Tales of Malus: Chapter Three

Chapter Three

         A chilling wind propelled the massive clouds of the coming storm forward, blocking out any trace of the feeble rays of moonlight that had previously shown down. Prey was scarce in this land, either too well armed or not to be found at all; this was indeed a lucky find. Below his position in a towering oak tree lay a small farmhouse, weak and defenseless, Maw’s favorite kind of settlement he thought to himself, remembering his last attack, which had left him with a pitchfork through his ribcage.

         It had been far too long since his last feeding, and he could already f eel the effects on his body. “Curse this terrible fatigue,” he rasped, rubbing his withered hands together, “Maw must eat or he will perish.” Groaning, the undead creature heaved its malformed bulk from the tree, landing with a dull thud on the grass below. “Maw must be wary, his limbs are not as strong as they should be,” the monstrosity hissed.

         The creature’s flesh was in the most hideous stages of decay, hanging off its bones in thick strips. It had no recollection of its past life, so it had named itself Maw based on its horrid, gaping, toothy mouth. Pockets of green liquid had formed beneath its skin in places, creating disgusting pustules that occasionally burst into a cloud of pus. In life it must have been quite a large man, for it towered over most humans it came across, though it slouched because of its weakening spine.

         A thick, black liquid dribbled from its open mouth, something that always happened when it neared prey. By this time it had crossed most of the distance between the house and the tree it had perched in, leaving just a few paces between it and the front door. “Maw comes for you . . .” it whispered to itself. Standing before the wooden door, Maw prepared himself for a shattering strike that would knock the door off its hinges. Just before he unleashed his horrible strength, however, the door simply creaked open.

         A primal hunger had clouded the wretched creature’s mind, so it thought nothing of this occurrence. In one leaping motion Maw crashed through the doorway and into the small one-room house, limbs flexed to strike. Only until the door slid shut behind him did he realize something was amiss. There were farmers in here, but they were all armed, and prepared. A man in patched clothing held a rusty iron sword, while a woman next to him held a long, pointed pitchfork. They stood against the far wall near a bed, underneath which a small child hid. Their weapons were drawn and pointed at him, but he knew they were afraid. In the end, hunger made him continue forward.

         “Do not resist Maw, it will only be worse for you,” the undead rasped. Slowly, he stalked toward the farmers, taking in their fear as if it was a delicacy. “Maw will especially enjoy the little one,” he hissed.

         All of a sudden, an intense light erupted throughout the room, searing Maw’s flesh and blinding him. Screeching in pain, the undead creature could only just make out the figure of a thin, pale man in a black robe standing by the doorway. Roaring, the maddened horror charged the robed figure like an infuriated bull, smashing through a rickety wooden table in the process.

         “Stop.” It was but one simple word, spoken by the robed man in the most nonchalant manner, yet Maw immediately felt all of his muscles lock. A small smirk seemed to spread across the robed man’s face as he strode coolly towards the captive undead. The man pulled something from a haversack slung across his back, a book. Then Maw realized who this man was, for all undead, when they are spawned or created, have an innate sense of fear when faced with the Necronomicon (well, all but the most powerful anyway). This man was the Darkskull about which he had heard so much while slinking around towns at night; this was the man who traveled the lands purging them of the undead.

         Immediately, a feeling of panic exploded inside of Maw, but he still could not move. He wanted to slash the man; to rip, bite, and maul him, yet all he could do was watch as he leafed through the pages of that wretched book. With a great effort, Maw finally managed to gain a loose control over his mouth, “It will not . . . end . . . this way.” His words were shaken and garbled, “My master will . . . will . . . find . . . you.”

         Stopping for a second, the Darkskull looked directly into Maw’s eyes, “And who might your master be? Speak!”

         The words carried with them a feeling of command, of force that instantly broke Maw’s will. Without his own accord, Maw stammered, “Morius . . . my master’s name is Morius.”

         “Hmm. . . How interesting,” was Malus’s only reply. Without another word, Malus closed the flesh-bound cover of the Necronomicon and softly chanted an incantation of necromantic power. Maw knew what was about to happen, his spirit was going to be torn from its rotting prison and thrown through the Veil of Spirits, where it could never be retrieved.

         With one final effort born of desperation, Maw smashed through the invisible bonds that held him and leaped at the chanting necromancer, claws prepared to rend and destroy. He never made it a foot though, as he left the ground, Maw’s body went lifeless and smashed to the floor with a mighty thud. Never again would the terrible creature prey on the weak and defenseless, death had finally claimed Maw’s soul for good.

         Without ceremony, Malus muttered a word that caused the grotesque creature’s body to erupt into flames, reducing it to ashes in seconds. Bowing slightly to the frightened farmers, the necromancer pulled on his hood and passed through the open doorway and into the now calm and peaceful night. Yet another undead banished, he thought to himself, though there were still many more out there.

