CHAPTER 15: BURIED BONES
“Blood and Fire are two of the potent magical mediums known to Arcane studies. Blood is the essence of life, and its sacrifice echoes in the Aether, drawing forth magical power. Fire burns both the mundane and the magical; destroying unprotected spells easily as dry tinder..” - From the Grimoire of Anasiar Sparrowhawk, Battlemage of Queen-Elect Josefa II.
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Cole and Natalie journeyed down the south road and deeper into Zaubervold. Like most roads in this part of the world, the stone path was a memento of the Old Empire. It's perfectly cut bricks formed a tessellating pattern that went on for miles, only interrupted by the crude repairs of later generations. The two walked in relative silence and made good time on the road. Soon they started to move past the worn mountains that surrounded Glockmire and towards the bleak piedmonts that led into the eventual plains and forests that made up most of Zaubervold.
Here away from the mountains and with only sporadic brush and boulders to break up the gentle grassy slopes, the winds grew fierce. Occasionally a gust would come down off the mountains or across the plains and slam into Cole and Natalie. Wrapped up in her cloak and extra layers, Natalie did her best to ignore the biting chill of the wind. Winter was still a few months away, but it was coming. It would not be long now, before the land around them would be buried under meters of snow.
When another bitter gale struck the pair, this one powerful enough to make Natalie stumble, Cole reached out a firm hand and helped her steady herself. She nodded in appreciation and hugged her cloak tighter. Soon after, Cole stopped and pointed off in the distance, to where the road forked into two. Leaning down so Natalie could hear him over the wind, Cole said:
“We are going to take the left path for a few kilometers more, then we will be forced to leave the road. Gurni said the path to Lungu should be overgrown but told me some landmarks to look for.”
Natalie nodded, not wanting to unwrap the scarf she’d secured around her face. The bleak wind was not something she was used to. Cold in Glockmire was heavy snow and dark winters. The type of cold that crept up on you, slowly through damp clothes and through sheer intensity. By contrast, the cold brought on by the wind was uglier, and more aggressive. Not content to lull you into its frozen embrace. It actively tried to rip away your warmth with each screaming attack. Shivering and bracing herself against the diabolical wind, Natalie kept on moving alongside Cole.
They’d been walking for several hours and it was close to noon. Despite the cold, the walk had been easier on Natalie than her last trek with Cole. Forest terrain is exhausting for many reasons, including the uncertainty of your path and never-ending obstacles provided by foliage. By contrast, the old imperial road was designed for armies to march hundreds of kilometers with little rest. Soon they reached the fork and followed it. Right away, Natalie could tell this was a less used road. The stones were worn and broken, with little signs of repairs. No one felt the need to maintain this stretch of geometric brick.
It took another hour of walking before Cole pointed again, indicating a large rocky outcrop in the distance. It was shaped like an arrowhead and the size of a small house. It was exactly the landmark Cole was looking for. Seeing it, Natalie glanced around and saw a slice of the surrounding grasslands didn’t match. A faint path lacking large shrubs and peppered with spots of still visible gravel. Tapping Cole’s shoulder, she gestured to it, he nodded, and they started down the abandoned road.
The path took them right up next to the arrowhead rock. Part of its face hung over the ground, an inverted slope providing a little shelter from the elements. The duo hunkered down out of the wind, and Cole pointed at a spot on the ground near them. It was darker than the surrounding rocky soil and well in the shelter of the rock. Here, Cole could actually talk without the screaming wind drowning out his words. “Those are the remains of campfires; lots of them from over the years. Gurni said this was a good rest stop, and I think we should use it as such.”
Glad to be out of the wind, Natalie nodded vigorously, pulled down her scarf, and slumped down against part of the rock. The stone was frigid and hard, but didn’t tear away body heat like the gale around them. Cole looked at her, her pale cheeks rosy from the biting cold and her hair a mess from where her scarf had wrapped her up. Natalie shook her hair out and let out a contented sigh. The silly little action brought an unconscious smile to Cole’s face. The word that kept coming to his mind was vibrant; she was just so full of life. He let himself admire her for only a second before he refocused on the task at hand.
