Zombie Mage (5 page)

Veldrigg ignored the assault and pulled his victim
closer, sniffing curiously.  Although the smell of fruit was overpowering it
seemed that this demon was indeed in the guise of a man.  On closer scrutiny,
the prominent moustache and fine stubble gave the game away, proving to him that
the demons were malicious tricksters.  He'd foiled their attempts at deceiving
him once again and this demonic man-woman would now suffer.  Just as he opened
his mouth to tear at his victim's throat, somebody strong grabbed both his arms
and pulled him back leaving his victim to flop pathetically to the floor.  This
outraged Veldrigg.  He tried to yank his hands free but more demons were now
holding on to him, trying to restrain him.  Somebody smashed him on the head
with something heavy and he roared in defiance, managing to pull one of his
arms free.  He heaved and struggled, bit and bashed but there were far too many
of them and he was soon overpowered. 

Veldrigg was fuming. He'd let his guard down and, in
doing so, had let the gods down. He hoped they would be merciful in their
redemption.  If the demon hadn’t distracted him with its trickery he wouldn’t
be in this mess.  To add to his infuriation, somebody dared to press his head
against the cold floor with their foot and ordered him not to move.  Not that
he was able to move anyway - a heavy lump of a demon was sitting on his back. 
He lay there for a while, wondering what was happening and how they would kill
him. Perhaps they would feed on him.  That would explain the size of the demon
on his back.  As he pondered further, he heard the sound of alarm bells and
footsteps approaching from somewhere close by.

"You three, you can let him go now," someone
shouted.

 The demons holding him down quickly leapt out of the
way allowing Veldrigg to struggle to his feet.  The fools had released him and
now they would pay. He lashed out and roared as loud as he could muster.

"What is it? A zombie?"

"Not sure but it definitely doesn't want to
cooperate with us."

Veldrigg sniffed and slobbered, trying to locate where
the voices were coming from.  As he lurched forward, more of the demon folk
scampered out of his way.

"You there, hold your hands in the air and don't
move!"

Veldrigg didn't comprehend what was being said. He was
too busy concentrating on the strange smells around him.  He staggered onward,
seeking out his prey.  Somebody screamed and there was a loud bang.  Something
ripped into his shoulder but it didn't hurt so he continued to stagger forward,
squinting in the bright light.  There was another bang and yet another before
he finally crumpled to the floor. Everything was black now.  No green mist.  No
pain.  No ache in his stomach.  He experienced only a deep, thrusting blackness
that engulfed him until he could think no more. 

After his close shave at the farmhouse, Olligh eventually reached a
village nestled in the trees beside a lake.  As he walked across a small bridge
towards the entrance, he noticed something very familiar about it.  He
remembered the curious looking watch tower with its red bricks and, to its
side, the old well with the missing bucket.  At some point in his past, he’d
definitely been here before.

The rain was becoming heavier and Olligh decided to
look for shelter.   He wandered through the streets until he discovered a
building with a porch. Stepping inside, he stretched out as best he could.  The
sound of the rain battering against the porch was quite relaxing and he closed
his eyes, trying to fathom recent events.  His thoughts returned to the old
woman in the graveyard and he wondered why she was being held captive and how
she'd managed to stay alive in such a deplorable condition.  More curiously, he
wondered what she'd meant by “others like us”.  Had there been an outbreak of
plague in the area?  Olligh sighed and adjusted position. Perhaps later, when
the rain had stopped, he might be able to find someone willing to help him.  In
the meantime, he was tired and needed some well deserved rest.  He curled up
and tried to sleep.

* * * *

Faces.  Of all things, he dreamt of faces.  Some were mangled and twisted
with pain, striking fear in his heart.  A few he found familiar while others
were so hideous he was glad he didn’t recognise them at all.  Some talked to
him, trying to offer helpful advice or question his motives, but none of their
ramblings made much sense.  Others spoke in a strange, garbled language which
he couldn’t comprehend.  A face wavered in the distance – a man with bloated
cheeks and a double chin. 

