Book 3: Sound And Fury

  Chapter 25 Hot Town, Summer In The City

  Pontiff Luce sighed with deep frustration, as she stood in the city wall, peering through a telescope at the distant work site. Who would have thought that premium quality humans, the ones that received the best feed, quarters and treatment… would be so useless at any actual tasks?

  “I simply can’t believe how utterly incompetent they are… I begin to wonder if we have been duped,” She gasped with wonder, while watching lord Witcomb Pilchard slip and fall from a scaffolding, to land in a crumpled and useless heap, thirty feet below.

  “He might have survived, were that cart of broken tools not parked there.” She remarked to her prime minister. “That seems wasteful… There should be some kind of safety rules, if they are so fragile.”

  “The laborers and slaves that were engaged in this work seemed far more competent. Hardly any of them fell to their deaths or were crushed by equipment.” Cardinal Humbert protested so vigorously that his slug parasite’s shape could be seen, squirming inside his abdomen, through his garments. “They get nothing done and constantly injure themselves…”

  “Peace, cardinal… the council of Light knows of our troubles and will send aid soon.” Luce murmured to the possessed shell of the cardinal. “I must commend our necromancers, since being enslaved, they have really done fine work!” The pontiff smiled winsomely, it was an expression she had practiced for generations.

  “Look how many are roaming the streets!” She waved to indicate the large number of undead minions marching in good order, up the otherwise empty streets of the city of LightGlen.

  “Lady pontiff, our necromancers are currently on the excavation team and have raised no new legions. Even were there any corpses left to raise…” The cardinal began, awkwardly.

  “Oh, so sorry. Those are mine, pontiff Luce… I’m the Necromancer and I’ve come to bring you to your screaming, wailing end, tonight.”

  A tall, black clad, pale man murmured cheerfully, as he stepped from the shadows, where no living being could have hidden.

  “The time has come to fuck your shit up, since you have obligingly removed nearly all the innocents in this city from harm’s way.” He chuckled and stepped closer to the two richly robed figures on the wall. “All these centuries we’ve been at war… You clowns never figure it out.”

  Down on the streets, undead armies clashed, after a fashion. The new army of the dead walked with purpose, striding, rather than shambling, they rushed into each conflict, whenever they met the crumbling, decrepit dead of the light.

  That was the biggest difference; they were all far less intact than the shambling dead, yet they moved with the ease of living men and women… In every clash, the Necromancer’s army simply engulfed the Light’s, catching the zombies, ghouls and skeletal wretches in their arms, in a long, aggressive militarized, undead hug offensive.

  Each corpse seemed to exhibit a brief moment of joy, in the arms of their long dead kin, before joining the swelling army of the dead, sweeping up the silent streets in an ever growing horde… A horde that continued to issue from the city's already well plundered crypts, mausoleums and catacombs.

  “You have necromancers in your employ…” The tall, terribly pale man murmured happily. “I’m The Necromancer, my dear Luce. You see the difference now, yes?”

  The two backed away from the menacing figure and what it carried in its writhing, eldritch shadow.

  “I can’t thank you enough for confining all the children in the cathedral. With no living innocents in the way, I have no qualms… and far fewer restrictions on my power.” He smiled warmly as he stepped out into the light on the watchtower.

  “That’s the secret, you know… With too many living, mortal eyes on me, I cannot wield my full powers. When only the dead and outsiders can see, my Will is paramount.” He stepped forward, still smiling.

  “Go on, my darling… Feast.” He whispered to a writhing shadow of black, oily and shiny scales wrapped around his left arm.

  Swift as an arrow, the six foot serpent flew at the cardinal, striking his throat, before dropping to the flagstones and slithering away into the night. The creature vanished silently, while the cardinal’s face took on the color of an overripe eggplant.

  Inside his vestments, his slug parasite writhed and squirmed, thrashing in agony, until it fell still. Humbert’s corpse fell to the ground, leaking noxious fluids as several decades of decay caught up in a few moist, noisome seconds.

  “Eww, those preservative spells fail quickly, don’t they!” The Necromancer remarked placidly, as he stepped over the reeking pile of cardinal on the floor.

