Chương 12: To Slay the Undead

Tim was woken by the sounds of cart wheels clanking against the cobbled floor and the voices of people on their way to work. His bones ached and his head was heavy. He hated waking up without seeing his brother in the morning, especially on bad days like today. It was nice to see a friendly face, although he hated how sorry Aaron looked for him some days. Tim had a rigid sleep routine as prescribed by his healer.

He had to force himself out of bed within thirty minutes of waking to keep a well established rest cycle. It was poor for the soul's balance to rot in bed all day. But on days like this, Tim despised the routine and wished he could just sleep through and skip until tomorrow. He reached for his cane, propped up against the corner wall next to his bed. I hate this bit. Tim kicked his legs out of the bed and pushed himself up to a seated position, balancing the cane on the floor for balance.

The world spun clockwise around his head for a few rotations before settling. As he cranked his eyes open and his vision cleared, he looked ahead and saw a painting of his family farm on the wall. The shiny coating on the frame was peeling and dust had settled over the exposed areas. Farming for food was a lost art in the city with food being supplied by the Altheons. Tim couldn't remember the last time he smelled fresh country air.

Refusing to procrastinate further, he put two hands on his cane and leant forwards, using all of his arm strength to struggle to his feet. He paused for another moment to let the dizziness subside before steadily moving to the living room. The small kitchenette at the back of the room was messy and disorganised from the night before. Not because he didn't want to keep it tidy, but because he was too exhausted yesterday.

Leaning heavily on the cane, he staggered over and pulled some herbs out of a jar and placed them into a mug. He turned the tap to fill the mug, but nothing came out. He let out a quick sigh. Clean running water was one of the few benefits of living in a walled-in city, but it didn't always work. Tim placed his cane on the kitchen counter and reached up to a lever above the sink. He gripped it with both hands and leaned back, barely weighing enough to slowly lower it to his shoulder height.

He released the tension and it quickly returned it to the position at the top. He started to pant and huff on repeating this a few times to pressurize the water system. On turning the tap, the water trickled into the cup initially and gradually increased to a strong flow. It was pathetic really. He couldn't remember what it felt like for simple activities to be easy. Some days were better than others for Tim, but today felt awful. He'd been having more of those days lately.

Tim took his herbal concoction in one hand, picking up his cane from the counter in the other and hobbled over to his armchair where he lowered himself down slowly, his knees making a slight cracking sound as in the process. He let out a relieved breath. Suddenly, he was startled by a scratching noise. He tilted his head, searching for the sound. Rats again? he thought. He turned his head and leant over the side of his chair to inspect the sound. It was coming from the door.

The stern clank of the door's locking mechanism turned and the door creaked open.

"You're in the wrong house," Tim began. A tall nobleman stood on the doorway, he wore a long black silk cloak with the hood pulled up obscuring his face. His tunic was clean and white, loosely fitted with buttons from the chest up. He wore short boots which were black and polished, but had a small caking of dry mud underneath. He was old, yet his skin was fair and unblemished. It wasn't just his sharp cheekbones and wrinkles that gave away his age, but his eyes themselves looked tired and old.

He had a fine gray goatee covering his chin and around his lip.

"I don't think so," the man snarled. He drew a fine knife from his belt. The blade was shiny chrome with a black handle sparsely studded with green gems. As inched into the house, the gems began to glow, illuminating his face.

"S-sir! I must insist that you leave."

"Undead filth!" He snarled, with small sprays of spit flying out of his mouth.

"Who is your maker?" Tim stumbled to his feet.

"What? No, you're mistaken!"

"The emeralds don't lie!" He hissed, taking small steps towards Tim. The dagger glowed brighter as he approached. Tim backed up, pressed up against the wall and stared in fear at the maniac with the knife.

"STOP!" Tim shouted. He closed his eyes and tried to push the man's wrist away as he pressed the knife up against his neck. But he was too weak.

"L-Let's talk about this first. This is a mistake!" The man clasped both fists around the knife and pressed hard with all of his strength into Tim's exposed neck. A stone in an amulet around Tim's neck popped and disintegrated into a fine blue mist, activating his protection spell—a charm he'd been given by Aaron. His mana expanded rapidly within his body, pulsing outwards in a single powerful swoop. A bead of sweat rolled down Tim's neck and onto the blade of the knife.

The protection spell prevented the knife from breaching the skin. The old noble pressed with both bands clasped around the knife handle into Tim's neck, and as he did, the knife fluidly moulded back on itself, curling in a spiral. The man staggered backwards, "Impossible!" Tim slumped down with his back sliding against the wall until he was sat in a heap on the floor. Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

"How did you do that? Undead can't cast magic" said the man.

"They don't have a soul, so they can't have mana!"

"I told you, I'm not undead. I'm alive, in spite of your best efforts!" Tim struggled to speak as he caught his breath, yet he wasn't too startled for some sarcastic mockery. He leaned his entire weight against the wall, exhaustion crashing down on him. It took everything just to remain on his feet. Cuthbert started squawking and flapping around in his cage. Tim's heart sank. He was here for the crow. The man with a goatee looked up and grinned.

"Necromancer," he mattered in a cold, raspy voice.

"Wait, Necromancer? What do you mean Necromancer?" Tim made his best effort at feigning ignorance.

"They're not real." The man ripped off the top of the cage with unnatural strength and grabbed the crow by his feet. He pulled him out and held him upside down as he wriggled for freedom.