 “Olligh, where are you going this time of night?”

The face drifted closer. “It’s dangerous out there.
Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

He faded away and another face appeared in its place,
this time a hooded man with a beard and a large gash on his cheek. “How dare
you! Have some respect...”

His scowl changed to a slight smirk. “Mark my words,
your time will come.”

Then, another face appeared - this time a woman. 
“Olligh!”

Finally, this one he did recognise.  It was the old
lady from the crypt in the graveyard.  “Why didn’t you take me with you?” she
asked with a slight tremor in her voice.

Her grotesque face moved closer and closer.  Maggots
squirmed under her skin, feasting on the rotten flesh.  Her eyes looked dead
yet she continued to gaze at him with much resolve.  Her mouth quivered and she
released a low moan. “It wasn’t too much to ask. After all we’ve been through
together.”

The face continued to drift closer but, as it did so,
it became younger; the skin healed and wrinkles faded.  Her hair grew longer
and became full and vibrant.  Her eyes glistened with youth and vitality.  It
was then that realisation struck him.  It was Lara - his dear, sweet Lara.  How
could he have forgotten he had a wife? She looked so beautiful and happy and he
wished he could hold her one last time and tell her how much she really meant
to him.  Patchy memories of their time together returned and although they
weren't as complete as he would've preferred them to be, they offered him hope
in the bleakness that was now his life.  She stroked her hair and laughed
softly before fading into the darkness.  Olligh reached out in his sleep,
gripped by an unusually intense feeling of loss and sorrow.

* * * *

Someone prodded him with a stick. Olligh looked up hazily. Everything
still felt vague and dreamlike. 

“My, my – you’re keen.  Wanting to get in before the
crowds, eh?”

An old man with a walking stick stood over him. Olligh
nodded, suddenly remembering where he lay the night before. “Umm huh.”

 The old man reached into his pocket and removed some
keys.  “Well, it’s a fine morning for a haircut," he said. "Doesn’t
the air smell fresh and invigorating?"

 Olligh raised his eyebrows.  If this man was a barber
then he was bound to have scissors to help him remove his stitches.

“Umm huh”

The old man unlocked and opened the door. “Well, do go
in and take a seat.  I won’t be long. I just need to unpack a few things and
get changed.”

Olligh entered the shop, followed by the barber. 
Turning to his left, he froze with horror.  A large wooden mirror hung on the
wall next to a chair and for the first time, he was able to see himself
clearly.  He now understood why people were acting with such hostility towards
him. His grey hair was shoulder length, ragged and patchy in places. His face
was gaunt and strewn with pus filled blisters.  He touched his nose
tentatively.  The end was ripped and flopped to its side.  His mouth was
stitched horribly and looked grotesque with blood filled blisters scattered
around it.

“I won’t keep you waiting much longer,” said the
barber from the back room. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Olligh spotted some scissors on a shelf next to the
mirror.  He reached for them and sat on the chair.  Studying his reflection, he
began to snip the stitches around his mouth.  His hands trembled and he felt an
overpowering feeling of dread.  He snipped again and again, trying to avoid
staring into the haunting eyes of the face in the mirror; he didn’t recognise
it, nor did he want to.  He snipped the last stitch and opened his mouth,
stretching his aching jaw.  A few teeth were missing and his tongue felt overlarge
and floppy.  He licked his lips, feeling the scar tissue with his tongue.

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice dry and raspy.

“Well I hope I’m your barber,” replied the old man.

Olligh jumped.  He didn’t realise the barber was
standing behind him.   “That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“No, look at me… I’m vile… repulsive!  Can you help?”

The barber leaned closer and sniffed curiously. He
felt Olligh’s head and ruffled his hair.  “Oh, I see. Yes, your hair feels
rather brittle and your scalp’s a little patchy.  Have you recently recovered
from an illness?”

Olligh returned his gaze to the mirror. “An illness?
The plague, perhaps.  Look at me.  I’m revolting!”

