Last War Of The Necromancers

Dumar stared in disbelief at the wooden portal until his weak neck muscles began to ache and he sank gratefully back into the soft pillows. Annoyed now, the Dumar project realised he would never be allowed to escape what he had been made for. Flat refusal had not worked and now, apparently, his own death had not been sufficient. His mind drifted back to a conversation that had taken place between himself and Alan McCabe several years ago.

***

He had been training all morning. Running tirelessly for miles before undergoing a long session of physical conditioning. followed by an hour of combat training. This last had been the most taxing as he had had live opponents which he was expected to defeat and injure as if he were fighting for his life.

The main difficulty facing the young Dumar was he knew these men and women. They had been his tutors, instructors and guides in all the martial arts he had been taught and he thought of them as friends. He was in a quandary, however, as he was eager to please the black clad McCabe who watched from outside.

Dumar had tried desperately not to hurt his teachers too badly, throwing them where possible, to avoid hitting anyone. They seemed to have a different idea to him, however, as they attacked him ruthlessly. Sometimes more than two at a time would come at him and he would be forced to evade them by rolling beneath their attacks.

Eventually the young Dumar had realised he would have to begin to subdue some of his opponents and smashed the flat of his hand into the nearest face. Feeling the man's nose break under his attack, watching his head snap back and seeing the expression of pain on his face. Dumar had felt a massive flash of guilt. He had been one of the nicer trainers that had taught him.

The next to come at him was a woman, although slight of frame Dumar knew she was a vicious opponent who had often landed painful blows on him before in the name of his education. There had always been an air of superiority and even hate during their sessions and Dumar had wondered why she felt this way toward him.

She began by flicking a hand towards his face, attempting to gouge an eye or snap his nose. Dumar, however, knew this woman's technique and avoided the blow easily. Stepping inside her guard the young Dumar slammed the tips of his fingers into her windpipe, easily crushing the cartilage. She fell back, clawing at her throat and desperately trying to breathe.

Dumar twirled around and kicked straight outwards, the sole of his foot smashing into the knee of another man who collapsed with a scream as the joint shattered backwards. Still they came. Dumar took a few steps backwards.

"Enough! This is crazy! We shouldn't be fighting, we're friends."

The first man Dumar had hit, breaking his nose, had drawn a long, curved knife and was approaching with a look of menace upon his bloodied face. He made a move to slash at Dumar's face, changing at the last moment to stab at him.

Despite his attacker's speed Dumar was faster and caught the man's wrist as he lunged, stepping away from the knife and allowing his opponents momentum to carry him past.

Dumar twisted and pulled at the wrist he held until the bones gave way and the knife fell, deftly Dumar caught the blade and slammed it through his tutor's shoulder. The wound would not kill but the arm might have been rendered useless. Dumar felt a blow land in the middle of his back catapulting him forward, he felt himself falling, jumped into a diving roll and twisted as he rose to face the remaining attackers.

Alan McCabe had watched through a sheet of shatter resistant glass as his Dumar project whirled and spun, landing blows and throwing his tutors around as if they were dolls.

The fight had been suggested by the tutors themselves, to see if Dumar would be able to use all the knowledge they had imparted to defend himself. McCabe smiled evilly as they were each dispatched in turn, some with much worse wounds than others.

Later the ones who were able would sit and watch the fight on a large screen, examining the techniques used and to their combined surprise, find Dumar had developed his own fighting style which was a balanced combination of all their individual teachings.

As Dumar made his way towards the exit, he had glanced around at the devastation he had wrought upon his friends. He felt low and guilty for hurting them but he had had no choice. Had he? Absently he wondered what would have happened if he had refused to fight, would they still have attacked him? Hurt him?

He was passing the woman whose throat he had smashed as he heard her moaning raspy breathing. Kneeling beside her Dumar lifted her shoulder and turned her over. Shockingly pale and with her eyes wide, Dumar had tried to help but she pushed him away. He rose and gazed down upon her. Oddly, she smiled at him.

"You've done well, Dumar," her voice was a strained whisper. "We never believed you'd be able to beat all of us," swallowing painfully she squeezed her eyes shut against the pain. "We wanted to prove to the Shadow you weren't ready," Dumar knelt back down

"Ready for what?" He wanted to know.

The woman was obviously in great pain and battling for every breath, she answered however.

"Your purpose, Dumar. Why you were brought into this world and why we trained you," she had smiled at him again, making him feel strange in a way he was unable to understand. "I'm proud of you, Dumar," she had added simply.

