Deathstalker: Of the Line of Mer

By Christian Bullock

A Necromancer fights for the Celestial Gods and even for all mankind in order to slay the Sentient Evil which is slowly Devouring the World. He will journey the ends of the Earth, the ends of Time, the Realms of Death, and even Beyond the Beyond to bring about a heroic victory for the Age of the Condor. There is a great destiny that awaits him if he has the courage. The Necromancers of the Line of Mer have been waiting for him. Even the magic peoples of the Fey have been waiting for him. The very first thing that he must do is to make a choice...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781304974914

Book preview

Deathstalker: Of the Line of Mer

Deathstalker: Of the Line of Mer

By Christian J. Bullock

Art Work and Illustration by Christian J. Bullock

© 2015 Ozzymodan.  All rights reserved.

2nd Edition

© 2015 Christian J. Bullock.  All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-304-97491-4

Books by Christian J. Bullock:

Fiction

Deathstalker: Of the Line of Mer

To my older brother and my family who were with me from the very beginning and also to those who follow the lights

Contents

Deathstalker: Of the Line of Mer

Maps

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Legend

Maps

Chapter One

Whispers of the East

Bearing witness to the signs he fled east to resolve his troubles.  Instinct and spirit guided him through the vast mountains of the Barbarian Highlands.  His stamina was high as was his emotions.  He would soon reach the mountain, gateway to the Eastern Kingdoms, the farthest anyone from his tribe had gone.  Few of his ancient people had been born with his gift.  It was a hard gift to bear; fewer still of them understood it.

And so he was the Necromancer.  He was a vagabond of a man who deals in dark arts.  Death is his teacher and he its pupil.  He struggled as an adept of the darkness.  And he became the acolyte of a hated god.  A jack of all trades yet master to one.  He learned well from his people but he could not forget how different he was from them.

Climbing the rocks up a steep pass mimicked the struggles he faced through out his life, the up hill climb.  His hemp cloak was torn in many places.  The countless rocks wore not only his clothes but his strength.  The Necromancer’s armor was hidden under his cloak.  As was his two short swords, atheme, and yew wand.  He carried a backpack, quiver of arrows, and a yew bow.  The pack was filled with a water skin, flint, and tinder, many varieties of herbs, bread, corn, and food.  On the side of the pack was a large pocket.  The Death Priest kept four special talismans as well as a vial of poison and a small portion of hypnotic herbs.

To many of his people he was known as a healer of sorts.  One who heals the people and the land if need be.  To the people of the Highlands his kind was called Priests.  To the Barbarians in particular he was called a Death Priest.  One who heals the dying and the dead.  And so he keeps this title where ever he goes in the Barbarian Territories.  In fact they look on his gift as a blessing and ask for his skills to remember the dead.

Reaching a forked path and a small pool of water, the Deathstalker stopped.  Waiting to catch his breath he looked back past his trail to the western horizon.  He had traveled a long way.  He could make out the last village he came through, Highland Way.  It was small, a few hundred people, but they had built cabins just above the tree line.  The smoke of their fires could be seen from miles away.  They also had livestock that were grazing before winter came.

He received his fourth talisman there.  A necklace of ten Wolf Fangs, for five of the Wolves he killed.  The fight had been bloody and some of the mountain people had died.  He had avenged their deaths properly.  The Necromancer had left after the burial of twenty six bodies.  The village had bestowed upon him the title Deathstalker.  For his skill in stalking and killing those who harmed them; the great wolves and their beast master.  It took all his power and cunning to defeat the man eaters.  But now their power is part of his.

He turned back to the crossroads and took out his water skin.  Raising it to his mouth, he took a large sip of the cool refreshing spring water.  The water instantly cured him of thirst and dehydration.  Finished sipping he removed the water skin from his lips and the Ah sound escaped them.  The pool of water on the side of the path suggested that it was a dried up spring.  Crouching down he scooped up some water with his hand and tasted it.  Its crystal clear complexion felt icy on the back of his throat.  Perfectly clean.  Lowering his water skin into the pool, he filled it to the brim.  Slowly he corked it and put it back into his pack.  Unstrapping his pack, bow, and arrows he placed it on a rock and took out from the large pocket the talisman of fangs.  The Death Priest needed direction in this bewildering land.

