Book 2: Dirt Diver’s Dance

The Night Parade Of One Hundred Demons Ch: 11

Daisybelle and Petunia looked down on the idiot from above, observing his pitiful trap. The boulder he planned to roll down the slope would certainly follow the rutted trail, if it managed to push it all the way over the ledge… The steeply sloped ledge the boulder was balanced on, through some quirk of time and chance.

Even Daisybelle’s admittedly limited knowledge of what stones do when rolled suggested that the mad thing was going to have regrets.

The wretch was beyond skeletal, little more than skin stretched over bones the object lodged inside him was now very obviously a wickedly barbed spearhead of some kind. It looked really uncomfortable. She prayed to her new gods and all the spirits, that they might bless whom so ever had jammed that nasty weapon in there.

She peered down at Gandree and the other two wargs, making enough noise for a small platoon of goblin huntresses, as they clambered up the trail. They were staying close to large boulders, trees and obstructions, lest the troll somehow achieve his…

With a grating scrape, the fool lunged against his huge, ovoid granite lump shifting it from its precarious seat… and down the ledge straight at the hobbling, maimed monster.

With a shriek of frustrated rage, it leapt for the sheer cliff face, trying to scramble up, only to fall back down to the ledge, almost directly under the rolling boulder.

With a wet, splatting, grinding sound, the boulder rolled away; stained red and black with troll stuff including the pulped remains of what looked like a hand.

The half flattened, bloody wreck staggered to its one foot, stump leg, shattered, ragged half arm and skittered up the ledge at a truly impressive speed, screaming all the way.

It vanished around a bend and into the rocky wastes, still cursing, giggling and weeping piteously.

“It feels like he’ll be back.” Gandree muttered, as the awful thing vanished into a narrow cleft, high up on the jagged peaks.

#

In the town of Lake Forest, the people had gotten really good at ignoring the looming nightmare that had been looming above their peaceful lakeside city for more than a decade.

The denizens of that shadow haunted necropolis were quiet neighbors, as the unquiet dead go. Since the Necromancer had taken up residence, only the occasional haunt or shade drifted through the town; on the way up the hill, never to return. A few would-be ‘heroes’ had marched up to confront the lord of the undead, only to return sheepishly unwilling to relate any tales of their adventures.

Sycophants hoping for an arse to kiss returned to town slightly less frequently. Of those who took the necropolis road hoping to curry favor with an unwholesome and inimical being, most came back… but none were willing to remain under the shadow of that reclusive and terrifying being.

Their unseen ‘lich lord’ master made few demands, issued few edicts and seemed uninterested in the men, women and children of the small city.

The nameless creature had only two demands:

That the city’s honored dead; whether humans, familiars or pets, be left at the necropolis gate at dusk, on the night of their passing; and that no living person should enter the vast cemetery compound.

So far, the terrible things that moved and whispered in the shadows and mists of that haunted place had not emerged to wreak havoc, yet.

The good citizens also tried pretending that they were not caught between the terrifying master of the necropolis on the high plateau above them… and the army of animated corpses and horrific monsters that had encamped above the town on the valley side in the night.

They also worked really hard to pretend that undead abominations had not been crossing the town since the new arrivals had appeared.

On rotting leather wings, stumbling, corpse feet or worse yet, shambling along looking alive… but dead eyed and terrifying; they shambed up to the necropolis and did not return.

Only as evening began to fall, did one of the terrible, nearly living mockeries of human life re-emerge from the long road up to the city of the dead. It walked with purpose and urgency, rather than listless, shambling steps; headed up to the encampment of terrors and nightmares on the pass above town.

The sounds that drifted down from the mountain pass a little while later were dreadful, with a long, unnaturally loud female scream shivering out for hours and hours, before finally falling silent as dawn approached.

Sunrise revealed the pavilions and pickets standing empty, no zombies marched down on the city, no hulks of sewn together flesh rattled their chains and roared for meat… Even the undead crows and bats that had darkened the sky were nowhere to be seen. Only the patient silence of the grave lingered on the high pass.

