26th Felsite
Pounding in the depths, the sounds of rasp and file, as IronTomato toils in the bowels of the land. The Forumites pass by like drifting smoke as, devoted to his work, he engraves, cuts and purifies the stone. Blue reflects in his eyes as the final stroke is done and, after days of hard labour, he wipes his sweat drenched brow. It is finished. Known by Apiks as the “Dooropener,” IronTomato redeems his soul by contributing defence to the fort, a place to leave weapons in times of peace and a place to get them in times of war. All hail IronTomato, and the divine Weapon Rack Gamlatning!
28th Hematite
I am down in the deepest parts of the fortress inspecting the construction of the corpse disposal system. With a frown, I note how the entrance to the magma tube provides a flight path to the arterial halls of the fort. Shuddering, I think of wings and claws in the dark, bloody beaks and terrified Forumites, but there is nothing to be done. A bridge will have to be made, but other matters press on my mind. The undead, a monument to the rot which infests the fort inside and out, still call out through mouths that hang unhinged to their chests. Thin, plaintive wails echo through our halls, and the children cower behind their mother’s skirts. The Doges hang their tails in shame and slink from place to place. They are stealing our spirit, the very fire which drives us to great dreams. Gone are the hopes for mighty crafts, now only hopes of survival remain. Only IronTomato dared show creativity, thought to break from the rut our foe has cast us into. They must be dealt with. The dead must die for us to rise.
A hollow boom sounds, breaking my reverie. Chips of stone rain down, and I stand amazed as a kaleidoscope of colours rays out from the very ground at my feet. It comes from the magma. It shoots through the stone like thread through cloth, and dazzles my eyes. I sit down heavily, the sword I won from Highmax falling from my grasp. It lies dull and unfaithful on the ground, staring at me like a baleful eye. I shake my head and close my eyes. A figure rises from the red. So very red. In its hand it clasps a boulder made of pulsating, semi-molten rock, and each eye holds a furnace of hate and maliciousness. With a gasp I press myself prostrate.
“All…all hail…Armok, God of Blood.”
The mouth opens, a dark chasm framed by burning vermillion. The cavern rumbles and more stones pour from the ceiling, and I realise that he is laughing at me. A hard core of stubborn rebelliousness rises from my stomach, and I stare at him before realising to whom I was showing my rage. The very god of that emotion. Meekly, I bow my head to him and swallow my anger. Formless, the being flows as a blazing line towards me, stopping in front of me, turning my entire existence into the many, varied hues of red that make up his being. Like blood, magma drips from the silhouette, and I scream. And scream. He is like a torch, and I the fuel. He is the sun, and I the unfortunate comet on a collision course. His fire burns through me, and I feel the ground beneath my cheek. In a foetal position, I fall into a deep and dark dream, with red flashing the lurid likeness of Armok at me with every turn. Through mazes of thorns and spires of glass, the Red God follows me. Finally, all thoughts leave me but a pulsing face. The mouth opens, and eyes of fire blaze with derision.
“WORM. WE MEET AGAIN. FROM THE FIRE I RISE. THE FIRE INTO WHICH YOU CAST ME. BUT I HAVE SEEN YOUR MIND, AND YOU ARE NO LONGER THAT BEING, THE ONE WHO WAS TEMPERED BY MY FIRE INTO A THING OF UNIMAGINABLE FORTITUDE. YOU HAVE LOST THE SPINE ADVERSITY GAVE YOU. BUT I AM BACK, AND I WILL EXACT SUCH VENGEANCE ON YOU AS WILL CAUSE THE STARS TO WEEP IN FLAMING TEARS. I AM ARMOK. GOD OF BLOOD. I WILL BE YOUR UNDOING.”
The face blazes with sudden ferocity, and the eyes narrow. “BUT YOU WILL BE OF USE TO ME YET. I HAD INTENDED TO SMITE YOU WHERE YOU STAND WITH A BOULDER OF MY OWN FLAME, BUT I SEE NOW. THERE IS A CHAIN, AND YOU ARE BUT ONE LINK. I WILL NOT BREAK YOU, I WILL TURN YOU AGAINST YOUR FELLOWS. GO FREE, BUT REMEMBER. YOU ARE UNDER MY COMMAND. YOU ARE MY CREATURE. TO SEE MY POWER, YOU HAVE BUT TO LOOK FROM THE FORTIFICATIONS OF THIS PUNY BASTION. YOUR ENEMIES ARE MINE ALSO. REMEMBER.
A dark whirlpool arises in my consciousness, and in it a hand of flame. It grabs me, sears my inner most being, and I fall…fall…fall.
When I wake, it is to the cool and dank hospital of Sprin, head of the medical services. Wailing echoes from the walls, but as a counterpoint rises a tune speaking of the longings we have that can never be fulfilled. Sung in a high, sweet voice that sooths the mind and relaxes muscles, conjuring images of the highest of peeks and deepest of chasms. The words, the bare skeleton of the full song, were as such:
Great mountains sweep the western sky
Beneath the rivers of the heights
And who can see their peaks, not I
For I will never see those lights.
Our fathers find the mines their home,
And toil to dig the deeper down
So that they cleave the earth’s bare stone
And place their gems on gleaming crown.
But never was this dream my own, not I
Who sees the bird above and dreams
That once, just once the vaults of sky
Would feel the strain of my own wings.
