Fear No Evil
Believing her faith will prevail against insurmountable odds, a Holy Cleric recruits three strangers to battle and destroy a vindictive, psychopathic Necromancer and his Undead Army. But first, they must survive the horrors of the Stinking Swamp!
Foreword
The year was 2203, an age of transformation. In eons past, science and technology had been underdeveloped and dangerous: a highly skilled craft in denial by the willfully ignorant. The idea of mysticism and magic had also been the bane of the skeptical and the superstitious. Humanity sharing a world with mighty ice-breathing dragons, dumb giants, foul trolls, cruel goblins, and other nebulous, nightmarish creatures that only the imagination could conjure, forced them to believe and accept their fate as nothing more than monstrous fodder. But the primitives evolved and the population grew. Civilizations were built, societies and governments were formed, education and religion became valued commodities, and appropriate laws were enacted. Progress was inevitable and hearts and minds were changing.
Second Chance Necromancer
“From dust to bone, from bone to flesh, and finally-- flesh to life!” The dark sorcerer spoke in the tongue of the dark arts, naturally. The pile of ashes shifted and moved and spread thin across the coverlet. A brilliant, yet ominous flash occurred to form a skeletal figure, and then another flash to construct a fully formed man. The raven on his shoulder sang a short tune. The sorcerer threw a black robe over the naked body.
They were inside on the top floor of a tower. Candlelight and torchlight fought against the darkened room. A clock tick-tocked somewhere below. The bald, overweight man on the four-post bed lay still for five full minutes. In his fine silk vermillion robes, the sorcerer watched with bated breath while musky incense burned. A chorus of frogs croaked outside.
He knew he was a capable magic user, more than capable. Still, his sorcerous abilities had all been wasted with the effort of the spell. Did he do something wrong? No, the verbose invocation and his stiff, jerky motions were correct and his very expensive diamond atomized at the conclusion of the spell.
The man on the bed inhaled strongly and blinked several times. He awoke to a dusty, sparse bedchamber. The firelight was blinding at first, but then his eyesight adjusted. Low shadows fell on the drab stone walls. A single macabre painting decorated the room, portraying massive armies at battle; trolls, and nastier things feasting on men, swollen tongues red with blood. It was an atmosphere of dread anxiety, a milieu of hidden agendas and terrible secrets. He gazed into black beady eyes under a greasy widow’s peak. “What happened? Who are you?” asked the fat man with fleshy jowls and missing teeth.
“Who I am is unimportant,” said the mystery man. “Besides, you’ll figure it out in due time.”
Any previous existence of a spiritual Flyz under the layers of Ayetch would be expunged in his current state or otherwise, his brain would've been scrambled to the point of no return-- the infernal trauma on a human mind too devastating to bear. It is no accident that some memories were meant to be forgotten.
At the man's feet lay an ordinary gray cloth bag, appearing ordinary but also deceiving the eye. It was a Bag of Tricks containing a single furry ball and when released became a slinky, sneaky weasel. A magical rodent he could order to do his bidding and go anywhere he could not. It had the advantage of moving stealthily and seeing in darkened rooms. Its usual orders were to steal secreted documents, valuable gems, or religious idols after setting off hidden traps, something it had done before he cast the resurrection spell. And if it died during its current mission he could summon another one within a day.
A raven danced on his shoulder. A golden pendant with a rune inscribed in the shape of a stylized capital H hung low around his neck. It represented the Ayetch, the Land of the Underworld.
"Now, what is the last thing you remember?”
Flyz ran a hand over his bald pate. “Why do you care? What difference does it make?” He shifted onto his elbows.
“I want assurance that I brought back the right man.”
“If I had my books and rings, you would know,” he threatened grouchily.
The sallow cheeked sorcerer sighed. He hadn’t realized how arrogant Flyz could be. “Well, that’s a start, but I want proof.”
The Mad Necromancer thought back to his past life. His innate knowledge about the cultures of the world, and his advanced degrees in medical science. Then later, his growing callousness for living things, and his unfinished business with conquering the lands of Credomia-- all his misdeeds and wicked ideologies. “I remember being attacked by Sir Lurid and his allies in my hideout on the last day of my life. Where is that sacrosanct bully?”