One could easily lose their way in these Barbarian Highlands.  Paths zigzagged in and out of the land.  He was looking for a particular path that leads to the black mountain.  He had seen the mountain in a meditative state a year ago.  He couldn’t presently see over the cliffs of the mountain he was on.  He would have to find a way to determine which direction he would go.

Sitting cross legged on a boulder at the crossroads, he held the fangs and meditated.  All manner of thoughts passed through him, till finally he was at peace.  He calmed the mind and settled his thoughts.  He had learned to meditate since he was ten years old.  His father was a shaman of his tribe.  His rituals required him to enter a no-mind state.  In such a state one can remember a dream or image, practice a magical action, or become one with the world around them.  The Deathstalker learned to use his power in this state of mind.

While entering the no-mind state, his mind was clear of irritation and emotion.  He conjured up a clear image of that deathly black mountain.  Focused on this one thought he spoke, Show me the gateway you eaters of men.  Immediately he heard footfall coming from the rocks he just climbed.  Several beasts were coming his way.  One, two, no there were five of them.  They didn’t have hoofs but paws.  Scratching and clawing could be heard echoing off rocks and pebbles.  They had claws, large claws.  They were close enough now that he could distinctly hear their breathing, their pants.  A howl rose up in front of him followed by four more.  He opened his eyes to see their ghostly shapes.

Standing before the Necromancer were five great white wolves.  They were a horror to behold in life but in death they were peaceful and would follow any command that he gave.  Rising from his seat he picked up his belongings that lay next to him. 

Lead the way, he said.

Startled with excitement they were ready to lead him anywhere even to the ends of the earth.  With a sniff and a bark they jogged down the left hand pass.

Left, why is it always left? 

He muttered under his breath, while he followed.

His new spirit guides would take him to his destination but he was still troubled by the questions Why?  Memory of one of his old teachers sprang to mind.  He would dwell on these thoughts while he climbed the mountain after the blood hounds.

*****

Sitting cross legged in a makeshift tent the young Death Priest stared into the fire.  His teacher, an old Medicine Man sat to his right.  After a long exhale from the old man’s mouth the tent was swallowed in smoke.  His vision momentarily blurred.  The room was intoxicated by the rich sweet smell of herbs.  The fire flickered and sparked with approval in front of him.  Every second felt like an hour.  While the quiet of dusk stretched on.

The Medicine Man reached out his hand with the pipe.  Breaking concentration with the fire, the young Necromancer nodded in appreciation.  He grasped the smoking pipe in one hand.  Stroked the long stem of the pipe he inhaled.  The herbs burned red.  The young man stopped held his breath.  And then he slowly exhaled the smoke.  It billowed forth in great volumes from his lips.  Breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, he quieted his thoughts.

Closing his eyes the Death Priest saw an image of a mountain.  It was black with ashen soil.  The dormant giant had ridges along its sides.  On one side was the entrance to a cave.  A path could be seen leading to it from a neighboring mountain. On the other side was the cave exit.  There were holes on that side, like little eyes peering out.  The holes looked like doorways and carvings.  Some of the carvings were of images, places, things.  One such carving rose up and was embedded into the wall of the rock, into the mountain.  Concentrating deeply on the image of the mountain, he could make out a rugged path.  It led out into a clearing, out of the mountains.  It went east, far towards the east.

The Necromancer’s eyes blurred while the fire crackled.  Dumbfounded he came back to what he was presently doing.

You have seen something, said the old man.

How did you know, said the Death Priest.

You’re Sweating.

Unnoticed before, sweat was beading off his face.  His hands had the sweaty palms.  Answering his teacher, I did.

It was another sign for you to go and leave your people.

Yes, it was another sign, the young man said.

What did you see?

A mountain, a black mountain in the east.

You have seen the Reaper.

A long silence followed.  This was dire news.  Few have ever had a sign of the Reaper.

You will leave for the mountain.  I have born witness to the signs as well.  Never will you be rid of the Reaper.

I will go east but I fear that I will forever be troubled, said the Necromancer.

Yes, you will be forever troubled, said the medicine man.