  “You, my dear, will be joining him in final death soon. Come along, my brother is waiting and I’m not sure how much person is still left inside this poor girl you’re wearing around.”

  “Pathetic fool! I am a servant of the light, not some bottled wight or undying parasite.” She scoffed. “I’ll shrug off this mortal body when it no longer serves and return to the Light. It matters not. The one true god will see I am rewarded for my service…”

  “Save the cryptic mumbo-jumbo. I know all about the hidden magical artifact in the throne. You’ll possess the next person to flop their arse down on the throne and start making ‘divine proclamations’.” He smiled and shook his head. “No creativity, the same gag again and again. Anyway, I sent a guy to rip your artifact out and bring it to me… So my brother can peel you like an onion.”

  The sound of heavy footfalls shook the watchtower, as a zombie ogre thundered up the road, bearing a small, faintly glowing crystal statue of a robed woman in his fist, raised in triumph. “Orooagh!” He moaned eagerly at his master, as he passed him the statue, up on the wall.

  “Good boy… now go find where the rest of the possessed clerics are hiding and smush them flat… Eat as many as you want, big guy!” The Necromancer tucked the idol away in his coat, as he watched his massive servant go, a smile spreading across his features.

  “Grumash tried to eat me, when I was just a few days old in the Eternal Halls… I barely managed to devour his shadow, before he could devour me.” The pallid man sighed warmly at his retreating minion.

  “We’ve become quite close, he and I. My friend, Marshall Stacks is deeply disappointed that he couldn’t come out to play, but this is not the time for my night parade.”

  He turned his eyes onto the youthful seeming face of the pontiff, his smile fading to a grim and cold thing. “This is the time for you to slip out of that poor child and hide away, safe and protected, in your impervious artifact… Demon pontiff of the false god.”

  Under that implacable gaze, she fled, slipping free of her mortal form and returning to the safe confines of her idol, to await a suitable vessel.

  The beautiful young girl in diaphanous robes of shimmering samite collapsed to the flagstones… and kept on collapsing, becoming a foul and greasy stain on the stones, pooled around a small, decrepit skeleton dressed in soiled rags.

  “Come along, child… I’ll show you the way home.” Necro whispered tenderly to the flickering shade that arose from the mess, beneath his gaze.

  /

  Down in the enemy war-camp, beneath the full moons of Foresthome chaos ruled with an iron fist, wrapped in a mailed glove, dipped in hot-sauce. That fist was drawing ever nearer to General Trask’s tender anus with every minute. His mage corps was spending all their mana and Will on simply fending off the constant bombardment with shields of Wind and warding charms that filtered the air… somewhat. Foul stenches and choking fumes drifted by frequently, as one spell or another failed and was re-drawn by the nearly exhausted mages.

  “Necromancers, report to the command tent. All remaining slaves in the compound are to be surrendered for sacrifice and reanimation, including you damned pleasure slaves!” Trask barked at his officers and lords.

  “A sudden rush of fresh zombies can overwhelm the cavalry and disrupt those catapults. We’ll follow with whatever we can find!” He glared at the outraged nobles and priests, as he demanded the unthinkable. “Surrender your fucktoys… or those heretics on the hill will be balls deep in your own tenderest parts, before dawn.”

  “Oh, man… I’m glad I came down when I did… I guess you finally figured out that I won’t be turning your slave army on you.” The bug armored madman from the cloud demonstration said calmly, standing fifty yards away, just outside the perimeter, all alone, as the relentless bombardment stopped at last.

  “Though… watching you all get ripped into bloody rags by the people you’ve been abusing does sound… Pretty Damn Sweet.” He contemplated that thought for a moment. “Anyway, you losers are down here, projecting your creepy, non-consensual kinks on my friends. It’s pretty sick and gross.”

  “I promised my wife we wouldn’t have a battle tonight, but we’re fighting with fists and sticks… This is a brawl.” He said with a grin, as a flight of tiny darts flew out from the darkness, felling a dozen men in a few chaotic seconds.