“Ah, I’m afraid he met his end years ago fighting MUM.”
"Years ago?" He pondered this for a moment, then asked, "What's MUM?"
“Mechanical Unit-- Monstrous. But back to the subject at hand. I assume you still want vengeance on the citizens of Vradenburg.”
Flyz rolled and sat up. “Oh, yes. Yes! Indeed! The time has come for my revenge!” He got dressed, adorning the black robe like a shroud of death.
“Correct. And you will have it as long as you obey me,” said the haughty sorcerer.
“Obey you? Ha! You’re nothing but a stick figure! A scarecrow!”
“Ah, your defiance is as present as ever, but before you get too personal you should know that I hold a poisonous dagger.” His demeanor was flippant and irritating.
“I have heard these threats before and a dark sorcerer, such as you will not sway me.” Now he stood and faced him. The raven chirped.
The Dark Sorcerer taunted him, saying, “Dear, Flyz Grimgland, what you fail to understand is that I hold power over you. I am not one of your hunchbacked servants you can kill on a whim, nor am I,” he paused, “gods forbid, one of your failed experiments gone awry.”
The former surgeon was hedging his bet that the sorcerer would not have the unmitigated gall to kill him so soon after resurrecting him. “We shall see about that!” he proclaimed as he lunged toward the tall, lanky, and nameless aristocrat.
Suddenly, the raven shape changed into a frosty blue bat-winged imp and froze him where he stood. It grunted, leered at Flyz, and spoke in long incomprehensible sentences through needle-sharp fangs. “Burron roarn unbrine sangbigsine hagemeg?” It was a strange, hollow timbre.
Translation: “Master, do you want me to finish the job?”
“No, of course not, Thromog. I will be fine. Back to my shoulder.”
It switched languages. “Too bad. The mortal would’ve made a magnificent addition to my collection.” Subsequently, the Imp transformed into a raven and perched itself again on his thick woven robe.
The Dark Sorcerer, nay, the Demonologist now said, “I may be drained of my magic, but my familiar is not. So please think before you act. For I alone can send you back from whence you came!” He exuded a persuasive act of means, an air of snobbery. A courtly, if not noble style.
Frozen, Flyz shivered through his teeth, “I sh... sh... should’ve kno... known you were... were a de.. deceitful wa... orr... lock. Y... you have my un... di.. di.. divided... ded attention... tion.”
“Good. Because someone of my stature deserves it. Now, if you calm down we can discuss my agenda and your mission in relative tranquility, yes?”
Flyz tried to nod. He would think twice before attempting that again.
“As I was saying, it took a long while before I could procure your ashes, unsure that they even existed. Then to store them in complete secrecy until the time was right. I sought you out, especially for your lack of empathy for your fellow man and your talents in toiling with the Undead. Your name and reputation still frighten the local populace, you know.”
A thought entered his mind. “How zzz long...”
“How long have you been gone? Alas, that was seventy-seven years ago.”
“Not... zzthat.. long.”
“I suppose not.. for a Necromancer.”
“Wha.. where am I? It's quiet, too quiet."
"Castle Zungal. Or what's left of it." The castle was an ancient ruin in the middle of unpopulated swampland. That was good, for Necromancers lived solitary lives.
"I knowzz.. it! I wazzsn't b.. b.. born yesterday."
He smiled wickedly because the joke was palpable, though one could surmise he was reborn moments ago. “This will be your home for now. I will provide you with funds and hire you a lackey or two to begin your new campaign of terror. Understand?”
Flyz grimaced at him in acknowledgment. “I under.. zzstand the positions of hie.. hierarchy.” Eventually, this fop of a magician would be another victim to add to his kill list.
“After that, you’re on your own. I cannot be associated with you in any way. And if you betray my good faith, my trust-- ”
“Y.. you.. can’t threaten me with death, szz.. sorcerer. That would be counterintuitive.” The imp’s hex was fading fast.
“No, I can’t, but I can withhold all my considerable resources and support. Equipment, supplies, bodies, and magical artifacts.”