You carry a burden, a curse.  Some of our people have had this curse.  Communication with the dead is a sacred and horrible gift.  The voices will never cease.  Their torment and bitter anguish will haunt you.  That is why you must go east.  Why all those with the left hand and the curse go east.  There is evil in the east.  It is there at the Reaper you will make your choice.

What? said the Death Priest.

There is always a choice.  The choice to do what is right.  The choice to give up.  The choice to do wrong.  You must make a choice at the mountain.

I will make a choice.

I believe you will make the right one, said the Medicine Man. But my judgment may be misguided.  Long ago it is remembered that one before made a wrong choice.  Our people suffered for it.  You may return one day to kill me and our tribesmen.

I would never harm our people!

The curse is terrible.  It can flaw your thinking.

Then I shall ignore it, the young man said.

Then madness shall overcome you.  It is a part of you.  You cannot ignore it, said the Medicine Man.

I will remain in the Eastern Kingdoms.

There is evil in the east, it can twist you.  It can break you.  Long ago we fought with the east.  Their ways are not like ours.  We are a peaceful people and live off the land.  They fight for ownership, for power, in order to rule.  They will never stop fighting.  It is in the land, the cruelty.  It is in their minds the hate, the fear, the dissident.  They care little for each other and the land.

How can I choose?

It will be difficult.  Always remember where there is a will, there is a way.  For better or worst, you will make a choice.

Finishing his sentence, the Medicine Man made a clucking noise.  This signaled the end of the conversation.  Easing back into relaxation the two shamans sat there.  He the Necromancer waiting for his teacher to stand up.  His master the elder Medicine Man waiting while impressing upon his student patience.

Chapter Two

Innocence Taken

Scratching and howling like mad, the wolves had found something.  This climb proved more treacherous than previously thought.  The rocks ahead seem to have made a sheer cliff.  With the wind blowing down the pass, a hint of rotten flesh filled Deathstalker’s nostrils.  A dead body lay at the foot of the rock face.

The wolves were pawing and licking the meat off the dead man’s bones when the Necromancer reached them.  They had yet to truly understand the reality of death.  With out physical form they had a limited sense of touch.  Try as they might they could never eat the meat.  The desperation could be heard in their whimpers.

Heal!  Heal and stay!

Moaning the wolves stepped back and sat waiting to continue.  They licked their paws tasting fresh blood.  It had been days ago since they had killed.  They yearned to do so again.  Their new master reeked of death.  He would surly lead them to many cadavers.  Instinct had told them that before long they would get their bloody wish.

Staring curiously into the dead man’s eyes, the Death Priest examined the scene.  Blood covered the cadaver’s face.  He was unrecognizable.  The man had been dead for days.  The blood coagulated and stained the clothes.  His face and body bloated from rigor mortis.  His limbs were twisted and broken from a fall.  His skull was cracked against a razor sharp rock.  The remaining long hair he had was hardly different from the fur coat and boots he wore.  From the clothing and large axe stuck into his broken pack, the Necromancer could easily determine the barbarian gear.

Straitening back up he closed his eyes and listened.  A whispering caught in his ear grew louder.  Focusing he made out the barbarian dialect.  After a few moments the voice was clearly repeating:  I come from my village in the north to kill the evil of the mountain.  I am sorcerer of the mountain people.  I am wielder of blade and fire.  The mountain shall not defeat me.  The evil shall be cleansed.

Bright light shined as he opened his eyes.  Wielder of blade and fire, he quoted.  The Necromancer turned back to the death scene.  He looked over everything, re-examining it.  The great axe looked more detailed after first glance.  It was a very sharp.  The two sided blade was stuck into the rock through the broken pack.  It had a diamond jewel set in its face.  There were runes all over the face on both sides.  The Necromancer wasn’t skilled in writing to read them.  Never the less he knew it was powerful.

Firmly grabbing the axe he drew it from the rock.  It glistened in the sunlight with its deathly beauty.  This true gem was found in the rough.  It would become treasured to any who saw it.  He packed it with great care in his bag.

Curious about more treasures he bent down examining the scattered contents of the barbarian’s broken pack.  There was rotten food of all sorts.  Rope and twine lay unraveled around some broken glass.  Hanging out of one of the pockets lay a dragon figurine.  The great black wyrm had four legs with large claws and two wings that stretched out behind its back.  It also had spines ridged along its neck.  The dragon was made out of Onyx, a stone he had never seen before.  He tucked it into his pack.