“Let’s warm up and get some food before we continue. Lungu shouldn’t be far.” with those words, he sat close to Natalie and started digging in his pack. After a moment, Cole pulled out and unwrapped a small package. Inside was a brick of reddish-brown nobbed material. Cole broke off a strip of it and put the rest away. To Natalie’s slight horror, Cole bit into the strip of what she assumed was semi-rotten jerky. He looked at her shocked expression and smiled slightly. “It’s roadmeat, a traveling food that lasts months if prepared right.”
Natalie took out her own rations, some bread, cheese, and an apple; then finally asked: “Yesterday when we stopped for food, you ate normal things. What changed?”
Cole glanced at her collection of foods and smiled grimly. “I always try to eat roadmeat before a fight. It’s light but filling, helps me keep my energy consistent for whatever comes next. Do you want a piece?”
Natalie wrinkled her nose in disgust and almost said no, but after a moment’s hesitation, she shrugged and held out a hand. Cole dropped a small chunk of it in her hand. With immense trepidation, Natalie nibbled on the corner. It didn’t taste rotten as she expected. Instead, it tasted like slightly sweet dried meat. Her eyebrows shot up as she ate the piece and licked her lips clean.
“That was surprisingly good. Where do you get it?” said Natalie.
As she talked, Natalie broke off a piece of her bread and held it out to Cole. He looked down at her offering and took it with an amused look before answering.
“I make it. It’s surprisingly easy to cook with what you would find foraging and hunting. Sometimes my duties keep me out in the wilds for weeks on end, and roadmeat makes it easier.”
They sat in silence, eating for a little bit before Natalie continued her questions. “I’ve never heard of it. Which I know doesn’t mean much, but I’m curious. Is it something used commonly outside of the Blood Duchies?”
Cole shook his head as he answered. “No, the only other person I know who can make it is the person who taught me. He was a Ranger I met on the White Isles, a fellow servant of Master Time. He showed me how to prepare it while we hunted a Keening Ghost together. I know he learned it from some Elvish Monks who lived on Tiaracht Island, so I assume it’s something of Elvish origin. Roadmeat is just what that Ranger called it. I’m sure the Elves have a much prettier name for it in their tongue.”
Natalie had met Dwarves, Goblins, Werefolk, and once an Orc while working at the Silly Goat, but never an Elf. The Sidhekin had long been a source of mystery, allure, and terror to the peoples of the Four Continents. When the Wyldfolk were cast out of the world by Iskandar the Hero, the Elves stayed behind. Having rebelled against their fickle masters and joined the First Pact alongside the other True Peoples. Even after the war ended, there were still many old wounds from when the Elves served the Fae. So the Elves left to sail across the western sea in ships of enchanted glass and woven song. Building a new home on distant shores, only rarely returning to the Four Continents from across the ocean.
Cole could see the vibrant curiosity in Natalie’s eyes. To her, the Elves were a near-mythical people. Again, he found that same word entering his mind, vibrant. Cole chewed on his meal and awaited the next question sure to arise from Natalie. He didn’t need to wait long before she asked. “Have you ever met an Elf?”
Cole took a drink from his waterskin and washed down the last of the roadmeat before speaking. “I’ve crossed paths with a few over the years, but nothing more than that. They don’t have much reason to come to the Four Continents other than trade. So the few I’ve seen were merchants and sailors in port cities.”
Natalie mused on that, laying her head back against the cool stone of the arrowhead rock as she chewed her last bit of cheese. The young woman looked forward to these strange little talks with Cole. His experiences and stories were an odd little peephole into the wider world. He gladly shared details and accounts that Barnabas and others were miserly with. In retrospect, Natalie wondered why that was? If she got a few drinks in Barnabas and coaxed him the right way, he’d tell of his traveling days. But without that investment, he’d be tight-lipped about what he’d seen. Maybe he saw Glockmire for the trap it was and didn’t want to focus on it? Or maybe decades of worrying about the attention his stories might bring kept him quiet?