Dumar had stood allowing the medical teams rushing around him to perform their preliminary procedures. Exiting the large room Dumar almost bumped into McCabe.

"That was an excellent performance, Dumar," the Shadow smiled dispassionately. "They wanted to beat you, you know, thought you wouldn't stand a chance against them," the older man had offered Dumar a bottle of chilled water.

Accepting, the youth drank deeply and wiped the cold bottle across his forehead.

"Master Chi Wah-Lin said she was proud of me," Dumar told McCabe. "She said I was ready for my purpose," he looked askance. "What did she mean?"

"She was right," McCabe started. "You're more than ready for your first, I think."

Dumar had pondered his cryptic words but could make no sense of them. Seeing his confusion McCabe had added.

"Kill, Dumar," the older man folded his arms and leaned one shoulder against the wall. "Your first kill."

Dumar had just frozen in place. His eyes had rolled towards the Shadow and rested there. Mixed emotions playing across his inexperienced face; shock, fear and interest.

"What?" He had whispered, lowering his arms to his sides.

McCabe had remained still but held the other's gaze.

"What did you think Dumar?" McCabe asked with a hint of sarcasm. "That you were taught all these martial arts and other fighting techniques, for fun? What about the weapons training? The stealth work?" The older man raised his eyebrows.

Puzzled, confused, frightened and more than a bit embarrassed at his own naivety, Dumar's face changed to become a plain, emotionless mask. He had always been told he was the first in a long line of advanced soldiers, the Company hoping to develop a number of different models to suit different jobs, both within the armed services and civilian roles such as the emergency services. He had just accepted this explanation and his face burned as he realised everyone he had ever met probably knew the truth. They were all laughing at him. Stupid little Dumar that believes he's going to be a new kind of soldier.

McCabe had unfolded himself from the wall and moved towards Dumar, who just wanted to hide. Stationing himself directly opposite him and holding the younger man's eyes, McCabe spoke in a flat tone of finality.

"You are the Dumar project," he stated flatly. "Designed, built, programmed, and trained to hunt, track and eliminate any and all targets designated by the Company," McCabe levelled a finger at the chest of Dumar. "Get used to the idea. You're an instrument, Dumar, a tool. We will use you as we see fit and you will comply."

Dumar had said nothing, he had felt empty, stupid and used. He had watched the Shadow pad silently away, then turned and walked slowly back to his apartments.

A short, wiry man with greasy blonde hair sat at a monitoring station studying small screens and tapping a keyboard every so often. He had looked up as Dumar approached.

"Hey buddy, how's it going mate?" His voice had been light but something sounded odd to Dumar. "What's up?" The technician asked. "You look like you've lost the winning lottery ticket," he smiled weakly.

Dumar had looked deeply into the other man's eyes.

"I thought we were friends, Smitty," the smaller man paled slightly.

"We are Dumar, mate, we are."

"Did you know?" Dumar asked. Smitty's palms had been sweaty, Dumar's excellent sense of smell detected the sweetness of his perspiration.

"Know what, mate?" His oldest friend had asked evasively.

"What. I. Am." Dumar spoke the words slowly, individually.

The sadness, guilt and humiliation he was feeling was beginning to transform into anger. He looked blankly at the blonde-haired man he had known all his life. "What I've been made for?" He shouted it angrily into the other man's face and felt good when the smaller man flinched.

Smitty the technician was more scared than he had ever been, cold bands clamped themselves around his chest. He had never seen Dumar angry. Thinking about it, he had not ever seen much in the way of emotions at all from the Project, assuming that was part of his design. Swallowing hard he mustered the courage to speak.

"You didn't know?" His voice was high pitched and squeaky. "I thought you knew," he added softly.

For a split second only, Dumar had considered hitting the man he had known and liked since childhood. Smashing his fingertips into Smitty's windpipe and watching him writhe on the floor as he had just done to his tutor. Instead, Dumar stepped quietly away from the sweaty man who now reeked of fear.

"Thanks for nothing, Smitty," Dumar's parting words were flatly spoken.

"I thought you knew mate," Smitty whined forlornly towards Dumar's departing back, "Sorry," he called.

Dumar had entered the laboratory which was made to look like an apartment and sat down on a black faux-leather sofa. He placed both hands on the back of his head and leaned back into the soft material. His rage heated his entire body, the bio-circuitry inside him pumping chemicals into his bloodstream as a response to his anger.

No way would he be used in this manner.

No way would McCabe make him do anything he didn't want to do.

No way would he kill.

Dumar's eyes came to rest on a single card placed on a table. Happy 13th Birthday, it said. Smitty had given it to him that morning.