A tall man in black walked down the road alone, as the sun rose. His tall, cloaked and hooded form cast a terribly long and wide shadow behind him, reaching all the way back up to the pass... or so it seemed.

Only one resident of the necropolis ever left those ancient gates of rune sealed iron. The Necromancer’s butler was seldom seen in town; and then only briefly. He would appear without warning, usually to trade with shopkeepers or the traveling merchants that visited from time to time.

The large man always wore a long coat, a concealing hood, was invariably polite to everyone and traded open handedly; hardly dickering at all.

He traded in simple things; milk and eggs, butter, cheese and flour… as any householder might. He paid in coin and departed without doing more than causing a stir in the marketplace; and beginning fresh rounds of gossip that there was no Necromancer on the high plateau.

Once his dealings were done he would vanish back up the necropolis road as suddenly as he arrived… where none could, would, or dared follow.

#

It was a long, long walk up the steep, switchbacked necropolis road to his home. His shadow dragged behind him, heavy as a fully laden trader’s pack, he could barely haul it up the mountain. It weighed on him spiritually, as a small legion of tainted mortal souls and outsiders squirmed and thrashed in his clutches.

He sighed and kept trudging, he would need to lay out under the sun all day to cleanse these filthy things from his shadow and digest their immortal essence.

The Necromancer sighed in exhaustion as he closed the massive iron gate and sealed it with a flex of his Will. He drew a short, flat blade of carved bone from his coat and slowly used the magical knife to slice his shadow away from his feet, with a pained grunt.

Shadow dribbled and ran from his feet like black blood, spreading out into an amorphous, pulsating mass. His previous shadow shattered into a mass of flitting, flying obsidian wasps, swarming among the vast plateau of graves, crypts and monuments.

Only a thick, black, tarry residue remained, stubbornly resisting his unique curse, for a time. Even the potent and ancient commander of that army would eventually submit, just as all the others had… the only question was what to make from such loathsome materials. He walked home among his vast legion of shadows; obedient and faithful, patiently awaiting release from his service.

He’d been drawn to this place, by some unremembered call… Some inner need to be here and watch over these graves and tombs.

They called him, calmed him, soothed his mind and eased his pain; a bit. It was still there, clawing at his lower back and up into his heart, as if all the goodness and life had been scooped out of him and replaced with something cold, brittle and furious.

Haunts and shades bustled up, carrying away stubborn clots of semi liquid shadow-stuff down into the catacombs to ferment and mature. Down in the depths, where the light never touched they would find out the truth, and join his legion.

The only exceptions were the would-be demon lords… visiting justice on them was the only true salve for his furious, passionate rage.

This one didn’t deserve to become a musical instrument, even the twisted and wretched mortal cultists were redeemable, once they became faceless, unremembered shadows in his army of vengeance.

Below the cheery red roof of his home, down in the workshop, he started the long task of tanning, sewing and binding the ‘Fleshsculptor’ into her final form.

“If you’d had even a scrap of morality or a thought for your victims, I might have made you a bass drum…” He whispered to the softly screaming mass of faces and peeled skin, as he slipped it into his tanning solution. “I gave you a sense of smell and taste, because pain alone lacks savor.” He sighed as the acidic preservative solution engulfed her. “There’s a ton of my own piss in the mix. Enjoy that.”

#

Gary regretted the instruments he’d crafted and lost over the years. Several dozen demons had tried to ‘recruit’ him, as he’d passed through their varied and petty domains. More than a few of his cursed toys had been abandoned or lost as he fled angry cultists, furious at the slaying and subsequent desecration of their ‘god’ by a wandering stranger.

More were lost when a band of wandering harpies had managed to break into and loot his house while he was away, hunting for food.

Oris the Bonerender had become a nasty little shamisen, Huma Skintaker was a drum now, while Jumek Hungerhowl became a miserable little bone flute… wherever those harpies had taken them, he hoped they weren’t causing any trouble.

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“In any case,” He told his project, as he sewed a blanket stitch around the edge, securing the hideous leather rug to a backing of tough crab-wool cloth, for durability, and to itch abominably, where no one could ever scratch.