A whimpering slowly started from the ghostly wolves.  The Necromancer had seen enough of the debris and of the dead man’s belongings. 

Lead the way up the cliffs, he said.  You harbingers of death.

Barking echoed across the mountain and the scramble to the top ensued.  These few feet were hardest by far.  The rock face was so steep the wolves had to jump from rock to rock.  They could only grab hold of niches, knots, and holes in the wall.  The Necromancer began scaling it with ease.  He had climbed the mountains around the Skull many times.

The Skull was a sacred mountain to his people.  It was the life giver of the land and also their graveyard.  They always buried the dead in the mountain’s ashen white soil.  The dead were given a peaceful resting place.  The volcanic mountain symbolized death.  It would be the people’s cycle of mortality.

After a half hour the Death Priest reached the top of the cliff.  There was a path set into the rock and another pool on the side of it.  Surely this was a spring and waterfall throughout most of the year.  Perhaps when it rained the water would run anew.  Perhaps this might have caused the Barbarian’s fall.  The Necromancer was deep in thought about the death scene. 

Barks and howls boomed over the mountains again.  The wolves didn’t want to stop for a passing thought.  They were on the hunt and on the scent of a few passing footsteps.  He knew not to ignore them.

Haste, go make haste.

He did not want to die the same way as the Barbarian.  It would be dangerous to linger in a mountain pass on a cliff.

Following the blood hounds footfall he climbed out of the pass.  His guides had an excellent sense of direction.  They would not lead him astray.

The wind quickened from a cool breeze to a strong gust.  He held his balance well.  Clutching rocks beneath him, echoes of a rock slide above stirred in his ears.  There wasn’t much time to escape.  The Deathstalker climbed the other side of the cliff into a crevasse with the dead wolves.  The avalanche of rocks ensued.  Pebbles and dirt trickled into the hole.  The cascade of debris lasted ten minutes.  Out on the cliff the sound was defining.

Once the dust cleared, he crawled out of the crevasse.  Most of the rocks went over the cliff and ran down the mountain.  This area had many rock slides in the past.  Water and rock had gone down the pass and over the falls.  A few minutes earlier he would have suffered the same fate as the barbarian.

The Deathstalker didn’t know it at the time but he had escaped the evil of the mountain.  It creeps from the darkest deepest crevasse to the tallest coldest peak.  It was born out of the death of a million.  The dead fueled its hatred of man by their anguish and suffering.  Possessing the darkest of magic’s, it would undoubtedly consume all of mankind unless fate proved otherwise.

Looking to the eastern horizon he saw the black ashen soil of the Reaper.  It rose up from the middle of a vast range and a clearing lay at its base.  Ridges could be seen on the side as well as the path and the cave.  He had a few hours before it became dark.  The day would be over but it would take him another day to reach the cave.

Whistling he called the wolves over to him.  The man eaters hurried to his side.  Find me a way down the other side to the tree line.  I must make shelter before nightfall, said the Death Priest.

Growling in approval the wolves began skewering the mountain side.  Each went in a different direction.  They sniffed the ground looking for a scent, a direction to get down the mountain.

The Necromancer followed the largest of the wolves, the alpha male of the pack.  Slowly they started to find a way down to the trees.  Dark clouds were rolling in above.  It was about five o’clock when the first drops came down.  Shelter would be vital to survive in this part of the wilderness.  The Dark Shaman hurried to build his make-shift shelter.  He called the beasts to bring him dry fire wood.  While they did that he took the great axe and cut down some small trees.  He cut the branches off and stored them for fire wood.  Then he arranged the logs between two boulders and a large tree.  He built the logs on an angle creating a shingle for rain to run off of.  The Necromancer then put leaves and brushes on the shingle.

Crack, Crack.  Boom!!!  The storm broke over head and torrential rain poured down on the mountains.  The Dark Shaman’s shelter protected the fire wood that he would need at night and in the early morning.  He lay dry beneath the shingle with his pack, bow, quiver, and armor, suspended above the wet ground.  Lightning flashed in the distance.  As quickly as it started it was over.  A break in the clouds after a half hour put him at ease.  A darkening sky through the gaps in the clouds meant that the sun was setting and the night would follow.