“If you don’t mind me saying, Sir, you don’t smell
overly delightful either. Might I interest you in some of my home-made soap
products?”

Olligh stood and returned the scissors to the shelf. 
He frowned at the barber. “Are you mad? Don't I disgust you?”

“How could you possibly disgust me?  I’m blind – I
can’t see you.”

Olligh rolled his eyes. “You’re blind?”

The barber nodded. “Of course, sir, I thought you
knew.  Everyone in the village does.”

Olligh wanted to laugh but his throat hurt too much.
“A blind barber - is this a jest?”

“Not at all, sir.  I’ve been cutting hair for many
years.  I can see quite clearly through my touch alone.  In my capable hands,
each strand of my client’s hair is cut to perfection.”

 “Am I participating in some strange, deranged
nightmare?  Please tell me you aren’t real?”

“Sir, I’ve been cutting hair in Ekelton village for a
good forty year now, so I can assure you that I’m most certainly real and
exceptionally experienced.”

Olligh blinked.  “Ekelton?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why do I know the name Ekelton?  It lingers in my
mind, tormenting me.”

The barber leaned closer, holding the top of the
chair. “Might I ask your name, sir?  Perhaps it will shed some light on your
turmoil.”

“Yes, it’s Olligh.  Have you heard of the name
before?”

“Hmm, well, there was an old magician who lived in a
dwelling close to the village.  His name was Olligh Selthnik.”

Olligh’s eyes widened. “That’s me!  That’s who I am.”

“No, Sir, I’m afraid that’s impossible.” The barber
stepped towards the door. “Olligh died two year ago. It was a most terrible
time for the community.”

Olligh stood and gripped the top of the chair. “Did he
look like me?”

“Well sir, don’t forget, I’m blind but, if it helps, I
can assure you, Mage Selthnik didn’t sound or smell quite like you do.”

Olligh shook his head. “This is terrible.  What should
I do?”

“Sir, you seem confused.  Shall I go and get some
help?”

“Did he have a wife?  Lara?”

The barber nodded.  “Yes, tragically she died a few
months before him.  He never was the same afterwards.  His wife meant so much
to him and he couldn't cope without her.  He became a recluse, eventually even
dismissing his servants and apprentice.”

Olligh rushed for the door, almost knocking the old
man over.  His mind was a blur.  No matter what the barber thought, he knew
deep inside that he was Olligh Selthnik.  He had to return to the graveyard and
speak to Lara.  Only then would he hope to learn the truth and find a solution
to this madness.

Olligh stepped out into the village square.  It was still early and he
was thankful that only a few people were about.   Only a young boy, carrying a
basket of fruit, spotted him.  The boy stopped in his tracks and gaped at him,
his eyes wide and fearful.  Olligh, not wanting to cause a disturbance, merely
smiled politely and waved a greeting. In response, the basket fell to the
ground and the boy ran off screaming.  Since beholding his grotesque image in
the barber’s mirror, he now quite understood the reaction he was receiving from
people. He sighed and quickened his pace to leave the village before
encountering anybody else. Returning to the bridge, he crossed over and
followed the forest trail back towards the graveyard.   As he walked, his felt
his leg becoming numb again and he was forced to stop.  He rubbed it until the
familiar prickly sensation returned and then continued his journey, thankfully
without further incident.

Back at the graveyard, he was glad to find it
deserted. He walked past Horace’s grave which had now been filled.  Fresh
flowers had been scattered around it, adding a splash of colour to the
otherwise bleak surroundings.  Olligh noticed the stone chamber in the
distance.  It was linked by a small passageway to another larger building,
perhaps a church.  He was tempted to investigate further but he didn’t know who
his captors were or, more importantly, their intentions.  On this occasion he
decided to play it safe rather than make dangerous, rash decisions.  Staying
out of view, he reached the stone chamber and crept back inside through the
hole. He emerged into the gloom and immediately searched for his wife.