“My patience has long since run out and now I’m done gathering power and energy… It’s time to cut the festering foreign matter out of this world and start the healing. You are barely a scab on the world’s arse, to be scraped off and forgotten.” He smiled down at his tormented, infernal construct.

“No one will even remember you, and when this thing succumbs to decay, you won’t even exist any more. That’s a nice thought.”

A few days later, the Necromancer’s butler strolled back into town…

For the first time, he walked through the streets, whistling gaily, his hood back, smiling and waving to the startled people as he passed.

He was done pretending to be the Necromancer’s butler, however things turned out.

His face was bland featured and… utterly normal. The fellow was a shaggy haired, large man with sun browned skin and workman’s hands, he seemed perfectly normal, if a bit odd.

He called out to the people, in a singsong accent that the shopkeepers recognized, but in a rich, strident voice, rather than his usual quiet murmur.

“No one goes on the streets after dark tonight… The lord commands it! Draw your curtains, lock your doors, bring in your pets!” He called in the town square, standing by the fountain.

“Spread the word, no one may be on the streets after sundown tonight!” He sang into the mid day crowd.

“Hyakki Yagyō, the night parade of one hundred demons, dances tonight! The lord of the necropolis is going to war and death will be passing by your doors… it’s best you not invite them in!”

#

Sweet, raucous music came tumbling down the mountain side, as full darkness claimed the valley. Hundreds of instruments, wielded by an army of musicians and marching feet slowly approached the empty, abandoned town, drifting in a cloud of mist and shadows that followed their leader through the darkened town.

A staggering number of haunted drums, cursed xylophones, bewitched flutes and benighted guitars sang out in the night, shredding the peace.

Marching boots, slow thudding, ponderous footfalls, slithering, scuttling, clattering all on a single beat a single musical march to war to the tune of the musician at the front of the swarm. He stepped and danced, twirling and leaping with joy and fury combined, the prancing, piping mad flautist of children’s nightmares; calling his legions to his side.

A cadre of shadow guitarists followed after, leading the legion in song though all their varied and disparate throats and other less human things:

Gardens of Nocturne, forbidden delight,

Reins of steel and it's alright!

Cities on flame, with rock 'n' roll!

Marshal will buoy, but Fender control!

Beneath a banner bearing a blue oyster moon on a field of star spangled night, his cult of the dead gathered their new allies from the mortal remains scattered on the mountain pass, swelling his army of shambling husks and shadow draped corpses.

#

Wracked with pain, mangled and too hungry to properly regenerate his shattered shoulder and arm, the giggling troll was reduced to scrabbling in the rocks for ground squirrels and rats. He’d emerged into the place where ticklefoot was… but too hungry, too weak.

Slowly the creature crawled down the mountain from the dark cleft of shadows that led to this place, through the screaming dark place. He sniffed out bird’s nests, chewed pine cones, scavenged a wet bit of rotting meat from beneath a flat stone…

“Oh… sheep innards…” He sighed, as sweet, rotting flesh crossed his lips at last. Someone had looted the larder around his goblins’ cave… Even the two and a half gobbs he’d stashed up on the cliffside, for just such an emergency. That last scrap of slimy kidney was all he had left of his army of goblins.

#

A wagon and horses, three girls and only one or two human males, it was too much of a temptation… Even if the humans fled.. He’d at least snag one, maybe a girl, or the smaller horse…

“Oh, horse meat meat…” He whispered as he approached through the rocky upland forest.

Delusionally hungry and deranged by pain, he didn’t plan or scheme, just leapt from the trees, frothing at the mouth, reaching out with his good hand and the half regenerated, boney nub of the other.

His claws slashed at one of the men on the cart, only to rebound with a metallic shriek from the man’s companion’s hidden steel shield.

The girls all had hidden armor and pointy things too! Spears and swords slashed at his face, taking first one eye, then his long, pointy nose. Metal bits jabbed and stabbed, driving him back… even the horses, instead of fleeing, they struck and kicked, battering the desperate predator. A scant few seconds later, a swarm of fast moving meat on dead horses sped at the melee from down the road.

