Chapter Three.

A very expensive fabric, dark purple nearing black, draped the frame of the man riding in to Shreel. Most sorcerers wore a long robe, but few were of the exceptional quality of these dark garments. Acrid sulfur scorched his nostrils. As the scent grew stronger, he licked his lips. The horrible stench invigorated him. The ebony horse strode gently in to the town square. A new smell caressed the pair: death. Brasque inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. His lips quivered. The awful smell of decomposing bodies and sulfur-scarred soil excited him in a way women never could. In the grasp of black death, the man from Kremlin was aroused.

The black beast beneath Brasque calmly trotted to the largest body in the square. It lowered its head to the corpse, pointing like a dog. The man dismounted. The horse walked away, disappearing in to the black void. He reached in to the folds of his robe and procured a wicked, twisted kryss. Words of pure evil spat from his bearded lips and he licked the blade. His broad shoulder and slender arm swung the kryss down in to the decapitated carcass.

With a sickening burst, the body that once belonged to Lord Buncombe exploded. The innards added fresh décor to the merchant cart and the buildings nearby. Brasque knelt beside the small crater his keen eyes searching for the small glinting trinket he desired. At last the beady eyes found their lust. He snatched, from the charred flesh, a small metal lump. The dull little lump was cupped perfectly by his palm. The tongue flicked across the lips in anticipation. He gently rolled the piece around in his palm, inspecting every surface. He closed his fist and brought his hand to his mouth. He puffed an evil breath through his fist.

A jolt surged down his arm, rocking his whole body. His breathing became rapid, shallow and short. His hand felt like it was clasping the Inferno. His throat loosed a yelp of pain and delight. As quickly as it started, the pain subsided. He held his quivering hand out, opening his fingers and staring at the new object in his burned palm. A gilded skull stared back at him. The eyeless sockets inspecting his countenance.

Caliph Nereef rode hard for Plantain. The night was chilly, but far from cold. A sudden chill straightened his body. He looked around with great haste, where had that cackle come from? Fear gripped the holy man and he spurred the horse faster.

Waylon attempted sleep. He was so tired. His eyes shut of their own accord, but the galloping horse wasn't allowing the boy a moments rest. His young thoughts raced faster than the horse across the plains. He had never been to Plantain, but Harlin told him stories. He imagined the lush green vegetation, the twin rivers surrounding the city, the fisherman and boats.

After riding all night, and part of the day, the companions arrived at the massive gates of Plantain. The city was built on a large plateau, with walls on the East, West and South. To the North, the river Crux brought cold water and fish from Kremlin. The heart of the city sat in the small delta where the Crux split, one half headed West, the other spilled over the eastern wall of the plateau. There were temples of various faiths above and below the massive waterfall. One of these happened to be Nereef's monastery.

“I'll say it again, I saw the dead risen! They attacked the entire town! The shadows burned the ground with sulfur!” Caliph Nereef was exasperated.

The generals under his command were not interested in his story; they were lazy. The muscular man narrowed his eyes and slammed his fist on the table before him. Every eye was on him.

“I am the lord of this monastery, I am the one Bahmut reached out to. If you don't think me honest, make your leave, now!” He spoke with conviction and vitriol. He was a zealous man, the weakness of others infuriated him.

Eyes darted across the table, but no bodies moved. Nereef scoffed.

“Now, raise your armies! Call up every available man! I want every silvered weapon at our disposal on the front lines, those damnable creatures must be banished back to their hell!”

The men filed out of the huge meeting room. The bells of war drowned out all sound in Plantain. Every regular man was compelled from his home, outfitted and drilled. Plantain was a large city, and organizing half of the populace was a tedious feat.

Waylon watched the mobilization of the troops with curiosity at first. As time dragged along, he became bored with the whole affair. Nereef, and his monastery, had ignored the boy, an orphan free to wander surely must. First he trod towards the docks. He greatly enjoyed fish. Along the streets were hundreds of red-shirted merchants with stocked carts. None of them treated him the way Harlin had. Instead his accent was mocked, his clothes were ridiculed and his provincial knowledge was belittled.

One evening however, Waylon found an ally in this strange town. Another boy, about his age, noticed the downtrodden look and inquired what the problem was. Albindin was an urchin and he took Waylon under his wing. He taught Waylon the ways of the street. As the army came together, the boy from Shreel lost his last connections to his homeland. His accent disappeared. The other orphans that shared Albindin's squat taught Waylon their native tongues. He learned to steal from the red-shirted, he learned to barter stolen goods with those same red-shirts. With an errant look and a strong word, the boy could disappear from plain sight. Waylon was quickly becoming a man.

After several months, the massive army marched for Shreel. None knew what lay ahead of them, the scouts hadn't returned from their assignments. Caliph Nereef lead the initial brigade towards the hell town. The road crossed the river Crux with a stone bridge. Nereef ordered his men to stop. His white horse gingerly approached the bridge. Something was wrong and everyone could feel it. Nereef scanned the opposite shore, then turned his eye on the bridge. The boards had a darker hue than he remembered. The scent of iron filled his nose. He dismounted his steed and walked to the bridge. His eyes widened. Blood, blood was everywhere. He cringed with the thought of painting a bridge in human blood. To be sure, he walked across the bridge. Nothing happened. He whistled for his horse to follow. The creature crossed without issue. Finally the soldiers filed across. The army marched on, disaster averted.