She didn’t have time to wonder about it for long as Cole started preparing for the next leg of the journey. Natalie watched as he pulled a small pile of leather strips from his pack and with them a small rounded black stone. Cole pulled off his right glove and started wrapping it with the leather. Forming a belt of the material running from the crook of his thumb, across his palm and back around the hand. Next, he placed the stone in the wrapped palm and wound more layers of leather around it and his hand. After binding the shiny black rock to his palm securely, Cole held out his hand and flexed his fingers experimentally. The stone sat unobtrusively with a few centimeters of its surface visible, a dark spot at the center of Cole’s palm.
Content with those preparations, Cole continued by nicking his forearm with his axe’s blade. As he recited the familiar incantation. The shaft stretched out, and the axe head seemed to grow larger. Leaving the protection of the large rock, Cole stood there with his halberd and the spark-stone he’d bought from Barnabas. Looking at his weapon, Cole watched the wind dry the few flecks of his blood left on its blade. He made the weapon take on a larger and heavier form. The added weight would be good for breaking bones, and the spark-stone might prove useful for more than lighting campfires.
Natalie watched Cole finish his preparations, and in turn, she pulled out her hatchet and clutched the mixture of salt and silver Cole gave her. The warding amulet also pulsed coolly against Natalie’s skin, its blessed weight a small comfort. She didn’t know exactly why the Paladin was preparing for battle, but she felt it was best to follow suit. Looking at Natalie, Cole nodded and said. “Lungu is only three or so kilometers away, and I don’t know what to expect before we reach it. Only that it’s better to prepare early rather than late.”
With that, he set out, and Natalie followed. The wind was a little less intense now, becoming a softer but steadier breeze coming down off the mountains in the north. It still was strong enough to rip away heat and drown out the world’s noises, but it no longer threatened to send Natalie sprawling with a single gust. They followed the worn remnants of the path leading to Lungu and descended down the gently sloping foothills. The wind steadily pushed them forward as gray clouds roiled overhead.
Cole and Natalie crested a small bluff and found what they had been searching for nestled in a miniature valley below them. Lungu was a ragged collection of buildings sitting in the small flat area within the valley. Time and the elements reduced most of the structures to battered frames. Natalie was reminded of the bones of some fallen creature lying to rot. For just a moment, the two surveyed the ruins, and after a glance at each other, they entered Lungu.
Collapsed fences of wood and stone were the first things they passed. Remnants of farm fields and pastures now run wild with large grasses and shrubs. Something about it brought a twinge of sadness to Cole. People carved out a life here despite the inevitable challenges they would face. Bringing their own little piece of agrarian tranquility into existence, only for it to be stolen away through malice, idiocy, or lunacy. He didn’t know if Gurni’s theory about what destroyed Lungu was correct, but it was believable. Among all the tragic deaths and pitiful stories Cole encountered over the years, the majority were products of simple mundane horror, not the influence of the Fell Gods or other eldritch forces.
Next, they reached a few worn old barns, smelling of mold and filth even after all this time. A hayloft left to rot would feed generations of mice and produce enough fungus to turn the very air into a spore-filled haze. Natalie bound her scarf tighter around her face as they passed by, hoping to keep out any poisons still filling the air. Here in the valley, the wind had lessened to a faint breeze, stifled by the buildings and the scattering of trees that the townsfolk were probably responsible for planting. Without the constant moan of the wind, the ruins felt ominously quiet. It made the situation all that more unnerving for Natalie.
By the time they entered the village proper, it became clear something was very amiss. Many of the buildings were in surprisingly good condition. Vines, roots, and the like hadn’t spread through walls or floors. In fact, all the plant life towards the village center was stunted or dead. Withered-looking bushes stuck out of dry soil. It was more than what the cold of encroaching winter should have done. The grass and moss that pushed through the gravel and packed dirt on the road were missing. While the town was abandoned by its inhabitants and left to the elements, it had not been reclaimed by nature.
Edging a little closer to Cole, Natelie softly whispered,“What’s wrong with the plants here? Is it the poison put in the well?”
Looking around them slowly, his eyes scanning for any movement, Cole grimaced and responded sharply: “That’s probably at least partially the source, but not all of it. Miasma born of Undeath, has seeped into this place. Life will find it difficult here until the source is removed.”
