Fuming on the inside Sunday kept running. He didn’t want to know what would happen if he stopped and how they would try to make him move. He decided to bite the bullet and slowed down just a little. The creatures were slow in their reaction and he felt the foul breath of a few of them on his calves just before he jumped over a fallen trunk. Yet, seconds later, they adjusted their speed and kept their distance. Good little actors for creepy monsters.
He dreaded to think what count their number had reached now. More kept pouring from the woods each minute; an endless horde of furless apes with teeth like saws. I should’ve stayed with the alligators!
One of the creatures fell from a tree just a few feet before Sunday. It seemed surprised and some growls of displeasure sounded from behind. Sunday didn’t slow down nor try to avoid the little gremlin. His spear stabbed into its chest with the full force of Sunday’s body behind it, sinking deep and skewering the thing.
It screeched and grabbed onto the shaft, still alive. Sunday felt its weight as he passed the spot it had been standing just a moment ago and awkwardly shook his spear, trying to throw it off without breaking stride. The weird creature clung to the weapon like a bureaucrat to government funding and refused to let go.
Sunday thought about throwing away the spear, but he didn’t want to give up his only weapon in this situation. He made sure the little monster hit each tree on the way until finally, he started dragging it behind through the water and earth.
The ordeal slowed him down quite a lot, but since they were playing him for a fool he wanted just a bit of a payback. He felt the weight of the thing disappear soon after and only heard a pitiful screech that was drowned by the sound of the horde behind him.
The swamp became darker and more unwelcoming with each passing moment. Dead and rotting trees grew more common by the minute and the black ichor he had made sure to avoid until now was spreading like a disease all around.
To his utter surprise, his feet found solid dry earth a few times, allowing him to shoot forward before it became soft and mushy again. It reminded him of something but he had no time to think as the sights around him distracted his mind.
They passed by a few tall mounds of mud and he saw groups of the monsters standing on top of them as if guarding something. Branches were stabbed into the ground adorned with the skulls of known and unknown creatures. The swamp was dark and unwelcoming, and the foliage around reflected that. All bushes were thorny gangly things, and all trees were ominous and plucked out straight out of an old-time horror film.
Sunday soon realized he was following a crude path. The horde behind him became almost respectful in its march, and many hurried to surround him, leaving no doubt as to their purpose. There had been no chance of winning at the start of the chase, but he regretted not trying to break through then and there.
I should’ve run to the river and taken my chance with the alligators. Unless the Step of Chaos decides to throw me across the world again, then I’m fucked.
With such thoughts in his mind, Sunday let himself be guided. The sign of intellect still allowed him some hope. If they were to kill him, it would’ve been easy with their numbers.
However, his steps slowed down, and he didn’t run anymore. Some of the creatures bared their teeth at him or swiped at his calves to scare him into compliance. He saw no reason to hurry, however. If his heart was beating, then he would’ve probably been shaking right about now.
‘Nasty shit is going to cross your path whether ye run or walk, boy. Rather than hurrying, save some breath to spit in its face.’ So had Old Rud said. An eloquent man to the end. He had been famous for his talent to pick up trouble, and Sunday believed that he had inherited some of that too. Despite it, Old Rud had lived to be seventy-three. Many had breathed a sigh of relief when the bastard had died.
Sunday was a failure in that regard, getting himself killed at only twenty. He hadn’t left nearly as many enemies as he’d wished. However, he now had a chance to get killed again and he wasn’t about to die without pissing someone to high heaven.
A mocking smile stretched on Sunday’s lips as he walked through a tunnel of dead trees whose roots were hidden between wet mud and shallow waters. The mounds of earth grew more common and stood as menacing shadows all around. They reached a clearing, surrounded by dead trees, more dirt, and stones to act as circular barriers.
It was almost like a fence made with whatever materials were found around. Some of the mounds seemed to have entrances, big enough for the ghouls, but not for anything else. They gaped like the door of a badly lit basement holding a myriad of imaginary horrors and moldy pickled jars of generations past.
Sunday walked forward without fear. His sight allowed him to see about ten feet around with no issue.
He channeled the ‘better’ man inside of him. It’s how Old Rud had mockingly called the rich and the powerful who saw themselves as the eagles above. Each of Sunday’s steps became wider, a solid thump on the dry ground. Yet, his movements were almost leisurely in their execution. His posture straightened, his chin rose, and his eyes looked straight ahead while also taking in each detail of the world around him.
He stopped in the middle of the large circle. What he had assumed was a fence now looked like stands to seat an audience. The creatures behind followed like an excited crowd of children and took their places on top of the rocks. All of his attention was focused on the being before him.
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The person before him.
A rotting bald man with an almost flat nose who looked like he had been dead for a while was sitting on a crude wooden chair at the end of the circle. He was dressed in torn faded clothes that still had some marks of former glory left on them. However, they hung like rags upon his twisted frame. His flesh was scarred with the signs of the decay plaguing the swamp. His eyes were dark and yellow like those of the ghouls, his teeth almost human, but larger. Two sets of canines poked where there should’ve only been one.
Sunday met the undead’s curious gaze with calmness. He felt whatever thoughts of death had nested in his mind fly away. Where there was intellect, there was room for negotiations. Sunday was obviously to serve a purpose, and he would do so to the best of his ability until he could repay being treated like cattle.
If there was one thing Sunday wouldn’t change about himself, it was that he was a petty, vengeful bastard.
The man took a raspy breath, possibly to force his voice to work. Sunday had noticed that while his undead body didn’t need air to live, it was necessary for speech.
