Deer Bones

The King of Rot, WIP

If I'm sharing this with you please note that it is a work in progress xO and formatting things like indents are not possible on this style of blog, thanks for reading 😊 - Rose

Finn stood outside the castle walls, its stone silhouette looming over her. The vagabond knight held her shield close to her body, a torch blazing in the other hand. Curly brown hair bubbled in small rows from underneath her helmet. The stars swam in the black sky above the massive keep, and a shadow loomed over the structure; the same shadow that loomed over Finn. Zimbarah, disgraced elf king, nekromancer. The stories of Zimbarah's rule, century-old, whispered by the villagers around the keep. Human lives demanded as tax in his undead armies. Sacred ancestral grounds blanketed by poisonous fog. This keep bore his name, and his foul odor crept through its brick.
​ Mossy stone stairs rose in front of the keep, their steps leading into the small bailey around the tower. Finn knew better than to enter through the front door, yet had lost her climbing tools to the bandit, "Neglect." After this I might have enough to buy a thousand more grappling hooks, and a crossbow just for fun.
​ She snubbed her torch into the ground and pulled her short sword from its sheath. She climbed the stairs to the entrance and stood for a moment before the gate. She held her blade upright before her face, concentrating. Three runes at the blade's base began to appear in the steel. From these marks warm light spread over the sword, from dull orange to crackling yellow-white. She was no mage, but the sword carried its own magick, enchanted long ago. Illuminated in the sword's glow, the knight breathed deep through her nose and steeled herself for what lay behind the iron gate.
​ The spiked tips of the gate's iron lattice hovered inches over the cold dirt and dragged across her pack as she crawled under. Inside, the small bailey was blanketed with dead straw and grass. The mephitic moisture stuck to her skin. Floating on top of this miasma was the lingering smell of something sharper, rotten, but less dull. Rotting flesh. Finn's stomach turned.
​ As she began to march forward, Finn raised her sword overhead, casting its magickal light as far as possible into the venomous dark. Her eyes scanned the ruins of the once-opulent keep. The bailey was pocked with broken carriages and half-slumped huts—the skeletal remains of a kingdom that had once been full of promise and life. Soon, at the edge of the sword-light, a hunched figure broke the darkness. Dressed in tattered peasant's garb, the figure stood erect on a mound of pink mushrooms. The knight slowed her march, pulling her buckler close. ​ "Who's there?" Finn called firmly, adrenaline creeping into her voice.
​ The figure's head twitched in her direction, and its gaunt features were revealed in the sword's magickal glow. Finn swallowed a gasp. A standing corpse! The gaunt figure made no motion to acknowledge the question. From a hole in the corpse's neck grew a massive bole of mushroom stalks. A gurgling hiss came from the zombie's throat. The thing was fixed to the ground by the scores of fungus growing through it. Finn fought the rising disgust in her throat. Seeing no answer in this zombie, the knight approached the corpse and raised her glowing sword above her head. In one stroke she brought the sword down on the monster, splitting through to the fungal stalk. The corpse slumped forward against the growth as pale pink spores drifted from the wound. The particles quickly filled the air immediately around Finn, obscuring her vision. She coughed hard, and suddenly the earth began to vibrate. Mud and rotten straw flew into the air as the ground erupted, spattering Finn's armor. She grumbled and steadied her footing, wiping mud from her eyes. Staggering figures shuddered and squirmed free from the disturbed earth before her. At least four or five by her count. As the creatures gained footing and awareness, swaying in Finn's direction, she scrutinized her surroundings from behind her buckler. Her eyes fixed on the squat stone structure on the other side of the bailey. I must make for the tower!
​ The zombies moved about in a loose U shape and advanced on the invading knight. Finn flicked a thin curl of brown hair from her eyes, and a spark of inspiration danced through her mind. There, on the far left corner of the group, one of the zombies struggled to free itself from the mud. She drew all her strength into a lunge, and then sprang forward into a determined sprint. She closed the gap between them and leapt, shield forward, into the zombie on her left. The small iron buckler smashed the fiend's skull with a loud CRACK, and the zombie went sprawling into the dirt. Nearly through the leap, above the body, she jerked to a stop against her momentum. A zombie to her right had grabbed her chainmail shirt. Finn landed on her back, the breath leaving her lungs in a percussive blast. The illuminated sword skidded from her hand. She twisted on the ground, breaking the grip on her sleeve.
​ Not good. Finn searched for her sword and saw its glow some distance behind her. Definitely not good.
