Chapter 5

Mala Village

The village of Mala was a small and peaceful one. It had less than five hundred inhabitants, including the surrounding farms. It was big enough to support a blacksmith, a general store, and barely support an apothecary. It was off any of the main trade roads, but it did receive merchants from time to time.

In fact, that’s where most of its money came from. The apothecary, who also served as the village's mayor and healer, was quite an adept herbalist and alchemist. He would gather ingredients from the forest and make tinctures he sold to the caravans that passed through a few times annually.

The farmers would sell their food in town, as well as at the markets in the larger towns a few days travel by cart to the south. Gerald, the apothecary, was an industrious man, and had raised a few apprentices. His most recent being his grandson who was to take over as the mayor. Without the old man, the village would likely have dried up long ago due to the lack of merchants traveling through to hawk their wares, and bringing the necessities to town. They had no reason to visit other than the man's potions. The forest was actually unnaturally rich in rare herbs and ingredients, so it was an ideal place for the old man to carry out the rest of his days in idyllic happiness.

The village was winding down and preparing for the night. The sun was setting, and families were settling down inside around their fires. Nearly every chimney in town was belching smoke, and the noise of the day was coming to a halt. As the sun’s last rays disappeared beneath the horizon, Gerald was busy preparing a few healing potions. The merchants that had just left had cleared out his stock, commenting about their surprisingly high quality, as always. You don’t brew inferior potions when you’re eighty-five years old, and have access to plenty of potent rare ingredients.

His grandson, Peter, was watching carefully, and studiously taking notes. Gerald smiled when he saw this and was happy to see that the village would be in capable young hands when he departed finally on his last adventure. He finished the final batch an hour after the sun had finally set, and set his grandson to cleaning up while he headed off to bed.

Out in the woods, beyond the sight of anyone in the village, something stirred. An army of gleaming white wraiths marched through the forest, trampling the undergrowth. In the rear was another old man, however, this one had chosen a different path than living as an old apothecary-healer in charge of a small village. This man was an alchemist and a necromancer, leading an army of skeletal fodder. He smiled as he thought of revenge. How dare anybody look down on him, the greatest necromancer ever, or at least soon to be.

He had created a dungeon, one that obeyed his every whim, and created an army for him. An army he would use to carve his name into history, and an empire out of the land. Who cared if all he had for now was skeletons. Once he leveled his class further, he would raise more powerful minions, and the dungeon would raise scores of more powerful minions for him.

To do this, he needed to pump more mana into the dungeon. And he needed a bigger mana stone for that. Luckily for him, he knew just where to find one. His first master, Gerald, had one. He had a stone that could store almost one thousand mana. With a stone that large, his dungeon could summon three skeletons every time he filled the gem.

Mana was no problem to a master alchemist living in such a vibrant forest, he could make dozens of mana potions if he had to. But that was hardly likely, his mana pool easily exceeded one thousand points. He had put every stat point into increasing his pool. Necromantic rituals were expensive in mana after all. That was another good use for the stone, he could power stronger rituals, and create better minions to feed to the dungeon, and then reap the rewards later.

The dungeon needed nothing but mana to raise some undead, where he needed lengthy chants and expensive spell components. He was already salivating at the thought of raising an army of dread skeletons. Now he only had to summon each minion once, and then the dungeon would take care of the rest.

He finally got within visual range of the village. It was the same as it had been the previous night. There were very few men guarding the palisade, and with their meager torches, they could barely see past the gates. The torches probably did them a disservice, since it ruined their natural adjustment to the dark. It didn’t matter anyway. They would be trampled like the insects they were.

He had brought each of his two-hundred-eighty-seven skeletal warriors. The handful of guards could not stop him. Even that old bastard Gerald could do nothing against him. He would show him. He would make him regret ever looking down a boy with a talent for dark magic. He would regret laughing as that boy attempted to learn elemental magic. He would regret the condescending and patronizing tone he spoke to him in. He would regret it all. Then he would die.

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He didn’t just send a few skeletons out to eliminate the gate guards. He sent all of them. There were two gates to the village, and he sent half his force to each one. He kept the seven strongest with him as guards, it wouldn’t do to be caught off guard and defenseless.

He cast his buffs for strength, speed, and silent movement on his minions. They rushed the guards at each gate. Unfortunately, he was unable to afford swords for each one. He had a few from his business as a necromancer, he did kill plenty of people after all, but the majority of his minions carried heavy sticks as clubs.

The guards were caught so off guard they were overtaken almost immediately. Of course, the skeletons up front were the best armed, and each man had a spear or sword through him, sometimes two or three,  almost before he could make a noise. Almost.

Two screams split the quiet night. Moments later men came out of their front door with torches in hand to investigate. What they saw shocked them. Skeletal marauders were pouring through the undefended gates, bearing down upon them. Almost a dozen men were cut down as they opened their doors to investigate the screams, and the bony invaders stormed into their houses over their bodies.