To Cole, this was confirmation enough that they were in the right place. But any lingering doubts were put to rest when they reached the town center. It was a cluster of decrepit buildings surrounding the tainted well. The well stuck out of the ground like a burial marker for Lungu itself, but it was not what Cole was looking for. The village’s dead would be buried nearby. Cole slowly leveled his halberd out before him and gestured for Natalie to stay behind him. Clutching her hatchet tight to her chest, gripping it's comforting wood hard enough to make her fingers ache, Natalie was happy to oblige. As they crept across the village center, the sun was blotted out by grey clouds. The bleak light it spared for them cast dark shadows. Shadows that might be hiding all manner of nightmares, least of which was the one they hunted. After a few moments, Cole found what he was looking for. A small pile of disturbed dirt smeared across the gravel of the square.
Cole followed the trail of the dirt, until his eyes fell upon a mound of dark, rotten-smelling soil. A familiar cold pulse in his chest confirmed what he’d assumed, Cole was looking at a disturbed grave. Unslinging his pack from his shoulder Cole indicated to Natalie to stay with it. Moving with a speed that belied his large frame, Cole bolted to the noxious pile and stood at its edge. With this close inspection, he could see a ruined herb garden turned into a miniature dirt barrow, with a large depression in its middle. The dirt piles formed an earthen ridge surrounding an oval basin, about four meters on its longest edge. Cole had seen dirt and rock piled up like this many times before. The strange hollow and ridge was the telltale sign of a corpse digging itself out of a shallow grave.
Looking over his shoulder, Cole gave Natalie a grim look and nodded. She slowly backed away, stopping near the well and a good ten meters away from Cole and the pit. Many forms of the Undead found themselves drawn back to their resting place when the sun rose. While not all Undead burn and wither under the sun’s rays, its light is still painful and draining. So returning to that place where they’d been “born” and hiding beneath miasma-soaked dirt was an instinctual method to avoid the sun. The Walking Charnel would be just below Cole’s feet, having re-interred itself in the mass grave that birthed it.
Kneeling down on one leg, with his Halberd as support, Cole bent over the depression and started to sift through the dirt slowly. He hoped to find its exact location without awakening the Charnel. Something that would allow for more elaborate preparations. Cole moved his hand gently, mimicking the irregular way the wind might blow away clumps of dirt. He did this for a minute, and then another, all while Natalie watched with bated breath.
Without her ever consciously realizing,, Natalie started backing away slowly, her body preparing to run and hide at the first sign of trouble. Suddenly she bumped against the well and nearly jumped out of her skin. To her credit, she cupped a hand over her mouth to muffle the involuntary yelp. Cole shot her a worried glance that turned into something resembling annoyance and concern before he went back to work.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Ever so slowly, Cole continued his strange sifting of the dirt. Spending nearly five minutes burrowing a small hole in the mass grave. A concerned frown marked his face as he found no trace of the Walking Charnel. Such a large and thankfully stupid Undead would not bury itself deep nor leave no trace. He should have encountered at least shed bone fragments by now? A worrying thought soon passed through Cole’s mind. Could it be hiding elsewhere? Or had the Feeder moved it after Cole visited the Castle? The latter seemed unlikely. The Feeder would need to come to the Charnel personally to give it orders as complicated as hiding, and such an act would probably rouse the Scarlet Knights’ suspicion. So, where was it buried?
As she watched Cole, Natalie reached out with her free hand and gripped the well’s rim expecting steady and solid stones. She quickly learned the well was not as stable as she’d thought. Her tight, nervous grip on its rim was enough to dislodge a few of the smaller rocks on the inner edge. She let go with a start as the stone partially gave way and bits of it tumbled into the well. Stepping away from the well in surprise, Natalie didn’t hear the tell-tale plop of rocks hitting water as she expected. Instead, a strange clattering noise met her ears. Momentarily confused, Natalie looked to Cole in surprise, only to see his eyes widen in dawning horror. The mass grave may have been where the Charnel was buried, but the well was where it had truly been born.