"A Necromancer is the creator of this abomination!" As Tim looked up at the man. He noticed that the curled up dagger was glowing a vibrant green. Presumably, it had some sort of seekening magic for undead. Tim had hoped that Cuthbert wasn't truly undead, but this stranger seemed convinced otherwise. Aaron will be so upset when he finds out.

"I found him," Tim lied.

"He was on the ground, struggling for life three days ago… by the temple on Fifth Street!" The man looked around the room at the chaotic piles of tomes and scrolls. Tim sensed that he was unconvinced by the lie.

"We were researching a way to fix him!" He continued." WE!?" The man said as he lowered the crow by his side and walked towards Tim. Damn it!

"Me and my brother, he's a healer!" Tim struggled to stop his body from shaking.

"And where is this brother now?" The man leant in uncomfortably close to Tim. Time noted every detail. The subtle mole on his left cheek. The scar near the right ear. The receding hairline. The man's menacing expression softened and focused as he scanned Tim up and down.

"And he hasn't healed you because you are not sick, isn't that right?" Tim was stunned into silence, has he been stalking us? And how could he know about my curse?

"Tell me about the curse." The man looked driven, almost to obsession.

"Let him go, first!" The man froze for a moment and looked at the bird. He opened his hand. Cuthbert's body flipped around acrobatically and he spread his wings. He flapped manically and darted out the window. The man knelt down onto one knee and grabbed Tim by the scruff of his collar, pulling his limp body forwards. Tim felt each warm moist breath on his nose.

"There, your abomination is free. Now tell me!"

"Okay, okay. Get off me." Tim pushed the man's hand down.

"I grew up on a beet farm east of here, before the countryside was desolated by the dragon. The farm was built over an old iron mine and my brother and I used to play there. One day, we found a strange object. Everything in that mine was old, rotten, rusted or covered in dirt, but this was immaculate. My brother dared me to touch it. When I did, I was thrown to the floor like I was hit by an explosion. Since then, I started to get sick. Worst of all, no one would believe us, not even our own parents."

The man's demeanor changed and he sat down on the floor next to Tim.

"What's your name?" It was too late for secrecy now.

"Tim." He cleared his throat, mustering what courage he could.

"And who are you?" The man frowned deeply. Tim could see in his eyes that he was thinking. Deciding whether or not to kill him. Then he let out a sigh and released his collar.

"My adversaries know me as the Crystalblade, but that might need to change thanks to your show." The man looked down at his broken blade, curled up like a caterpillar.

"I am an undead hunter. I seek down and destroy the abominations and those that seek to create and use them for evil."

"Cuthbert isn't evil, and he's not dead." Tim scowled at the invader.

"And neither am I."

"Ah, but he's not alive either, is he? What if he was a larger animal, like a wolf or bear. Or a man?" Tim sat in silence, trying to hide his agreement. He hated to think what would happen if a larger, more dangerous creature lost its soul. Especially if it was under the control of an evil Necromancer, like in the stories. But Cuthbert hadn't shown any such inclination. He hadn't tried to harm them, nor anyone else.

"Tim, I believe you have been cursed by a Necromancer," Gideon continued.

"I think this is why I was drawn to you when I was tracking undead. I can help you remove this curse." Tim's eyes widened for a second then returned to normal. He had lost all hope for a cure years ago.

"And how could you help me?"

"Show me where this farm is. We will track down this artifact and return your curse to where it came." Tim stopped and thought. Aaron would never let him undertake such a perilous journey alone. He would insist on coming with him even at the slightest hint of a cure. Suffering and dying on a futile trip is not a fate he would risk for his brother.

"I can't do that," said Tim.

"But you can!" replied Giddeon.

"This could change your life forever!"

"I don't want to die in the corrupted soulless fields, murdered by thugs for the shoes on my feet or disemboweled by some twisted monster. I would rather live out my fate here with my brother. The desolate lands are no place for someone like me." Tim spoke with a sharp hint of malice in his voice.

"The Desolate Lands are not what you think. There are people living out there, despite what the king wants you to think. I can't guarantee it will be completely safe, but it's definitely different from what you've been led to believe." What Giddeon was saying suggested that there was some sort of conspiracy to lie to everyone in the city. It was ludicrous. Yet Tim sensed he wasn't lying.

"I can't," said Tim. The truth didn't matter, what mattered was not leading Aaron on some dangerous fruitless quest.

"This is my home and my life and I will not gamble it away!" The man straightened his cape and flattened the collar.

"Very well then." He offered out a hand to Tim. Tim refused to shake his hand. The man had broken into his home and tried to kill him. Gideon withdrew it.

"If you change your mind, I work in the old burial grounds near the east gate. I am sorry for being rough with you. Understand it was nothing personal. The enemy I fight… they are too powerful to ask questions first." The man turned to leave, but not before the front door swung open first.

"What's going on here?" came Aaron's voice.

"Tim! Are you okay?

"Aaron barged through the door. He was dressed in a dirty work tunic with deep sunken eyes, tired from the night's work. His fists were clenched, knuckles white. Tim noticed him stutter slightly, as if he recognised the nobleman. The man smirked from the side of his mouth and took a shallow bow, "I do not believe we have met." The man's voice and demeanor instantly switched to that of a well spoken noble. His acting was phenomenal and akin only to a man who had spent his whole life in disguise.

"Why are you in our home?" Aaron was locked onto the old man, standing on guard. He looked as if he was ready to fight at any moment.

"My name is Giddeon. I came here to kill your brother, but it seems I was mistaken. Now the situation has changed. I have a proposal."