The blizzard eyes of the telepath felt like a spider crawling over your face, but Fran fought to hold the grey-skinned man’s gaze anyway. He couldn’t show weakness when thousands of lives were in his hands. Telepaths knew well the discomfort caused by their presence, and learned to enjoy it, which didn’t make things easier for anybody.

“Le-An is my name, sir,” said the smiling telepath. He wore a cobalt blue cape, a red and white tunic of the finest cotton and the best boots Fran had seen since he arrived in Azgadal. Telepaths made crazy money, and the urgency of his recruitment by the monks meant that Le-An would make today more than a Kliogan peasant saw in a year. Unless he died at the hands of an orc.

“Dhenn is my name, Le-An. The people that your colleague must communicate with are called Seros and Sancho. He’s with them now.”

“He is,” confirmed the telepath. “May I sit? I need to save energy if you expect me to maintain sustained communication.”

Fran waved his hand benevolently.

“Please sit down,” he pointed to a corner of the large office. “There’s the bed you requested, and the towels and the cold water.”

The man walked over to review the items. They were essentially a first aid kit in case the demands of mind-to-mind communication became too much for his brain. Seros had explained to Fran that telepathic powers were a brittle thing, much less reliable than sorcery or divine magic. And they could turn against the psychic with a vengeance. Psychics relished their inborn abilities despite the risks and developed a strong sense of independence, but the volatile nature of their powers meant that few made it to 35.

“Are you a devotee of the blood god?” asked the telepath.

“No, I’m just helping save Azgadal. I expect you will help too.”

“Save Azgadal?” The telepath’s hand hovered in the air like he was about to play an invisible keyboard. “From what?”

An unnaturally sharp scream echoed across the city answering his question. Fran and the psychic rushed to the window. They were in a large office on the top floor of the Unholy Cathedral. Below then, the Inner Quarter and all of Azgadal slept through the last minutes of nighttime.

“I swear on my blessed eyes I’ve never seen anything like this!” said the telepath.

To the south of the city, a dancing pink light shone in the dark, illuminating a humanoid form. Every few seconds, a screaming green face approached the pink light, then fell to the ground.

The telepath’s mouth opened in shocked terror. His hands sank into the table next to the window until his knuckles turned white.

“You must send the guard immediately!”

“Everything is under control,” said Dhenn moving his hands behind his back to hide the tremor in his left hand.

That fucking scream.

----------------------------------------

Seros adjusted his back against the sacks of potatoes and lowered his head delicately. Not too bad. From this position, he could see the dark blue waters of the lake lap the wooden docks.

Sacks and boxes filled the warehouse. It was long, dark, roofed, and its door was open, the perfect place to watch without being seen. The comfy potato sacks were the cherry on top.

“I could sleep here if I had to,” said Seros. “I’ve slept in worse places a hundred times.”

“Shouldn’t you be more watchful?” asked Sancho. The necromancer stood next to his friend, pacing back and forth, always with an eye on the lake. A dozen guards hid in similar posts across the entry to the docks of Azgadal, all of them nervously holding their bows.

“You’re anxious enough for all of us,” said the lion.

”I’m focused.”

A female voice joined the conversation.

“I couldn’t sleep here in a million years,” said the lithe grey woman with a shaved head. The snowstorm in her eyes felt like a window into another world.

“Shouldn’t you conceal your eyes somehow?” asked Sancho. “They’ll give us away, they’re like a lighthouse.”

“I’d be blind, you jerk. I’m a telepath, not clairvoyant.”

Sancho held his skull with his bony hands and breathed out.

“I’m sorry, Pel. We’re all tense tonight.”

“I’m not,” said the lion. “But I’m pissed off that Dhenn’s letting that poser earn all the glory.”

“Who?”

“That guy larping as a dragon knight. The orcs will eat him alive, mark my words. Meanwhile, all I get to fight is a pack of zombies remote-controlled by an asshole. Zombies suck, bro.”

“Do yourself a favor, kid: Don’t flaunt your ignorance,” replied Sancho.

“Killing zombies is a sorry job. They’re icky, smelly and full of overripe fluids. I’ll need three baths to get them off me.”

“Don’t kill them, then. It’s not like any of this is their fault. Just distract them and the barbarians. I’ll take care of the rest.”

That’s when they heard the sword’s scream coming from the south. They looked at each other in confusion. Finally, Pel the telepath breathed out loudly for a few seconds, then blinked.

