Fear No Evil

Foreword

Believing her faith will prevail against insurmountable odds, a Holy Cleric recruits three strangers to battle and destroy a vindictive, psychopathic Necromancer and his Undead Army. But first, they must survive the horrors of the Stinking Swamp!

The year was 2203, an age of transformation. In eons past, science and technology had been underdeveloped and dangerous: a highly skilled craft in denial by the willfully ignorant. The idea of mysticism and magic had also been the bane of the skeptical and the superstitious. Humanity sharing a world with mighty ice-breathing dragons, dumb giants, foul trolls, cruel goblins, and other nebulous, nightmarish creatures that only the imagination could conjure, forced them to believe and accept their fate as nothing more than monstrous fodder. But the primitives evolved and the population grew. Civilizations were built, societies and governments were formed, education and religion became valued commodities, and appropriate laws were enacted. Progress was inevitable and hearts and minds were changing.    

Second Chance Necromancer

"From dust to bone, from bone to flesh, and finally-- flesh to life!" The dark sorcerer spoke in the tongue of the dark arts, naturally. The pile of ashes shifted and moved and spread thin across the coverlet. A brilliant, yet ominous flash occurred to form a skeletal figure, and then another flash to construct a fully formed man. The raven on his shoulder sang a short tune. The sorcerer threw a black robe over the naked body.

   They were inside on the top floor of a tower. Candlelight and torchlight fought against the darkened room. A clock tick-tocked somewhere below. The bald, overweight man on the four-post bed lay still for five full minutes. In his fine silk vermillion robes, the sorcerer watched with bated breath while musky incense burned. A chorus of frogs croaked outside.

   He knew he was a capable magic user, more than capable. Still, his sorcerous abilities had all been wasted with the effort of the spell. Did he do something wrong? No, the verbose invocation and his stiff, jerky motions were correct and his very expensive diamond atomized at the conclusion of the spell.

   The man on the bed inhaled strongly and blinked several times. He awoke to a dusty, sparse bedchamber. The firelight was blinding at first, but then his eyesight adjusted. Low shadows fell on the drab stone walls. A single macabre painting decorated the room, portraying massive armies at battle; trolls, and nastier things feasting on men, swollen tongues red with blood. It was an atmosphere of dread anxiety, a milieu of hidden agendas and terrible secrets. He gazed into black beady eyes under a greasy widow's peak. "What happened? Who are you?" asked the fat man with fleshy jowls and missing teeth.

   "Who I am is unimportant," said the mystery man. "Besides, you'll figure it out in due time."

   Any previous existence of a spiritual Flyz under the layers of Ayetch would be expunged in his current state or otherwise, his brain would've been scrambled to the point of no return-- the infernal trauma on a human mind too devastating to bear. It is no accident that some memories were meant to be forgotten.

   At the man's feet lay an ordinary gray cloth bag, appearing ordinary but also deceiving the eye. It was a Bag of Tricks containing a single furry ball and when released became a slinky, sneaky weasel. A magical rodent he could order to do his bidding and go anywhere he could not. It had the advantage of moving stealthily and seeing in darkened rooms. Its usual orders were to steal secreted documents, valuable gems, or religious idols after setting off hidden traps, something it had done before he cast the resurrection spell. And if it died during its current mission he could summon another one within a day.

   A raven danced on his shoulder. A golden pendant with a rune inscribed in the shape of a stylized capital H hung low around his neck. It represented the Ayetch, the Land of the Underworld.