Lances and spears struck, skewered and did awful things to his already abused body, until he fled over a rocky cliff and vanished among the stones. Arrows and small stabby things peppered his hide until the woods hid him completely; usually those were only a nuisance and quickly healed.

These arrows and darts left sharp and pointy things inside him when he clawed the shafts free, just like the hurled spear of that stupid human. He growled through his deranged giggle, as his hungry guts churned around that awful metal thing.

#

Harry lowered his flute, after puffing one last envenomed dart at the fleeing monster. He smiled as he heard it yelp from so far away. Larksong had hit it a number of times, her specially designed shafts of fragile pre-scored bamboo shattered and left a splintered mess and a barbed head in the wound.

Harry’s darts were more subtle; poisons from his father’s vast collection of noxious, dangerous and just downright weird things he’d collected. Rio and Wilf specialized in extracting valuable things from horrible, dead monsters and collecting the mutated organs they seemed to always possess. The family’s wide ranging and highly active Adventurers spent their careers slaying loathsome and strange things, and picking up interesting parts, pieces and samples as well.

All of that came home to Papa, who worked his arts and crafts to create the medicines, potions, tools, weapons and armors that kept his family alive and healthy in a world that spawned monsters with some regularity.

“What did you get him with, Harry?” Barry asked, as they settled the nervous familiars and prepared to make camp.

“A few things, I don’t have high hopes.” He sighed and began playing his flute, rather than launching darts from it. “Pops tried a bunch of stuff on that foot before we left, it seems pretty resistant to poison.” He continued after a few bars of ‘Merrily Kissed The Quaker’.

“Yeah, but you must have had some ideas if you spent your precious darts on it.” The bigger lad urged, as Lindsey and Flash ambled over to see if a dance was going to start.

“Oh, maybe… but for now, take the lady for a turn around the meadow while we do our thing.” He muttered, still watching the woods.

“Larry, Perry and I can handle it this time.”

#

“It appeared for a few minutes, then vanished again, somewhere north east… where my kids are…” Gary growled, sounding unpredictable and dangerous.

“I’ll take the Ragamuffins up there, we’ll head out as soon as we can. Send your little bird flute to warn them in the meantime.” Dannyl murmured to his big, crazy brother.

“I’ll go along, if you’ll have me.” Sir Kermal offered. “Duke Julius decided I’d be more helpful here, than hunting slavers down south.”

“Glad to have you. You’ve faced trolls before?” The smaller man asked quietly. “They’re almost impossible to kill, unless you are willing to do the work. If either a heart or a brain is left intact, it can grow a whole new troll in a few weeks. Severed limbs typically grow back in minutes… or hours if it’s hungry.”

“I usually work the human side of the business, mostly criminals, pirates, slavers and such. I’ll follow your lead for this.” The swarthy young knight said with a smile, watching Gary play his little ocarina with a sublime smile of joy on his face.

The high, sweet strains of music soared into the sky, along with his little clay birdy; winging its way off to the northeast. “Thanks guys… this means a lot to me.” Gary whispered, as his familiar stung him just a little, right behind the ear. “Thanks to you too, Kree. I was about to shit my pants.”

“Gross.” The tiny wasp girl whispered in her master’s ear.

“Yeah, bro… We’ll take good care of them for you.” Kermal murmured as the big guy slumped down into the sofa by the fire.

#

Fleshsculptor had disappeared on her errand some time ago… certainly long enough to destroy some minor wight and return to her duties…

Without new flesh and fresh meat senses, the Pontiff couldn’t truly address his problems directly… and things were going to continue to unspool without his direct intercession. In that light, Lumos considered the situation from a slightly different angle.

The main difficulty of the demonic overlord lifestyle was the tedium of day to day mortal business… Gaining access to mortal worlds and mortal flesh was difficult, but long millenia of study, practice and patience always paid off eventually. The mortal urge to peer into places they should not, was so deliciously useful and entertaining. But maintaining a mortal’s body was just a ton of work.