“I just received a message. Thousands of orcs are rushing to the gate. Someone called Blacktongue is holding them.”

“That’s the larper,” said Seros. “Don’t believe the hype.”

Sancho stopped on his feet.

“Reply that the battle has begun on the docks too,” he said.

Across the water, a brittle layer of morning light revealed dozens of boats moving fast in their direction. All of them were packed with inert, dead men in various states of decomposition.

“Oh, Lord of Light,” said the telepath. “There must be hundreds of them.”

Suddenly, the ground shook like a million people were running in heavy boots. Seros jumped out of the sacks and grabbed his axe with both hands, looking around for the enemy.

“Orcs are coming! The orcs! Azgal is dead!”

The cries and screams of a thousand voices filled the air. A crowd was running to the docks trying to reach the ships, any ship, before the invaders overran the city.

“Azgal is dead!”

Seros and Sancho knew that wasn’t true. Azgal was just gone. Receiving tribute was fine for the dragon, but sweating the small stuff wasn’t. The potential loss of thousands of human lives obviously belonged in the latter category.

“Azgal is dead! run, run, make room!”

Fake as they might be, the news of Azgal’s death were spreading faster than celebrity gossip. A mob of people from a dozen races rushed into the docks and everyone jumped into the first ship they found, then screamed for experienced sailors to join them, or just got on the ship’s oars and started rowing as best they could.

The mass of desperate people soon reached the boats and ships outside the warehouse where Sancho and Seros hid. The adventurers and the telepath observed silently the desperate frenzy of the crowd.

“Is it time yet?” asked Seros.

A moment later, the telepath shook her head.

“Lord Dhenn reminds you of his orders: Wait until the enemy lands.”

Seros spat on the floor, raised his axe and hit a box with all his might, breaking it into a hundred pieces.

“Aaaaargh! Can’t he see what’s about to happen? Can you, necromancer?”

If Sancho could, he didn’t say a word.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Soon, packed ships meandered in the waters next to the docks. The fleeing civilians let out a new wave of screams when they realized who was on the boats closing in like a shark on an easy prey.

Rowing barbarians shouted like panthers at the terrified multitude. The chieftains yelled at their men to ignore the ships and keep rowing toward the city, but did they expect to be listened to? The lion saw a barbarian drop his oar, grab his axe, and jump on a passing ship full of civilians.

“Blood and tears are my glory!” he screamed. The civilians put up their hands to prove they were unarmed and begged for mercy. Some got on their knees and lowered their heads. The barbarian’s axe swung indiscriminately, killing men and women and pushing the ship’s passengers toward the back of the deck until they fell to the cold water screaming in horror.

The barbarian remaining on the first boat looked admiringly at his comrade, dropped his oar with a smile and picked a javelin with the confidence of a man who’s practiced this move a thousand times.

“Blood and tears are my glory!”

The javelin flew toward a horrified girl of ten. At the last second, her mother took her in her arms and turned to protect her daughter’s body with her own. The javelin struck the woman’s white clothes. She shook in agony and fell to the ship’s floor spilling blood all over the deck. The girl’s weeping joined the chorus of desperation as the barbarians continued to satisfy their thirst for violence.

Seros wandered the warehouse striking random boxes with his weapon. “For fuck’s sake,” he said. “Fuck’s sake.” He couldn’t keep his eyes off the massacre.

“It’s time, kid. I can see him,” said Sancho.

Surrounded by barbarians, the Tormentor approached the city’s docks. He sailed on a brown boat rowed by four stone-faced mercenaries. Around them, several raider boats had already forgotten about the treasures in Azgal’s cave and decided to satisfy their dark appetites with the fleeing civilians. However, the vast majority of boats kept their course and were starting to reach the docks. The hundreds of terrified civilians still looking for a ship to escape froze in a stupor as the walking dead moved ashore.

“Zombies! Zombies are taking over the city! Run!”

“It was a trap!”

”Azgal is dead!”

Fueled by dread and agony, the crowd pulled back into the city. They ran, pushing and elbowing each other, their panic so strong that nothing could stand in their way. Meanwhile, boat after boat continued to land and the docks filled with hundreds of inert zombies awaiting the orders of their master. Behind them, the waters let out a splash with every new body that fell to the barbarian’s axes. Red pools of blood appeared one after another on the lake’s calm waters.

“What a disaster,” said Seros.

Sancho pointed his finger at the Tormentor’s boat.

