Richard Tuttle - Army of the Dead

Cymelange dropped the air tunnel and frowned as he thought about his own words. He gazed upward at the glowing orbs that provided the light to the jungle. The spells had to be cast almost continuously to provide light to the jungle. What he saw was proof that the other six columns no longer existed. Only four glowing orbs hung in the sky over the jungle. He cursed himself for not noticing it earlier.

“We need to return to camp immediately,” he said loudly. “Remain calm and alert, but do not dally.”

The column reversed direction with the column leader passing by the other mages and taking the lead once again. The reversal placed Cymelange near the vanguard of the column. The black-cloaks hurried along, nervousness clearly beginning to show in the faces of the mages. A few minutes later the column halted abruptly. Cymelange pushed his way forward to see why they had stopped. He stared in horror at the giant web stretched across the trail. Stuck on the web were the bodies of the two mages that had been left behind. At least Cymelange suspected that that was whom the bodies belonged to. The bodies were completely encased in webbing. Only a few glimpses of black cloaks were visible through the white webbing. Cymelange’s eyes rose upward as he tried to see the top of the web. He could not.

“Burn it!” he shouted.

Flames shot from over a dozen mages and tore at the web. The web seemed to sway away protectively from the fire, but Cymelange noted that the strands of the web did melt where the flames were most intense. He watched with morbid curiosity, as holes grew larger in the web. When the holes were large enough for men to pass through, Cymelange barked commands for the column to proceed. He let men pass him as his eyes searched for the spiders. The stench of burning flesh fell heavy across the trail as the two encased mages began to burn. Cymelange crinkled his nose against the odor and followed the other mages through the web.

Cymelange’s eyes constantly scanned the jungle on both sides for any sign of the spiders, but he could not find them. This irritated him as much as it frightened him. As the column was hurrying towards the camp, a slight noise off to his right caught Cymelange’s attention. The noise had sounded like a human voice, but he could not be sure. As his eyes scanned the foliage for enemies, Cymelange tripped and fell. He hit the ground hard and something smashed into his jaw. He cursed loudly and shook his head to clear his vision. He looked uncomprehendingly at the boot on the ground. As he rose to his knees, Cymelange recognized the body of the mage stretched out before him.

Cymelange looked up and saw the trail littered with the bodies of his comrades. None of them appeared to be moving. He frowned in confusion as his eyes swept over the bodies. Suddenly he froze, his eyes landing on the small dart stuck in the neck of the mage before him. He bit his lip with sudden understanding. He immediately went prone on the ground as his mind raced with the explanation to the quiet disappearances of the other columns. The darts obviously delivered an extremely fast-acting poison, but those darts would have to be delivered by people, not spiders. There had to be Fakarans nearby.

Cymelange feigned death, as he remained frozen on the ground. His eyes tried to scan the jungle, but he could see little other than the closest plants. He listened intently for sounds of the enemy, but the jungle had grown deathly quiet. The brightening spells began to fail, and darkness reclaimed the jungle, but Cymelange remained quiet and still. He was not sure how much time had passed, but he suddenly heard a chilling sound behind him. Risking detection, he rolled onto his side and gazed into the darkness.

At first he could see nothing, but the sounds grew louder. A series of clicks and the rustle of leaves indicated movement nearby, but the jungle was a wall of blackness. As the sounds grew closer, Cymelange felt the need to move away. He cautiously rose to his knees and then stood. However long he had remained feigning death, his eyes were now more accustomed to the darkness. As he stood he frowned, the whole jungle appearing to move before him. He stared in confusion trying to figure out what he was seeing. It took a few moments for the image to fully register with his brain. Giant spiders were harvesting the slain bodies on the trail. His mouth fell open and his eyes widened as he stared at the massive creatures. His limbs began to shake uncontrollably and Cymelange fought for control over his muscles.

He never even thought of attacking the spiders magically. Instead, Cymelange turned and ran towards the encampment. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, without regard to the noise that he made, or the pain from the plants whipping at his legs and arms. He heard sounds from behind him and imagined that the giant spiders were racing after him. Fear coursed through his body. His heart pounded maddeningly, and he gasped for breath. He had no idea what type of people might inhabit the jungle, but his mind pictured tiny human-like creatures with long blowpipes pressed to their lips.

When he finally saw the Motangan encampment, his legs had just about given out. He raced past the perimeter sentries and collapsed on the ground, gasping for breath. Pain seared his chest and raced down his arms. Perspiration flooded from his body and his mind began to swim hazily. A crowd gathered around him, but he neither cared nor paid any notice to them. He tried to rest his pounding heart and fill his bursting lungs with air.

“Cymelange?” questioned a familiar voice. “What is going on? Where are the rest of your mages?”

The black-cloak gazed up into the face of Premer Cardijja. Cymelange’s lips curled back to bare his teeth.

“Where are the troops I requested?” spat the mage. “I sent the air tunnel into your tent. You could have saved my men.”

“I have not been in my tent since you left,” shrugged the premer. “I have been trying to calm a revolt. Tell me what happened. Was it the spiders?”

“Small creatures,” Cymelange gasped as his throat constricted. “People. Poison blow darts. Spiders. Webs. We must leave the jungle.”

“He is delirious,” commented General Luggar. “He needs a healer.”

“He is the last of the healers,” scowled Premer Cardijja. “We need to get him to my tent.”

The premer waved his arm to direct some of the nearby soldiers to carry the mage’s body, but General Luggar reached out and placed a hand on the premer’s arm. Cardijja looked questioningly at his friend and saw Luggar nod towards the mage. The premer looked down and saw Cymelange’s face contorted in death. The eyes still stared openly in horror, and the mage’s teeth were still bared, but the black-cloak was no longer among the living.

* * *

Emperor Vand sat on his throne, staring into space. A dozen black-cloaks stood in a knot off to one side, talking among themselves, while Premer Tzargo stood before the emperor, patiently awaiting word from Khadora. The door to the throne room opened and everyone’s eyes moved to see who was entering. They quickly averted their eyes as the telltale clicking of claws tapped across the floor towards the emperor. Vand alone continued to stare as the demon approached.

The demon stopped well behind Premer Tzargo. With a hideous snarl, the creature rolled the head of Premer Shamal across the floor. The head struck the steps leading up to the throne. It bounced back and came to rest with Shamal’s open eyes staring up at the ceiling.

“Report,” commanded the emperor.

“The army of Shamal no longer exists,” growled the demon. “Those who defeated him will soon converge on Vandegar. The Torak leads an army of Khadorans, elves, and Chula. They will be numerous.”