The old man's voice echoed across the night darkened wintery cold street. 'Ker shivered at the finality and the sense of unquestionable authority he heard there. If parents across time had used their voices to project command to their children, and gotten immediate acquiescence, this voice was the template for all of those voices who called their errant children into the house at dusk.
‘Tj’Chin’Ker had grown up in a violent society, in a violent world. His older brother, one step above him in age, had been a War Leader serving as a commander in mercenary companies for two centuries before ‘Ker had been born.
‘Ker, himself, had served as his older brother’s camp aid, then as his Hound, and then Spear Carrier, for the three decades before the Migration had happened.
But, standing beside Elgin Stark as Cole and Curt waded through the host of dead who now swarmed the street in this city, it was a wonder to see the two men work violence.
Though they were of vastly different races, Curt and Cole shared a dancer-like grace and an economy of motion as the two moved through the ranks of the mobile dead. Seeing a Duende and a Wahruhme working together would have been impossible to imagine in the days before the Migration, but things had obviously changed a great deal in the centuries the People had been gone from this world. Giants, Jotnar or otherwise, worked poorly in groups, and goblins, whether Tavakia of the Mediterranean or the more northerly Duende, hated Giants with passion enough to compose songs about. And they had.
The Wahruhme, those human-like giant beings who wanted to either be known as “Dragons,” mostly due to the scaly appearance their skin took on when they reached a venerable age. Most of the magic touched peoples of the world just referred to Curt and his people as “giants.” They were, while not the size of the powerful and otherworldly beings who seemed more elemental than human, known most times as the Jotun, simply enormous people who could use magic as well as any other natural race.
‘Tj’Chin’Ker would be the first to admit, he had loved the hundreds of Giant-Killing ballads that he had learned while campaigning with his brother on behalf of Rome in the forests of Germania.
…but…I guess that was another time… and this time is now…
He ventured a glance at Elgin, who was standing stoically under the light of one of the gently lit devices that stood on most corners of the roads in this modern world, though ‘Ker would guess from his body language that the old man was dealing with some great sadness. Watching the old man as covertly as he could, he noted the otherwise unmoved face looked, if it held any emotion, more sorrowful than anything else. The heavy brows slightly pinched, the corners of his wide mouth slightly turned down.
‘Ker had only ever witnessed the use of necromancy once, and never on this scale. Seeing a single body bright back to animation was horrifying; just taking in the idea of trapping a soul in the rotting flesh of the dead body, and commanding its obedience, it made ‘Ker shiver.
He knew that to raise the PERSON, you needed to bind the soul to the dead flesh as the body was still fresh. While it was still …warm.
But here, the man Elgin had called “T’Zal” had made an entire graveyard rise and walk for his purposes. That kind of power had to take a terrible toll on both the body and the soul of the one wielding it. And what was walking around now didn’t possess the souls of those who had once lived in those bodies.
‘Ker wondered, as he stared at the marching horde being cut down, torn apart, and otherwise crushed by these two whirling, sliding, stomping machines of destruction. What T’Zal and his allies were now using to raise all of these bodies.
Elgin spoke then, shattering ‘Tj’Chin’Ker’s thoughts.
“He is using his own soul. Possibly some others that he may have sacrificed,” the old man’s voice broke slightly as he spoke. “The man has been using the lives of others for centuries. He rips their souls from their bodies, and stacks them in his larder like apples and wheels of cheese for the winter that will never come. But it was what he was taught when he was younger. He trusted his high priests more than he trusted his father.”
The man snorted, then. “Certainly more than his grandfather.”
‘Ker turned his rattled attention back to the reckless and raucous dance being exhibited before the two men in the streets.
Curt’s hulking form, much larger now than it had been when he had first been introduced to the two men, now delivered a shattering backhand that tore two torsos from their lower halves. With his other hand, the Wahruhme youth used a leg and most of the pelvis of a very recently dead body the same way ‘Ker might use a rabbit-stick to hunt for small game, sending the bloody limb twirling with deceptive grace through crowd, severing the heads of at least three corpses, and finally burying itself with a wet cracking noise into the chest of one of the men in white suits who had been herding the mob from the opposite side of the street where he and Elgin Stark now stood.
The Egyptian man had spun messily down to the gritty surface of the street without ever letting loose a scream of pain or sorrow, his life struck from his body in a single bone-crunching, lung collapsing moment.
