Last War Of The Necromancers

Dumar meanwhile, had stopped his grasping for the bowl and was staring, open mouthed, at the limbs he had pulled from under the covers. In spite of his training and conditioning, he could not hide the fear and horror building up within him. Grethron turned and noticing the expression on the other man's face, tried to calm him down.

"Do not be alarmed. There is nothing to worry about. This is all temporary," nervously, he made placating gestures.

Dumar, however, began to panic. In place of the pale yet muscular arms and hands he had known and relied on all his life, were two wizened, claw-like hands and wiry, dark brown arms thin to the point of emaciation. His body had been an almost perfect construct of muscle, honed and toned to be as complete a fighting machine as possible. Yet now he gagged at the skin sagging from the underside of his forearms and could clearly see the flesh dipping in between the ulna and radius bones. Rising fear threatened to overwhelm Dumar. This was becoming all too real; sights, sounds, smells, all the sensory experiences he felt were so vivid. Unable to control the fear which clamped bands of steel around his chest and made his intestines squirm, the man who had been the Dumar project made a lunge for the weapon laying on top of the chest of drawers seeking the solidity and familiarity of the gun. Unfortunately, in his weakened state, he was unable to co-ordinate his body enough to perform the manoeuvre

Landing with a loud slapping noise on the cold stone floor, he lay, panting and useless, watching as the booted feet of the older man came towards him.

"Now, now," Grethron began, lifting Dumar easily from the floor and helping him back into the bed. "This will just not do, you need to try and calm down, all this is temporary," the old man gestured to the body that had frightened Dumar so much.

"What the fuck's happened to me?" Dumar's voice trembled as he spoke.

The old man took a deep breath before speaking again.

"I brought your soul from your world to this one. I had to put it in a different body," he paused. "Yours was," he hesitated. "Destroyed?" The sentence ended in a question as if he thought Dumar would know what he meant.

The person that had once been the Dumar project was just more confused. He had no idea what was going on, if he were mad, dead or alive. Two things occurred to him as his mind slowly regained control. Firstly, he was probably safe here, the old man who had introduced himself as Grethron had not been hostile in any way. In fact he had moved away when Dumar got angry. Secondly, if he was ever going to find out what had happened to him, he was going to have to try to stay calm and play along with this game, eventually the truth would emerge.

Dumar relaxed back into bed, pausing to look at the alien hands he was in control of and then reached for the bowl of sweet-smelling liquid. Stopping as he brought the bowl to his lips, he cast a dark look at Grethron.

"You'd better start talking. Start by telling me which poor bastard had to die so I could have his body," he said loudly, before drinking deeply from the bowl.

The draught was a fruity blend with a citrus edge that warmed him pleasantly. The old man with the staff settled himself once again on the side of the bed, took a small metal flask from beneath the shirt he wore, opened and drank.

"He...was someone I knew almost nothing about," the old man admitted with a sheepish look at Dumar. "I came across him trespassing in my grounds, looking for food," Grethron took another drink. "I took him in and fed him. Recognising the probability he was suffering from drinkers disease and I might need a body..." He trailed off guiltily.

Dumar just stared in anger.

"Well cheers for that shit then," he snapped. "So I've probably got sclerosis of the fucking liver as well as all this," Dumar waved a sagging arm at his prone form.

"As I said," Grethron tried to explain. "Your present condition is temporary. You woke before your soul could imprint itself on this body."

"Imprint?" Dumar interrupted.

"Yes," Grethron nodded. "The soul is a reflection, a representation if you like, of the body it is born into. The body is also a reflection of the soul. If your body sustains damage, the scar shows on the soul. If the soul becomes damaged it can be plainly seen on the body. Your soul will, in time, mould this body to become more familiar. In effect, you will have your own body back," the older man smiled smugly. "Although I made sure some amalgamation took place also. Which is why we are able to understand each other. This whole process was supposed to take place as you slept." he finished.

While he had been speaking, Dumar had completely drained the bowl and warmth began to spread throughout his body, bringing relief to his limbs from the aching in his muscles. He took a deep, painless breath and felt himself relax.

"You do realise that all sounds like a complete pile of shit to me don't you?" Dumar asked. "Where am I and what am I doing here?"

The old man stretched his back raising his arms over his head bringing a loud cracking noise from a number of joints.

"Two excellent questions," he said. "As to the first, you are in the Royal City of Lorneria, in the home I have here," he shifted his weight uncomfortably on the bed. Almost nervously, the older man stumbled over his words. "As to the second, I brought you here so...That is I need you to..." He trailed off. Taking another long drink from the flask, he inhaled deeply and said. "I want you to aid me in the killing of my brother, Malthrom."

A long silence followed these words, as the two men regarded each other. Finally Dumar looked away.

"Well, thanks for the honesty but I think you've got the wrong bloke."

"What do you mean?" Grethron quizzed, raising an eyebrow.

"I mean," Dumar answered after a pause. "I'm not a killer," he raised his eyes to meet those of the other man.

"But I thought..." The older man started, Dumar cut him off,

"Don't get me wrong. I was built to kill, trained to kill, made to kill," his voice was soft, almost apologetic. "But I won't."

The old man seemed unconcerned.

"Well," He said. "We shall just wait and see what happens," the older man stood and stretched, arching his back and placing both hands in the small of his spine.

Groaning, he reset himself in a standing position, replaced the silver flask inside the shirt he wore and spoke again.

"There are a few people I must see but I should be back to see you before long. In the meantime, may I suggest you get as much sleep and rest as you can?" With the unreal staff tapping on the floor, he crossed towards the door. "If you require anything, just call," the old man paused for a second before grunting and wordlessly leaving the room.