A terrible groaning, cracking noise came from the well, the sound of old bones knocking together. With that surprising speed of his, Cole lept toward Natalie, his eyes wild with tension. In a single smooth movement, he reached Natalie, wrapped her in his free arm, spun her away from the well, letting go of her and sending her sprawling away from the well. The flurry of movement oddly reminded Natalie of a waltz’s twirl, except instead of ending up back in her suitor’s arms, she found herself rolling onto the ground in a ball of robes and surprise.
Somehow Natalie managed to keep hold of her hatchet without cutting herself. Keeping it clutched to her as she scrambled to her feet. The tumble pulled Natalie’s scarf over her eyes, and just as she managed to pull it down, her heart froze. A spindly arm nearly two meters in length stuck out of the well. “Arm” was the best way Natalie could describe what she was seeing, but it didn’t do the terrible limb justice. Dozens of arm and finger bones were bound together in a woven parody of a normal arm. Strips of ratty cloth and desiccated flesh clung to the arm, grotesque twine shot through a morbid bundle. As silent terror anchored her feet to the ground, Natalie could only watch as the limb found the rim of the well. Its tips split into forearm-thick fingers, each capped with wriggling skeleton hands. Those disturbingly energetic hands found good grips on the well, exactly where Natalie had been standing. With that boney grip, the Charnel started to pull itself free of its lair.
The noise it made was tremendous, a never-ending rattle of bone upon stone and bone upon bone. Dragging itself up, a second arm got free and planted itself in the ground next to the well. With both limbs braced, the Charnel began to lift itself out of the well, its main body beginning to peak out over the rim. Cole wasted little time being surprised and swung his halberd at the first arm’s wrist. The blow smashed bone and tore long-dried sinew. The Charnel’s fingers twitched in surprise, losing their grip and sending the Undead sliding back into the well.
Turning to Natalie, Cole used the few seconds he’d bought to bark, “Go! Get clear of the village center!”
His words pulled Natalie from her momentary shock and the young woman backpedaled away for a few steps before turning to run properly. A huge crunch pulled Cole’s attention back to the threat. The Charnel had resumed the process of exhuming itself, and its top half exited the well. Slumping over the rim of the well like a pile of spilled refuse; its body was an indistinct shape, little more than a mound of bones, the two arms it had formed already melting back into the central mass. A thick layer of old mud covered the top half of its torso, part disguise, part protection for when it slept in the well. There was constant movement inside that great mass of tangled bones; a never-ending jittery thrashing of cursed remains.
Pulled from the well, the Charnel started to scuttle towards Cole on a carpet of skeletal limbs. It was easy to assume something called a “Walking Charnel” would move about on two legs, but instead, it moved like a particularly squat centipede. Cole could understand the name though, it did indeed look like a pile of bones walking towards him, its body twitching in constant painful-looking motion. Free from its lair, the Charnel stood maybe three meters tall and two across, forming a column of thrashing skeletons that now charged Cole.
It barreled forward, in a bizarre collapsing motion, like an avalanche or rockfall on flat ground. Cole quickly sidestepped the thing, keeping it within reach of his halberd but not yet attempting another strike. He hoped to pull its focus away from Natalie before the fight in earnest. Sidestepping and backing away, Cole gave the Charnel a few experimental jabs. The halberds' pike tip found little purchase, stabbing into the rats-nest of remains and pulling free easily. He’d expected enough, but the strikes did their job and kept the single-minded Undead focused on him.
That same single-mindedness quickly put an end to Cole’s hopes to reposition more. A massive spike of sharpened bone shot forward from the Charnel’s front. Its entire torso reforming into a single impaling shaft. Its speed was startling, and the full impact of that blow could have easily driven that shaft through plate mail, let alone Cole’s worn leathers. The Paladin managed to leap out of the way in time and respond with his own blow. Swinging the halberd down like a headsman's axe, Cole tried to lop off a chunk of the bone spike. The weapon struck true but only managed to sink a hand’s width into the shaft. Its blade only breaking through the top layers of encrusted bone.
Yanking the halberd free, Cole continued to swing away at the reforming Charnel. Its body flowed like some grotesque liquid and solidified into a broader form. A glint of metal among the worn bones and mud caught Cole’s eye as it changed shape. A hint of gold buried in the Undead's upper half. The skull of Gurni’s brother, perhaps? Cole put it out of his mind and tried to put more distance between him and the Charnel. He didn’t have the reach advantage like normal. The Undead’s ability to form new limbs of differing shapes made even a halberd’s length insignificant.
