The Ash Heap, a Dark Fantasy blog post

The would-be warrior sat on a felled tree trunk. It was dead, like the crops of the field it lay on the edge of. The only living things present were himself and the moss that grew from the dead wood beneath him. Undermining this was just how sick both he and the moss were.

            Since when is moss sick? He thought, ripping up a chunk and blearily squinting at it. The rain impeded his vision, clouded his senses. That and the splitting headache. They went hand in hand, one could say. He scraped his boot against the side of the trunk, the wood crumbling away to reveal a damp soil. The bedrock of new life.

            The weather hung over him like a heavy blanket, a grey so draining it made him feel as lifeless as the undead shambling towards him. The rain was turning into a fine mist, but this would return to being a deluge, he was sure of it. Breathing through his mouth, groaning, he pushed himself down off the stump and faced the zombies. They were a good dozen paces away, though judging distance was not the man’s forte.

            If they don’t kill me, he thought, this cold will. His head was full of disgusting bile and nagging thoughts. Should have stayed in bed. Even as he complained, he hefted his longsword. Think later. Kill now. That’s how soldiers think, right?

The first of the zombies reached out with grasping, bony hands. The skin of its digits was worn down, any muscle and skin sloughing off to show the bone beneath. Its guts hung around the knees; the skin of its belly having been split open by a heavy sword. The maggots couldn’t quite hold onto their communal meal, tumbling off into the dirt.

            Their parents hid in the clothes along with the lice. A small community riding along with this walking corpse, jostled out of place as the would-be warrior cut it in half. From the balding crown of its head to the unmentionable, shrivelled thing between its legs. The thing fell into two pieces, both thrashing on the floor, each arm clawing towards their target.

            The rain became a deluge, as he had assumed. The weather was too warm to have snow, but too cold to not rain. The most it had done was make the corpses rot faster and grow waterlogged. Perhaps they had been raised after being left in a bog somewhere. Every groan given produced brackish water and wriggling invertebrates.

            One could argue these tiny creatures would inherit the world, but even they would die soon enough. When the dead were naught but an army of bones, when there was nothing more to feast upon, the vermin would die too. The foul necromancer would be the last man standing on the ash heap.

            His minions continued to pour in from down the path, or in from the fields. He carved them up, even as his breath was ragged and phlegm-filled, or as his sword grew heavier in his hands. When the bisected bodies came forth, he stomped them into the stoney path, rending them into pulp. They continued nonetheless, even as they were reduced to mulch. A soup of chopped, torn muscle and broken bone, a wave of gore sped on by an unholy hatred. Panting, he backed away, slashing at it frantically.

            Should have stayed in bed, he thought, in between panicked bellows and coughing fits.

#

Far away, the foul necromancer watched through his crystal orb as the would-be warrior fought in vain. The undead had no eyes to see out of, and even if they did, the flies made for better spies. When they weren’t eaten by passing birds. In fact, he should have used a crow. They barged into his business enough for him to punish them. Always making noise outside his window, or pecking at his zombies. He would enthral them next! No more cawing and disrupting his day, no sir!

            Skeletons, now those were superb. No groaning, no flesh to rot away. Hardly a sturdy creation, given the bones were meant to be wrapped in muscles and organs, but these were dead things. They had no need for pesky baggage like that. They also couldn’t talk, and that was a real issue.

            His home was filled with silence. Whether it was blissful, or harrowing depended on his mood, or the time of day. The foul necromancer had resorted to filling it with his own words. Much easier than having someone else around – even if he worried he was going mad. Madder. You had to be mad to do what he had done.

            He sighed and muttered as he watched the poor man fight, ‘You’d be best using fire, old boy.’ He looked out the window at the storm clouds, the grey day unfolding before him. ‘Maybe not.’ With bony fingers, he rubbed sunken eyes and breathed out through cracked lips.

            The tower was comprised of rough stone, three floors high and surrounded by a great, broiling cloud. On the top floor was the necromancer’s bedroom, which he had found little reason to leave in the past few weeks. The undead were doing their work, why bother? His room had all he needed, except when he had to relieve himself or get some food. Another reason to become undead himself, but that was a rather scary thought, even to one so dark.