​ Out of the spore cloud, flailing arms tore at her armor. She swung her buckler high to protect against the gnashing teeth of the undead. Her other hand searched the dirt for her sword, its yellow glow just outside her peripheral vision. She began to shuffle backward, using both arms to hold back the zombie's advance. Finally, Finn leaned back and released a powerful kick into the creature's ribs, that sent the zombie stumbling backward. She dove right and wrapped her fingers around the hilt of her sword. Then, swinging the sword back upon grabbing it, she caught one of the zombies that pursued just behind her. The swing lopped off the creature's skull cap, and in one motion Finn brought the blade around on its leg, severing it above the knee. The abomination collapsed in front of her, and pink dust pillowed from its wounds. There was no time for celebration. She dashed for the tower, leaving the last zombies groping in the cloud of spores behind her.
​ When the knight reached the tower, she was winded, covered in mud, and grumbling under her breath. The keep, at least 100 feet tall, was spotted with small framed windows. The doorway was at least double Finn's height and width. The door itself was made of dark wood, covered in dents and chips. Dense vines, thorny and thick as ropes, covered the door and stair-set leading up to the architrave. She approached the growth and slashed at it with her sword. Crimson liquid spurted from the cut in a heavy stream. However, new vines quickly grew over the wound, tightly coiling over it in an even thicker layer until the stream was only a trickle. A magickal ward. Looking around, the knight spotted a set of shuttered windows closer to the ground than the others, one of which was broken.​
​ Although the window was narrow and 6 or 7 feet off the ground, Finn concluded that this was her best shot at entry. She neared the wall and felt the stone brick. The gaps between were just large enough to make workable hand and foot holds. She wiped her blade on her pants and sheathed the glowing sword. Then she began the brief climb to the window, disinclined to waste any more time in the bailey with the undead. Finn skillfully climbed the mossy brick until she reached the windowsill. She pulled herself through the broken shutter. Sitting sideways in the sill, she looked back into the bailey, where the cloud of spores faded slowly in the distance. Then she dropped off the other side into the keep.

​ Finn landed on the other side of the window in a wide stance. The humid murk of the late-summer Lowlands disappeared, replaced by motionless, stale air. The uncanny shift in temperature set the battered knight's teeth on edge. She drew her sword from its scabbard; the blade still glowed, electric yellow replaced by a less dazzling orange.
​ She stood in a large kitchen. Spots of dust hovered and sparked like fireflies in the magickal glow of her blade. A huge brick oven sat against the adjacent wall, surrounded by wooden cabinets and drawers. In the middle of the room stood a wide table piled with pink mushrooms, both rotten and fresh. She jumbled through the many rows of drawers. Inside them were several sets of finely crafted silverware; she placed these in her pack and smirked.​ Money might be hard to come by in the Lowlands, but her debtors didn't dare follow her here.
​ On the right of the hearth was a door with an ornate frame and a golden knob, opened inward. From the gap streamed particles of pale spores, like the ones spewed by the violent husks outside. She approached the door and peered through. On the other side, illuminated by milky framed windows, was a massive dining chamber, centered around a long wooden table fogged in pink dust. At the table, in tall chairs, were parallel rows of the festering dead. Great mushroom-capped stalks bloomed from their mouths and eye sockets, disfiguring the bodies that hosted them. At the table's end was a mound of fungus, dense and towering as an oak tree. It had grown so that the head of the table simply disappeared inside the mass. Sinewy branches grew from its apex and forked out, draping the high ceiling in drooping fibers.
​ Finn slipped into the room. The air was dense with spores, and she could feel them stick in her throat with each breath. At each corpse, she stopped to peruse the adornments of the unfortunate dinner guests. The corpses wore articles of finery, and each shifted hopelessly against the fungal restraints within them when she approached. Much of the jewelry was unrecoverable, grown over by the mycelium. Memories of clawing dirt and flying skull fragments cautioned her against cutting any pieces free. What little was accessible: gold necklaces, jewel-studded chains, earrings, nose rings, and brooches—each of which found a place in her pack.
​ While the knight fought to free a jade bracelet from the meandering hand of a zombie, the silence of the keep ruptured. A voice, like the creaking limbs of a willow, reverberated across the room.
​ "HAaaaan iNvaderr in mYYyy hHhhome, heHeeheehee..."
​ Finn dropped the bracelet and spun to face the speaker, her illuminated sword and buckler held ready. How did I not see... Sprouting from the mass of fungus were the limbs and skull of an elongated skeleton. The remains were buried so deep that only the hands, feet, and skull broke the surface of the mound. A silver crown sat crooked on the skull, its sunken sockets like empty graves. The unhinged jaw began to move, and its skeletal hands curled into fists. ​ ​ "PaaaaaaarasiiiTe." The word eeled from its mouth.
​ Finn steadied the tip of her sword in the fiend's direction and braced herself. "Zimbarah."