Aching in his stomach was from malnourishment and not eating all day.  The Death Priest immediately started collecting rocks.  These small rocks would be used at the base of his fire.  They would heat up and give him warmth while he slept.  Taking the flint and some tinder out of his pack, he struck it against his double edged knife, his atheme.  It sparked and crackled, the fire was set.  He placed the lit tinder under some dry twigs.  Cradling the fire from the mountain breeze, he blew slow and steady breaths, igniting more of the wood.  The fire grew big enough for large logs and it would burn for hours.

The Necromancer looked in his bag at his food reserve.  He ate a bit of the bread and saved the rest.  There was corn that he would eat tonight, some jerky, some dried meat, some cake, and some dried fruit.  He would need most of the food for later on his journey.  The black mountain might not have much game or fruit plants.  He made up his mind.  He was going to hunt tonight.

The Deathstalker tied his necklace of fangs around his neck again.  Then whistled and called the pack.  They came to him after a few minutes.  He took off his hemp cloak while he waited for them.

Pawing the ground in front of him, they had snuck out of the shadows.  Their fur was ghostly white by the light of the fire.  Aid me tonight in my hunt for meat.  I need all your skill as well as a bit of luck if we are to succeed.  Lead the way white wolves of death.  The wolves were all too happy with his request.  They licked their lips and ran off into the night.  The Necromancer armed himself with his two short swords, yew bow, and quiver of arrows.  Then he followed their trail into the darkness.

The fire crackled and burned in front of him.  The rabbits that he ate were good but small.  He would be hungry in the morning and it couldn’t be helped.  The bones were left for the wolves to naw on.  The satisfaction of some kill burned inside all night.

Then he took from his pack a yew wand.  It was used for rituals in summoning and controlling the dead.  He had used it against the Beast master and his wolves.  The villagers killed by them were turned.  He the Necromancer had turned them in order to fight.  The Ghouls fought their killers and had won.  This was all thanks to a little girl named Kali. 

She had red hair, blue eyes, and fair skin.  She was an innocent a month ago till her death. She had always talked nonchalantly to him.  He supposed that it is a gift of youth to be so open minded and curious. 

Oh Kali why did it have to come to this?

He thought to himself.

Why do bad things happen to good people?

She was thirteen when she died.  Her killer had left her dead body in the brush.  It was a horror to behold.  The Necromancer’s thoughts dwelled on his travels.

*****

Weeks ago the Necromancer left the mountain Toruk.  It bordered four regions and was in the middle of his known world.  The lake at its base offered him fresh fish for his trek.  The game hunting was difficult in these parts because of the Barbarian people.  They were big game hunters and also gatherers but were beginning to settle the land.  Farming and cattle raising were recently the new way of life.  The Barbarian people were rugged and tough.  They learned this life by long years of suffering at the hands of the east.  Once conquered long ago they were ruled by the Eastern Shadow.  Previously nomadic they learned metal working and farming under the new rulers.  But like many things of this world knowledge of the past fades into time.

The Barbarian Territories are a lawless land where the warrior code is bent or broken at times.  Foreigners aren’t always welcomed to come and go.  Most tribes and villages keep to themselves.

The Sun shined high in the noon sky.  The wind blew a gentle breeze from the southeast.  Green grass grew high in places as well as brush.  Trees rustled in the breeze around the clearing.  Different types of dwellings made of wood dotted the clearing.

The Necromancer had found his way into a Barbarian village.  He was thirsty, hungry, and tired after living deep in the wilderness.  The furs he brought would sell well and give him a friendship to stay a few nights.

Swiftly he walked to the meeting house which was designated by the tribal signal.  Half way there he was greeted by a posse of warriors.  They stared him down and grunted at him.  Axes large and small were waved in front of him blocking his way.  The Necromancer made a Barbarian greeting and called to them.  I come to trade and I wish to speak to your chieftain.

They laughed at him.

You look out of place and lost, the leader of the posse said.  Your people wander the plains to the west.  Go back to them.

I am on a Spirit Walk and must go east.

