brows, pursed lips, creased foreheads and anger-filled eyes. One of them, the first speaker, Bryant, had called the meeting in his home, having sent his wife and children to bed.

“Look, nobody thus far has been able to do a thing with that… thing! I heard it nearly killed the former captain warden. Throwing rocks and rotten fruit is a joke; the stink it exudes is worse that even that!” One of the men, Renald, remarked.

“So what?!” Bryant countered. “He was just one man. I bet six or more of us could take the thing out nicely. What say you all?”

One of the others snorted. “I am no warrior. I could bring my pitchfork but don’t expect me to get in too close.”

“It has been keeping orc incursions out, or at least at bay,” a farmer, Kenan, commented favorably. “I haven’t seen any near the outskirts of the town for months.” He kept his calloused hands clasped together, on the table.

All eyes focused their utter disdain upon him. Cowed, he fell silent, lowering his head.

“So, who is with me?” Bryant challenged.

None of them spoke or moved.

“Nobody?! Surely one of you has the spine for it! Or am I right in finally seeing you all for the sniveling cowards you really are?!”

At that, several grumbled their displeasure, scowling at him.

“Okay, okay, I’m afraid! We all are! But what kind of men would we be if we kept hiding in our homes at night?”

“Alive,” Kegan bravely responded. “Better alive than dead. I have a family to feed.”

Bryant threw a dirty glare his way. “We ALL do Kegan! That is the whole point! Our freedom is gone, at night leastways, our wives and children are afraid, and one never knows when or where that thing will show up next!”

“Just follow the smell,” a man named Justin joked. “Easy enough.”

“That’s not funny! Can we not focus on solutions? I say we go out, find this thing, and beat it into a pile of rot!” Bryant stood up and pounded the table. “Who is with me?”

Silence.

“I will,” he heard a voice behind him. It was his wife, Faron. “Since none of these “men” have the guts to go with you, I will,” she added. “If you die in the attempt, then so will I.”

Shamed and embarrassed, the group of men stood up almost as one and filed out of the house.

A tear collected in Bryant’s eye but he pushed it back; he never cried for anything or anyone, but when he saw her face set in stone to do what grown men refused to do, it was too much. “So be it then. Let us prepare ourselves.”

 

[McIan]

Through Flaming Eyes

It’s eye sockets remained darkened until it was “awakened” by nightfall. Then they glowed with crimson flame, and the creature’s lethargic immobility ended. Now activated, the zombie strode silently and steadily out of the Yew crypts, where it resided during the daylight hours.

It had no idea of its own existence, no sense of self-preservation, no moral code or sensibilities that would impede or restrain the predetermined goals set by its master or masters. In this case, it was given three: patrol at random Yew and environs, defend itself to the degree necessary to preserve itself intact, and return to the crypts before daybreak.

When straying Orcs saw it, they naturally attacked it at first. When their corpses began piling up around it, and they hammered it down to a pile of putrefaction only to see it again a day later, they gave up. They retreated from the border of Yew believing it was some human or elf ploy to exterminate them. When people attacked, it was usually from a distance and it returned in kind, forcing them to flee in pain and agony, and not only from its potent spells; the stench it could emit was vile and caustic, nearly unbearable to the delicate olfactory senses of animals, humans, or elves.

It carried with it a number of items it held in life: mage books, supplies given it by its masters: potions, scrolls, etc., contained in a rotting leather bag. It also carried a book inscribed by its greatest enemy: Thanatar the Great. It read:

“I, Thanatar the Great, have bound thee thus. Ye shall be my servant for all time. I will allow you the freedom to move and do as my nature bids thee. Ye shall seek the servanthood of any who practice the dark arts and serve them as ye would me. Ye can never be changed so seek it not. Thy rotting body shall be a testimony to all those who strive to attain my greatness or interfere with my plans. Go now and wander the lands as my undead minion of evil.”

It had no memory of Thanatar, its former nemesis, or its own name, not because that was ages ago but due to the nature of the binding. It could not remember that it lost a duel to that powerful arch mage and the result was this curse, or that Thanatar had destroyed himself long, long, ago presumptuously seeking forbidden, dark, arcane knowledge. It did not know how it came into the possession of many powerful necromancers, who lived and died as its masters, or that the one now who controlled it overall, was one named Damian Racsen. It cared for none of these things. It simply was.

Upon exiting the crypt, it sensed the presence of humans, four of them, but it did nothing as it turned to stalk toward Yew.

* * *​

Amazingly enough Bryant and Faron had been joined by two others who had left the meeting that night. They returned later as the two were arming themselves and doing a little martial practice, and were well received. Fortified with ale, well armored and armed, they set out toward the Crypts before evening, knowing from reports that it was at least one of its daylight lairs.

The sun was setting as they arrived, weapons and shields ready. “It should be appearing soon,” Bryant predicted. “Many have seen it come from this place but always at evening, as the sun was setting. We dare not go in there as the undead are too many and it is its own grounds. We will post ourselves here. Remember two in front and two in back; if one misses, another shall hit.”

* * *​

As the zombie walked along in rambling style, the first of many blows struck it from behind from swords and a club. These hits did little to damage it; its long-dead flesh as tough as leather, and its bones as unyielding as chainmail… and that did not count for its own panoply which never seemed to wear down. The eye sockets flared and pain spikes flashed into the bodies of its tormentors. They reeled, crying out, but it only seemed to anger them more. Bryant swung his sword, trying to decapitate the thing, only to have it blocked by the shield it carried. At the same time, Faron and the two others, Kegan and Justin, tried to clip it at the ankles. One missed and the other deflected by armor.

It tried to continue walking, to evade them, but they were committed, resolute, and now angry, having failed to inflict any real damage. They moved in close, trying to ensure that every blow struck well. And that proved their undoing.

“Kal Vas An Flam! Kal Vas An Flam! Kal Vas An Flam!”

The series of chilling blasts of deathly cold enveloped the foolhardy attackers, first freezing them in place and then penetrating their armor into their quite mortal bodies.

Bryant and Faron fell down at once, dying. Keegan and Justin, badly damaged and now terrified beyond words, dropped their weapons and fled, coughing and gasping for breath.

​

The battle was over. Calling upon its innate life soaking powers, what little life remained in the two drained away, being absorbed into the magic force animating it, to be used later as needed. Completely detached from what had just occurred, the zombie resumed its journey toward Yew in obedient pursuit of its masters’ desires.