Last War Of The Necromancers

A loud knock dragged him roughly back from the edge of sleep.

The wooden door opened allowing an ageing man access to the room. He wore a plain black shirt and leather trousers. Dark brown, calf length leather boots shod his feet and he sported what appeared to be a dark green cloak around his shoulders with silver and gold embroidery picking out strange designs along the edges. Approximately five feet in height he had a full head of shoulder length hair, black shot through with grey and white, that had been combed neatly.

His deeply lined, weather beaten features were a deep tanned brown, dark green eyes were capped by bushy black brows and he possessed a round nose above a very red lipped mouth. A small, dark, well-groomed beard garnished his chin reaching up to connect with a moustache containing a few white hairs. His arms and upper torso appeared to be fairly muscular, running down to a small round belly.

On the middle finger of his right hand he wore a thick, golden ring inset with a row of deep violet gems, also in this hand he carried a staff which stretched from the floor to his shoulder.

Blackness emanated from the length of it, apart from where his hand wrapped around the girth. It looked like the old man carried a length of the night sky as somehow no light reflected from its surface. In addition to the strange colouring the outline of it made it look to be twisted along its length, as if some massive force had turned either end in opposite directions.

Tapering slightly toward the butt end, it had what appeared to be a glass ball at the top. The ball itself was gripped by a representation of a human hand. Unlike a human hand, however, long, claw-like talons jutted from the fingertips, curving around to grip the glass.

Inside the glass itself a white mist swirled, flowing around the inner surface. Eddies and vortexes formed, flowed across the globe and disappeared as if a fog was captured within.

As the old man crossed the room towards the bed, it became astoundingly clear there was no glass. It was the mist itself which formed into the shifting ball held by the talons. The old man looked at the stranger for a few moments.

"I suppose you may have a few questions," the old man said with a smile.

He leaned heavily on the staff although he had not used it as a support while walking.

He had a deep voice, so deep it sounded as if his speech had been electronically slowed yet spoke with clarity and enough eloquence to discount the possibility of limited intelligence.

"I know I have a few," he added, smiling again which made the deep lines on his face move and shift.

Sitting unceremoniously on the edge of the bed he turned to face the occupant. "Introductions first, I think," the older man stated. "I am known as Grethron. You are?" He paused for a reply.

However, the motionless form in the bed said nothing, returning the stare of the other man steadily.

"Understandable," Grethron admitted. "I would not want to speak either, were I in your position," standing, he walked quickly toward the door, opened it and spoke to an unseen someone outside.

Returning once more to sit on the bed, Grethron scratched one lined cheek and sighed.

"I am unsure where to begin actually," he admitted uncertainly, "Ah, well, the beginning," he breathed. "I am the person who transported you here to this world. At the precise moment you died on your own world, I harnessed your soul, brought it to this planet and housed it in the body of a recently deceased man," he made the statement in such a serious way despite its absurd content it took the newcomer a few seconds to realize this must all be some kind of joke.

The figure laying in the bed, however, did not laugh, for him, there was nothing amusing in this situation at all. Surprise, shock, fear and uncertainty, along with a glow of anger, were all present in the still figure but definitely not amusement. His face betrayed none of these, however, his years of training and conditioning had taught him to hide his emotions.

This was obviously madness. Either he had gone insane and this was all a construct of his weakened mind or he was having some dream-like hallucination. He discounted the latter as he had never experienced a dream as detailed or colourful as this, complete with scents and pain. None of the aches he suffered were subsiding and he was still completely paralysed.

"Well," the old man continued when there was no obvious reaction to his words. "You certainly gave young Sherilee a fright," he chuckled and scratched his right temple. "But then, she should not have been snooping in here in the first place. And you were definitely not due to wake up for a while yet," this last sentence was spoken quietly, as if to himself.

The old stranger looked into space briefly, thinking. While he did so, he tapped the golden ring he wore against the staff, producing a very audible clicking sound indicating the staff was actually made from something solid. Almost jumping as he came out of his thoughts, the man who had introduced himself as Grethron asked.

"So, how do you feel? Tired? Weak? Achy? I have never transplanted a soul before so I would be most interested to know what it is like," the greying man continued his study of the other man as he continued his absent-minded ring tapping.

The man lying in the bed knew he had a choice to make. Either he could stay silent and try to glean some information while just listening, or he could choose to talk to this old man, whether he was real or not, and possibly find some answers to the many questions he had. He decided on the latter.

"Well, Greth," he croaked after deciding to speak. "My name's always been Dumar and as to what it feels like," his face took on a slightly angry expression. "It's pretty much like being hit by a fucking mag-lev train, rolled down the track for about twenty miles then being set on fire. I'm just guessing," he added.

The older man paled slightly as he listened to the heated tones and harsh language Dumar used. Grethron stood and took a pair of steps away, putting distance between himself and Dumar.

"Please accept my apologies," the old man rumbled deeply. "But what is a mag-lev train?"

"Don't take the piss," Dumar snapped. "You don't know what an electromagnetically powered train is?"

However, looking at the old man with the staff, Dumar realised, even as he said these words, he did not. Dumar's tone softened slightly as he went on.

"You might as well sit back down, Greth. Despite anything you might think you know about me, I'm not given to random acts of violence," his mood shifted quickly and in a half whisper, he added. "Besides which, it looks like I'm paralysed,"

Grethron almost leapt towards him in shock.

"You cannot move!? Now I really must apologise," the old man was talking quickly and excitedly. "That must have been terrifying for you, here let me help."

He reached a hand towards Dumar who tried to move away but, of course, could not. His surprisingly warm hand touched lightly, almost caressingly, against Dumar's forehead and as it did so, something seemed to shift then settle within him, or rather around him. Now, in addition to the pain he felt, Dumar's body felt tight, stretched, as if he were wearing clothes two sizes too small for him. He was able, however, to move slightly. To begin with, he flexed his fingers then his toes, he started to tense and release his complaining muscles, working opposite groups slowly as life returned to his body. Grethron watched with one eyebrow raised.

"Better?" The old man asked.

Dumar nodded in wonder.

"What happened?"

The old man pondered for a second before surmising.

"I must have made a slight mistake while establishing your soul in this body," he shook his head and pursed his lips.

"You don't make any sense," Dumar observed. "What the bloody hell are you on about?"

Before the old man could answer, there was a light knock at the door. Grethron answered and ushered in the young feline looking woman, Sherilee. Her eyes remained downcast as she silently crossed the room and gently laid a tray on the large bed next to Dumar. Atop this were an arrangement of odd-looking fruits, some dark bread and a large bowl of steaming liquid.

"I recommend you drink that," the old man suggested. "You will almost certainly feel a great deal better."

Slowly and shakily, Dumar pulled his hands out from beneath the covers. Reaching for the bowl before him, unaware of quite how hungry he was until he caught the scent of the drink, which was sweet and almost intoxicating.

"That will be all, Sherilee, thank you, and remember," Grethron levelled a finger at the girl. "You are sworn to secrecy," she nodded silently and with eyes still downcast, quietly left the room.