One of them laughed again and made a hand gesture as an insult.

Your silly ways don’t concern us.  You don’t have any business being on our lands.

The Necromancer responded.  I have been to Barbarian villages before in friendship.  Those that I have met have never insulted me as you have.

He had learned in the past that those Barbarians’ that fear intrusion will act on rage and kill.  Also a posse of warriors is dangerous in these parts.  Barbarians love to intimidate.  They all enjoy a good pissing contest from time to time.  This posse seemed all too much in the mood for one.

With the wave of a hand gesture he said, Yet your rudeness is not unheard of or inexperienced.  Step aside or be beaten aside.

Slightly shocked the leader re-doubled.

What? You are a mere boy.  The six of us are grown men, larger than many others of our tribe.  You would fall so quickly even by just one of us.

The others chimed in.

A sulky looking one roared, I could beat you.

Another said, I could crush you.  Even the smallest of them coyed, I just might break every bone in your body.

The Necromancer laughed deeply with a fierce grin on his face.  

Oi, the boy is laughin’ is he!

Yeah what’s so funny little man, the smallest said.

First off you perceive little and you even admit to knowing little about my people.  Second you think you’re the brutes of this village.  So you think you run the place which means that when I beat you there won’t be anyone for me to answer to.  Thirdly six is an evil and unlucky number and I’m gonna beat the snot outta your evil and unlucky asses. 

They looked pissed especially the sulky one.  The leader was already making the first move.  He swung wildly with his axe. 

You get out of here now or we will make your life a little harder, he said.

Cursing the Necromancer pulled off his hemp cloak in a snap and drew his two short swords.  The fight was on.

The sulky one swung at his head first.  He was probably the most fearful and dumbest one.  The Necromancer ducked under the big battle axe.  Then he stabbed the Barbarian in the gut.  The sword stuck there for a few minutes with blood dripping down his shirt.  The sulky one gasped at what transpired. 

Standing before him was a menacing young man.  His face was as grim as the armor that he wore.  There were bones embedded into the metal.  On the Necromancer’s left hand was a black and white Bear Claw.  Its tips were razor sharp and they glistened in the light on the hand that held the sword in place.  The brute swung the axe again but weakly.  The Necromancer blocked it with his right sword and disarmed him by cutting off his arm with his left hand sword.  With the sword removed the sulky man bled badly.  The Necromancer immediately followed up by stabbing the heart with his right hand sword.  The sulky one gasped one last time staring at the right hand which had a claw of human fingers.  On each finger was a metal razor blade.  It looked to be a mutilated hand from a corpse.  Momentarily he glanced at the Necromancer’s face then died. 

The others watched as this played out.  Their turn to fight was soon to come.  Of the five that were left, a braided hair one and the smallest one stepped up.  They swung high and low.  The braided one had a war hammer that looked heavy.  The smallest one had two smaller axes. 

The Necromancer ducked and rolled left avoiding axe and hammer.  The hammer came again this time horizontally nearly hitting the Death Priest.  Axe blades flashed and metal clashed as the Necromancer blocked and parried the blows.  The war hammer flew again this time at his head.  The braided one grunted as spit flew from his mouth.  The Necromancer blocked then stabbed.  The left hand sword sliced into the Barbarian’s arm.

Cursing and moaning in pain the braided one whipped the hammer into the Necromancer’s side marking the armor.  There was no time to think there only was time to react.  The Necromancer’s armor cracked at the blow but he parried two more axe strikes.  The hammer plunged at him again.  This time it was straight ahead nearly knocking him over.  Then the Necromancer struck the hammer down with his strong left hand sword.  His right sword acted on its own.  He sliced across the on coming Barbarian’s throat to finish him.

Spinning on the spot the Necromancer caught the smallest off guard.  Once again he sliced like a whirlwind of death.  His swords cut wounds into his opponent.  The smallest had a weak swing but got caught by the blades of the swords.  The Necromancer acted swiftly for the finishing move knocking him back with a swift front kick.  With the opponent dazed the Necromancer stabbed with his right hand sword delivering the death blow.

Blood covered his armor.  The Necromancer looked like a red, white, and black monstrosity.  There was no fear in him.  His eyes bulged as he surveyed the remaining three.  His expression remained grim. 