His legions of the dead lay in the loose dirt outside, ready to attack any that dared enter. It made delivering supplies to his doorstep an issue. The merchant he had made acquaintances with was understanding enough. He left the food at the edge of his domain and let the skeletons come to collect. The two men had never met in person, but his correspondences made him seem quite nice. Hand-written letters with a perfect penmanship, classically trained. Compared to the foul necromancer’s shaky hand, they seemed so very flawless. And his use of words, far better than the foul necromancer’s demands of power and control. The last of letter had included something along the lines of, “Bring me your largest dead cattle, that I might feast and use their bones to construct something towering!” He had also made sure to end each with “Best Wishes”. He was not a complete monster, after all.

            The foul necromancer smiled, only to grunt as his lips split and bled. He swore, then dabbed it with the long sleeve of his dark robes. Frowning, he looked at the warrior. The pang of longing welled in him, a simple sort of loneliness.

            How I wish I could, he thought. But… He grumbled, wrapping himself in his robe and a thick wool blanket. It was winter, and he was freezing. Another issue he had failed to plan for. Getting a more advanced heating system in would be difficult, so he had resorted to wrapping himself in thick furs. They did nothing to help his image. He hardly looked the part of a mighty tyrant, all wrapped up in blankets and with a miserable, open-mouthed look on his face. Behold, the foul necromancer, freezing in his tower and resigned to his fate. He had chosen this path; it was his life now.

            He pulled himself away from the orb, creaking as he stood up and padded over to the empty fireplace. He carried the blanket in his hands. Water trickled in down from the chimney. He swore at it, grumbling and walking over to the window. Though closed, the cold still seeped in from it. The view was as miserable as ever. A blasted countryside, torn down by his legions to build more of his undead kingdom. None of which he had managed to build yet other than the occasional shack for no one to live in. Said shacks ended up sinking into the soupy ground, because he had no idea how to put foundations down or really how to build a house.

            Maybe… maybe that garden idea wouldn’t be too terrible. He smiled at that thought. Could bring people in to… talk to. He had bought some seeds from the merchant. Even a few mushrooms to grow and eat. They didn’t need sunlight, so at least he was being smart about that. Without really meaning to, he meandered back to the table and, with his head resting on his hands, he peered into the crystal orb.

            ‘Come on, soldier. Put your back into it.’ He laughed, pulling the chair closer and gripping the blanket tighter around his thin frame. ‘Prove yourself…’

#

The would-be warrior was no true soldier. He had never taken up arms for his village before. If anything, he had hated his countrymen. He had simply been the last person to leave the settlement. The horde had not found him as he curled up into a ball under his covers. Sick in bed, suffering from a flu as per usual, he had watched as his supposed neighbours and friends fled for their lives. He had not blamed most of them for running away. An undead invasion took precedent over one man nobody liked.

            He assumed no one liked him. It had made it easier for him to be bitter back at them. His cursing had been so prolific it was a miracle a literal curse had not spawned from his malice.

They had always done so, kicking him to the dirt and shoving mud in his face. Their words had blended into one voice, a cacophony of cheerful merriment at his expense.

‘Can’t get up. C’mon! Get up!’

‘Ey, get the poo next!’

‘Son of a whore can’t even stand!’

‘Aw, look at him crying! Cry more ya little bitch!’

‘Yeah, cry!’

‘Cry! C’mon!’

The adults had done little to help. He had wept. They had laughed. His father beat the children, which made his own child laugh. He kicked one to the dirt and stomped on his back, then grabbed another by the neck and threw him to a wall. In his hands was a wooden rod, a quarterstaff. Something so simple yet so very, very dangerous.

Then their fathers beat his, ganging up much like the children. It was like watching a vision of the future. This would be the would-be warrior’s fate. Of course, everyone, even his father, assumed that the sickly creature would die soon, but “soon” never came. He lived into adulthood, taking up his father’s trade. Carpentry. Nothing as grand as a knight or warrior, no. Not even a blacksmith. In between his many bouts of ill health, he managed to become just barely successful. People came to buy stools and tables and spinning tops, barely standing his presence. Or so he thought. They could have been perfectly fine with him.

He supposed that the soldiers that had mocked his poor health were dead now. He had seen them be dragged off to war. He had celebrated. Buying a tankard of beer and toasting to his own freedom. Finally, the monsters were gone from his home! This only made things worse. The wives and mothers and children booed him. A furious barmaid spat in his face. No more going to the tavern then, even when he was in slightly better health.

