“Necromancer!” A strong, shrill cry cut through the evening air somewhere ahead of us. Leaping forward we ran toward the cry. “Go. I’ll catch up.” Mowris said waving me on. I was already pulling ahead as I didn’t think it wise to wait on her. Without glancing back I picked up more speed. The noise ahead built, punctuated by shouting.
Increasing my breathing reflexively as I’d been taught from a young age, I panted though physical exertion did not seem to affect me much. Ahead of me sprawled a mob. At least ten people had converted into a mass of swinging arms, kicking legs and angry noise. A young lady vomited convulsively on her knees to the right, her eyes streaming as she crawled away from the mob. A few feet to the left of her Crai, Elven huntsman and renowned woodworker faced a meaty mass only barely still recognizable as the Silversmith’s dog. There was no way it looked like that and still lived. It seemed to have died at some point but apparently decided not to let death slow it down. Crai’s staff was ready between himself and it. Around all of this pale green and purple spirits swirled like an intangible whirlwind.
The spirit’s images cut across my mind in its version of a yell. Roughly translated it said “End this abomination! This cannot be allowed!” While it considers almost every living thing an affront it seemed much more angry about this. Energy crashed through me leaving me feel jittery and charged up. Ready for action.
The dog stood on three legs. The exposed meat a greyish green color from a death it had to have experienced at least a couple days ago. It faced Crai, one eye socket entirely empty, the other had its eye hanging out of it. Its flesh was exposed from the top of its head down across most of its torso. The missing fur stretched like a dragging blanket from its body, over to the fourth leg which drug, wrapped in the fur behind it.
Against all reason the dead dog bunched itself and leapt, snapping at Crai. Deftly spinning out of the way, the stout staff blurring in Crai’s hand as it smashed down on top of the beast’s back, slamming the beast to the ground. It struggled awkwardly to rise on its three legs as Crai’s staff spun and danced smacking the dog repeatedly in the face and shoulders driving it back.
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Off to the side of the nightmare dog, Garen Silversmith, a large man, primary benefactor to the village and what currently served as its only lender of money stood in the middle of a throng of raised fists and voices. Shock, anger and confusion warred on his countenance. His protests lost in the sound of the panicked mob. I saw him rock forward from a blow to the back of his head, disappearing into the crowd with a cry. A person on the other side of the mob ran from the crowd.
Raising the watch horn to my lips I blew a long, sharp note to call other watch to the area. Drawing my sword I raced toward the dog. Another horn took up the call close by, probably Mowris from the direction of the sound. Standing beside Crai we faced the horror of a dog. Its skull now dented, rib bone fully showing in a couple spots where Crais’ staff and crushed the meat off the creature. The zombie dog crouched, a rattling, grating growl rolled from its jaws as it faced its two opponents.
The growl cut short and it dropped, like a puppet with its strings cut. Glancing at Crai I saw he looked confused too. Crai brought his staff down on the dogs head. The force of the blow crushed the skull between the staff and the stone of the road, spraying a mess of bone shards and meaty remains around the impact. A distorted, stretched out spirit rose from the body quickly reforming into the normal spirit blob shape then zipped toward the crowd. Now that was definitely odd.
Mowris arrived on the scene, flush from the run. She concentrated a moment made a few gestures and circled the end of her horn with her finger. Oh boy. I covered my ears and turned away from her. I could feel the sonic blast from her horn ripple through my body. Everyone in the crowd grabbed their heads. Some staggered away and several fell over curling up in a balls. Well I guess that crowd is dispersed.
Looking the direction of the runner I didn’t see them. A loose group was running the way he had gone which was toward the Silversmiths house. Glancing back with the dispersing crowd I could see Arla struggling. Screaming frantically pushing and punching at Garen Silversmith she fought to get out from under him. Panicked as she was the struggle to remove the large man was futile.
Mowris grabbed her under her shoulders and trying to pull her out from under Garen. Garen for his part flopped bonelessly. A misty spirit rose from Garen, flitting frantically around the body. I shook my head. This was turning into less than a good day. My guess was that the group of people that had headed toward the Silversmiths weren’t heading that direction to offer help in this trying time. I wasn’t needed here anymore so I ran toward what I suspected to be the next mess.