Dark Age Of Camelot: Scents of the Undead

Chapter 7: Scents of the Undead, Part 1

I was now a Shadowblade.

I had caused more death and braved the same, and though I felt as though I had accomplished something, there was more ahead of me that I could yet know.

Hrut had sent me on to the trainers in Jordheim, and it felt quite odd, I must admit, to be moving through the throngs and venues of that teeming city with actual business. I heard the calls of those trying to promote their craft along with those seeking the services of same; I heard shouted news of enemy activities and calls to arms. I was, of course, too young for this, and would remain so for some time, but I did feel a certain surge of power when my new trainer taught me the art of wielding two weapons at once and the skills that truly define an assassin: Critical Strike.

I felt almost as though I were perhaps a healer as my trainer taught me the locations of certain organs in the body and the best way to pierce, slash, and tear those organs, so they would leak their vital fluids, shock and stun the victim, and lead to a quick death. My trainer even walked with a strange limp, and I later learned that in his day, he had been so victimized by a Nightshade of Hibernia. The devilish lurikeen had seen his own end, but not before he severely damaged some of the veins and tendons running down his left thigh. Thus had my trainer seen his end to combat in the field and become a teacher.

Though I had new skills, I was sent out on much the same mundane tasks as before. Someone in town might occasionally need the services of one as young as I, and I could discern this from either my trainer, the occasional guard, or even by talking directly to the citizenry, but for the most part, I was still learning the Art of Death by killing the local fauna.

But then, one day, my trainer must have thought me ready for something more, because he sent me on a specific assignment. He mentioned the name of a master smith here in Jordheim, a dwarf named Morlin Caan.

I still did not yet know the city very well, but I did now know that the guards and sentries were only to happy to point me in the correct direction to find anyone who's name I had. It did not take long before I found myself in the vicinity of the open-air structure, heat emanating from the forge as three sweaty dwarves toiled at their work. I knew Morlin was the master smith, so I went up to the one standing the furthest from the heat, the one dressed a bit better than the other two, and though he was in charge, he did not seem to impart a sense of condescension as did Erekith.

He told me to travel south to the settlement of Fort Atla, and there to speak to a kobold named Masrim about a problem in our own borders, a problem that stemmed directly from our enemies, the Albions.

This seemed quite intriguing to me, for I had thought the problems with our two enemy realms - Albion and Hibernia - to be mostly, if not entirely, confined to the wild and dangerous Frontiers. Having never travelled so far as this, I mounted a horse from Vasudheim and made ready for the long journey south to Gotar and Fort Atla therein.

Fort Atla somewhat reminded me of Vasudheim, for I saw many young adventurers running about with curious and eager looks on their faces, hoping to achieve some modicum of success and count themselves amongst the accomplished warriors of the land. It seemed odd to me, for I saw how several of them looked at me, their faces holding a mingling of respect and fear. I had seen but fifteen formal trainings since I began as an ignorant Rogue, and in my mind, I had only just begun. But then as I walked confidently through this stange place, acting not at all like I had no idea of the surroundings, I realized I had grown some.

I found Masrim in a rear room, a pleasant-seeming kobold woman, holding place in this somewhat secluded chamber with dealers of poison. How appropriate, I thought. Masrim, though, did not have the open and innocent look of the younger ones running around outside, and I saw in her simple smile that she knew exactly why I was there.

She related an odd tale, telling me that in the days before King Arthur died, he worked with his legendary magician, Merlin, to conjure up an army of the Undead and send it out upon Midgard soil. I was quite shocked by this, for what I did know of King Arthur and his outré magician-advisor, seemed to imply that the Great King had been the one who had managed to unite the three Realms, and only in the resulting turmoil of his death, did the three Realms again split apart and engage in open warfare. This type of necromancy seemed more to spark of Arthur's half-sister, Morganna, though just as with other women in our society and lore, I often regarded such tales with skepticism.