The only other real downside was the infinitesimally small chance that a mortal mage or wizard might find a way to imprison an immortal for a time. Time was a commodity that immortals could spare, while the humans lived and died like beetles in an abandoned corpse… Scurrying about importantly in their brief, flickering lives, while their world decayed around them.

The Grand Pontiff’s reflections were interrupted by a mortal servitor, they were a nuisance but a well run theocracy needed her priests and inquisitors; and even the least of immortals was not going to take on an actual job.

“A package, Grand Pontiff Lumos… Blessings of the light be upon you…” The trembling human cultist whispered as he set the long, tightly rolled cylinder down on the polished marble floor.

“Well, what id it?” The cadaverous form of the Pontiff rasped, one of his teeth falling to the foot of his throne with a soft clatter, going nearly unnoticed as he spoke.

“I was instructed to open it only before your holiness’ own eyes.” The rotund cultist whispered, flop-sweat plastering his fine and costly robes to his plushly well fed form.

“Ged on wid id! Pathedik fool!” The decrepit high priest spat in rheumy, liver spotted rage.

Poor, sweaty lord Monroy Fergan pulled the neat little green ribbon bow securing the rolled object and stepped back as it unfurled on its own.

A circular rug lay before the Pontiffs’ throne, a full two dozen human faces staring up at him from the center of the object. As one, all the eyes opened, staring in accusation at the wizened, skeletal man on the throne. With one voice they cried out in a harmonious, choral song.

There's a little black spot on the sun today,

It's the same old thing as yesterday…

The chubby cultist screamed and fled the room, as Fleshsculptor’s tortured voice sang out from her own peeled and tanned, stolen faces; in a chorus of weeping pain.

The human souls animating those remnants were gone, cleansed entirely, leaving only the wrecked and very mortal, undead ruin of the best necro-theurge in all the wide multiverse, rendered into a singing, weeping floor mat.

I've stood here before, inside the pouring rain,

With the world turning circles, running 'round my brain.

I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign,

But it's my-destiny to be the king of pain.

Fleshsculptor’s wretched shade sang the entire song before she was allowed to gasp out her request.

“R…Release… Me… Please…”

“No, fool…” Lumos rasped. “Tell me what did this, tell me how…!

There's a little black spot on the sun today,

It's the same old thing as yesterday…

The awful haunted thing sang its strange song again, before begging for release… again and again…

“Place this in the hall of confession… The penitents can grovel on a rug that grovels back…”

Luxor gasped, bloody spittle flecking his lips.

“Cursed weaklings and fools…” He spat. “Bring me a new vessel, this one is spent.” He sagged back on his throne, pulling his consciousness back into the sacred reliquary hidden in the highest seat.

Tonight the mortals would mourn their fallen Pontiff, tomorrow, they would celebrate the ascension of the Grand Pontiff Lumos the twenty… eighth… Ninth?

“Curses, I’ve lost count again.”

Were the dying priest king’s last words.

#

Lumos never had to wait too long. He was always honest with his cultists; “...to become Pontiff is to subjugate oneself entirely to the will of the ‘god’...”

It was never very long before an eager new bottom landed on the sacred throne, confident that they would surely be rewarded richly… or perhaps be the one to gain control and wield power.

The latest sniveling, lust and greed obsessed wretch’s soul went screaming into the endless depths of Lumos’ reliquary; to feed the new master of the body left sitting on the throne.

#

“Twenty-seventh!” The former body of Lord Reginald Whilsimar, high priest of Enliel and Senvera said, as he sat up after finishing an ear-rending scream of mortal terror.

“All hail Lumos the twenty-seventh, Grand Pontiff of the empire of Light!” He said through a throat screamed raw only moments before.

“Twenty-ninth, lord Pontiff.” Someone mumbled from the cardinal’s seats.

“Have the all twenty cardinals flayed alive and their skins made into shoes for their families.” Lumos ordered quietly, savoring their terror and enjoying the pleading and screams. “And fetch me some honeyed tea.”

He stood on strong new legs and strode out of the throne room for the first time in decades.

“The empire is going to war…”

#