“That miserable worm is about to land. You say you want more glory than Blacktongue? It’s our turn to shine.”

The necromancer took out his cape and let it fall to the warehouse's floor. He wore a brown tunic, a leather belt, a pouch and a short sword’s scabbard. He opened the pouch, took out a pair of steel handcuffs, and locked one on his left hand. Then he ran toward the water and jumped in with the natural elegance of an Olympic swimmer.

The freezing water hit him like a cold morning shower. He dove deeper, trying to avoid detection by the invaders, his legs and arms driving him forward with powerful strokes.

The view from under the lake was dim, he could see the submerged part of some ships and little else. But in his mind, Sancho knew the exact location of hundreds of zombies like so many candles in a cathedral.

He swam until he saw the bigger boat carrying the Tormentor. He propelled himself up quietly and emerged next to it. He let the oars pass by and grabbed the coarse wood at the boat’s stern with his right hand. He didn’t want to risk the handcuffs on the left one making noise, so he added that hand a moment later, slowly. The moment of truth had arrived.

“Don’t falter now, Sancho!” he said to himself. He leaped into the boat, stood up and took a look around. Only one of the mercenaries had bothered looking back to check the noise coming from the back of the boat. The man grunted a sound of surprise that an arrow cut short. It flew through his upper cheek from behind and then through his nose.

Sancho felt a surge of relief: The guards were covering him as planned.

The barbarian went into a panic at the intense pain. He bled everywhere as he tried to grab the arrow, but barbarians aren't used to ships, so he quickly lost his footing and fell out of the boat with a huge splashing sound.

Sancho found himself just feet behind the tormentor. There were two more mercenaries to his side, and half a dozen ahead. Nobody expected an attack from the back, but neither did they expect an attack from a necromancer who had never used the short sword that was his only weapon. If just one of the savages turned his axe toward Sancho, his life would end immediately.

“You woke up and asked to die, yes you did, you fucking monsters!” shouted a booming voice. "Listen to the truth of Seros, defender of Azgadal! You're already deeeeeeead!" The feline warrior ran toward the Tormentor’s boat axe in hand. “Look at me, Tormentor of the undead. My face is the last thing your putrid eyes will see!”

Sancho smiled at Seros' commitment to his role in Dhenn's plan, but he had to admit that his overdramatic delivery was working: He’d caught the attention of everyone in the Tormentor’s boat. The lion man advanced along the docks evading the few mercenaries trying to engage with him. A couple of them rose their swords to strike Seros from the back and a dozen arrows quickly sent them to the land of the dead.

“Kill that one, you must protect me,” said the Tormentor in his toneless voice. The necromancer mustn’t have trusted his allies completely, for his voice lowered four octaves and recited a brief control spell to send the zombies after the feline nuisance.

Sancho shook his head like a hero watching the movie villain about to get away with his evil plans. Time to stop him. He advanced with determination, grabbed Aggar by his shoulders and forced the man to turn around. Before the Tormentor had time to react, Sancho locked the free handcuff in the Tormentor's right hand. The evil necromancer looked down confused and watched the steel chain that linked his wrist to Sancho's.

"Now you can't run away," said Sancho. "And soon you'll be wishing that you did.'

Sancho slapped the man’s ears with his hands and grabbed his head firmly. A gruff voice shouted demanding he be killed. Arrows flew, shutting up that voice forever.

“Soul torment,” whispered Sancho, his voice as deep as Aggar’s. It was the voice that necromancers used to express their full power.

Two beams of white light emerged from Sancho’s empty sockets and anchored themselves to his enemy’s tired eyes. Immediately, Aggar stopped struggling. He and Sancho were gone from reality and into a realm where only the strength of your magic and your willingness to survive a magic duel mattered.

Sancho’s body felt like he’d fallen into the water again, fully submerged in a world miles away from the massacre around him. It was just Aggar and him in this grey-brown place of abstract forms and shapes. A world where the living were distant echoes and the presence of the dead shone with the light of a hundred suns.

That included the thousand zombies gathered in the docks. Sancho sensed them turn toward him and Aggar. The struggle between the two men felt like a string of never-ending nuclear explosions. The undead watched in silence, transfixed.

A hundred beams of energy flowed between Aggar and Sancho now, raw necromantic power trying to break the defenses of their enemy without mercy or remorse. Sancho knew that his survival and that of thousands was at stake. He tried his best to focus on the fight, but a small part of him couldn’t help feeling for the enslaved zombies, victims of a tyrant who perverted the caring role of a true necromancer.

