Chapter Two.

The town of Shreel stood as one, paralyzed. Words graced no lips; nary a thought was present in the whole lot. After what seemed like an hour, one of the guards came hobbling down the tower and walked over to Buncombe. Kneeling, he grasped the large shoulder, and began to roll the town's former ruler over. With much exertion, he had the fat man supine. The guard grimaced as he gazed upon the throat of the large man. The impact had crushed the jaw on both sides of the chin. The force nearly separated the head from the neck, according to the large tear running across the throat.

The guard turned and called for help in moving and covering the body. He shouted for everyone to disperse. He kept his back to the body, the blood covered chest was the most disgusting thing he'd lain eyes upon. He never saw the foot twitch. He never saw the hands clinch and open. He never saw the corpse of the fat despot rise from the ground. He never saw the two huge fists crash down on his neck. His vertebrae shattered under the heavy impact. A fresh yelp of horror washed over the crowd. Mothers grabbed children; husbands grabbed wives; everyone took flight.

The other two guards emerged from the tower, clueless. When they saw the blood crusted, reanimate corpse waddling toward them, they drew their swords, and shouted confused orders. However, nothing could be heard over the trampling of hundreds of feet beating a hasty retreat. The guards looked at each other, eyes full of fear, nodded and began to advance weapons at the ready. Buncombe's carcass plodded towards the guards. The guards closed the distance, taking each step with caution. Each secretly hoping the body would fall dead, again. In a flash, the zombie sprinted in to the guard on the left. The bulk 's impact flung the lightly-armored man back several feet. His head caught his fall with an awful crunch.

The second guard, now alone, cursed. He cursed the image of evil in front of him, he cursed his duty to protect the citizens of the town. The monster turned, it appeared to try to speak, but only blood and air bubbled out of the neck wound. A huge fist swiped at the guard. He ducked and thrust his sword at the great legs. The blade connected, severing some of the large muscles. The second large fist swung down, catching the guard on his helmet. The former ruler collected the body, and hurled it across the square. The guard's armor rang out as it struck the inn.

Harlin, with no where to run, had climbed in to his cart, dragging Waylon. The boy sat by the window, eyes glued to his former mayor. He stared in paralyzed fear, he knew nothing else to do. Harlin, meantime, was searching for a specific item. Waylon watched more city guards throw themselves in to their death. Screams buffeted his young ears. He continued to watch. At last, Harlin had found the box he needed. He snatched the blunderbuss from the wall, and rammed in the ammunition from the crate. With a patriarchal air, Harlin turned to Waylon, “Stay hidden, boy, I'm going to finish this.” Hiding behind the trading crates, Harlin uttered a prayer for true aim. He exhaled deeply and, peeking his head above the crate, took aim at Lord Buncombe. The shot echoed around the square, all bark and no bite.

Buncombe's zombie looked around, the gun's reverberations confused the creature. Harlin furiously reloaded his weapon. He took aim again, his racing pulse making it almost impossible to focus on the monster. Another shot rang out. Buncombe lurched sideways and shook the earth. The merchant had removed Buncombe's left foot. Indefatigable, Buncombe stood. The zombie scanned the town, looking for the newest assailant. Harlin again peeked, aimed and fired another miss. The zombie trudged a slow path towards the cart. Two more rounds left the muzzle on trajectories to nowhere. The zombie tripped across the line of crates Harlin used for cover. He scooted backward, desperately trying to stay out of arms reach. He struck at the fat, bald head with the butt of his blunderbuss. He swung the stock of the rifle again and again. He made contact with the forehead and the rifle fired the last round. Harlin painted the wall behind him a shade of dark red.

Waylon looked on with mixed emotions. He was scared and alone. However, the knife strapped to his tiny waist seemed to fill him with courage. He drew the blade from its scabbard. A stern voice whispered “strike true, strike decisively, strike quickly.” The creature lay prone on the ground, in clear sight of the boy. He coiled his muscles and leaped out of the cart on to the back of the zombie. In the same smooth motion he struck downwards with his knife, severing the head.

His right hand quivered. Electricity jolted up his arm. The knife blade glittered in the afternoon sun; it was the most brilliant gleam he had ever seen. He sat there, perched upon the corpse, mesmerized. The power of the blade in his hand left the boy stunned. He had killed the cliff birds before, but never so much as pointed a blade at a person. Eyes wide and suddenly very conscious of his heavy breathing, Waylon stepped off the bulbous cadaver and surveyed the town square.

The pleasant sunlight of afternoon was fading across the horizon. The fallen bodies cast small shadows. A large crow, perhaps a raven, fluttered around the guard tower. Waylon had never been fond of the ebony birds. The rest of the town was empty, none of the usual cheer and banter filled the air. In an instant, there were two ravens. The sudden appearance of two birds, which his mother called evil, unsettled the boy. From the felled body of Lord Buncombe came a horrible hissing noise. Whirling, blade at the ready, Waylon's eyes raced over the body, searching for the source of the sound. Like the rest of the square, there was no motion.

Sulfur burned the nostrils of Caliph Nereef. The lord, in title, rode hard towards the damned town of Shreel. The divine man had been awakened by his deity, Bahmut, in the early morning and was told to ride to Shreel with all possible haste. His white horse galloped across the amber waves of grain, grunting and snorting with the effort. The pair rounded the final corner, crossing the gate. The sounds of combat filled Nereef's ears, and his heart sank. He was too late. He had failed. The horse ran in to the town square. Nereef was greeted with the sight of a boy, maybe in his teens, viciously swinging a blazing white knife at two much larger, and armored, men. His veins ran cold at the sight of the undead. A scream left his throat, his fierce battle cry, and his own sword flashed in the dwindling light. His excellent steed sighted a line behind the two guards, just within a blade's reach of their necks. The caliph did not miss his targets. One charge and two quick swipes felled the armored ones.

Waylon took note of the holy man with the sword. He also noted the full flock of ravens massing around the tower. The sun had nearly set. His knife blade glowed a brilliant white, as though it were still in the mid-day sun.

“A good defense, boy, but we must flee!” The caliph's baritone voice compelled the boy. An armored hand reached down to the youngster. Waylon stared at the metal, unsure of the man, though he wore the holy white. The squawking mass of ravens fixed his decision. He grabbed the out stretched hand and leaped on to the horse's back. The white beast took off, as if shot from a cannon. The stench of sulfur was suffocating.

The white knight explained to the boy, casually, the situation. “I was awakened this morning, by Bahmut, and told to ride here. He told me there was great evil coming.” His voice carried all the drama of a tea-time chat. “Tonight we will return to Plantain, and try to discover what has happened.”

Waylon's face was locked in to a grimace. His young mind raced with thoughts of his home, his mother and the vague idea that everything he knew had been destroyed. The farther the horse ran, the farther the youngster left his boyhood behind. Two heavy hearts rode across the plains that night.