Mythas' Return: The Lost Princess

Chapter Thirty Six: A Fog Most Disturbing

Chapter Thirty Six: A Fog Most Disturbing

Deacon paced back and forth in the musty cottage bedroom, for it had been decades since it had been inhabited by anyone. Dust particles stuck to the thick, humid air and suspended in the stagnant atmosphere - every piece of furniture was adorned with mildew or mold, or both. It was better than sleeping in the abandoned satyr coves, or in the crypt - by a hair.

"My lord?" Khasun's timid voice peeped. "Garendryth summons for thee." The halfling barkeep seemed troubled after their time in the tombs beneath Freyhedge, he was haunted each night by the desecrated skulls that littered the far corners, as they had been unmanaged and allowed to desecrate. He recalled back to The Black Night Queen's scalped head that Deacon displayed to the Corps once they had won their siege, her eyes rolled so far back that he could only see the whites. He had hardly spoken a word since that day, even to his wife, Mehmeil. Khasun believed that his sins were coming to a head now, what he had done to Mythas and the other creatures he paraded about Heights & Pints, joining Deacon and what he knew was the remnants of the Feral Dominion, overthrowing the royals in Freyhedge in the most gruesome way one could imagine; the gods' wrath was surely upon him for it all.

Deacon's bloodshot eyes shot over his shoulder, "Did he say for what?"

Khasun only shook his head, his sunken eyes wide with fear.

"A moment." gruffed the leader.

"He stands with them." the halfling reiterated, turning his back on Deacon's rotting cottage and hobbling off toward his own makeshift hut.
Them. The several dozen dead men and women who had fallen in the siege, or on the way back - whether the cold was too much for them, or hunger, or the swamp's constant moist air infecting their wounds. Garendryth had also directed the survivors back into the catacomb, suggesting that they all carry corpses on their backs, robbing the graves for their army. Deacon felt as though he would never get the stench of the faun he carried off of his back; he almost regretted beheading the royals, for Kos the Kind would have been impeccable in battle as their warlord, as would Siphraig or Wrikazi - but it could not be helped.

The Corps leader smoothed his black coat, which had most certainly seen better days - he though back to when Reape had pressed it for him, before his speech in the halflings' pub. Occasionally, her face would cross his mind - when he was alone, when it was quiet enough; now, each time he looked upon Ficnam's soon to be risen corpse, he could hear both of their voices, he saw them in his dreams. Deacon was now haunted by much more than the red orbs of his vampire-turned daughter.

"Deacon. Brother." Garendryth smiled wryly as he approached him in the mud. In his wake, rows of fallen men and women sunk into the muck, some mummified, others fresh and turning black from the inside out.

"Ghal." the leader spoke under his breath, knowing the sorcerer could hear him.

The disguised faun nodded in understanding. "They are almost ready. Their grand rest is just shy of complete.

"What more is needed?" Deacon tried not to sound anxious or impatient, even though he was both.

Garendryth's amber eyes glinted with excitement, "A dab of blood...but, my liege, it must be decided on who..."

"What do you mean?" the leader said as he smoothed his dark ringlets away from his sticky forehead.

"A thumb must be cut, used to stain the face of each soldier..." the faux drow explained. "It determines who they follow. You...or me."

"Will it make a difference?" Deacon queried, now a little irritated.

Ghal shrugged, "If the Lord of the Undead falls...they will resurrect you as one of their own...as the skeleton king, eternal wraith master, doomed to roam the earth and command corpses for eternity. Is this a risk you are willing to take?"