         Malus muttered an arcane infused word and a small globule of light materialized in front of him, illuminating the dusty dirt path that lead from the farm house to the more often traversed Tradeway.

         The Tradeway was exactly as its name suggested; a massive cobblestone road built many centuries ago by some past king of Rhaelwynn, used as the main commercial road for the kingdom. Spanning several hundred leagues from its beginning at the kingdom’s capitol, Teldraheim, the Tradeway was wide enough across that two merchant caravans could travel side by side unhindered. The road ran west from Teldraheim until it reached Nirinthal, a thriving port city along the Thunderwake Coast.

         Upon reaching the Tradeway, Malus began walking in the direction he believed to be west. In this manner, two uneventful hours passed by. During this time, the necromancer had noticed many small farming villages dotting the moonlit landscape; miniscule hamlets that graced the flowing golden grasslands with a quaint beauty not appreciated by most. The moon’s luminescent silver light cast a surreal quality over the rural countryside, granting the land a mysterious, almost sinister, feel.

         After a little while, the villages began to become fewer in number, and the land seemed less fertile. It was a gradual change, but noticeable none the less. A faint smell of smoke drifted on the gently whistling breeze, stinging Malus’s nose with its bitter aroma.

“Something isn’t right,” Malus thought to himself. He couldn’t quite place it, but something seemed amiss in the uncomfortably silent farmlands.

Suddenly, Malus detected the sound of hooves on stone coming from further up the path. Quiet at first, the clattering soon became clearly audible. Leaping deftly to the side of the road and crouching down so that his black cloak made him practically invisible, Malus waited to see who, or what, it was riding at such a late time.

Even with the moon shining from above, he could only just make out what looked like a ragged man approaching swiftly. Deciding quickly, the necromancer decided to approach the man and attempt to find out why he was driving his horse to such speeds.

As the rider drew closer, Malus hailed him. However, instead of stopping, the man jerked back on the horse’s reins and attempted to change directions. This was all in vain, for the horse, half dead from exhaustion, collapsed on the cobblestones of the Tradeway. The rider was hurled from the horse’s saddle, landing heavily on a thick clump of overgrown grass that bordered the road.

Malus’s globe of light brightly shown across the prone figure, revealing that his weather-worn clothing had been torn in several places by an extremely sharp blade. Though small patches of red could be seen at places on his back, he didn’t appear to be injured too seriously. The man had obviously been assaulted by someone or something, but what it was remained to be found out.

Grunting with the effort, the man slowly staggered to his feet and turned to face Malus, feebly brandishing an old, bent short sword. His eyes rolled around crazily in his head, frantically looking from side to side as if something unseen was stalking him. Then, out of nowhere, he bellowed, “Yah won’t take me! I will not end up like the others!”

Rather than leaping at Malus in a frenzied attack though, the man simply fell back down onto the grassy hummock and started gibbering madly the same phrase over and over.

“Not like the others . . . not like the others . . . not like the others . . . “

Finally, after the gray haired man let loose a particularly loud bout of crazed sobbing, he fell silent. Viewing this as an opening, Malus crept forward until he stood next to the man.

“What has happened? What caused these marks,” Malus questioned, though in a calming tone.

The man let loose a heaving sob, but obliged the necromancer with an answer. “Demons! Giant lumberin’ creatures tha’ carried cleavers the size o’ my head! They came in the night with ‘ellish hounds as big as bears. They . . . they took my friends . . . my family . . . tore ‘em tah pieces right in front o’ my eyes.”

After saying this, the man simply broke down and curled up into a ball muttering gibberish. Try as he might, Malus couldn’t get him to reveal anymore information. Exasperated, he walked over to the collapsed horse and pushed his palm against its head. A bright blue light bloomed in front of his eyes, followed by a soft whinny from the horse. Clumsily, the refreshed animal clambered into a standing position, waiting for its rider patiently.

“If you won’t tell me anything else, at least save yourself and ride to the next town. Your horse is ready to ride; please, try to warn the other settlements in the area,” Malus calmly told the whimpering man.

With a deep sigh, the man stood and made his way to the horse, trembling with each step. Turning to Malus after he had climbed into the saddle, he said in an even tone, “I know who yah are, Malus Darkskull. I also know what yah do. Go; give those beasts hell for what they did to mah family! Please . . . I am too weak, but you are strong . . . avenge the fallen!” With that, he kicked his horse gently and sped off down the road.

Soberly, Malus turned and started down the road in the direction that the rider had come. His pace was quick, and he soon saw inky black smoke silhouetted against the moonlit sky. “I knew something was wrong here” he thought to himself, gravely readying himself for whatever awaited him. Whatever had committed the atrocities that the man had described, whatever had so violently destroyed the town . . . they would pay.