They cussed at him, screaming profanity.  The rest of the village was quiet and seemingly empty.  Seconds quickly passed by till the fight began again.  Two of the Barbarians charged him both of them with two handed battle axes.  They moved wildly around him circling and striking.  The leader howled with delight watching and cussing. 

The Necromancer blocked and parried then ducked.  It was difficult to strike one down while they countered.  The strength of his left hand had notched the handle and blade of both axes.  The Barbarians circled and struck again.  This time they were knocked back by a front and side kick. 

The Necromancer screamed a war cry that was more beast than man.  It was loud enough to stir the birds from the trees.  The Barbarians were stricken with fear frozen for a few minutes.  Then the Necromancer struck the man at his right with renewed ferocity.  He charged so hard that the Barbarians backpedaled to keep a distance between them.  Blow by blow he wore them down.  He cut more notches into their axes with each passing strike.  The fatal blow was inevitable.  Slicing blades struck high and low.  The Barbarian was beheaded and maimed.  A raw mass crumpled to the ground. 

A hand axe caught the Necromancer’s eagle eye and he deflected it with his right sword.  The Necromancer dropped one of his swords in the fray.  Now with one sword left he had to act quickly.  The Necromancer rushed the last of the posse with two hands on his sword he slashed blocking the axe then thrusting the sword through his opponent.  Silently still holding the handle he kicked and released his sword from the body.  Another loud war cry echoed over the landscape.

The Necromancer took out his Yew Wand and shouted, Awake again you brutes!  Your new master has called you.  Awaken!  The gory remains of the posse started to move.  Eyes rolled inside their heads as they startled.  The sulky one and braided one both got up.  Their eyes and faces looked different, they looked hungry.  The pupils of their eyes were tiny and the whites of their eyes were red blood shot.  The other bodies got up even the one without a head.  Beckoning them with hideous speech the Necromancer chimed, Your posse is now my posse Barbarian.

It all happened so fast and unnoticed by the leader of the posse.  The Necromancer had killed all the Barbarians with his right hand.  The talisman of death fingers had been worn on that hand.  He had the secret power to turn with it.  And so he turned the posse into Ghouls.  Driven to eat flesh the dead they eyed their former leader.  The urge to kill and destroy over powered them.  The fight was on.

The Barbarian took out a second axe from his back.  Unlike the others the leader had the spoils from wining other fights.  A small helm with runes set on it.  He had a breast plate and chain mail with fur embedded into it.  His black leather gloves tightened around his axes.  He had a Jewel Stone hanging from his neck.  The Jewel had a tribal symbol on it.  The leader’s beard was long dark and coarse.  He had a hardened face but his smile and grin were unnerving.

The Barbarian’s eyes were wide with rage and fear as he charged.  One Ghoul was immediately cut down.  It had gashes on its chest and black blood flowed all around it.  The Ghoul continued to grope at the leader even on the ground.  Its hands tugged on his pants, holding him stationary.  A headless Ghoul grabbed him too.  It clawed at his armor searching for skin.

The leader cut the headless Ghoul’s hands off in a snap and then he dismembered the one on the ground.  Slicing and dicing both Ghouls in a few blinks.  Their bodies now lay dead. 

A second later the skilled Barbarian was throwing axes at the Necromancer.  Small sharp projectiles were missing the Necromancer’s head.  The Death Priest ducked as more axes were flying at him.  Two axes struck him, one in the ribs and one in the hand.  The axe that struck his rib had drawn little blood since his armor protected him.  The axe that hit his hand had shattered the Yew Wand in it.

Suddenly the Ghouls turned toward him.  They bore their teeth and growled at him.  The tables had turned because without the Yew Wand the Necromancer would be unable to control the Ghouls.  Ghouls are mindless dead bodies that are instinctively violent.  These two of the posse were ready to explode into bloodlust of destruction.

Fighting them off the Necromancer struck the Ghouls with a kick and a slash.  The Ghouls stayed their ground as if they were made of stone.  Their bodies hardened by rigor mortis. 

The Barbarian was no where to be found.  He had slipped away from the fight as quickly as he threw axes.  His cowardice was still evident even now.