Two long lanky arms uncoiled from either side of the Charnel. Thinner and longer than those that hauled it from the well, these reminded Cole of whips. Their ends were still capped by those wriggling skeletal hands, hands that Cole quickly learned were meant to grab prey. The Charnel swung its right arm in a haymaker four meters in length, and Cole was forced to parry it. Half a dozen hands gripped onto his halberd as its shaft met the oncoming flail. With a swift yank backward the Charnel tried to pull the halberd from Cole’s grip. Thankfully, each hand’s grip was individually weak, and Cole twisted his weapon free, using his enemy’s own force to break its grip.
The second arm came this time, and Cole was ready for it. Instead of parrying or attempting to dodge, he leaped forward. Away from the hands and closer to Charnel. The arm tried to coil while moving, to ensnare him like a snake, but it was too slow. The halberd came down maybe a meter from the end of the limb. This time the heavy axe blade fulfilled its purpose. Cole cut through the tendril with a splintering crack, sending its tip flying. Cole didn’t know if the crude magical anima acting as the Charnel’s mind could feel pain, but it could sense damage. The Charnel pulled what was left of its arm back into its mass and rushed towards Cole. Intending to bury him in its sheer mass.
This time Cole didn’t try to dodge or back away. Instead, he held his ground and pricked his right thumb with the halberd’s blade. It was a quick action, something he’d learned to do even in the middle of a fight. Smearing those few drops of blood on the spark-stone, still bound to his hand, Cole forced his will into the stone and the blood covering it. Blood could be spilled to power virtually any form of magic; it was arcane fuel in the form of spent life. That very same fuel could also be added to an existing spell, much like oil can be added to a fire.
This arcane tool was a simple thing, crafted by Dwarven artifice to make magic common and easy. Anyone with a soul could touch a spark-stone, focus on it and create at least a few embers. A person with magical training and talent might be able to create a small puff of white-hot fire using it. The spark-stone, while useful, was not something ever meant to interact with the brute power of blood magic, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t.
A jet of fire spewed from Cole’s palm like a firebreather’s best efforts. It slammed into the Charnel with red-hot intensity. Dried scraps of flesh and cloth still clinging to the Charnel ignited. The fire spread across the Charnel, and it thrashed madly, its body undulating and spreading out, as its individual pieces tried to flee the fire. For a hopeful moment it seemed the Charnel would split itself apart, its composite nature undoing it, but some piece of it seized control and yanked its shifting mass back towards the well. It was fleeing, hoping to find shelter in the dank depths of its tomb.
Cole was having none of that, easing up the stream of fire and ramming his halberd forward. The weapon's head quickly became entangled in the gyrating bones, pulling it deeper and Cole closer as he wrapped his arm around the halberd. Now somewhat secured, Cole refocused on the spark-stone, letting drops of blood trickle down from his thumb into his palm. The fire got hotter and wilder, thrashing about like a bucking horse. What little protection the leather straps he’d bound to his hand for that purpose offered was becoming inadequate. The spark-stone grew hotter and hotter, and superheated air singed even his wrapped skin.
This close to the Charnel, the heat was not the only thing Cole had to worry about. Flailings skeletal limbs thrashed out at him, most little more than a collection of splintered bones, but still sharp enough to draw blood where they hit. A dozen little lacerations cut into Cole’s arms, chest and face. The only comparable experience Cole could think of was being caught in a large tree’s branches during a powerful storm. Except these “branches” were jagged, twisted bones actively trying to kill him.
As Paladin and Undead struggled, Natalie watched from the inside of a nearby house. Her initial hopes for Cole when she saw his fiery strike were fading. It looked to her like he was being dragged into the Charnel, being slowly devoured like some hideous spider wrapping up its prey. Natalie slipped her left hand over the crude amulet Cole had given her and gripped it so hard it hurt. Her eyes boring in on the slowly disappearing figure of Cole, Natalie found her lips forming absently into a prayer she’d half-forgotten from her childhood.
