The Dwarven Sorcerer

The Dwarven Sorcerer Ch 34

The air stank of rotting flesh as the sun reached its midday apex. Thrack's sleep had been restless, his injuries kept pulling him out of his slumber, making him feel exhausted and lightheaded all day, which was why he didn't notice the undead horde until he was practically on top of it.

The decomposing creatures moved in jerks and stops, lurching forward across the road. There were dozens of them, might've even been more than a hundred. Thrack froze as they slowly passed him, not noticing him. He slowly reached for his musket afraid to move too quickly, bringing it to his shoulder, preparing for an attack, but they kept walking, completely oblivious to the presence of the dwarf.

Some were nothing but walking skeletons, torn and rotted clothing hanging loosely from their decaying bones. Some were festering corpses, repulsive green flesh wrapped around animated bones. Some were incomplete bodies, missing limbs, broken bones, with rotten purple guts dragging along the ground.

Thrack starred, frozen in disbelief, his mind reeling as the horror moved past him. He felt the cold hand of fear gripped his heart. He waited, unable to move, frozen in terror until the clutter of undead was nearly past him. Thrack relaxed; he lowered his gun preparing to continue his journey when one of the undead turned towards him, shuffling, dragging its broken leg behind it, its decaying fingers reaching out for the dwarf. He tried to back away but his exhaustion and injuries made him slow; he couldn't escape.

Thrack fired his musket; the bullet ripped through its rotted skull, spraying old jellied brains on the road. Whether it was the sound of the musket or something else but the horde turned on Thrack. Their reaction was immediate. They moved slowly but purposefully. Thrack backed away, reloading his musket and firing, struggling with his missing fingers. Another head exploded, spraying maggots and rotting brains into the air. Fingers tipped with exposed bones, sharpened into claws reached out for him, rusted weapons carried in undead hands coming for him. Thrack continued to back away, reloading his musket with shaky fingers and fired again. He repeated the action over and over, killing the undead, destroying their bodies, but there were just too many of them, they were relentless.

They never stopped no matter how much damage they took. Thrack burned his thumb on the hot barrel while pushing in the small bullet leaving a circular burn. His body gave in to exhaustion and he dropped his musket. He reached for his hammer but his wounded body betrayed him a second time and the hammer slipped from his grip. He started to panic, his hands were moist with sweat and his heart hammered in his chest. He brought his power to the surface. An enormous stream of fire erupted from his hands, engulfing the undead. Their dried flesh and rotting clothing burst into flames, burning easily; the fire spread quickly and soon the entire clutter was aflame, their dried flesh sending greasy black smoke into the air.

Thrack fell on his ass and waited for the fire to die down, too tired to move. When he gained some of his strength back he gathered his weapons and continued toward the castle. Thrack's mind struggled to come to terms with what he saw — the dead walk.

. . .

Myrddin had been hunched over the ancient tome for hours and he was no closer to finding an answer. Necromantic magic was at work in the kingdom, an ancient magic that shouldn't exist anymore; it was tainting everything. Unfortunately, there was only so much he could do within his tower and only so many answers he could gleam from old books. He needed to go out and find what was happening out in the world, to find the source of the magic, and to stop it. But it was too risky, he couldn't leave the castle unprotected. His king needed him here and so did the people. If he were to leave, there would be nothing to stop an army of undead from walking into the city and killing everyone.

He looked up from the tome, sensing something coming from outside the tower, a bright beacon drawing his attention. He moved to the narrow window. Peasants and serfs mulled around outside the castle walls, like mindless ants caring only for their own meaningless tasks, knowing nothing outside of their trivial lives. Knights were training in the yard, charging at straw dummies on their horses, hitting each other with wooden swords.