From Chapter Twelve: Land of Shadow

“Zombiac,” said the hidden figure, “I have no King in my own lands, and you are not Zombiac of Warclover.  You are Zombiac of Damperdrend, for those who enter here may only join my army or die!  As you are uninvited, I would say you must die.  But as it happens, you are an ape and we have one of those here among us.  He misses his own kind, and I will consider your application to live among us in the beauty of darkness.”

“My application?”

“Lift your sword and apply.”

“I do not want to apply!”

“Then keep it sheathed-- and die!”

Here a vast, tall, figure of a man strolled into the circle, which widened to accept him.  He was as wild and savage as the rest of them, but he was nearly eight feet tall and as stoutly built as a fortress.  His hair, too, was unnaturally black, his eyes were blue flames, and he was shirtless and hirsuite. But this one wore black cloth pants and a black mantle, bedecked with glimmering, multi-faceted jet.  He wielded no spear, but instead bore a great mace that might have been a two handed weapon in someone else’s hands.  The crowns of the mace lit up with red and blue lights from deep within, and a mist swirled around it as it moved through the air.  It was plain that Sir Arbeckarc meant to kill me with it.

I had no choice but to draw Grimmace from its scabbard.  I hastily dropped my lantern close to my feet and swung out in warning.

“I did not come here to kill you!” I said.

“You won’t,” laughed Arbeckarc, “now attend your application!”

The mace came crashing down on me and I parried it hurriedly, having no time to follow up before it turned towards me again, behind it the might of powerful muscles.

I could not run, a circle of spears kept me hemmed in.  Each time I parried a blow from Arbeckarc’s mace I had to brace myself from being wrenched from my feet.  I had to attack first, or I would be worn down without even a chance to strike a blow.  I darted forward and swung blindly, a blow which he parried quickly, but it left him open and I could swing again, managing a single draw cut across his mighty ribs before his mace swung around and fell on me.

 

This time I careened to avoid it and made a swift stab for his chest.  The stab wound was shallow and did nothing but make him laugh.  Clearly one cut from Grimmace would not kill this powerful being. He was more than human.

Now it was Arbeckarc’s turn to be light on his feet.  He rained a series of blows against me at every angle, and the mace made painful landings on my chest and shoulders, thrusting me into the air.  I saw myself falling toward a spear, but the bearer stepped back and let me crash on the ground.  Where the mace had landed, black liquid oozed from my body.

“What?  What is this?” I panted.

“That is the kiss of Fistoulclem, my weapon!  Feel it again!  Know the power of a cursed weapon!”

I thrust Grimmace up to block him, but he towered above my prone form and his mace drove itself and my own sword into my brow.

It was then, for the second time, that I found myself floating above my body.

 Dismayed by my own dying, I watched the spearsmen drop their weapons and carry my body before Sir Arbeckarc, who grinned broadly and touched the black ooze.

“Application accepted!” he said, “bring him to the place of rebirth!”