“Master Time, ensure our lives are long, our deaths are quick, and our rest undisturbed. Master Time, protect the living, protect the dead, and strike down that which is neither. Master Time, keep the dead till they live again, and ignore the living till our end comes.”
Natalie didn’t often pray, only in temple or when she hoped a God would listen. She guessed this situation was something of the latter. After all, what better time to pray to a God than when you’re watching their champion duel an unliving nightmare? Part of Natalie wanted to try and help somehow, but both her logical and fearful sides insisted that she would do more harm than good. So she was stuck watching Cole being pulled into the Charnel, with flames circling around him.
Cole, for his part, was not particularly concerned for himself. He still felt fairly in control of the situation. He’d fought Charnels thrice before and developed several plans to destroy them. However, this Charnel was larger and marginally more intelligent than the previous ones he faced. Something Cole guessed was a result of whatever the Feeder was doing to it. Perhaps dumping more bones into the well alongside the Vampire’s blood. It ultimately mattered little at the moment, this thing was a Rattler, and Cole knew how to destroy it.
Being a skeleton animated by dark magic, Rattlers are typically fragile. With little more than strings of magic connecting the bones and keeping them moving. Strings that could be cut or snapped with even purely physical force. Drive a warhammer into a Rattler’s ribs and spine, and it will quickly buckle. Its strings unable to stay attached or maintain form. Unfortunately, the strings of a Charnel are less like a puppet’s and more like a large ball of tangled yarn. While enough force could still break them, it would take far more than whatever Cole could produce. So he had to default to a secondary method.
Fire has been the oldest ally of mortals since before history began. Nothing better symbolizes the difference between beast and person than the use of fire. It brings light, warmth, safety, and power. While also having incredible power to destroy and ruin those who misuse or underestimate it. Because of this, some scholars claim fire is the first magic discovered and used by the free peoples of the world. Of course, fire can be explained through alchemy and purely material methods. But that does not change its symbolism and power. Fire burning in the mundane burns just as hot in the Aether. Doing to the spiritual what its mundane self does to the physical.
So Cole called up fire and burned the Charnel, its magical strings burning away, but not fast enough. He realized this and changed his plans. Blood from his numerous scratches inflicted by the Charnel flowed onto the metal of his halberd; with a thought, he let the weapon's blade and shaft shrink. Going from something the size of a Greataxe to the shape of a thin spear. Cole pulled on his weapon and himself, putting his weight and muscles into the act. At the same time, he changed the direction his fiery hand was pointing, spitting its flames dangerously close to himself. The Charnel recoiled from the fire, and Cole broke free of the tangling bones.
He hit the ground on his back, using his momentum to roll backward and to his feet, the narrow pole of his halberd helping propel him to his feet. Cole backed away from the Charnel as it continued to thrash. Its form compressed tighter, an instinctive attempt to escape the fire and smother some of the flames. Despite this effort, parts of the Undead smoked with oily tendrils of burning rot, but enough of it escaped the flames. Cole managed to wound it, but it would take more to truly destroy the Charnel.
Cole gripped his weapon with both hands and let the cut on his thumb run against the Halberd's shaft. He again transformed the Halberd to its oversized form with a few muttered words. The runes carved into the polearm made such acts of magic trivial, bypassing much of the effort and preparation normally needed to twist metal with a thought. With the Halberd held out, its axe head ready to swing down on the Charnel, Cole called up another spell.
He focused on the numerous scratches that decorated his forearms and chest. Feeling the slight trickle of blood there. Blood Magic is rare and considered tantamount to Dark Magic in most places. So its practitioners tend to be secretive and morbid. Withered sages or arrogant youths desperate and foolish enough to shed blood to power spells. Not the type to engage in vicious melee like Cole often found himself in. Because of this, few ever realize the true potential of where Blood Magic shines. On the battlefield. Where every injury might be woven into a deadly spell.
