The Staff of Naught

By Tom Liberman

Copyright 2011 – Tom Liberman

The full moon hung high and bright in the night sky and the sound of hoof beats quickly approached the hidden spot where the dark skinned orc lay in a small clump of bushes his young son’s heavy breath audible to his right. A tall darkling, with purple hewed skin, rode a massive black unicorn whose very breath was fire, while next to him, on a silver horse that easily kept pace, sat a beautiful golden haired human woman in a regal riding dress decorated with the pattern of three towers interconnected by a dozen walkways. She sat tall in the saddle and wore a silver crown upon her head. Her face glinted in the moonlight its features perfect with high cheekbones and strange yellow eyes that glowed like a cat’s in the night.

“What if he isn’t dismounted,” said the boy in the grass at the side of the orc. The dark skinned orc with a close cropped beard looked down at his young son and noted the eyes wide with fear, his normally green skin almost ashen and white in color, and his lip aquiver. “They say he’s the finest horseman in the world,” continued the lad.

“He will be,” he said as he clutched the end of a fine rope in this hand. The other side was tied to a tree across the path and he tightened his grip as the hoof beats approached.

“What if it doesn’t fall off?” said the boy.

“It will, everything is arranged,” he replied. “Now get ready.”

“What do I do with it after,” said the boy.

The orc replied, somehow it all seemed like a dream, “We’ve been over this you know what to do. Take the Black Sphere to Three Eyed Dioly. He promised to hide the thing where no darkling will ever find it,” he whispered his entire body suddenly tense and he realized he held his breath.

“What then?” said the boy.

“Then the Black Horseman, cursed be the name of the man who destroyed our people, shall no longer be able to travel in the daylight. His reign of terror shall end just as will the Emperor’s, under the sword of the Usurper.”

The riders quickly approached, the darkling seemed to have a black glow all over him and around his neck a black spheroid shape seemed to emanate the darkness. He was suddenly upon them and the orc pulled the end of a rope that sprang up under the legs of the horses. The woman’s horse somehow managed to leap over it, the Black Horseman’s steed stumbled for a moment but the horseman was of such skill that while he slid sideways but seemed ready to maintain his balance and ride on, when the girdle of the horse, insecurely fastened, slid around, and down the darkling tumbled to the ground the strange bauble around his neck bouncing once, twice, and a third time almost directly into the hands of the boy.

“Now,” said the man and stood to dash across the road so that the horseman and the woman could see him. It only took a moment for the darkling to stand and recover his wits as he drew a slim silver scimitar. The boy darted off into the woods without making a sound.

“You dare ambush the Left Hand of the Emperor,” the darkling spoke and his sword rose.

Tanner Wilmer rolled under the thick sheepskin with a low grunt, flexed his left knee twice and exposed it to the brisk morning air brought in by the prevailing coastal winds. A low but distinct crack reverberated throughout his body and he groaned loudly. An elbow in his side indicated that his wife, Almara, was at least partially awake as well. The sky was still dark but only a few stars dotted it as he opened his eyes and saw misty breath snake out of his mouth. “Cold one, Alma.”

“Get the fire started and I’ll put on coffee,” muttered a woman’s voice beneath the blankets.

Tanner carefully rolled out from under the covers, knocked a pair of thick leather boots together holding them upside down, and then slipped them onto his feet. He shambled over to the fire pit where ashes and a few burnt logs were all that remained of the previous night’s blaze. A few yards away a small pile of kindling and larger wood lay at the ready and he busied himself rebuilding the fire with practiced and precise movements. Within five minutes he coaxed the few embers that remained into an energetic little blaze. By the time he finished with his work the sky noticeably lightened to a dark shade of blue and the songs of birds joined the sound of the waves lapping against rocks on the nearby beach. A little green and white jay hopped from branch to branch calling out to the morning.

With his face lightly dotted by gray and black whiskers, he looked up and around for the first time and noticed a young man with a leather pullover and oversized denim pants standing at the edge of the low cliff that looked out over the great sea. “Tylan, what are you doing up so early?”