  Immediately after, small, smoking orbs flew across the wards, discharging with a loud bang, a flash of intense light and a huge plume of intensely spicy, lung scorching fumes. The searing smoke brought tears and choking gasps from the battered, crowded mob of warriors.

  “That’s wildfire plum chutney… Careful, it’s super spicy and explosive when fermented!” The lunatic shouted, flashed a deranged grin at the gathered remnants of the once grand army and chuckled.

  “I’ve got a real problem with you guys already, but now I’m done playing nice. Whatever else happens here tonight, your buttholes will remain un-plundered.”

  He smiled, as the warriors in their woolen underlayers scrambled to find improvised weapons in the mess he’d made of their camp. To their credit, they had guts and got themselves arrayed in just a few moments…

  “Nice hustle, guys.” The lunatic said to the slowly advancing warband, nearly four hundred strong.

  Dim movements and flickering hints of activity appeared in the darkness behind the man, as shadows stirred restlessly. Four dim figures appeared, arrayed not for battle, but carrying musical instruments, drums and guitars.

  “Meet my friends, The pre-fab four, my all star band, they are super stoked to be back on the stage… The Monkees! Micky, Mike, Davie and Peter, take a bow!

  The dim forms played mocking flourishes on their instruments as they bowed in turn to the slowly advancing enemy.

  More darts flew from the darkness, as music swelled from the shadowy band, percussive and angry. Every drumbeat and chord struck with an almost physical force, disorienting and distressing the already ragged warriors of the light.

  Look out, here comes tomorrow!

  That's when I'll have to choose…

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  How I wish I could borrow…

  Someone else's shoes!

  When their advance faltered in the face of that awful, cheerful, ragged noise, the general shouted again. “Kill him you fools! Grab something and attack!” Trask stood from his stool, still fully armored and bearing a sword at his waist.

  At his command, the mad swarm of bodies in padded woolen arming coats rushed at the fool, swinging stools, table legs, headless spear-shafts and firewood in their wild assault, after so much helpless indignity and humiliation.

  Uncounted in the darkness and tricksey half-light, the remaining mages, officers and clerics hurled their spells, as the troops leapt to the attack with fury and vigor.

  The madman stood before the advance, swaying to the music and smiling as he spoke again.

  “And now, meet the stars of stage and screen from my distant homeland, manifested for your entertainment, back by popular demand, after a long hiatus. The true warriors of light… and shadow, celluloid dreams plundered from my memories and unleashed by my Will, under the light of the moons.”

  The red armored man stood there calmly, as a swarm of dark figures leapt to defend him from every shadow and dark place around. “Errol Flynn, Basil Rathbone, Yul Brenner and so many more…” Shadow swords turned wooden weapons, as silent wights streamed in from the darkness, intercepting and swarming the living men.

  Well, I see all kinds of sorrow!

  Wish I only loved one…

  Look out, here comes tomorrow!

  Oh, how I wish,

  To-morrow would never-come!

  The two groups met and clashed in no man’s land, beyond the camp’s warding spells, in a furious melee that ended quickly and oddly quietly. Spells faltered and dissipated before reaching their targets, whether crackling bolts of lightning or slow creeping, poisonous clouds of fog.

  Even without magical support, their blades or armor, the crude, improvised wooden weapons of the light’s forces did terrible carnage on the shadow army.

  The warrior’s staves and mauls banished the silent shades into puffs of spicy smelling smoke with ease, when they could manage to pin down one of the sly, elusive creatures. They continued to spill out from the night, leaping to attack the flesh and blood men, with dimly lit smiles on their shadowy faces.

  Tyrone Power parried a warrior’s spear staff opening him up for Stewart Granger, while Sir Lawrence Olivier danced by and skewered a distracted knight through the kidneys with his insubstantial blade.

  With a classic musketeer’s salute, the veteran performers returned to the script their pet Fool had written for their entertainment tonight, as more darts and fuming orbs flew from the Adventurers hidden in the darkness.

