Last War Of The Necromancers

The young boy recoiled as a lightning flash revealed this hideous creature to him. He would recall later that the skin was not scaled, however it had been slick and grey as if covered in an oily substance.

The creature flicked out a purple tongue which looked like a whip in the darkness. Thin, the blade-like organ reached back and wiped rain from its black pearl eyes.

"These men will wake soon," the beast stated. "I would take the opportunity to relieve them of anything of value and find an inn."

For some unknown reason the young boy sensed an air of sadness from this beast. Cautiously, he stood straight and extending a trembling hand said.

"You still have not told me your name," the massive bulk of the thing that stood before him shifted beneath its cloak as if it were nervous.

"I am known as M'thar," the name was spoken with a click made in the back of the throat.

The creature raised one clawed hand and gently shook the boy's smaller hand briefly. His whip like tongue cleared his eyes again,

"I should leave," he rasped. "I need to speak to someone."

The young boy let his hand drop and looked down despondently. He had been hoping for a saviour, someone who could take him away from his poor life. Singing in inns and taverns for a few coins or a meal, sleeping rough in horrible places not even fit for cattle, indeed eating less than cattle most days.

With a surprising speed and deftness, he searched the two unconscious forms as the rain beat down, wind blew and occasional flashes lit the scene. Neither body afforded anything of real value, certainly no coins, just a poorly maintained and blunt dagger, this disappeared quickly into the folds of his clothing as he started to tug at one of the attacker's cloaks.

Struggling with the weight of the still man, he lost his grip and fell hard on the cobbles. Tears of frustration, pain, humiliation and utter helplessness welled in his young eyes and the boy simply sat in the rain, shoulders shaking.

The lizard-like man moved silently towards one of the prone forms and easily removed his cloak. Gently, he wrapped the material around the young boy's shoulders and eased him to his feet. Against his better judgement, he made another decision that surprised him.

"Come, we will find shelter with my friend."

The youth made no effort to pull away, allowing himself to be led.

***

The rain showed no sign of easing as Grethron paced slowly around the cavernous room in his house. A blazing fire provided heat and light, burning fiercely in the deep hearth. Walls and floors of grey stone enclosed the old man as he wandered endlessly around the room.

He beat a rhythm with the end of the staff he carried, tapping a tattoo as he moved, the shadow mirroring him flickering large and small in the changing firelight.

Grethron's brain mulled over the questions that had been thrown up by the odd man he had brought here. He had been surprised and shocked when the man, Dumar, had awoken so soon after his soul transfer. Then he had experienced a vast disappointment as the man had emphatically stated he would not aid him in killing his brother. If he could be persuaded to understand how vital it was to the world... Grethron tried to remain calm, years of planning, preparation and work and it may all have been for nothing.

He could almost taste the bitterness of failure when contemplating the future.

Where was M'thar? He should have arrived hours ago. Grethron briefly considered the possibility the large creature had been captured or killed. He immediately dismissed the idea as M'thar was more than capable of fending for himself, his breeding and instincts would protect him from any form of attack.

A soft tapping came to the old man's ears and he hurried to the door, flinging it open wide.

He paused momentarily as his ageing eyes took in the scene. Standing in the rain, the hulking form of M'thar sheltered a much smaller person. Grethron raised his eyebrows questioningly and motioned for them to enter.

The mismatched pair moved over to the fire and the large creature removed his cloak, revealing a massively muscled frame. Leather leggings covered his lower half while his torso was almost naked.

Criss crossing the large chest was a thick, leather harness made from a pair of straps. The hilts of two swords could be seen, one over either shoulder. Gracing the harness at the front was a double line of daggers ranging from a long, needle pointed blade to a short, thick one.

The smaller form simply stumbled across to the fire and sank before it, immobile. M'thar took an oiled cloth from a pouch on one hip and carefully removed each dagger from the harness in turn, wiping the moisture from it and returning it to the correct place. Grethron walked slowly across towards the two and leaned on his staff. He looked at the massive figure of his friend, nodded to the other form in query.

"Problems?"

As the large creature repeated the cleaning and oiling process with the two short swords, he growled his reply.

"Two men were treating him badly," as if this explained everything.

"So why bring him here?" Grethron wanted to know.

"I could not leave him in the rain, he has nowhere to go."

Grethron looked into the small, black eyes of M'thar for a long moment before speaking.

"Fair enough, what is he named?"

M'thar's face was not specifically designed to convey expressions, however, he did manage an expression of embarrassment as he hesitantly replied.

"I...neglected to ask."

Grethron rolled his eyes towards the figure huddled near the fire.

"You are too caring for your own good," he told the large creature.

Moving toward the hearth, staff tapping, the old man stooped to look at his unexpected visitor. Reaching down, Grethron started to pull back the hooded cloak as he asked his question.

"What is your name, friend?"

As the stranger looked up to meet his eyes, the old man realised he was barely more than a child. He was shivering and soaked to the skin, his light brown hair plastered to the side of his face and neck.

"Vilt, sir," he replied through chattering teeth.

The effects of cold and rain had paled his skin to the point of almost cadaverous whiteness, he looked frightened and small. In his brown eyes, however, Grethron could see an inner strength as their gaze met. The old man smiled down at him, the creases in his face shifting.

"You should take off your cloak," he advised.

Vilt returned the smile weakly but shook his head.

"I am too cold, sir."

"I know," Grethron replied. "But you will be unable to feel warmth from the fire through this wet thing," he picked at the saturated cloak with fingers and thumb.

Vilt considered this for a brief moment, then stood slowly and took off the soaking garment. Beneath this, he wore a simple and plain length of rough wool, wrapped and tied crudely, that fell limply to his knees. Poorly made sandals barely clung to his feet and he was generally dirty from head to foot. The young boy stood, eyes downcast, with his hands clasped in front of him.

"You can sit here if you like," Grethron indicated a sumptuous looking sofa piled with cushions.

Vilt stared at the piece of ornately crafted furniture as if he was unable to comprehend its purpose. Slowly, almost reverently, the boy walked towards the couch and gently sat. Running his hands over the fabric of the sofa, he looked at Grethron in wonder and breathed his words out.

"This is the finest thing I have ever seen."

"I am glad you think so," Grethron said with a small smile. "Please, make yourself comfortable and I will attend you shortly."

The older man tapped his way towards his other guest who had now finished cleaning his weapons. The two people faced each other, one tall and powerfully built, the other shorter but still fairly muscular. It was Grethron who broke the silence.

"So," he started, "What is my brother planning?"

Without any expression and with no particular inflection in his voice, the large creature replied.

"War."