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

A noise emanated from the crowd.

“That’s right,” he added. “He who receives the mark shall for a month become like that accursed tribe from the world beyond. Ye shall not suffer from hunger or thirst. Not for a month! Which is long enough for us to endure this mission.”

“Is there any danger the spell stemming from the mark may have a permanent effect?” a fellow asked.

“None,” Nyeusi replied. “The mark shall vanish from your foreheads no sooner or later than after the spell has taken effect. This, as I have said, will last for around a month.

“No more questions. We will break to take care of this business now, then we resume the march.”

Most of them had never been this far north. The only ones known to have seen this landscape were those who saw it from above while atop the backs of the kilman.

There were, maybe, a total of five hundred of them, and this figure included those from all the Shetani strongholds with which this narrative is concerned.

Most came from the Isle of the Maimed, a volcanic island roughly seven miles east of the mainland of the underworld’s second level. It was a place of confinement where men who lost a limb or limbs after attempting to combat or harm the Shetani were taken to spend a lifetime of contemplation about all the ‘wrongs’ they did.

The place where they presently were, being semi-arid, unchartered, and largely unknown, is what bothered Nyeusi most.

Those factors led him to consult the necromancer for some kind of insurance policy against trying to navigate it.

There was a long stretch of dry land before them, and he was mindful of their dwindling supplies.

The weather was warm but tolerably so, considering they were out in the open, under the sun’s direct rays. It was such that they welcomed the opportunity to relax for a bit while man and beast received the mark.

A force of about five thousand more Shetani was nearly half-a-day’s journey behind them. These were foot soldiers, garbed in like manner of the frontline soldiers. They would be second in line to receive the mark.

Aside from those who worked deep within the forest, the Shetani residing south of the plains never covered themselves in armor like their counterparts within the mountains.

Presently, and for the most part, they wore the very type of armor their mountain-dwelling peers did, a plate with interlocking pieces that covered their shoulders and chests.

All forsook wearing the forearm gear the guards there wore because these had three curved spikes.

Fear of the spikes at some point inadvertently poking the elephants, and possibly contributing to a stampede, or otherwise harming their brethren while they were nearby, is what led to the decision to forsake it.

They instead affixed a shield over one of their forearms.

They were uniform in wearing a belt strung around their waists. These featured scabbards into which their daggers and swords were placed. Across their torsos were a bow and a quiver for their arrows.

They continued to administer and receive the necromancer’s mark. The recipients were astounded to note what they heard about the paste from which it was drawn turned out to be true. Its quantity, no matter how many men or beasts received it, never appeared to diminish.

All held it was the most bedeviling thing they had ever seen, so their faith in Nyeusi, the mission, and those who were skeptical about whether it came from the necromancer were reassured.

The vessel was returned to him. He withdrew a lid from his person, covered and secured it, then he made way toward the foot soldiers with Kifo and Amri flying at his side.

Amri’s brother, Dembele, who led the cavalry this far, led them onward toward Kimbilio.

Many who had cheered when Darkwing brought the news about the Shetani heading toward them shivered when what appeared to be a dark line on the horizon became more recognizable.

“My Lord and God,” a fellow said despondently. This was Feignmann, who presently was closest to Akua.

No one gave the order for the immortals to stop. However, many froze with a mixture of awe and apprehension as they watched an army of ten thousand strong on elephant back loom larger with the passing of each second.

Their entire army grounded to a halt. Men trembled, including those with the responsibility of manning the front line.

“Advance no further!” Oluso barked. “Assume your positions!”

Many Adam’s apples moved up and down in their throats, and their saliva felt like a lump of something solid after swallowing it.

A glance at what lay in the distance led Amri to think he was looking at a herd of wildebeest. Or, was it?

The Shetani at the front of the herd stared on yonder.

Dembele’s heart rate increased. He felt the eyes of his peers to his left then his right upon him.

Astonished, perhaps every bit as the immortals were, they could only imagine how many they might amount to.

He turned to both sides.

He signaled to keep advancing, and the cavalry marched without breaking stride.

“You know,” a certain Pseudomann mused, “I got to thinking the implausibility of being here is not so bad a thing after all.”

“What do you mean?” Feignmann asked.

“To stay hydrated without the need for water, nourished without the need for food. The inability to enjoy either without having any painful effect,” he replied.

“What a time to be thinking such things,” Feignmann remarked.

“Point is, like I said, at this time, I think it’s not such a torturous existence after all,” Pseudomann replied.

“You don’t want to die despite what we’re denied in this life, is what you’re saying?” Feignmann said. “I mean common pleasures we took for granted.”

Pseudomann was pensive.

“I think few ever do,” Feignmann added. “Except for the most trying situations, people don’t hope to die. They hope for things to get better.”

“Well, it sure looks like we have a lot of hoping to do now,” Pseudomann said.

Mbou overhead their talk. “They are many but so are we,” he chimed in, “and our arrows are tipped with