Nurse Ellen had told ‘Ker they were called that, “Egyptian” and not “Men of Kemet” on the final flight from Phila-del-phia. He smiled at the memory of Ellen asking what “Kemet” meant, and her own generous smile as he explained. He liked Ellen’s smile. He had been watching her lips as she spoke to him while he had been convalescing all of those long months. Her skin was very pale, very masculine, compared to the rainbow of colors that graced the faces and bodies of women of the People.
He pulled his mind back from his musings on Ellen as the boy, Cole, slid past him. A pair of wickedly sharp, inward curved swords held at downward angles to either side of the blurred form made from gray fog and the night’s own darkness moved silently across the stone-like surface of the road. His natural ability to camouflage himself making it difficult for even ‘Ker’s sharp eyes to track.
Watching the gleaming edges of the two short swords was easier, though almost as difficult, as they spun and flicked up, and then across, and spun back down in the obscuring shadows that lay upon the sleepy street.
A step came from behind him, and ‘Ker spun, both of his bone daggers appearing in his hands as his eyes made out the blurred form of a plainly dressed man approaching from the darkened streets to the east of where he and Stark now stood.
Without turning away from the chaos, Stark said in a gentle voice speaking the language of the Gracus, “‘Tj’Chin’Ker, …boró na sas systíso ton David Starr? Eínai kalós fílos kai xérei pollá apó ta tragoúdia tis oikogéneiás sas.”
Or, “‘Tj’Chin’Ker, may I introduce to you David Starr? He is a fine fellow, and knows many of the Songs of your Family.” in the Angle-ish they all spoke now as a common tongue.
A petite man, with dark curly hair resolved from the dimly lit background of the long slanting darkness from beyond the light cast by the pole near which he and Stark stood.
David held out a broad hand, though his fingers were clean, and the skin softer than ‘Ker expected. “Geiá sou! Prépei na eísai to engóni pou perímene. Tinker?”
(Hello! You must be the grandchild he was waiting for. Tinker?”)
He paused before answering, caught off by “Tinker.” He didn’t know yet if the bastardization of his name disturbed him, or amused him. He knew he’d be sick of it either way within a week. He chose to reply in the Angle-ish tongue. “I guess. It looks like Mister Stark has as many grandchildren as the sky may have stars. Tavakia?”
That elicited a barking laugh from the newcomer called David. “You’re direct. That’s a rude question here…” he paused for a moment, “...and in these times.”
“I’m tired of guessing. None of The People look the same now as they did before the Migration. Everyone looks more…” he foundered here, not quite sure where to take the comparison he wanted to make. ‘Ker resolved he was too soon back to have so many enemies.
He was saved, if that was the right way to look at it, by Stark. “He means you all look much more Human than he remembers the different races looking when he and his people left for the Winter Lands.” The way the old man had said “human” had disturbed ‘Ker. It was the word he would have used, but the old man’s voice had put an emphasis on the word, a twist, a subtle turning of the tongue, that set ‘Tj’Chin’Ker’s teeth on edge.
‘Huh. Interesting.’ was all the newcomer said before he and ‘Ker turned to watch more of the slaughter with Stark.
Curt had reached the furthest wandering edge of the undead mob, and was now methodically tearing the heads from each body. When a tall, fit man in a besmirched white suit strode toward him with a hand raised that was beginning to glow in the night air. Curt grabbed the glowing hand between two fingers of one hand, and flicked the elbow of the outstretched arm, allowing him to easily bend the arm back on the approaching man, and violently shoving the now vibrant gold hand into the man’s mouth. Curt then slapped the bent elbow, sending the glowing hand through the back of the man’s head. The man dropped, twitching to the ground.
The sound that eventually reached the three men standing by the streetlight was rough, staccato, and wet.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Cole had moved about the street battle like a man wearing skates on firm ice. His shadowy image moved quickly, flitting from one wandering body to the next, stealing its animation, and leaving a twisted trail of rotted forms in his wake, occasionally punctuated by the bodies of those few living men who had traveled all this way, only to die on a late night Richmond street.
‘Tj’Chin’Ker didn’t realize how quickly it had happened, but there were very few bodies now walking the street. And none of those remaining were the Egyptian men. None of those servants of the Sun God still stood.
But there was a sudden cessation, accompanied by a shout, as both Cole and Curt stopped their gracefully terrible turns around the bloody and offal-filled ballroom. ‘Ker didn’t know if the shout came first, or if the two men stopped where they had been standing first.
Regardless, they both had ceased all of their destructive, flowing, movement.
A man stood in a mote of calm amongst the chaotic slaughter and blood. He stood with his right arm extended, and a hand wrapped around the neck of a woman.
“Old man!” he shouted. “Call these two infants off. They have talent that would be a shame to waste.”