  No blood spilled from the fallen, no death screams split the night, only shouts of fury, fear, pain and desperation rose from the battle in the clearing’s wide expanse. Once the last darkling blade fell; only darkness and silence ruled, save for the smoldering smoke-bombs, raucous music and the final refrain, a softly whispered:

  I love you, Darling

  I love you.

  The shades formed up, between the madman and the general, facing each other across the camp’s flickering, fading warding circles. With a silent battle cry, the shades charged.

  /

  As the quiet, insane battle raged between the two camps, several of the mages and clerics in the rear quietly withdrew. They skulked away, slipping behind the fallen tents and collapsed structures, to the noble pavilions, where their pleasure slaves waited, huddled in the dark.

  “We’ll take our property and flee… we can escape, if we send the slaves into the insect infested hedge first, to clear a path!”

  Oh, no-no…” A sweet, high, feminine voice hissed from the darkness. “While my servant fights your master; I have come to find the people you’ve still got in bondage… Tonight, you face Kree, the Hive Maiden… in all her fury.” She let loose a girlish giggle that spoilt her menacing announcement, as she stepped into the light.

  Barely four feet tall and terribly slim, a wasp waisted girl in black and gold plate armor raised her black rapier and slim, golden dagger in a mocking salute to the twenty ragged noblemen in robes that were once colorful and fine.

  “My servant is busy, so I can sting as many of you as I want…” She giggled sweetly, as jewel toned wasp wings unfolded behind her, glinting in the firelight. In an instant, she darted straight up with a soft buzzing hum.

  “Look out… I’m super dangerous!” She giggled, from somewhere in the night sky.

  “Stay close… That monster could come in from anywhere…” Someone muttered from the densely packed mob of well dressed jerks.

  “Monster?” Her voice drifted on the wind, soft and impossible to discern whence it came. “Perhaps… I prefer to think that I am a predator…” Her voice changed direction, now seeming to come from a fallen tent nearby. “...As you seem to consider yourselves. We, as predators must accept that we too, must become prey, at some point.”

  “Oww! Something stung me…!” Someone shouted from the middle of the pack.

  “Hey!” Another voice barked,a little distance away.

  “She’s among us…look out!” After that, things got complicated, the screaming went on and on…

  Kree swooped and spun in the sky, just out of reach of their longest weapons, before darting back in to prick another man in the shoulder with her slim, golden dagger. In the same instant, her black rapier slashed across the eyes of another, blinding him with a curse of shadows and pain.

  The dagger victim ceased his struggles and smiled at his new mistress, as drool bubbled from his slack lips.

  “Beat up these mean men for your hive princess, human…” She whispered in the buzzing tones that most men could not hear, but her slaves could not deny, refuse or even consider questioning.

  Her newest slave giggled with delight, as he began laying about him with his pikestaff, starting with the stumbling and confused knight who Kree had just blinded.

  The princess was already gone, neatly slipping into the melee, leaving chaos in her wake. “My servant never lets me sting humans… This is such a treat!” She giggled from her seat atop an overturned water barrel, while her slaves pummeled the last few men into the dirt.

  “Slavers become my sweet tempered, obedient slaves… so poetic.” She sighed, as she hopped onto her feet and strolled into the wreckage of her brawl, sticking the fallen with her golden blade, one by one.

  “You all belong to me now. Come along, we must free your former prisoners, together!”

  /

  The madman in red armor strolled a slow half circle, while his shades charged the general, alone against the uncounted shadow warriors.

  Trask’s sword described a sweeping arc, destroying a huge swathe of the dimly lit forms, dozens in a stroke of his blade. As they closed with him, their forms flickered and drifted, slowing and becoming less substantial.

  The shadow wights withdrew, vanishing away as the witch spoke again. “Just so you know, I could have wiped out your wards in a moment… But I was worried there might still be prisoners here. We wouldn’t want to gas them with our nasty concoctions, would we?” The mooncalf declared sweetly. “I just wanted to take all your rank and file soldiers off the field, while making a fool of you.”

  He smiled as he buckled his armored insect mask over his face. “This is where you and I dance out this weird thing we have going on, big guy.” The mad witch snapped his fingers and the camp wards popped like a soap bubble, evaporating into stray motes of sparkling magic.

