He never could step away from trouble. When it reared its ugly head, he was the first to greet it and say not today. I guess that’s the benefit of having already died.
The Man was traveling through the eastern territories. There had been rumors that someone on his list had been making a scene. Why not investigate, he must have thought. The little one and him journeyed alone down a road less traveled. The dead forest around them seemed to reach out with bony branches as if grasping at him to welcome him back to his dark home in the earth. This was when he saw it. A wagon with two drivers heading towards him. If only it was a simple merchant, perhaps none of this would have taken place.
As the wagon approached a cage on the back came into vision. This is not uncommon for slaves and prisoners. Yet the Man continued his walk in the middle of the road. The wagon came to a halt. One of the drivers was sitting in full armor, his head covered by his helm. The other was armored and wore a helm with an open face. The halt order was given to the horses. “Hail friend, do you mind making way? I have a schedule to keep and I do not want to be late for the lord.” No Name looked over the colorful coat of arms, its authenticity was undeniable. The Man spoke, “My apologies. What cargo do you carry?” He slowly walked around one of the horses to peer in the back. “Soldiers for the war up north. These are the future heroes of the territories,” the driver with the open face spoke out again. The other sat in silence. The Man saw young boys sitting in the back. After a quick glance he returned to speak with the driver while standing near the one wearing the full helm. The little one watched unnoticed. Then almost as quickly as it happened the little one felt the Man’s thoughts as he grasped his scythe and swung it around at the neck of the helmed driver. The head sat on the blade, like a vase sits on the table. Black ooze of what used to be blood sept out onto the blade as he removed it from the wagon. The head fell into it owner’s lap. The driver with the open faceplate pulled up a hand crossbow and fired it at the Man. It grazed his trench coat. He then proceeded to make a hasty retreat only to stumble out of the wagon to meet the ground with his back. He struggled to load another bolt when he felt the wet blade against his neck. The Man looked down, and asked in a deep voice, “Who do you work for?” The driver looked the Man in the eye, grabbed his loaded crossbow, and fired the bolt through his own head. The Man stood there in disbelief for a moment. The driver now saw the little one, for he was now like him. The ghosts stood there in silence as the man prepared his ritual. The driver’s ghostly body began to fade as the ritual neared completion. He looked at peace as the skies opened up to greet him.
The Man after searching the bodies came across a ledger. In it was the sale of twenty young men from a Lord Fettleibig to a Vrentradax. Why would a Lord sell his own people to a necromancer. He thought as he picked up the head of the zombie that was riding with the driver. The black ooze continued to slowly pour out like maple syrup. The Man walked to the back. The boys seemed started when they saw him. He explained the situation to them and let them out. Together they headed back to the town. Would they understand what needs to be done? Was the town ready?
To Be Continued