Masrim seemed to sense this as she continued, telling me that the noble warriors of Midgard rallied to meet this threat, using our own unique combinations of magicks and steel to thwart the Undead Army. Unfortunately, being that they were Undead, their routing did not mean their total end. It seemed some force was still orchestrating this threat, and I was to be sent out to gather information.

But not only that, they wanted blood.

Chapter 8: Scents of the Undead, Part 2

I headed south.

After suffering their defeat sometime ago, the remnants of the Undead Army, whether manifesting as physical bodies or magickal residues, had gone into a somewhat secretive seclusion, apparently to somehow regain their strength. And recently, a small squad of the Undead had reappeared in a region of southern Gotar, plaguing travellers with murderous intent. It had been determined, though I know not how, that this was a trio of Undead Scouts, and so it could be assumed, that not only were they haranguing passing travellers but also gathering information for some greater force in the hopeful reawakening of the Undead Army. I was given the name of the lead Scout - Argyle, and though it rang with a Highland influence, I thought it strange enough that this Undead soldier would even have a name ... and we would know it.

I had expressed some hesitancy to Masrim, and not from cowardice, but from my own obvious skepticism that if these soldiers of the Albion Undead did actually exist, how could they be killed? Her own tale related to me that indeed they had managed to survive wholesale slaughter on the scale of war, so how could I, a lone Shadowblade, hope to assassinate this Scout Argyle?

She had grinned and held out her hands to me. I did not know her intent, but she had gestured to my weapons. I handed them over to her, and she had anointed them with a curious unguent, explaining to me that this particular poison would aid in the total undoing of those Undead. She cautioned me, though, to not touch the blades myself and to make haste back to her after the deed had been done in order that the weapons may be cleansed properly.

And so, as I mentioned, I headed South.

The Undead Scout party had been reported lurking about a well-travelled road heading out of the southernmost parts of Gotar on the border of Myrkwood Forest. As I moved on foot closer and closer to this area, I wondered exactly how they expected me to both garner information and rid the land of the deathless trio. I had been taught some techniques of interrogation, but I doubted they would work on some Undead Scout.

With such thoughts running through my brain, I suddenly stopped short after cresting a smooth and low hill. I immediately dropped into stealth, using the surrounding treees and shrubs to aid my own growing skill at keeping the presence of myself hidden.

I saw them ... off in the distance ... the three of them, Argyle obvious from the English Longbow he carried. I had come up this route, thinking I might end up behind them, but there they were, straight ahead, wandering about, almost as though plagued by such an unnatural urge to kill that they could not even keep still when no prey was about. I wondered if perhaps the party had once been larger than these three and they had diminished their own numbers during a particularly long spell when no unfortunate Midgard travellers showed forth.

I made my way closer, hoping no one would choose this early evening moment to pass along the roads and give greater fervor to the Scouts. I was not much for rescue - that could be left to Warriors - but such an intrusion would interfere with my own assignment. After watching them for a time, I deduced a sort of chaotically-held range to their wandering, and I wondered if this was due to the magick controlling them, for they appeared suddenly as festering puppets. I took up a space on the edge of this boundary to observe.

Their skin was rotten and flaking, and I could sometimes discern the glisten of wetness from the growing moonlight on some fluid leaking out of their unnaturally animated bodies. It seemed to me that they were wearing masks, such was the alien nature of their faces, but the eyes and lips moved with their own murderous need, and I knew there was some spark of truth to Masrim's tale.

I then heard a strange sound, and I wondered that perhaps my spying was about to be interrupted by a passing traveller. I looked about, hoping to perhaps take advantage of the unfortunate situation and effect my grisly task, but I saw no one. It took me a moment, but I eventually realized this sound was coming from the decaying mouth of the very one whom I had been sent to kill. Perhaps this was some involuntary outpouring of the very purpose that moved the heinous mass of flesh, and so in order to hear better, I crept even closer.

As further proof of what Masrim had told, he spoke the language of Albion - a language I was learning as part of my training but had still a long time ahead of me to master - but I did discern a few key words, words I had been taught to further my own gathering of intelligence were I ever at large, spying on Albs.

