Last War Of The Necromancers

Grethron was pacing around the room once more, occasionally muttering to himself like a man possessed. M'thar watched impassively from a dark corner where he sat out of the light cast from the fire. As the large creature watched the old man tap circuits around the room, he pondered what the future may hold for him.

Many years ago, M'thar had dreamed of meeting another of his race, hopefully a female. With any luck, there would have been offspring, small versions of himself to look after and love. That was before Grethron had explained it all.

"You are the last member of an ancient and proud race. The Pat'nathoor were a successful and independent group of people, fierce warriors and fighters, although not given to the invasion of neighbouring territories.

Many more of your people were artists and sculptors, producing amazing and beautiful works, more still were involved with architecture although very little of their building works remain today," the old man had paused and rested a hand on the large creature's shoulder. "When I found you, your people had been completely wiped from the face of the planet."

M'thar's world had changed that day, he had become even more insular and silent, withdrawing from Grethron and spending time alone. The old man had kept a close watch but maintained his distance. A few months later the large creature had come to him and asked what had befallen his race.

Grethron had laid the truth out to M'thar, every detail down to the last. The old man had stared at his own reflection in M'thar's black eye.

"It was Malthrom with his first army," the oldster paused for a reaction, continuing when there was none. "The Pat'nathoor could not be controlled, bribed, forced or coerced into joining him so he had them all murdered," the lizard like creature had said nothing as his lifelong friend had explained his very own history.

Once the tale was told, M'thar had looked at Grethron.

"Thank you for the truth," he had rasped. "But I must attempt to find another of my kind, see my homeland for myself."

"I thought you may wish to do something like that," Grethron stated as he sighed. "And I understand. If there is anything I can do to assist you, you need merely to ask."

M'thar had taken the old man up in a massive hug.

"Thank you… Father," he had spoken in a voice thick with emotion.

His words had surprised Grethron and filled him with warmth. M'thar had never before called him that even though the old man had raised the creature since infancy.

***

Dumar awoke to the patter of rain against wood.

Wood? Why would it be raining in the lab?

He sat up slowly, feeling a tug in his lower back and swung his legs to the ice-cold stone floor. This brought him fully awake and the realisation hit hard that he had not woken in the lab, some nameless scientist was not just outside studying a bank of monitors and the latest video games e-zine with equal fervour.

The whole situation with the old man and strange talk about souls and imprinting had not been a dream.

Dumar rubbed his eyes, yawned, stretched his arms wide and stood.

Although the room was almost completely dark, a square of dim light filtered through in one wall. Dumar made his way carefully towards it, realising as he did so that he felt a great deal better than when he had woken before and apart from the dull ache in the small of his back, there was none of the pain he remembered.

Fumbling around the edges of the wooden panel on the window, the large man opened the shutters to the world and looked out. Very little natural light filtered in due to the heavy cloud cover, the rain had slowed to a light drizzle, a cold breeze wafted in and brought a chill to his naked form.

Dumar turned from the barely visible world outside and memories triggered as he took in the large, four poster bed, the chest and the door.

He recalled the odd conversation that had taken place as he lay in the massive bed, the strange old man who looked as if he was older than time. Although Dumar's memory was usually exceptional he found there were numerous gaps and missing sections as he attempted to remember what he had been told.

Nothing else was housed within the room, no artwork adorned the walls, no carpets or rugs covered the floor, it was stark and bare. The naked man moved silently over to the chest of drawers and opened it.

Inside one of the drawers he could barely make out some kind of clothing. Lifting some items out, Dumar examined a shirt that felt wonderfully soft against his skin as he donned it.

Delving deeper, his hands came upon what looked to be trousers of some fashion, they, as the shirt had, fit perfectly. This time, however, the feeling was almost velvety, tiny fibres stroking his flesh. In the near darkness he could not tell what the material was or even discern the colour save for the fact it was a dark shade.

Rummaging further, the Dumar project found a pair of thin leather moccasin-like slippers. Further inspection revealed nothing more than duplicates of what he already wore.

Standing silently in the darkness, Dumar opened and checked the machine pistol. Without looking, he made sure the magazine contained fifty rounds, the safety catch was engaged and it was set to semi-automatic.

Although he had sworn to himself not to kill, he needed to make sure the weapon did not fall into the wrong hands, possibly killing someone accidentally. There were only forty-eight rounds in the weapon, forty-seven in the magazine and one in the chamber.

One round was missing and he had no idea where it might have been fired. Plus, assuming only his soul had been brought here, how was the pistol here at all? With his hands automatically at the task, he pondered his next move.

Still not knowing what had actually befallen him, Dumar decided he would have to go in search of information. Thinking back, Dumar remembered talking to the old man whose staff seemed to be topped by fog, Grethron, the old man had said he was called.

Dumar froze as another memory snapped back to him. Placing the heavy weapon down, he carefully examined his arms and hands, turning the fingers over in front of his eyes, flexing them.

Even in the dim light that penetrated, he could see they were familiar, they were his.

Dumar drew in a deep breath and picked up the firearm again. Moving silently, the dark figure padded across to the door.

Pressing his ear to the wood for a moment indicated the area outside the door was silent so Dumar gently lifted a simple latch-lever mechanism, opened the door slightly and peered outside.

Only darkness met his stare.

Inhaling deeply and slowly he could identify wood smoke, dust, dampness and the faintest aroma of poorly washed bodies.

Stepping quietly through the door, his eyes detected a door shaped line of orange light some distance to his right, glancing left he could identify a corridor stretching into the darkness.

Moving silently towards his right, he listened intently at the door hearing muffled voices coming from the other side. Although unable to make out what was being said, Dumar could easily distinguish between the different parties and decided there were two distinct voices within.

A flash of partially remembered memory flew into Dumar's consciousness as he recalled hearing one of the voices previously. Information linked instantly to the name he had used; Grethron.

After a moment more listening at the still unfamiliar surface of the wooden portal, the large man reached down and noiselessly opened the door, slipping quietly inside.