And then they returned. In the hot summer, their corpses rotted and brought the flies. The one living soldier left was a shell of his former self, speaking of the dead having risen, of masses of bones and flesh crawling up from the earth to drag his comrades down to hell.

Good, the then-carpenter had thought, what you deserve.

The thought had soured when he saw their wailing widows and children. Some had looked to him in his window, hurling stones and abuse. There was the sickly woodworker, there was the walking omen of misfortune.

Now, the only one left, he took up arms, because someone had to. His father’s sword from the mantlepiece. A handsome blade that he brushed clean of dust, ready for use. His father had been a soldier before settling back into village life, but he hadn’t wanted his son to follow that path. The chain shirt and undercoat were from the blacksmith. A theft, to be sure, but the feelings of the blacksmith weren’t his concern.

He left the collection of wattle and thatched houses to rot, let the belongings of these horrible people turn to dust. The rain would wash away all memory of the place in time. The people would flee, some might survive to other settlements, but the dead would win. The thought made him uneasy, but the dark little voice, a worm in his brain, chuckled.

Good riddance, it muttered.

In the moment, as he carved up the undead, the would-be warrior was fairly certain one of the corpses was one of the monstrous little children that had been screaming at him. Seems they were as monstrous as their father. The little monster was without its head now. Still, it stumbled after him.

‘Get wh –’ He coughed, kicking the corpse back. The sludge embraced it. Mud and animated meat in equal measure. ‘Get what you deserve!’

#

The foul necromancer, for his name was lost to time, had suffered a similar fate. Sickly, weak, resentful. A city boy, one of many poor children, part of a family with too many mouths to feed. The other urchins took to hurling insults and fists the way one would throw stones at a leper. He was the weakest, so he made for a good target. Apparently, they did not have room for another lackey. Someone had to be at the bottom of the food chain.

But he had channelled his hatred into something more productive. He did not weep, he plotted. He did not complain to his parents, or wait for his mother or father to save him. He spoke with the old hermits, the ones that knew of dark secrets – outcasts, like him. While the other children were all tucked up in their beds, he had scuttled off to do his dirty work. Oh, the urge to creep into their rooms and beat them like dogs, but no. His was a more complicated task.

            On a hot summer night, his body caked in sweat and grave dirt, he wrenched his grandfather’s coffin open and began pulling the skeleton from its mouldering box. Dark sockets glared up at him, displeased with his defiling, and yet the mouth grinned. Perhaps it wanted to be let out. He held the skeleton, hugging it like a lost love. He laid it out in a circle of salt, the heavy leather tome lit by candlelight and dirtied with his muddy fingers.

            He spoke the old words, the wind howling in protest, or perhaps encouraging him. He shouted above its cries, the bones rattling and clattering to life. His grandfather was gone, but his corpse would make a good puppet. The first of many. If he was at the bottom, he would eat his way to the top.

            In this moment, it felt like a fever dream, something he was about to do and felt compelled to do. Why stop now? In the morning, the largest of the boys was found in a bloodied heap. The foul necromancer had heaved up his lunch, but continued, nonetheless.

            Why stop now? The skeleton seemed to say. He brought the creature a cloak, keeping it hidden until night. He raised more and more bodies, more and more blood being spilt in his name. the city did not know of his identity. They sent for people to find this mysterious necromancer, none suspecting the child to be the culprit. The hermits were killed, their old ways snuffed out, but living on in him. The old tome spoke to him, through him. Dark magic, a world of bones and grey skies. The graveyard became his home, the city eventually lost to his army of the dead. Even his mother was gone. She had been abandoned by her fellows, left to her son’s mercy.

            Garbed in black, he gave her a quick death, using her bones to build something wonderful. A mighty tower to pierce the heavens and look out upon the new world he would create!

#

You must see these men for what they are. Cut of the same cloth, but on different paths. Both filled with malice, but while one channelled it into a dark ambition, the other wallowed and wept. Here and now, the foul necromancer looked at the would-be warrior. He saw in them this connection, whether real or imagined by a man simply wanting some sort of companionship. With a thought, he commanded the undead, the tide enveloping the sick man and rendering him unconscious. They paraded him forward, up to the tower. It had been built to pierce the heavens, but they had only managed three floors. The city had made for good materials, but the necromancer had realised after the fourth attempt that something that large was simply unattainable.