I gathered the words 'mission' and 'murder', 'kill' and 'Mids', and so here was the proof of what Masrim already suspected. This Undead squad was indeed here to terrorize travellers. But was that all? I listened, daring to let the wandering party come even nearer, and I heard more. I heard the word 'Lieutenant' muttered over and over, and so it seemed this Scout had a commander. Then I heard another utterance, and I realized I had not registered it, though he also uttered it with some regularity, and the main reason I had missed it was because he was uttering this word in Norse amidst his otherwise native language: 'werewolves'.

I had heard of the odd, lycanthropithic creatures, and I had even learned some of their lore. I knew of some rumors that they had been sired by an Albion nobleman who had fled his homeland and come to settle here. And though the locals had been willing to embrace his coming here, it became soon apparent that he was infecting anyone who would come into his fold with the same strange disease that afflicted him - lycanthrophy.

I knew little of any truth of this, but I would report to Masrim the use of the word by this Undead Scout. And such was this Argyle lost in his mutterings, that he and his two companions passed right by me without noticing me, so I fell in stride behind them, making ready.

In place now and in that quick instant, I stabbed my blades into his back. I continued moving automatically, effecting the next step of my attack and twisting my blades in that particular way that would effect a particular slicing of the major veins in the backs of my target's thighs. I noted the sudden smell of two things - an odd, pungent aroma which I attributed to the poison and the sudden expulsion of rot as I opened Argyle's body.

He growled and turned, and his two companions pulled forth pitiful looking swords, but they had not yet reacted to my sudden attack, and fighting in a sort of automated trance, I continued in the methods of my training. They must have had some training too, because the two engaged me, allowing Argyle to load and draw his bow. But something had come over me, and not only was I effortlessly executing the attacks and moves taught me by my trainer, but I did not feel any sense of loathing or fear. This seemed no more than slicing through the shallow skins of practice puppets.

I felt the minor sting of one of the enemy swords, but I was focusing on Argyle. I saw as he tensed his arms, a curl of rage on his fallow lips, and he released his arrow at point-blank range. But I had seen it coming, and I evaded out of the way of the bolt. I twisted, hurling my body from the momemtum of the dodge, and I sliced through the tendons of Argyle's leg, causing a further explosion of that profluent ichor that was his blood. Having so damaged his legs, he could no longer stand, and he crumbled.

I turned my full attention to the other two, who proved quite incapable of fighting one with even my short time of training, and I dispatched them easily.

I went back to Argyle, noting from his labored and wet breathing that he had not much longer in this preternatural extension of his life. I started to think of the person he had once been, and I wondered even if he had given himself willing to these machinations, or if his dead body had been reconjured against his will. Perhaps I was releasing him.

His face held no sense of gratitude, though, as he continued to attack me with his spittle-carried words since his ability to fight was no longer with him. He coughed at me, hurling some venomous bile, though I was not close enough for it to hit me. I held myself there above him, down on one knee. I wanted to hear what else he had to say before the esoteric poison finished him. It took me a moment to realize he was speaking in Norse.

"The Undead here to kill you all," he sputtered, no pain in him, just an impotent anger that he could no longer fight and was about to expire, "Undead Albion Army kill Midgards in Midgard. Lieutenant say to kill Midgards ... kill Midgards."

He looked at me then, and something different took his eyes. A sort of focus, and his useless tirade ceased. I was taken by this, but I still did not get any closer. I only stared as the life escaped him, his body hitching and twitching softly. I knew he was about to say something.
"Shai sent you," he said, and then he died.

I stood slowly, full night now upon the world. Three bodies about me, lifeless, and though recently having been killed, they lay in a state of rot that suggested death had visited them a long time ago.

I had completed my task, and so as proof of my deed, I ripped a strange necklace from about Argyle's neck to return to Masrim. I also had much to tell her of what I had overheard. But one thing claimed my mind, and I decided to keep it from Masrim in order to investigate it myself.

Who was 'Shai'?