Prologue
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Two robed men, one in black, one in brown, departed from St. Rimaah Church with a white-robed Acolyte bidding them a farewell from the doorway.
"Creator bless you!" he said.
Some minutes down the winding dirt path, the man robed in black let out a hiss. His companion, robed in brown, turned his head, his ruby-red eyes aglow.
"You have been spared. What poisons you now?"
Saroth whipped his head to the side with such speed that the right side of his hood fell back, revealing clean white cheek bone devoid of any flesh.
"Foolish little Alexhandr," he said.
It was true that he was but a drake, at least several hundred years away from maturity and that the shambling skeleton was centuries old, but Saroth was in fact two whole heads shorter than Alexhandr. The Drakonian was glad that his smiling face was hidden from Sartoth, lest the undead elf see him and unleash his venom.
* * * * *
Just a day ago Alexhandr had encountered Saroth near a river, standing in it and staring down into the crystal clear waters. From behind where Alexhandr stood, it looked as if some wanderer had donned a rusty, ancient set of armor. So lost was Saroth in the calm song of the coursing river that he did not hear his new company approach, and when Alexhandr laid his black-scaled hand upon him, he'd whirled around with such ferocity that it made Alexhandr stumble back and land on his rear end. At first, Alexhandr could only stare in shock and awe, but a few moments passed and drew his mace from his hip and stood. "A wight! You are far from your tomb!"
Saroth stared deeply into Alexhandr, his eyeless sockets boring into the depths of his soul. "Wight?" he said.
Again, Alexhandr was dumbstruck. It spoke, how extraordinary! "Y-yes... a wight! That is what you are."
Silence that felt like eternity. Saroth looked down at his fleshless fingers. "I am Saroth."
The black drake flinched, his slitted red eyes widening. A millennium ago, a terrible elvish warlord began a nightmarish campaign across the continent. Villages and crops were burned, towns razed, graves and holy sites defiled, relics destroyed, and small nations toppled beneath the feet of bloodthirsty men of all races, fueled by every dark desire. As more fell beneath them, more villains joined, creating an army of barbarians, heathens, brigands, murderers, cultists and worse, all reaping rewards from their chaos. Their warlord was named Saroth and in short time he had been given the title "the Conqueror." Alexhandr's homeland of Numinor was small at that time, but the charisma of the Numinorian king swayed the dukes, barons, and other lieges of nations around them to his banner. United and filled with zeal, they managed a pyrrhic victory. Those of Saroth's army that were not slain fled across the continent and Saroth himself was gutted and hanged then buried deep within a marsh far to the northlands where none would find it. Saroth became a forbidden name and his horrors only regaled at the campfires of merchants and bards. Alexhandr thought the muck on Saroth's ancient armor was dirt and grime, but as he stared he came to the realization it was dried blood, caked all over the plate protecting the stomach.
Alexhandr knew then he should raise his mace and smash the skeleton to pieces. All undead should be put to rest, it was wicked to use the corpses of the dead for one's own use, even if that corpse belonged to a truly evil man. Yet Alexhandr's hand stayed. Saroth looked pitiful and utterly lost, his fleshless face hung low. Not only that, but he could speak!
"Why?" the words from Saroth were as hushed as a wilted leaf touching down on the ground.
A decision had to be made, Alexhandr knew. He could not let Saroth wander around and he could not strike him down. All of a sudden, Saroth collapsed onto the ground and he let out a gasp as if struggling to breathe. Alexhandr rushed over to him. Saroth lifted his bony hand, whether to push Alexhandr away or in some feeble attempt to beg, Alexhandr couldn't discern. He remembered then what he had read in the forbidden necromantic tomes that brought him his exile. Saroth could not sustain himself. Undead required a certain amount of life energy from the caster, something that prevented necromancers from creating armies consisting of thousands dead. A necromancer had to utilize many apprentices or other servants or even force slaves to maintain any substantial number of the living dead. Only necromancers who became liches through twisted dark arts could dream of raising an army on their own. Action had to be taken fast, or Saroth would become nothing more than bone meal in minutes. As Saroth had no master, someone with enough knowledge in necromancy could become one.
"Merciful Creator, have mercy on me, a sinner," said Alexhandr. He laid his hand upon Saroth's, then exhaled. He could feel his own energy depart, and in moments he was exhausted. What he had committed just now was taboo, a grave sin that he would spend his life repenting for, but his curiosity and indeed pity for Saroth outweighed his obligation to Heaven's laws. Saroth did not stir and soon enough Alexhandr fell into sleep.
* *
Hours passed and it was sunset when Alexhandr stirred. Saroth was no longer in front of him. Terrified, Alexhandr jumped up and whirled around. He let out a relieved exhale. There was Saroth was, staring into the river again. Minutes went by, the only sound that of the flowing river. Alexhandr opened his maw to speak, but Saroth spoke first.
"What have you done?" Venom coated every word.
Alexhandr shifted about and grabbed his tail to keep it from swishing back and forth. "I do not quite know," he said.
Saroth whirled around, startling Alexhandr. "Idiot! I am now bound to you!"
"I know!" Alexhandr said. "It was that or you become nothing but dust!"
"What do you plan to do, imbecile? Do you know who I am?"
"Aye, I know! I think I know!"
"Foolish whelp!"
Alexhandr let out a deep growl. "I am taking you to the nearest church!"
By what insanity gripped the boy, Saroth had no idea. If a man came into a church with a walking skeleton beside him, the priests would smite them both! Was this Alexhandr a heathen? An Abyssal cultist? He was mad, that much was for certain!
"You will be struck down!"
Alexhandr shook his large head. "No, I will not. I am no heathen and I am delivering you to them."
Dumbfounded, Saroth threw his hands in the air. "My master is so young the only bosom he's seen is his mother's and he's a naive knave to boot! As if Hell wasn't enough of a punishment for my sins!"
"Do you not understand?" Alexhandr said. "The moment you speak they will realize! No risen carcass can speak! Much less maintain memories or emotion! They have no soul! It is an empty vessel, animated by a necromancer's will!"
Alexhandr watched as the skeleton's bottom jaw lowered in realization. The drake was right. Still, that did not explain the boy's decision.
His question was as biting as the winds of the far north. "Why?"
Now it was Alexhandr's turn to be dumbstruck. He could not properly answer, so he said, "I do not know."
"Bloody brilliant!" Saroth said. "Well, then, lad. We're off to church, are we? I hope you aren't expecting me to sit through a confession!"
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This is my first attempt at writing in quite a time. I am rusty, but a certain someone got me thinking I should sharpen my writing skills again. Cheers!