            The thunderclouds had gathered around the tower in earnest. This rumbling was what woke the would-be warrior. The lightning was gone by the time he opened his eyes, but the gap between the two was close. He noted the heat first, the warmth of the fire and the smoke. The open window helped with ventilation, but the wind and rain ruined the mood of the room. Nature impeding on homeliness.

            ‘Heh,’ The older man with bloodied lips chuckled nervously, ‘You’re awake. Good. I… oh, apologises for the smoke. I’m currently trying to get a worker up there to install a roof over the chimney. The problem is the –” His words were interrupted by another blinding flash and the roar of an angry god, then a pile of singed bones tumbling down off the roof and past the window – ‘Lightning.’ He grumbled, rubbing his eyes.

            The foul necromancer had cleaned up a little. No scribbled papers or scraps of food on the table, the drinks glasses were cleaned, the fire lit. He had even taken the liberty of drying his guest’s armour and clothes before having his skeletons put them back on. They had been such a pain to clean by hand. Magic, as per usual, made up for this. The would-be warrior felt warm and dry, but increasingly unnerved. His cold was still there, wallowing in his skull like a drowned cat.

            ‘How did you conquer this place?’

            ‘Glad you asked.’ The foul necromancer loved discussing himself, how he had raised the dead, overthrown the nobility and raised this tower in the name of his own intellect. A phallic symbol to compensate his own inadequacies.

            While he talked, the sick man just nodded, looking at the table to see if there was any food. Buttered bread… and it was still warm, the melted butter seeping into the soft insides. He gorged himself on it, stopping to breathe through his mouth. ‘So…’ He blew his nose, ‘Hurgh… huhhh… um… Wh… why am I here?’

            ‘Oh, that.’ The necromancer handed his guest another tissue, throwing the first into the fire. ‘Well, truth be told…’ He sighed, ‘I can’t stand it here! It’s so lonely, there’s no one to talk to! I’m stuck in this bloody tower with nothing but my minions!’ He leaned forward. ‘But now you’re here. And… we can talk! Please, let’s talk. About anything, really!’

            The warrior squinted, wolfing down the food. ‘Wh… um…’ He thought for a long while, looking at the fire, ‘Any women here? Or someone to fix this stupid illness?’

            ‘Ah! I can fix this, yes, yes! There’s certainly some spell to do that! And… um… I can send for a woman or two. However many you need. Oh, this will be wonderful. We can… we could both use a friend, I’d wager.’

            ‘Don’t need friends. Don’t want friends. Friends never… never been there for me. To hell with them. Want people to just leave me alone. Nice and quiet and easy.’

            ‘That… that’s how it starts.’

            ‘What does?’ The would-be warrior sniffled, grumbled, and crunched into his bread.

            The foul necromancer paused, letting him finish. ‘I thought the same, once. But it’s been years, and all it has wrought is… this.’ He gestured to the smoky, cold room around them. Even with the fire, the cold hung around them like a sickness, or a guest that would not leave.

            ‘It’s better,’ his guest grunted. ‘Freedom to move around, get what you want. You… you can grab the world by the neck and demand what you want. All I could do was…’ He sneezed, his whole body shuddering as he contained himself, then coughed wetly. ‘I’ve been sick all my life. Either I’m cursed or blessed with life.’

            ‘Either or?’ The foul necromancer tilted his head.

            ‘It… it varies from day to day. My parents kept me safe, but the other children… horrible little shits that grew up into very large shit. Whole field of cow pats, that lot.’ He chuckled, ‘Glad they’re gone.’

            ‘That… you’ll just be as miserable as me in the end. Look at me,’ He spread his arms, ‘Is this how you want to end up? I just wish to… hehe. No, this is perfect! We can discuss so much!’

            ‘Like what?’ He blew his nose yet again.

            The foul necromancer winced at the noise. ‘Well, we can start by fixing that cold of yours. How long have you had it? I’ve numerous tomes in my library.’ Before the would-be warrior could answer, his host was already up on his feet and making his way to the door.

            The guest grabbed several more chunks of bread and even a slab of ham as he stood. ‘Had it for… on and off, all my life. It creeps in and out enough that I can get out of bed and do work.’

            ‘Work, such as?’

            ‘Carpentry.’

            The necromancer’s face lit up, lips bleeding as he smiled, ‘Oh, perfect! I could do with a craftsman!’