“Bo.. bodies, you say. My interest is pi.. piqued.” He crossed his arms over his chest and began to rub warmth into them.
“Good. But, for now, you have a new purpose,” he flourished, spreading his arms wide. “Do my bidding and Vradenburg will be yours to command!” He began to instruct Flyz and outline battle plans for the near future.
Almost three and a half years had passed when the Mad Necromancer requested an audience with his superior through one of his graverobbing lackeys. He had known who he was for several months but he had yet to meet him since his resurrection. It was time for a final ultimatum. Either help him to conquer Vradenburg or he would reveal who he really was to the king. Flyz waited for a response in his laboratory conducting experiments.
The Demonologist appeared within a circle of teleportation in the courtyard later that day. He marched into the southwest tower through the hidden trap door and into the secret lab below. He noticed the Necromancer was as obese as ever, the puffy bags under his eyes weren’t from lack of sleep. “What do you want, you spineless worm ?” He was furious.
Flyz was caught mixing liquid reagents and he noticed that the Demonologist had left his damn bird behind. “I want what I always wanted. What you promised me. I have studied Neodeth and I have created an army one hundred strong. Now fulfill your side of the bargain, Warlock.”
He was too calm. Too measured from his previous encounter, thought the Demonologist. A shiny silver necklace dangled from Flyz, illuminating his robe. It ended in a sideway eight symbol, a sigil representing infinity-- or immortality. “I will. But I need more time.”
The Necromancer swished his beaker and then put it down. “It’s been three years. No more excuses.” His patience was not a virtue.
The Demonologist had one more trick up his sleeve. He walked over to the far side of the room and opened a panel hidden high on the wall. He pushed a button, the brick split into a rectangular shape, and a gilt-laden mahogany coffin rumbled forth. An ornate lid was firmly set on top with the design of a snake eating its own tail protruding outward.
“What!?” Flyz said incredulously. “What is this?”
He gave him a sly look. “This will be your life insurance. So if you die your soul will be transferred into a new body.”
“You’re talking about a clone?”
“Yes! I can create a clone of you, though I’ll need an hour, an expensive diamond, and a pound of your flesh.”
“Then you shall have it, by the Dark Gods!”
“Good, good.” He wrung his hands out of habit. “But be warned. It won’t look like much at first; basically a mass of organs and skin. But give it a few months and as long as you don’t interrupt it, it should be perfectly fine. In fact, I can make it look a decade younger!”
“Fantastic!” This was the greatest news he had heard all year. “However, this doesn’t let you off the hook. I want more equipment and tools to rebuild the castle. I also want more gold and the ring I ordered.”
The Demonologist stared at him intensely knowing full well that he would always be three steps ahead of his subordinate. “All will be yours, shortly. Just remember to stick to our plan. You don’t attack until the sixth day of Ezangy, when the moon is dark. Or have you forgotten?”
“I haven’t forgotten anything!” he lied. “I said I would follow your orders. At least until I have the upper hand and become your master.” Flyz’s shoulders arched and his fingers stiffened in a clutching pose.
Now the Demonologist crossed his arms and his features became stern. “That won’t happen. Try as you might, but you will never surpass my prowess.”
“Mayhap this is true, but I can make your life a living...”
“No, you cannot! I can still lock you away and torture you until you decide to cooperate. Surely a fate worse than death.”
“This is not a stalemate then,” Flyz conceded. He was slowly losing his mind not being in control and he would have to wait longer than expected to become more powerful than the skinny, arrogant Demonologist. A day that he thought couldn’t come soon enough.
“Careful, Flyz, or your hubris will lead to your final embarrassment.”
He laughed. “That’s funny because I have no shame.”
“Hmm, I suppose you’re right about that.”
So both men agreed that they were a means to an end. Their mutual animosity suppressed for the moment, their motives twisted and dastardly, and their awareness tirelessly focused. Neither one was willing to back down from their deal in the darkness.
Next, Flyz opened a well-worn map of Vradenburg. “Let’s discuss my initial plan of attack, of how I will infiltrate the city and start my campaign of fear and terror.”