The Necromancer had never faced Ghouls before.  He had only recently learned to control them.  One of his old teachers had taught him how.  Using the dark magic required for making them was easy but relinquishing the magic was not known to him.  The heart and head were always vital to survive but he had seen Ghouls walking as the undead without the two body parts.  Perhaps by breaking and severing limbs he could undo the magic that bonded them.

With a plan in mind the Necromancer knocked back the Ghouls with kicks to the head.  Formulating his next attack he caught hold of a Barbarian axe lying on the ground.  Gripping it in his right hand and holding his sword in his left hand, he started up his whirlwind of death.  Spinning between both Ghouls the Necromancer was slicing off limbs like a mad man.

His cuts were deep and precise.  The bodies now lay over the field.  Blood covered him head to toe.  The Barbarian posse died there unrecognizable and nameless.  The dark magic that bound them was cut.

There were eyes watching him now from each of the cabins.  The village was not empty as he had thought.  Doors opened on many of the cabins and people came out.  Men, women, and children were staring at him from their homes; they looked peaceful.  Some of them cried out with joy when they saw the Death Priest, others cried with fright.  Two men came up to him and greeted him.  They were not warriors but farmers.  They said to him, We heard your cries and watched you fight.  You have killed the Whisper Wind Posse.  They were the six evil murderers that killed our Chieftain and claim our village as their territory.  They killed our elders who were the law keepers of the area but now you have saved us. 

Indeed six was their number but one got away, the Necromancer said.

It was their leader Kalmar the greedy.  He is the one that escaped you.  You must kill him for us; he must pay for his crimes.  Please bring justice to our village, Death Priest, we need it.  Kalmar is too much for us.  He stole something from one of the elder Shamans.  It is called the Stone of Quickness.  Please bring it back to us so that another Shaman can be chosen.

Is that what gives the wicked speed?

Aye, he’s had it for months.  Since the day he poisoned the Chieftain.  We’ve been unable to stop Kalmar’s evil deeds, said the other farmer.  We have been hidden in our cabins ever since.

So I see, said the Necromancer.

Will you stop Kalmar?

I have come to your village to trade and to have a warm meal.  But now I see that I was lead here by the Spirits for a purpose.  I will slay this Kalmar and set things right with the Stone.  The Spirits wish it so it must be done.

Thank you Death Priest, we are in your debt!  Is there anything that we can do for you?

I am actually on a Spirit Walk to the east.  When my tasks are done here I will move on where ever the Spirits guide me.  No I cannot stay here long but you may be able to help me trap this Kalmar.

*****

Her body was broken and twisted.  Her face had shown of anguish at the moment of death.  She looked to be living her thirteenth year.  A child in these parts but would have been on the verge of womanhood.  She had endured the struggle before death.

The place where she drew her last breath was in a clearing of trees southeast of the Barbarian village.  The grass grew high, green, and yellow.  The cadaver lay exposed to birds circling above.  Strange flowers bosomed on a hill, like a beautiful headstone.  She would not be buried here.

The Necromancer took some of his Bison furs and made a sack out of them.  He slipped it over her body and carried her in it.  He would carry her body back to the village; back to her family. 

The trees grew wild in the Barbarian Territories.  They formed old forests that stood for generations and some for older than that.  This place was home to many animals. 

As the Death Priest walked with her remains he heard the birds calling each other and the wind rustle the trees.  These woods were known for the great Grizzly Bear and also for the lesser Bears.  With the bird calls it felt dangerously peaceful.  The Dark Shaman knew that the dulling of senses leads to the ignorance of a wild forest.

Coming upon a game trail the Necromancer paused checking the tracks to see if he is alone.  The chirping of birds fluttered and stopped.  The calls were coming above him.  The tracks he was looking at went northeast to southeast.  The marking would have been made by Deer probably an hour ago.  Sensing that the coast was clear he made his way northwest.  It would be two hours before he made it back to the village with her.

After coming to a rock marker he made to find his way back he heard laughing.  Are you always this quiet while in the company of others, said a voice.

Someone was here with him.  He straightened his back and drew out a small throwing axe that was one of the ones that were thrown at him.

Who’s there?

You know who is there, said the voice.

You know who, he thought.  What kind of response was that? 

I do not know you, he said.