“Tears of my Vein, become Spears of Bane,” whispered Cole as he let his offering flow into the Aether, and his will reshape the World around him. The weeping blood of three scratches suddenly lifted from his skin and flowed into the air like serpents stalking prey. The blood detached from the wound and hovered in the air as three floating bubbles of crimson. With a thought, Cole commanded each to stretch out into a meter-long needle of blood. All three shot forward towards the center of the Charnel’s mass. Instead of splattering like gory paint, they stabbed through bone and stood firm, like javelins thrown by a mighty hunter.
As they hit, Cole watched his enemy intently, seeing something inside the Charnel twitch and pull away from the impact, where the rest of its boney form continued its same thrashing. It was difficult to tell but Cole thought the aberrant section was made of tightly packed skulls. That must be the core, the heart of all those magical strings. Usually, the “knot” of a Rattler could be found in the skull, a dark mockery of the brain and nerves of a living creature. Cole suspected the situation was similar here, with the collection of skulls young Filip had described, being where Cole needed to strike. However, that knot of skulls was under layers of bony protection and would not be easy to hit.
Turning his attention back to his weapon, Cole lunged forward, smashing the heavy Halberd down on his foe. Bones broke, and a lance made from a cracked femur jabbed out at Cole. He dodged it, letting the jagged bone tear into his cloak as he moved to the side. Again he struck, this time from the side, sending a shower of fragments flying and what he thought must have been a Deer’s ribcage clattering to the ground. Eyes following the shards, Cole didn’t see the real attack coming.
A warhammer-sized tendril, capped with a pelvis, smashed into Cole’s legs, knocking him off balance. He tried to regain his footing as the Charnel continued its attack, smashing into him with grotesque limbs made of human remains. Cole tried to shield his body with his halberd and arms but had little success. Each individual strike was not unbearable, and bone makes a poor material for a bludgeon. But the barrage was never-ending and came from at least six different limbs. While Cole was no stranger to pain, the sheer force of the blows kept him off balance and unable to reclaim his footing.
A particularly nasty blow managed to sneak past Cole’s arms and smash into his skull. It sent the Paladin tottering backward even as he tried to counter-attack with his Halberd. Motes of multicolored light swam in Cole’s vision, and he tasted something metallic in the back of his throat. Stumbling back, Cole hit the ground, attempting to roll with the impact. Off kilter, He only managed scrabble away from the Charnel. Trying to get some distance between them. The Charnel quickly stopped that as it swung down a jagged bone claw on Cole’s prone form. Desperately Cole pulled away, but not fast enough. Sharp, hot pain and the sound of tearing flesh signaled the Charnel’s success. Cole was on his belly, trying to move away, and the Charnel impaled his calf with a brutal strike.
Sharpened bone sunk into the back of Cole’s leg and stuck out the other side. Like some grotesque fisherman reeling in a catch, the Charnel started to haul Cole back with its tendril. Letting out a stifled shout of pain as his entire body weight was put on the wound, Cole tried to flip onto his back, but the claw refused to bend. Desperately, Cole tried to turn his head to get a view of his enemy and was just in time to see a trap-like appendage made of assembled ribcages clamp onto his leg. A sudden jerk pulled Cole up, lifting his body into the air. The unpleasant similarities between a caught fish and Cole only increased as he dangled there. Impaled flesh and a vise-like grip held him up, and blood rushed to his head.
For a few moments, nothing happened, and Cole realized he’d managed to hold onto his halberd. He was just about to swing it up at the bone tendril and free himself when the ground came up to meet him. The Charnel thrashed Cole into the ground like a homemaker beating a rug. He hit with literally breathtaking force, the wind knocked out of him and his ribs making an audible creak. Stunned and in even more pain, Cole barely had the cognizance to tuck his head to his chest and bring his arms in close. The impact knocked the Halberd from his grip, and he suspected its sharp edges would do more harm than good in the coming seconds.
Cole’s fears came true as the Charnel whipped him into the air and back into the ground again. It repeated the process three times, smashing Cole into the ground like a petulant child torturing a mouse. Consciousness came and repeatedly went throughout the process. The trauma of the impacts fighting with vertigo for dominance. Cole’s world became a whirlwind of pain, red-tinged darkness, and spinning shapes. After a final horrible slam into the ground, Cole went limp, and the Charnel tossed him through the wall of a nearby abandoned house.