            ‘You got any money to pay me?’ He said between mouthfuls and wiping his nose.

            ‘You’ll have food and housing here, I promise. Besides, not many places around here to live in.’ They made their way to the library on the floor below. Spiral stone steps and a thick, iron door. At each entrance was a skeleton, all armed with spears and shields. ‘You wouldn’t need to do the manual labour, just dictate to my minions and they will follow. It’s quite simple, when you put your mind to it.’

            ‘You’ve had a lot of practice then?’

            ‘Oh, I’m a master at it.’ The foul necromancer chuckled, gesturing for one of the skeletons, this one dressed in a grey tunic, to fetch one of the heavy tomes from up among the bookshelves. It knocked a book over, picked it up and put it back. ‘They can be imprecise at times.’

            ‘Better than someone who talks back.’ The would-be warrior had stopped eating, instead gazing with interested at the shelves upon shelves of books. They stretched to the ceiling, stuffed with leather-bound tomes as thick as his head. ‘What’s in all these? Your necromancy can’t be in so many books.’

            ‘The initial tome was just that.’ The foul necromancer smiled and took up the old, heavy book, quickly laying it down on the table and taking a seat. His guest just stood beside him, looking over his shoulder. ‘The rest are copies, classics and other curiosities. Even a few on medicine.’

            ‘I’ll have that one, thanks.’ The sicker of the two men snorted, then wiped his nose on his sleeve.

            ‘Oh, I could teach you more than medicine! If you stayed, if you became more than a guest, an apprentice, we could do wonders! If your sickness will not dissipate, I can simply deaden it. You would not feel a thing! You would be… like my minions, but with your mind still there.’ He tapped the side of his temple.

            His guest looked less thrilled at the prospect, ‘I’d rather keep my flesh, thank you. And… I still have things I want to do that you need feeling for.’ He looked over to the table, noticing the crystal ball.

            The necromancer had moved it down the library, lest his guest see it and think him strange for spying on people. The raising of an army of corpses he hadn’t thought too strange to hide. Hiding that would be impossible. He watched as his guest went around the table, leaned over and pulled the orb towards him.

            He gazed into its swirling contents with a sudden eagerness, a curiosity. The cosmos within churned, forming a moving picture. A woman and her child, running for their lives, their village burning around them. There was the hint of a weapon in the hands of the viewer, the groaning of a dead throat.

            The screaming made the would-be warrior wince. He clamped his eyes shut and ripped his hands away, groaning much like the undead. He sat down at the table, rubbing his eyes and looking to the foul necromancer. ‘Wh… uh…’

            ‘I would recommend you don’t look in there. It’s a way for me to look over my forces.’

            ‘The women and the… ugh…’ He glanced at the orb again. The dark little voice crept into his ear once more.

            I could do it, he thought. If this old man could, I can too. Better than him, even. Just need to fix my head. This cold.

This thought sat in his head for the rest of the day. In the end, after they had finished their discussion, the would-be warrior paused, looking the man in the eye. He saw the shrivelled, decrepit tyrant, the monster that had helped rid him of those annoyances. He saw a creature that would despoil the world, ridding it of all life, all beauty. He even saw a possible future here. The would-be warrior could be a dark knight, a towering guardian of his new master, clad in black iron and wielding a terrible sword.

            He picked up a knife from the table, closed the gap between them and stabbed the foul necromancer in the throat. Eyes bulging, the old man tried in vain to command his legions, but any verbal component to the incantation was impossible. His mouth was filled with blood and metal. In and out the knife went, the necromancer’s feeble hands clawing at the man, only for the warrior to swat them away and continue the grizzly work.

            In the end, the floor was coated with blood, the skeletons standing guard, motionless. Their master had died too quickly for them to care. Mindless, they stood and watched as the warrior, the soon-to-be tyrant, wiped the blood from his face and turned back to the table. He ate the corpse’s food, then sat back. Looking to one of the skeletons, bare bone sheathed in chainmail, he grunted, ‘Dispose of the body, and clean away the blood.’

            It was a test, but it worked. The corpse was dragged away, the floor scrubbed and mopped clean. Perhaps it was the sickness, or the rush of blood in his veins, but he felt heady, then sick, then heady again. The soon-to-be tyrant would see where this took him. He had little else left to lose.