Necropolis (Book One of Book One) by Penn Fawn (the false prince .TXT) 📕

of its valleys and the caves within the mountains facing it, in what some called a gore-filled bloodbath.

By this time, the men had long become emboldened after discovering there was a curse many of them began to regard as not a curse at all but rather a blessing. They noticed they never felt hunger or thirst there and did not, and could not, die for want of nourishment. They consequently organized themselves into an army to make the lands at the foot of the Sepulchral Range into a place of refuge.

Many suspected the curse was the work of the necromancer, but no one could say so with any certainty. For that matter, no one or few could say anything about him with certainty.

Most of what they knew or thought they knew stemmed from hearsay, although one could find no shortage of them who swore what they heard was true, or they’d behave as though what they heard was something personally witnessed.

Many also heard that he used sorcery to lay the victorious men of the battle mentioned above to waste.

According to the legend, they went about their day-to-day affairs in complete ignorance regarding why so many of them suddenly fell ill and died within a few days from the flu or a flu-like virus.

Some thought it was a plague. Others suspected foul play.

Within a week or two later, after they all died, the necromancer appeared on his black horse, hitherto a creature unknown in those parts. He went past the city of the dead and selected the deepest cave within the range to take up abode.

The stench of decay left no impression on him, but his alleged dark arts perhaps proved to be a bit taxing.

He left his steed at the mouth of the cave, knowing he needn’t fear the well trained, devoted, and loyal animal would stray or abandon him.

He ventured deep into the cavern and found a convenient location to place his infamous stone, a crystal ball.

He then lay down on a slate that masons, now dead, and what remained of them lay out in the open valley, had carved from the surrounding rock.

His steed sought shelter from pouring rain by walking further into the cave. It got onto its side. Then, the horse and owner fell into a deathlike sleep.

The Sanctuary Nyeusi, Kifo, and their captive approached was a ghost town.

Its only burial ground, the one they passed by, the one its inhabitants called the necropolis, was surrounded by the remains of thousands within the valley who supposedly perished by the necromancer’s dark art.

Nyeusi broke into a cold sweat. His heart raced. Kifo’s pounded in his chest. Meanwhile, the robust steed that lay on its side however many years ago, was now an emaciated shadow of itself. All muscles in its body atrophied to the point where one would have been able to count every rib outlined against the skin that hung onto its frame.

The necromancer, who also hadn’t moved since venturing into the cave, was a deathly pale fellow.

A lifetime living in caves and lack of exposure to any light rendered his complexion into something diaphanous, although this was well concealed beneath the hooded garment he wore. It covered him from head to toe.

“Are you sure it’s safe to be here?” Kifo asked. “Safe to try and approach him? Are you sure he’s even here?”

“These are questions one can never guarantee,” a shaken Nyeusi replied.

“Should we turn back?” Kifo asked.

“Turn back?” Nyeusi said. “No. We should proceed.”

Their captive, who trembled more violently than he did while atop the flying kilman, felt his legs give away. He fell, and Kifo was startled.

“Get up!” he ordered, then pulled him onto his feet. “Try to get a hold of yourself!”

“What is this place!” the man yelled. “Why did you bring me into this godforsaken valley and this pit not fit for the devil!” he said, backing away.

“Compose yourself!” Kifo exclaimed.

“Never!” the captive screamed. His heel knocked against a rock, and he fell again, but this time onto his back.

Kifo stepped toward him.

“If you’re to kill me, do it here! Do it now!” the captive urged.

“I have a mind to!” Kifo said.

“Go ahead then. You may as well because I will go with you no further!” the captive added.

Kifo turned and looked at Nyeusi.

The former held onto the end of a branch he had brought with him and struck the bound man firmly along the side of his thighs.

“Not too much,” Nyeusi said.

“Enough for you!” Kifo said.

“’Twill be enough when I am dead,” the captive replied. He thought it was best to close his eyes, to offer no resistance, to try and reach into those deep recesses of the mind one feels compelled to when it appears inevitable the end is at hand.

He grunted after receiving each blow. They now landed mostly on the sides of his arms and legs.

Kifo then reached for something he had wrapped in a bit of cloth and held it firmly against the incapacitated captive’s nostrils.

The latter, if he had his eyes open, might have suspected this was smelling salts or something meant to revive or shock him back to alertness.

However, whatever Kifo forced against him provided the opposite effect. The fellow went out like a light in the dark.

“Tie him like they do to slain pigs or boars from where they are from. I mean in the same manner they do when preparing to take one back to their village for a roast over a fire,” Nyeusi said. “Look. There is a pole there sturdy enough to use to suspend and carry him.”

“Right,” Kifo replied.

Nyeusi assisted him, and before long, they were on their way through the valley with their captive between them hanging like a wild catch.

They continued walking through the valley, then through a narrow passage where a range of smaller, rocky mountains stood close to each other.

“There,” Nyeusi said, pointing in the distance. “An opening in the rock.”

Kifo took note, and a chill came over him.

Nyeusi saw his Adam’s apple move up