Sancho pressed his hands harder against Aggar’s head. Deep inside, he knew it was a futile move. The purity and intensity of their alignment with the forces of necromancy would determine the result of the duel. He felt a pang of fear. Fear for the thousands of civilians who would die if he failed, but also for his family back on Earth and for his sleeping body whose heart would stop.

“I’m back,” said Aggar’s voice. His mouth turned into a disgusting smile. “You caught me by surprise but I’m back. You’re sneaky and you’re dead.”

Sancho felt his power field retract, unable to penetrate Aggar’s power core. His energy solidified around him forming a dense shield. It would last for a while, but it wasn’t a solution. Aggar’s sustained attack would slowly deplete his shield, leaving him without enough energy for a counterattack. After that, defeat was certain. What was he thinking, attacking a necromancer with the power to control hundreds of zombies against their will? The zombies, he’d been thinking of the zombies like he thought of his sons back on Earth. They were both adults now, and when Sancho first arrived in Mela, he felt that delightful feeling that protecting a loved one gave you. That was the meaning of Mela for him, not gold, adventures and dragons.

“Surrender,” said Aggar. “Do it.”

Sancho knew the gaunt man in front of him wasn’t offering mercy. He’d still die if he surrendered. If anything, Aggar must think that shortening Sancho’s agony would be incredibly generous. Aggar’s pale lips twisted as he repeated the words over and over. Do it. Surrender. Give up now.

He sensed the presence of the zombies next to him. Somehow, it felt like they’d gotten closer during the fight.

Sancho felt his energy increase. His shield recovered slightly and Aggar’s pressure relented. It didn’t make sense. It had to be a trick. But trick or not, he wouldn’t surrender. He opened his mouth to respond to the Tormentor’s stream of commands to surrender and die.

“I’m the only necromancer in this fight,” he said. “You’re just a tyrant and a slaver. You’re a power-obsessed perversion of what we do, what we mean. And they know it, yes, the dead that I shepherd know it.”

The mysterious energy flow kept on strengthening him and Sancho finally understood its origin. He opened up, letting it fill him with a power so intense that it seemed impossible. A thousand beams of light flew around him, completely under his control, ready for his command.

Once he’d asked Dhenn whether zombies missed their necromancers. Now he knew. The duel had severed the Tormentor’s control over the undead. The zombies were really watching the fight and sensed Sancho’s motive for his duel with Aggar, his concern for them and the well-being their souls. In response, they’d given him the necromantic energy that every undead creature carries within them. The power of a thousand zombies just reawakened from their eternal rest.

Sancho unleashed that concentrated power in a giant wave of azure light. It pulverized Aggar’s shield and made him scream in agony the torment that his soul suffered in this crucial moment. He’d become a necromancer, two hundred years ago, to master his crippling fear of dying. It worked for a while, even if he lost himself in the process. But now his time had come. The Tormentor closed his eyes for the last time.

The necromantic battlefield vanished as Aggar’s scream died. Sancho could see the boats, the lake and the zombies on the docks again. Before him stood a terrified sculpture, a salt statue that had been the most cruel and vindictive necromancer in a hundred kingdoms.

Aggar’s scream had stopped every fight in a mile. Two hundred barbarians and mercenaries looked in astonishment at the victorious necromancer. Even Seros looked horrified, unable to understand the source of Sancho’s tremendous power.

Sancho stood and extended his arms like a sorcerer about to cast a spell.

“Salute them! These sons of death are the honor guard of Azgal the dragon! For Azgal and his city!”

A thousand guttural voices screamed an uncanny cry of joy and raised their arms toward their new shepherd and friend.

The barbarian’s superstitious beliefs about magic came back with a vengeance, especially magic whose mere mention made your skin crawl like necromancy. They ran away as fast as possible, turned their boats away or tried to disappear into the city.

“Listen, Seros. Ordering them to kill barbarians and mercenaries exclusively would be too complicated.”

Seros, still baffled, nodded with his mouth open.

“Yes, yes… Err… Guards, follow them! Kill them on sight!”

“And clear the streets leading south,” added Sancho. “My new friends and I can’t wait to meet the Orcish horde.”

Seros smiled axe in hand and ran into the city to open the way. Perhaps he was still in time to earn more glory than Blacktongue. Before leaving, he stopped for a moment, turned to his friend and shouted:

"Sancho! You're the fucking man!"