From where he stood, ‘Ker could see Curt’s body language change from restful quiet to tense anger, his shoulders beginning to flex. Where the night colored blurred form of Cole stood, his swords were sheathed, ‘Ker couldn’t see their splattered and gleaming wet edges protruding from the natural glamour the boy used, as he had been able to before.
“Boys.” Elgin’s voice rolled down the street, he hadn’t raised his voice to yell to the new menace. He just spoke, and they all heard. There was more than a natural sense of command in the old man’s words.
‘Ker couldn’t feel the magic, it was so subtle, but he knew it was there in the gentle, commanding words the old man spoke.
“Boys, please go check on my car. Clean up if you need to. There are clean clothes for you both in the trunk.”
Beside him, David took a tightly coiled rope wrapped about two matching handles from his back pocket, held it in his right hand and looked, for all the danger in the air, as calm as a flower scented summer breeze.
“Good.” The heavily accented voice of the man said. “Now. You will send me the man I have been chasing, and we will leave. I will release this lovely woman I now hold once we are far enough on our way that I am assured you cannot catch us.”
A single, simple syllable answered him.
Stark said, “No.”
He stepped forward several paces, roughly driving the woman he held at arm's length before him as he did. ‘Ker could now see it was a man of dark complexion, wearing fine clothes. His hair was slicked back from his forehead, and mostly white. Stray whisps floated in the almost nonexistent breeze. Crow’s feet pulled at his cheeks, and his strong nose had deep laugh-lines that ran down to bracket his generous mouth. He looked a little like Stark, himself; though this man had probably luxuriated in an extremely handsome youth that Stark, with his more simian looks, had never been graced with.
“I see you have several young men with you, sir. You can spare one for my cause, I am sure. Now, please, send the Jeuente boy over. And once that is done, I will free this woman to you.” ‘Ker had no idea what this “hee-U-hen-tay” word meant, but this must now be T’zal.
“Her name is Mairi. She has gone back to school, and plans to live a better life now than the one she had led before.” He shook the woman he held with quick, sharp movements, accentuating each point in his speaking rhythm.
She almost lost her glasses as she cried in his grip as her long, straight brown hair flailed about each time he shook her.
She held her hands open in front of her, a sign of surrender.
“She had just returned home this evening from… Where was it, my dear?”
“Visiting my grandson, Wil…” He cut her off with another sharp shake.
“Hush!” he spat, and hush she did, with a slight squeak and a tremor in her hands.
“No. Let her go, now. And we will talk.” Though he sighed, when Stark spoke again, his words were granite and steel. He had yet to move even a finger’s width from where he had been standing.
“Ah, you see, old man. I need that boy, I have to have him. But, not this woman. I could let her go back to her life. I could be kind. I could also choose the Other Way. I must admit, with the energies I have spent tonight I could use this woman, too. Easily. Do not think for a moment that I would not.” The man’s voice was calm, but there was a sharp edge to it. A need filled the edges of that voice, and the man wasn’t shaking, but it was obvious that his body wanted to.
“No.” It was a simple statement of being. And spoken with such certainty, that the Universe had better listen. “You will leave here alone, that woman released. Or you will never leave here.” Elgin sighed again. “Ker didn’t know this man, but could see he would not take orders, even from a being as powerful and ancient as the man now called Elgin Stark. The man his own people, THE People, had often called the Dancer.
With a sane man, ‘Ker might think they were now at an impasse.
‘Ker doubted this T’Zal person’s sanity. Not his determination, no. But certainly his sanity.
In an instant, the man holding the woman in front of them went from a composed and confident negotiator, and equal among equals in a tense situation, to an angry, shrieking gargoyle. He pulled the woman’s head back with the hand he held her by, and drove something into her back that made her arch up onto her toes with incredible pain and a cry filled with all of the sorrow the world could hold.
At that same moment, Stark spoke a single syllable. He didn’t move, or make a gesture. Not the slightest flinch marred his peaceful stance.
And with that word, too loud to distinguish, and too complex to comprehend, T’Zal dropped to the street, unseen ropes of pure force bending his body back onto itself like a bow being drawn by an unseen archer.
“David, see to the lady, if you would please.” Then the elder strode towards where the man was held, struggling fitfully on the street, his back still arched as something held him in place, stretching his body out of shape and painfully contorting his spine.
He flung one of his hands toward Stark, and a fountain of wind erupted about the old man, as ‘Ker cringed back from him, his grip on his two bone knives he had forgotten he had been holding tightened. “Ker’s knuckles cracked painfully as he stepped toward his ultimate ancestor, though he wasn’t certain what he might do to stop this spell from tearing the man to pieces before him.