  A moment later, a long, double headed mace appeared in his hand, bronze rings threaded through holes in the round knobs of bronze at each end. The odd thing rang out a martial tune, when the Fool shook it at his foe, setting the metal rings to spinning and chiming.

  Trask flicked his sword side to side as he approached the lunatic in crayfish armor; its wide, black blade gleaming wetly in the moonlight. “So be it… witch. You’ll not find me easy meat. My Duskfang is deadly to shadows and things that dwell in darkness, just as my enchanted mail repels the touch of the undead and shadow wrought!”

  “Nice sword. You know it’s not really enchanted, right? The armor and sword are cursed… Demon possessed and haunted.” He remarked as the giant approached.

  “They feed on your life force, while influencing your mind and soul from within your protective aura.”

  He shrugged at the giant, as the two men circled each other, a few dozen yards from the crumpled, still bodies of Trask’s men. “You’ll be completely in their thrall soon… Assuming you survive this, general of nothing.”

  With that, both warriors flew at each other, bellowing wordless cries of fury into the moonlight, while the band played on behind them.

  Why don't you be like me?

  Why don't you stop and see?

  Why don't you hate who I hate,

  Kill who I kill, to be free?

  Sword and mace met again and again, as the men circled, testing each other, seeking advantage or weakness…

  /

  “Is he really going to duel the general… We could just swarm him…” Liam grumbled from the Foresthome line, looking down on the two battling giants, moving back and forth across the churned and embattled wasteland.

  “Nae… He will do this… My man has been pushed too far and will not be stopped from this folly.” Shai sighed. “Tis a matter of honor… after a fashion.”

  “Hardly honorable…” Lord Argent grumbled from farther down the line, his eyes firmly fixed on the action below.

  /

  Gary’s armored boot rang off Trask’s codpiece, drawing a pained grunt from the giant, followed by a savage blow from the end of the spinning, singing mace the Fool held. The general’s armor groaned like a living thing, when struck by the odd weapon. It seemed to deform and try to avoid its touch, to the detriment of its wearer.

  As Gary passed too close by, Trask’s elbow shot out, clipping the smaller man on the jaw, sending him for a stumble.

  Before the wetly black blade of the general’s sword could come into play, the Fool somersaulted a dozen yards away, popping to his feet with a flourish.

  The madman’s right hand flashed, as he charged back into the fray, hurling a fistful of small, shining darts at his foe’s face. Trask swept his forearm before his eye slits, scattering the needles harmlessly.

  In that moment, the Fool’s mace vanished and he shifted to the left, as his left hand cast a wide spray of small, dark objects onto the ground at Trask’s feet.

  “Dishonorable cur…” Trask snarled, as the black iron caltrops made footing unstable.

  “A slaver and demon cultist thinks I’m dishonorable… Sweet!” He sang, to the tune of ‘Last Train To Clarksville’.

  Somehow, the madman scampered around his field of pointy objects without a care. Even when he certainly trod on one, it failed to pierce his boot, or even make the fool stumble.

  It took a moment for Trask to spot the trick; wherever he stepped on one of the traps, it crumbled to flaky, dusty rust in an instant. The general began following in the Fool’s steps, doggedly pursuing him around the field, his sword battering against that damned, ever present, singing staff.

  The lunatic never stopped smiling, and humming along to the shadowed musicians, whose songs kept changing tempo and key, at inopportune times. It was almost as though the music had some subtle influence…

  “Curse your tricks, witch!” Trask shouted, when he realized he had been dancing a foolish jig across the battlefield, prancing and swaying like a damned mummer!

  “And damn those musicians!” With a visible effort, the general shook off the clinging musical spell, releasing himself from the dance.

  “Oh, you’ve seen through my tricks…?” The Fool sang merrily. “The spells and influence hidden in the music, the caltrops to force you to join my dance… but did you notice my last trick?”

  Without warning, he charged the general, his staff striking with savage fury. High, low, high again, sweeping the legs, while the man shoulder-rushed the beleaguered general.

