(FREE COMPLETE BOOK) Wothlondia Rising, Beginnings Saga, Book 1

Chapter 3, Tears of Blood (Saeunn of Chansuk short)

Chapter 3

Tears of Blood

 Zabalas Dimonia stood outside in the courtyard where a newly constructed castle had been erected. It was appropriately named the Bastion of Skulls, as it was fashioned from thousands of them, making up its entire exterior. It was surrounded by the expansive courtyard within a small village, aptly known as Gallows’ Hill, situated in the southeastern portion of Wothlondia known as the Stonehill Region. The settlement had been famous for centuries past as a burial ground for anyone that claimed the uneven landscape of Stonehill as their home. Even those outside the region were welcome to bury their dead here, and many did so.

There were very few who lived in the village proper, aside from the undertakers, embalmers and gravediggers who found plenty of work there. Wagons and caravans would come by the thousands from all over Wothlondia to send their loved ones to their final resting place.

The center of the settlement once accommodated statues of the Gods of Order and the people believed that they watched over their deceased kin, who thus remained forever under their vigilant eye. At one time, despite the morbidity of death associated with it, it was a beautiful and serene place. It provided the bereaved relatives with a sense of finality that could be appreciated.

Now, however, the Bastion of Skulls stood in its place. No more were there architecturally beautiful mausoleums, crypts or even the exquisitely carved statues that once adorned the courtyard—there was only the enormous skull-embodied fortress in their stead.

The site never looked as ghastly as it did now.

Zabalas stood amidst all the bodies that lay here, uncared for and ignored for the better part of a half century. These were all victims of Ashenclaw and her scorching drakes some fifty years ago. Most of the bodies were burned and disfigured, but oddly whole and preserved, not turned to dust as they should have been. There was what could only be described as a supernatural aura surrounding Gallows’ Hill. It was a palpable feeling of dark magic derived from the purest of evils.

The dark warlord was enveloped from head to toe in armor as black as pitch, accented with a mixture of spikes, horns and prongs. He gestured and began a series of chants, speaking in tongues not native to this realm. The entire landscape for as far as the eye could see began to glow yellow, then red, and eventually there came a flash of light so brilliant and white that it would have blinded anyone looking upon it. The discharge burst upward and bathed the lifeless bodies in a glow of unparalleled malevolence. Zabalas’s actions began to awaken these strangely preserved bodies and breathe ‘undeath’ into them.

One by one the corpses stood, clumsily swaying to and fro, wavering on their feet as if they were not accustomed to or familiar with these extraneous husks they now inhabited. The corrupt quality in the air animated the corpses, making them profane mockeries of what they had once been in life. Now they were hideous abominations.

 Zabalas gazed upon his minions, rotting flesh dripping from their bones and tattered remains of once-whole clothing hanging from their limbs and torsos. These undead things carried a disease within that made the blood boil. They were the stuff of nightmares and had appeared only a very few times in the past on this plane. They were a gift to Zabalas from his master.

“It is Summer’s Fade… as I once remembered it. The weather is changing, sending an appropriate chill on the air that shall carry my minions with it across the land.” Zabalas stood in the gloom. The sun had recently departed and darkness descended across the face of Wothlondia. Evenfall was upon them and it seemed a fitting time to unleash the undead scourge upon the surface.

“Let us see what the people think when these living corpses—these Blood Rot Zombies—rise up and tear the flesh from their frail and weak bodies!” Zabalas grimaced, throwing his head back and glaring into the darkened sky above, seeming to threaten the very Gods of Order. “The Races of Order will soon come to feel my hand as it slowly tightens around their throat, but by the time they sense its grip, it will be too late.”