“Look at that dad,” said the boy and pointed out in the bay towards the old shipwreck where only the top of the main mast was visible under the water. The waves that rolled over it gave the illusion that it swayed back and forth. Tanner brought the wagon up the Shadow Mountain Road at least two or three times a year and that old wreck had been there for at least a dozen years.

“I’ve seen it plenty of times Tylan. Pull out some of those fish we caught and we’ll fry them up for your mother and sister.”

“No dad, look!”

Tanner grabbed the coffee pot and walked over to the edge to join his son. “What is it?”

“Can’t you see?”

“It’s too dark for my old eyes; I see a mast and some water. What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“There dad. There goes another one!”

Tanner squinted which helped a little, the light increased a bit as well, and he suddenly could make out motion along the sandbar a few hundred yards from where the wreck lay. “What is that?”

“People dad, they’re walking into the ocean but they’re getting smashed by the waves.”

“People wouldn’t do that,” said Tanner and squinted heavily.

“Let’s go see,” shouted Tylan as the boy moved forward, jumped five feet off the cliff onto the ground below, and broke into a quick run.

“Wait Tylan,” said Tanner, sat on the ledge, and slid down carefully although his knee buckled slightly when he hit the ground. “Damn.”

“Hurry dad!”

“Wait Tylan,” shouted Tanner as he looked up again and saw figures, they did look human, as they walked from the shore into the low waves and then disappeared into the sea. “What the hell?”

The boy rushed ahead at breakneck speed his spindly legs seemed to jut out at strange angles and his sharp elbows thrashed with apparently disconcerted movements but he made good time until he reached a small grassy outcropping that stood a little bit above the rest of the land.

“Dad!”

“What is it, Tylan?”

“Dad!”

Now Tanner picked up his own pace, his movements steady and strong, but somehow not as fast as the boy. Within a few seconds he reached his son and put his hands on his knees the breath coming from his lungs in great cloudy bursts. “Too … early … to run,” and then he gave two hacking coughs.

“Dad, look!” said Tylan and pointed up the coast line while Tanner’s eyes rose to take in the site. For as far as the man could see stretched a line of strangely thin human figures. Each moved with an awkward lurching sort of gait and it was almost as if they were transparent with the breaking waves visible through their bodies. “What in the hell are they doing?”

“They’re skeletons dad, walking skeletons!”

Tanner closed his eyes and shook his head. He then slowly opened them up and refocused now seeing that they were, indeed skeletal figures that made their way bizarrely up the coast to the point where each of them in turn, like ants who marched to the edge of a precipice, simply walked into the water where they washed away or smashed into the rocks. “What the hell?”

“What does it mean dad?”

“I don’t know son. We need to report this. Go wake up your sister and pack up the wagon.”

“Ok, dad,” said Tylan his eyes still gazed out at the endless line of skeletal figures that walked jerkily into the ocean apparently unconcerned by their doom.

“Get going!” snapped Tanner smacking the boy lightly across the top of the head, “before I get out my strap.”

Tylan even then waited a moment and stared towards the sea as sunlight began to filter over the horizon to his left. Then, with a jerk he looked at his father and sprinted off with those ungainly strides back to the campsite where a small wagon rested near a large sycamore tree.

Tanner watched his son go and then turned his gaze back to the long line of skeletons working their way towards the point. His eyes focused on the lone mast sticking up and he tried to remember what ship it was and how long ago it had come to rest in the bay. “I don’t get it. It’s been there so long, what could they want?” Just then he noticed a change in the motion of the skeletal line as it began to back up from overcrowding. One of the creatures veered off course, dropped to its knees, and its hands scraped against the hard rock near the point.

“This is not good,” said Tanner aloud but in a whisper. He turned back to his family and slowly made his way towards the wagon although he stopped and looked back to the point every few strides.

“It was crawling across the floor!” shrieked the broom wielding woman her black hair wild and frizzed around her head as she stood in front of the straw and mud building on the outskirts of town. “The dead have risen!”

A group of young boys with sticks chasing after a wildly bouncing ball stopped their game and turned to the old woman their mouths hung open and their sticks held loosely.