  Off balance from the impact of the muscular, armored warrior-witch, the general’s sword scored only a shallow wound on the man’s flank, as he passed.

  “Owww… That stings, asshole. Enspelled to counter shadows, the undead and pierce armor too, eh?” Gary hissed at the general. Both men were battered, bleeding and even more determined to end the thing, as they squared off.

  Trask moved first, lunging forward, before turning his blade in a vicious backstroke that rang against the witch’s staff like a hammer against an anvil.

  A soft, dull ‘Clank’ sounded, as the general’s sword snapped at the pommel, sending his blade flying into the dark, hiltless.

  The singing rings at the end of the weapon crashed down on the general’s back, sending him to the ground and into darkness.

  Trask woke a moment later, wracked with pain and unable to breathe, his armor pushed in on his battered ribs, preventing him from drawing more than a scanty, gasping breath. “My wife’s a talented smith… She could fix that for you.” Gary grinned, as he circled the battered, unarmed, fallen warrior, smiling hungrily. “No discounts.”

  Trask pulled a short, wide bladed dirk from his belt and waited for the man’s next move.

  “Gary….” Kree called, as she led a short parade of richly, if scantily dressed people across the empty battlefield, surrounded by a bodyguard of the general’s former subordinates. “I have all the prisoners… Stop playing with that wretch. Shai’s gonna be mad.”

  “Yes dear.” He called to the little armored girl, leading her flock into the woods.

  “Surrender, Trask. We’re done here. I’ve already slain the demons haunting your armor and sword… You’re just an ordinary mortal man now.”

  “Never, surrender to… a witch…” He gasped, as he plunged his dirk into his own throat with a savage, wrenching slash.

  “Wasteful.” Gary remarked, as the man bled out. “Your shade will still answer my questions, Trask.”

  /

  “Thirty two enemies killed, seven hundred injured or incapacitated…” Lindsey reported in with the lord and lady of Foresthome. “Those numbers are still soft, as we collate the records.”

  “Our losses?” Tawny asked quietly.

  “Two knights are missing, though they seem to have vanished a few hours after the battle. Sir’s Humphreys and Garibaldi.” She shrugged. “Two knights have been injured in battle, by misadventure.” She answered. “Sir’s Ambrose and Filamon mistook each other for foes… Those brave knights are being sutured up now.” She smiled wanly at the countess. “They were too embarrassed to seek prompt treatment… Men.”

  She scoffed on the last word, with a nasty glare for Barry.

  “Additionally, Sir Pendleton fell from his horse after… celebrating victory too enthusiastically.” She mumbled in embarrassment. “He broke his leg and I suspect, suffered some internal injuries. I would like you to look at him, before his condition becomes unstable.”

  “You should have led with that, Adventurer Lindsey!”

  Tawny scolded her gently, as she rose and swept away toward the infirmary. “I still consider you my apprentice, young healer.”

  “Yes, countess… Thank you…” She whispered softly, as she followed her beloved countess through the war-camp, just a few miles from home.

  /

  “How’s Gary?” The count asked the Ward boys, once their team healer was safely out of earshot.

  “Passed out, exhausted and grinning like an idiot, even in his sleep.” Harry answered glibly. “Mom’s pretty pissed, but you know those two… They’ll just go boating on the lake.”

  The other three boys groaned softly. “I just cleaned Seahorse…” Barry grumbled.

  “What about…” The count cleared his throat and spoke very carefully. “What about the… survivors…? There are an awful lot of them.”

  “Oh, yeah, mom’s working on that with the Tarots and uncle Ward. Don’t worry about it.” Harry replied too quickly.

  “Boys…” The count began.

  “Sorry, uncle Liam… A couple of your knights came by, asking to buy some of them… from us. Mom told us to keep it quiet.” Barry sighed. “It got… unpleasant and some things were said.”

  “Are they… safe?” He asked quietly.

  “Perfectly safe. Uncle Hermit has them hung up in his larder, cocooned in his super comfy silk.” Larry answered with a grin. “I bet they are having a great time.”

  /