Then the screams truly started. Families were set upon in their beds, the creaking of bones wasn't even present to alert them to the danger. There was some resistance, and tens of skeletons fell. They were weak and not suited to close quarters combat, their main advantage being the weight of their numbers. But they overcame anybody they found indoors through sheer numerical superiority.

There was no way for the people of Mala to resist the onslaught of skeletons. There weren’t many men in the village to begin with, and the best-trained militia members had died at the gates. The rest of the militia was trapped in their barracks by an army of invaders sent to do just that.

With nobody to defend them, and no way to group up and form a resistance, the people were slaughtered. The best way to fight skeletons was to group up and support each other, preferably in a narrow area where the numbers advantage was mitigated. But the people were caught unaware, and alone in their homes. And it was a brutal and bloody night. People were caught alone, and they were easily dispatched, often before taking even one of their attackers with them.

The army was advancing towards the large building in the center of the village. The building was one of the few two-story buildings in town, and had the apothecary’s shop and lab on the first floor, and his home on the second floor.

Gerald pushed his grandson into the cellar, and entrusted him with his old hammer. It was an old relic from his adventuring days, and was wielded in one hand, preferably with a shield in the offhand. He told his grandson to remain quiet and hidden, and commanded him to not leave until morning. The almost seventeen-year-old man protested, but Gerald was insistent. He knew there was no way anybody in the village could survive. He only hoped his grandson would survive by staying hidden in the only cellar in the town. He had seen the army outside, and knew he wouldn't make it through the night. He resigned himself to his death, and made peace with himself. He would not go quietly, and hopefully, his actions could kill enough that they'd retreat, and leave his grandson unharmed.

He grabbed a few potions from his special chest, and his old warhammer from its rack over his bed. He had used it for years until he found the hammer he had left with Peter. It was a good weapon. Heavy, and meant for two hands.

Gerald strode out his door and quaffed the potions in his right hand. Immediately a red haze settled over his vision and his strength quadrupled. He was old, however, and past his prime. If he was forty years younger, he knew he could’ve killed the army. Now, he could only slow it. And probably not for very long.

He charged into the ranks of skeletons, roaring his defiance at them. Swinging his hammer he crushed skulls at a prodigious rate. He was a whirlwind of re-death for these puny undead bastards, and he grew hopeful. Maybe he wasn't too old for this after all. His illusions were shattered when a dark bolt collided with his chest. He coughed up blood, and even his most powerful elixir of regeneration couldn’t resist the damage done to him. He would heal if given enough time. He needed only a few seconds. The regeneration from his best elixirs could rival even that of a troll.

He didn’t have a few seconds, however, and he was subdued by the bony hands of the enemies he had shattered with such ease only moments before. He was surprised to realize he wasn’t dead, only restrained. As the potions wore off, now that the bloodlust was no longer boosting them, the old berzerker realized he hadn’t even seen, much less damaged, the full might of the army. He might have killed thirty, but there were at least one hundred fifty remaining, and there were probably more butchering people in their homes. He soon found himself bound by ropes. The fight left him and he resigned himself to his fate. All warriors expeced to die in battle, but it seemed that honor was being taken from him as well.

He was even further saddened to see his grandson being drug, kicking and screaming, from his home. The wizened warrior gave a howl of despair and tried to shake free, but he was too old and weak to do anything besides watch his beloved apprentice bound just the same as he had been.

Then he saw his captor. He recognized him immediately, it was his first apprentice. That fucking prick Meric. Gerald spat at the man he had nurtured as a boy. He had done everything he could to help the boy grow as a man, but the boy had resented his training, and it was hard to find any ways to train someone who had an affinity for the darker magics. The magic wasn’t evil at all, but it was the easiest to use for evil. It seemed the boy hadn't resisted the easy path to power, and had fallen down the path of a necromancer. It was a shame, a powerful dark wizard who didn’t succumb to the evil side of his art was a force of good to be reckoned with. Fighting fire with fire and all.

He had done his best to turn the boy into an honorable man. He had tried his hardest to steer him to the path less traveled. But the boy had never taken his advice, or his lessons to heart. The boy had wanted easy power, and in his arrogance he took shortcuts. Admittedly, he was a talented and powerful mage, but Gerald knew he would always take the easy way, and in his hubris, would not use proper precautions. He was honestly surprised the man hadn’t managed to kill himself somehow. But maybe time had wizened him as well. Gerald found himself hoping it hadn’t, he wanted Meric to die from his own mistakes made in arrogance.

Gerald stared into Meric’s eyes as the man strode over to him with a smug grin on his face. The vile man reached into Gerald’s front pocket, and removed his mana stone. His precious mana stone he had received from the king after killing a particularly strong beast that had been harassing some noble's estate. Gerald swore at Meric. Meric's smile just grew, and he hit him over the head with a club. Knocking him into blissful unconsciousness.