When the man opened his mouth, all of the creatures around him became deathly silent and still. His voice was weary, old, and dragging like an iron pipe on badly laid asphalt. The words that came out were different than those spoken in the village. They sounded old, ancient even. However, Sunday once again understood their meaning. That was a neat trick.
“Forgive my friends. They are too young and dull to know how to treat one such as you. They do not know respect or manners. I, however, remember the times when the homes of the dead were filled with song and light, and eternity was a promise of joy. May I know what clan you hail from? What does one of such stature seek in this forsaken domain?” His eyes took in the sight of Sunday’s muddy clothes and old spear. No one had taken the weapon away.
Sunday waited a moment to digest the words, his mind working overtime. He was dressed in rags. What stature was this old fool talking about? How do I act with this crazy hermit?
“Is it not customary for one to introduce themselves, before demanding I do so? Are you thinking me a prisoner?” Sunday shot back. His voice was calm, even, with only a thin crack. He let youthful arrogance permeate his words. It echoed around the deathly still swamp.
“Of course. It has been a while since I’ve had the pleasure of entertaining… well, anyone. My little friends here are not the brightest bunch,” the man said and stood up slowly, using a thick staff for support. His legs were rotting too, and one of the feet was hanging by barely a thread of skin and flesh. Sunday noticed he was not putting any weight on it.
The man bowed lightly with a hand on his neck as he spoke. “My name is Jishu, formerly of the Ishiren. Only Jishu of the Swamps, now. I’ve not had contact with my clan in… too long. Give me this kindness stranger, and tell me, are the Ishiren still around? Is our line still treading upon the lands of the world?” His eyes were dark pools of yearning.
Sunday tilted his head slightly but didn’t bow. He was hesitant about what to say so he decided to avoid details, “My name is Sunday. As of the Ishiren, I must disappoint you. I’m a traveler, and I seldom deal with the affairs of the clans. I know not of this name.”
Jishu visibly deflated at that and sat down on his wooden chair with a strange look in his eyes. “A pity. If the clans have devolved so much as to allow one of your purity and youth to wander alone, without knowledge of the glorious past... A true pity. Makes one wonder if it’s worth holding on to existence,” he whispered the latter part and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “Ah, but don’t let the lamentations of an old thing as myself bring you down. You have a strange name… Sunday the Wanderer.”
“So I hear.”
“Let me assuage your worries, friend. No harm will come to a fellow of the living dead. Of course, I’ve made my friends steal your time for a reason. I’m sure you’d prefer to speak of it and leave the niceties for later?”
There it is. I’m perfectly sure my safety and his manners are directly correlated to my usefulness. Isn’t that how any relationship with disparity in power works? We’ll become great friends.
For some reason, he thought of the slap. Maybe the talent was much more useful than he’d given it credit for.
The horde of monsters were watching every movement and listening to every word as if they understood them. They were the problem, not the bastard sweet-talking him. Even ten of Sunday wouldn’t be able to handle so many monsters.
“I’ll help you if it’s within my abilities,” Sunday said.
“Great. I’m glad that honor remains at the forefront of the ideals instilled in the undead. We’ve never been deceitful like humans,” he spat the last word with a surge of hate that surprised Sunday. The humans in the village didn’t seem to have a problem sharing space with the undead. One was even their chief.
Sunday remained silent as Jishu fell thoughtful again.
“As you can see, I’ve seen better times. Some past events have left me broken and scarred, and the sickness I’ve seemed to suffer by residing in this place has grown strong,” Jishu said. His tone came with an air of practiced sorrow.
You’re the victim, of course. A poor soul, hurt by those he loved most? Or maybe an outcast, chased away because of his ways or betrayal? A misunderstood innovator? I wonder which story it is going to be. But why here? Aren’t there better lairs?
“The story of how all happened is long, and filled with love, deceit, and heartbreak. I shan’t bore you with it yet. I had to hide away, and I’ve been living in this disgusting place for what may seem like an eternity. With a wounded soul, it was hard to resist the afflictions waiting to pounce on weaker flesh. I’ve lost almost everything now. From a respected rank four to what you see before you, barely holding on to the first of steps. All of my spells have long dissipated or run away, becoming one with the world or the lucky few who ran into them. All but two. One is almost depleted as my meditations are not enough to sustain it. The other, my second most prized possession and my hope, I’ve managed to somewhat preserve.”
Now we’re talking. Rank four sounds strong and important. Why is he telling me about his spells? Will he have me use them?
“And how do I tie into all of this? Can one of those spells help you? You need me to use it?” Sunday asked.
Jishu grinned, “As expected of a young scion. One of the spells is special, despite all the time that has passed. It is truly one of a kind. If it weakens more, I’m afraid even it won’t be able to help me. However, in my current state, I’m unable to bring its potential out. Simply trying to use it might end me for good. It is pathetic, I know, but do not pity me.”
Sunday was confused but he didn’t let it show. He made himself faint with the weak spell from the waters. If his only use lay in his ability to use spells, then as soon as he was made to do so all would be revealed. He doubted the man would be happy with that. In addition, his spell slot was currently filled by the unknown purple mote.
What do I do? God, from the kettle into the pot. No, the villagers were still worse. I know Jishu’s type at the very least. Sly and a little unhinged.
“I’d hate to disappoint you,” Sunday carefully began, deciding to go for it. Maybe there was a way to profit big time from the whole mess, “but I’m not currently capable of using spells either.”