“The dead are rising,” screamed the woman shaking her broom at the boys who scattered like dry leaves before a heavy wind. “The dead are coming back to life,” she shouted a third time although only to the empty road.

A heavyset woman with a thick double-chin peered out from the door and looked at the other woman with a shake of her head. “Your witchy skull fell off the mantle and rolled under the table you mad woman. Now get back in here before the neighbors report you to the guard.”

“You old fool,” said the woman waving her broom in her general direction. “You didn’t see it, I did!”

“Fine then,” said the older woman slamming the door shut with a loud bang.

Not many blocks away another scene played out atop a small inn where a dozen travelers and locals worked their way through another morning in Iv’s Folly.

“Shh,” said a young boy in a tattered gray jerkin to a smaller girl in a like fashioned single piece dress and a pair of thin sandals with a large rip in the left heel. She stifled a giggle putting a dirty hand over an equally dirty mouth as the boy looped knotted string over the wrist of a skeletal hand and began to lower it in between the gap in two loose floorboards as the girl giggled again.

Half a mile from this scene, two men, one large with a thick wool shirt and the other quite tall but thin and wearing a heavy jacket walked passed a large headstone so old that the scratches on the thing that told of the current resident were so faint as to be illegible. “Hey, Shamki,” said the tall man as he stopped at the stone and brushed off some leaves, “Why do we gotta do this?”

The larger but shorter man turned to display a heavy brow and low-slung lower lip with sharp canine teeth which he made more prominent with a grimace that was followed shortly by a low growl, “Not you to worry,” he said and with a quick stride stood next to the smaller man and gave him a cuff in the shoulder. “Why you care about him?” he said and pointed to the grave.

The taller man staggered and gave off a low cry, “Why you gotta do that Shamki? I was just cleaning off the grave, who knows, that coulda been my dad.”

“Who cares? Boss is your dad and that’s all that matters,” said Shamki and somehow seemed to glower down at the taller man. “Now come on, boss says we dig him up while everybody’s afraid of skellies.”

“Yeah, but I’m afraid of the skellies.”

“They dead.”

“No they’re not,” replied Humbort with a grimace shying away from a pale white leaf that bore a striking resemblance to a hand. “I see them come alive and Tanner said they are all walking up at the point near that old shipwreck.”

“Why you care what stupid Tanner say?” asked Shamki as he turned around again and scratched the side of his face. “Stupid trader, stupid kids, stupid wife. You do what boss say and get plenty to eat, right. Since we were kids it that way. Besides, you never seen no walking dead things, you just dream it.”

“I did too see it,” said Humbort defiantly looking down at the bigger man his jaw clenched. “You can’t make me say I didn’t see it ‘cause I did!”

“You dreamed, idiot. Now comes on, we need to dig up body. You bring shovel right?”

The smaller man looked around and shrugged his shoulders, “I thought you did.”

Shamki simply shook his head from side to side, “No matter, we find one.” Looking around he spotted a low slung shed to his right tucked in between a large tree and a group of small bushes that were turning red in the crisp fall air. “Check shed.”

Humbort looked at the shed and then back at his companion with his lips turned down, “What if it’s for taking a crap?”

“No moon, dummy. Get shovel or I tell boss you forget it.”

“You forgot to tell me to remember Shamki, it’s not my fault.”

“Go get!”

“Okay, okay. But you better not tell boss about it.”

The big half-orc raised his hand as if to cuff the slight man who slowly jogged across to the shed. When he got there he grabbed the door knob with one hand a pushed in but got no result. He paused for a moment and then pulled out with the same effect. “It’s locked Shamki, whata we do?”

“Not locked,” said Shamki and walked over with a half a dozen large strides. “No lock just jammed ‘cause of cold.” The big fellow roughly pushed aside Humbort with a backhand sending the smaller man stumbling backwards and onto the ground. Then the half-orc raised a thick leather boot grimy with dirt but not enough so that a heavy iron toe cap wasn’t visible beneath and launched it forward against the door which burst in with a crack, swung against the wall, slammed shut again, only to swing back open a few inches. “Get shovel.”

Humbort peered into the dark shed and then poked his head back around the corner, “I don’t see one.”