And while my brothers, sisters, friends
All scorn my heart its fancied flight
I wish yet, with a strength that never ends
That I could see that far off sight!
For though we toil beneath the earth,
We miss the things the birds can see;
Forget the gold and gems, they hold no worth
Compared to Western Cliffs and heaving sea.
The singing gets nearer, and as it does I can identify the singer – Jenny. Sprin himself is no where to be seen, but I do not mind. Jenny is a perfect glimpse of an innocent Forumite, the rose that grows out of the blood of the hospital. She heals the heart as well as the body, and I do not doubt for a second that she made that song up herself. I look at my hands, scarred and pitted with my efforts to master the sword, and calloused. A fighter's hands, a hauler's hands – not a writer's hands. I envy her that talent, envy her very soul. For I now know mine once again carries a mark, the Touch of Armok. Apiks was right. Highmax was right. They all were right. Silent tears course, nigh imperceptible, down my cheeks and stream into my beard. They were all right – Necrothreat has more to concern it than just mere zombies. When the messenger boy, Timeless Bob, runs into the room I am not surprised when he, in a panting breath, issues his message.
“The Undead are gone. Sentries report seeing them fall back in terror. Unsure of cause. What are our commands?”
With a sigh, I beckon him closer and say, struggling to speak through a throat constricted by the flame of Armok, “Open the gates. The surface belongs to the Forumites once more. Strike the earth.”
2nd Malachite
The gates open with a heavy groan, the rust and decay of years weighing heavily on its timber frame. The walls around are rough dirt supports, devoid of decoration or embellishment. People that come in here are not meant to see the wealth of the fort – they are meant to see the grim certainty of death. Those that once swarmed outside scorned that message, and yet they never managed to get a foothold in the Forumite fortress. A warm glow of pride surprises me as, with a final gasp, the gates collapse open.
The Forumites look out at the sky. Behind me, Jenny gasps. After a while, she starts humming the tune of her song, and I smile. A gleaming band of golden light snakes in and touches each of our faces, the assembled military might of the fortress, including the medics. Some avert their gaze, startled by the bright light, and others embrace it with open arms. Faces besmirched by soot and toil look into the rays and feel its heat stir them. Limbs weighted by duty and work loosen and move more freely, hearts relax. Smiles beam to meet the striving light of the sun, and I can't help but think that it is a new start for the fortress.
Until a horn blast breaks the silence.
All faces turn to stone, the brief light extinguished. A horn for the undead. They rise from a nearby hill, a puny two-strong force – the last of the Undead which had so plagued our land. The weed was killed by Armok, aye, but these roots survived, dead Necrothreaders, most deadly of all the Forumites' foes. A wave ripples through the military ranks at the gate, and two lines of attack are made. One is headed by Arx, Master of the Spear. The other is commanded by his pupil, Lord Lemonpie, a student who quickly became as skilled as his teacher. The creak of leather and groan of metal pervades the area as the Forumites wait for the...there! A movement at the gate, a stealthy limb stretching through pale and waxy in the noon day sun. Worms and maggots writhe about the joints, and as the face appears the pestilent eyes seem to swivel independent of any conscious thought. The squads stiffen. Then, with a roar, they surge forward.
Swinging my sword with wild abandon, I try to land a hit on one of them. The foe weaves in and out, mocking my attempts with the squeltch of bone and grind of teeth. But not so with Arx, whose spear dances like a snake on the dunes. Muscles moving in the subtle dance of action, Arx feints and dodges, weaves and strikes with a wild abandon honed by years of hard training. Lord Lemonpie stands close, his spear a whirling shield of steel. The battle falls to a dull sounding in my ears, and I stop trying to gain advantage on the foe – my skill is not needed here. I am dead weight. Likewise, the new recruits fall back, their spines not yet tempered for the heat of war. Highmax, Arx, and Lord Lemonpie stay, the Guardians of the Halls facing the Necrothreaders over a gap of some few feet. Highmax bears a sword which glows blue with a mystic flame, Arx stands with a spear clenched firm and ready. Lord Lemonpie smiles, and beckons with a crooked finger to the ancient foe of his race.
Battle is joined with a clash as of the hammer hitting the anvil. Arx's spear darts in and out of armour, cutting and stabbing where the undead least expect it. For their part, the dead Necrothreaders weave through the bars of weapons with grace and skill. Highmax sweeps ones feet out from under it with a blinding arc of his blade, and Arx stabs downwards with all his force. Brain matter, decomposing even before it leaves the skull, flies out in all directions.
With a feral grin, the slayer turns to the remaining beast. But even as his spear is raised, Lord Lemonpie executes a move that, though I stood nearby, I could not fully understand. One moment the Necrothreader stood, a testimony of the suffering the undead had put us through. The next, a spear had blazed a line like lightning into its chest, cleaving the vital organs from the rest of the body. The unrecognisable mass falls back, never to get up again.
With the legendary spear Idithokil Nothistomus was Necrothreat freed from the shadow and death and returned to the light of day.
------------------------
Sorry about the short post for such a long wait. On the plus side, I should update more often now. Also, that was weird. For once the undead left Necrothreat of their own accord. Maybe they didn't like the smell.
Author
Topic: Necrothreat III, whatever that is (Read 333547 times)