Elgin Stark, his clothing rippling in the deadly winds, and his hair moving loosely about, simply made a displeased sound. Something a teacher might mumble as he graded yet another poor report, and found it wanting.
“Hrrm… No.” And just as quickly as it had arrived, the wind died. And T’Zal let out a scream of renewed pain as his arm he had cast the spell withbroke as it too was bent black to the shiny black, pebbled surface of the street.
‘Ker could hear the man’s ragged breathing now, as though he had run for miles, and was now starved of breath.
A knife lay near the struggling man’s bloodied hand, and as Elgin stepped close to him, ‘Ker close behind, the older man bent and picked the blood covered thing from the ground. He crouched, and hunkered down by the head of the man who had been chasing ‘Ker. This T‘Zal.
“You could have come to me.” Stark said in a low, quiet voice to the bound killer. “You could have come to me, and I would have taken you in. Given you a purpose beyond killing. Beyond feeding. I would have shown you the true power of Sacrifice.”
Stark’s prisoner gurgled…something up at him.
The old man noticed his captured audience’s inability to speak, bound as he was, and pulled a sour face, and suddenly the air about them let loose a snapping of released tension.
‘Ker jerked slightly in surprise at the violence of the release.
Meanwhile, T’Zal gasped in agony, his body relaxing down to the street surface as though he had been slapped flat to the earth.
In a weezing, thready voice, he began cursing in some language unknown to ‘Ker, and dim, flickering lit blue, spectral serpents briefly alighted about the body of Stark before they simply sank into his skin, in many cases passing harmlessly through the man’s clothing to do so.
“Boy…” and with that one word, T’Zal relaxed onto the earth, and stopped his halfhearted thrashing, and his verbal tirade dried up, spring flowers left afield until winter winds picked their tattered leaves and petals apart. The now unbound man took in a ragged breath, and sobbed. Elgin reached out, and dragged the man up into a seated position.
“You would have made me a slave! You would feed from me! Made me a sacrifice, JUST like I do to those cattle!” The man was now spitting with rage and pain.
‘Tj’Chin’Ker had known sorrow.
He had known pain.
But, he had never yet been a father.
The fates had either been too cruel, or far too kind; though ‘Ker would admit he never could guess which. The Dancer now looked as sad, as forlorn as anyone ‘Ker had ever seen in his long life. ‘Ker could only think of a man he had known who had learned he needed to put down his son, who had caught the Water-Fear. A terrible disease that sometimes struck members of his People. One of the few plagues they could contract. Curable, but only if treated quickly. Otherwise, it was a long, slow death, marked by insanity and violence. He shivered at the memory as he watched Elgin come to this same realization about his distant grandson.
Elgin looked at the broken and bloodied man who now sat in the street before them. “No, grandson. No. I’d grant you, here and now, there’re too few days for any man’s joy. And if that man does not love the world, no amount of days will ever make him happy. If that man spends those days destroying what other men build, but builds nothing himself? A waste. Yet, there are all the days that have ever been and will ever be to those who think of their families, their fellows, and would love the world in which they live. You have known love. You have loved, and been loved. But, you turned away from that love, grandson. You could have built on that love you were freely given, and become greater than any so-called god you’ve ever met. But, you didn’t, did you?” There was a small tilt to his head at this last, and that spoke to ‘Ker of Elgin’s sorrow more than tears ever would.
Elgin turned his head slightly and asked, “David?”
From where he cradled the human woman in his arms, arranging her hair into a semblance of normality. Possibly the only kindness he could do for her now.
David simply shook his head, saying “No, sir. The knife did too much damage, and he tried to take her as a sacrifice. She is gone, sir.”
Tzal looked up at the little man who, for the last six centuries at least, had made up the majority of his own personal nightmares.
His screams, and ‘Ker was certain there were a host of them, had never left his throat.
Standing up from T’zal’s lifeless body, Elgin Stark, his face hidden in shadows commanded, for there was no other word, “David, see ‘Tj’Chin’Ker back to my car, and tell Cole and Curt to accompany him back to the safehouse.”
Stark looked down at his fallen grandson, and then at all of the other bodies that littered the street, “I’ll see to all of this. I will need to clear my head before I get any rest tonight.”
As they walked slowly back to the waiting car, ‘Ker heard Elgin say, kindly, “And ‘Tj’Chin’Ker, look at those layered spells I pointed out to you earlier. All of them. Some of them will kill you if you don’t get them sorted. I’ll see you all at lunch tomorrow.”