​ Zimbarah laughed. A shrill, howling cackle that bounced off the stone walls and filled the chamber with maniacal echoes. The sound swirled around her, shifting wildly in volume and frequency, assembling into a wall of noise that tore at Finn's eardrums. Magick. The thick strings of mycelium that lay across the table rose from the surface and wrapped around the dining utensils placed in front of the zombies. The tendrils snapped backward, whipping the forks, knives, and plating at the discombobulated knight. Finn raised her shield sluggishly in an off-kilter stance, her sword hand held against her left ear. A thin trickle of blood ran out of her helmet from both sides. A barrage of metal utensils ricocheted off the buckler, followed immediately by a large platter that exploded against her helmet, sending the knight onto her knees. At the same time, a dense rush of spores rose from the cobbled floor. Viscous slime mold bubbled and grew from every crevice, covering the room in a rising layer of amaranthine slime. In the distance, Zimbarah's laugh only intensified, streaming from his open jaw. With great effort Finn fought off her dizziness, stumbled to her feet, and bounded onto the table.
​ Starting in a stumble, Finn kicked plates and cups from her path as she built into a frenzied charge. She sprinted down the length of the wooden slab, past the ringing in her ears, past the anxiety and erratic pounding in her chest. Risen to the tabletop, the mold stuck to the bottom of her boots like a glue trap. The ooze bled from the high ceiling in boulder-sized globs, splashing into the rising tide of slime. A monstrous tendril of fungal hyphae dropped from the ceiling and swiped down at her. Finn threw herself forward, landing in a roll as it crashed through the table behind her. Broken planks erupted from the impact and tossed her into the air, where an unseen tendril blasted into her from behind. Finn landed on the table, face down, splashing into the mold. Stars filled her vision. Before she could gather herself, another tendril of hyphae snaked around her neck and dragged her toward the mass. It pulled her up by her throat, face to face with Zimbarah's skull.
​ "A fraaaaacTion of my forMar strengGth, and STILL you are but a Nuisance to mE," he croaked. "You wilL serve a better purpose at mY taBle..."
​ His jaw swung open, unhinged, and a torrent of pink spores materialized from behind it. The fog of noxious, living particles replaced any remaining oxygen available to the choking knight. Finn swung her sword uselessly and clawed at the thick curl around her neck. Tiny branches of hyphae grew from the fungal noose and spread across her face. All the while, images bounced around in her head: the overgrown forests, dotted with the infested bodies of dead soldiers. Knights, just as she was. Just as she always wanted to be. Even when she resented it. When she shirked her responsibilities. She was a Knight Sol. Here, faced with evil, the voice of chivalry that had led her to the order—the star emblazoned on her own tabard—burned with the same intensity it once had.
​ "You Faiiil, here, Now. Like all of YoUr kindddD FAIL..." Zimbarah hissed.
​ She planted her left foot hard against the surface of the fungal mound, bouncing off and swinging backward.​ One. More. Time... On the return, she drove both feet into the mound with all her remaining strength, and flew back even further. Deep red crept into the border of her eyesight and spread with every labored heartbeat. Threads of invading fungus crawled down her nose and mouth. Her lungs seized, unable to draw breath. Hurling back to the mound, she plunged her sword toward the tyrant's skull—and closed her eyes.
​ Zimbarah's silver crown flew high into the air. The glowing blade cleaved the giant skull in two. Finn's sword sank to its hilt, deep in the mycelium wall behind it. For a moment everything was still. From the skull, a quiet hiss escaped the widening split. Around the blade, the despot's bone crumbled to dust. A tremor went through the room. The mound of fungus shriveled, blackened, and collapsed in on itself, pulling down the tangled branches of hyphae and the ceiling with it. Finn fell into the pile of rubble below.
​ She awoke on her back, surrounded by an inches-high layer of receding, rotten mold. The roaring sound of fungus pouring into the room had fallen away, replaced by a dull ring that seemed to bleed from her own eardrums into the world around her. Amber morning sunlight flooded through the fractured ceiling. Finn sat up and rose to her feet. Exhaling through her nose, she looked at her surroundings. The corpses at the table had degenerated, the giant stalks escaping their mouths curling downward, turning to putrefied mush before her. Her sword stuck out of the festering mound of fungus, hilt-up, its magickal glow faded. She pulled it from the pile and wiped the mold and bone fragments from its blade. Her buckler was nowhere to be seen. At her boot sat the glittering silver crown, half-buried in the dull black and pink slime. Gingerly she stooped to pick it up.
​ Grappling hook and a new buckler... And a crossbow. Finn grinned to herself and coughed weakly. She spat pink blood onto the ground.