Fikumin

The void left behind

(Aftermath V)

The moment ye step foot on Eplas, trouble will come knockin’ youngling, Bodmulir Blunthorn used to say. It ain’t the good stuff, ye need to worry yerself about. Not even the bad. Fear not of Queens and monsters, but of the evil hidden behind half-words and vague warnings.

For there are Realms beyond our own and some tales are real.

Grogoceq swung his staff sideways and smack the Cofol standing next to him in the upper part of his arm, the bolt reaching him in the meantime and going through his chest.

Literally.

The pungent smell of charred bones reached Fikumin’s nostrils, as chaos erupted all around him.

The Aken jumped nimbly backwards, his cloak flapping loud, alike empty sails filling with air and the Cofol stumbled forward mouth opening and closing in a voiceless cry, before going down. The Lorian carrying the two sabres charged Marcus, the two remaining bandits going after Stiles and the dwarves.

Lorfouna fired and punched a bolt through the Cofol’s round shield, violently snapping his arm back and nailed everything on his shoulder. The man growled in pain, his attack ruined and pulled hard to dislodge shield and bolt, but Stiles rushed him fast as a rattlesnake and forced him to retreat.

Fikumin went for another bolt, his hand shaky, while moving to the side to leave room for Norec to charge ahead and meet the final bandit, hefting his angry warhammer. He jumped over the unmoving Cofol, searching for Grogoceq and found him standing further back now assessing the situation.

How is he unharmed? He wondered, glancing back to the body of the ruffian that had collapsed for no apparent reason at the start of the fight. What’s going on here?

“FIKUMIN!” Lorfouna bellowed a warning and he raised his large crossbow on instinct to block the sneaky Aken’s attack. Grogoceq caught it on the body with his staff and hurled it away. Without thinking Fikumin ducked under the long weapon again, evading a returning swing from his much taller opponent. He trundled again further away, to avoid the reach of his weapon.

“Ah, luck of the Folk,” Grogoceq noted, his voice a sinister hiss, left hand clasped on one of his many strands of differently-colored bones, hanging from his neck. That pungent smell came again, twice as vile and a petrified Fikumin realized it for what it was.

The worst of stories, coming to life.

The last part ironic as all hells.

“BONEMANCER!” Fikumin boomed and rolled this time towards his crossbow, the quiver hitting him on the back of the head. Lorfouna almost ten meters away from them and in the process of nailing a bolt into Grogoceq’s back paused, her eyes opening in alarm. Behind her the previously incapacitated Cofol had risen up, soulless eyes unblinking. Fikumin found his crossbow at the end of his tumble, turned reaching for a fresh bolt, saw the danger and opted to warn her, while frantically trying to reload.

All for naught.

Grogoceq was on him again and put a stop to it with another swipe of his staff. Fikumin managed to dodge adroitly, the weapon missing his face, but it grazed his chest and cut his warning short. The Priest of Luthos cursed, as an alarmed Lorfouna twisted around to face the reanimated bandit, running her chest through his sword for her trouble.

“NO!” Fikumin cried out, seeing the nasty blade exploding out her back, the blood garishly red, all other colors fading. Grogoceq attacked him again, to take advantage of his shock, but Luthos pushed him out of harm’s way once more, the staff hitting the rocky terrain and bouncing back.

Fikumin pulled the lever back, standing on one knee at the end of his flip, feeling his whole body hurting and aimed it at the tall Aken that twirled his long staff around expertly, three meters from him, forked tongue wetting his ashen lips and his revolting eyes mocking him to try it again.

And see, if it worked better this time.

Luthos chortled in delight.

The grieving dwarf fired without hesitating. His bolt flew high and to the side, missed a flinching Grogoceq’s body by at least a foot and nailed the unsuspecting Lorian, duking it out with Marcus not two meters behind him, right though the neck killing him instantly. The ex-sergeant turned to assess the situation cool as a cucumber in Spring, just as the pungent smell of burning bones permeated the air again and the Aken that had blinked out of existence for the briefest of moments, reappeared two bodies to his right, a smug smile on his painted face.

A second after that, smile still plastered on his lips that forked tongue flapping, Grogoceq’s severed head hit the ground and rolled over, leaving a bloody trail behind, all the way to where Fikumin stood, rearmed crossbow on his hands. Fikumin put a bolt through the Bonemancer’s right eye and stopped it dead.

“FUCK JUST HAPPENED?” Stiles bellowed, voice filled with astonishment, as Fikumin rushed to where Lorfouna had fallen, blood bubbling out her mouth, whole body convulsing, desperately trying to cling to life and losing the battle, just as he desperately clasped her bloodied hand tightly in his. Those extraordinary grey-blue eyes turned frozen, staring into the abyss and the last sound she made, was a short pained sigh.

“Move away!” Norec cried out and shoved him to the side. Fikumin stumbled away distraught, tears welling in his eyes, the world around him a gloomy horrible place. Marcus stopped him after a couple of shaky strides and pulled him to the side like a ragdoll, Norec’s dismayed curses behind him, adding to his misery.

“What was this?” Marcus asked, steel in his voice. “Look over there!”

Fikumin shook his head and used a sleeve to wipe his eyes.

“She’s gone,” He griped miserably. “I tried to warn her… I was too slow.”

“Snap out of it lad!” Marcus barked in his face. “Fikumin,” He added softer now, seeing him coming about. “What happened to him?”

Fikumin looked at the bandit that had collapsed first, before returning to life and slay Lorfouna. The latter hurt him like a dagger to the gut. He gasped for air desperately, the ex-sergeant eyeing him, a nervous tick marring the side of his face, as his patience was running thin.

The Cofol had dropped dead the moment Marcus had decapitated Grogoceq, breaking the spell. Stiles was standing over the corpse murmuring in disbelief, the Cofol’s face emaciated, sunken eyes milky, the flesh completely rotten and his skin a dark grey. The stink of decay so powerful it turned his stomach and stooping to the side, he puked its contents between his short legs.

“Good grief,” Marcus commented, not looking much better himself.

“That’s a Golem,” Fikumin explained, spitting the foulness out of his mouth, though he couldn’t do anything about the stench of death. “A construct.”

“What manner of magic is this?”

Fikumin glanced at the lifeless Lorfouna and Norec, healing potion in hand, still trying to revive her and shook his head, suddenly too tired and empty.

“Not of our Realm,” He croaked.

“Like dark magic?” Marcus probed unsatisfied.

“I don’t know. The Aken were rumored to practice it and they are not from Eplas, or Jelin for that matter.”

The ex-legionnaire frowned.

“What in Tyeus’ arse is an Aken?”

Fikumin pointed at Grogoceq’s severed head, still nailed to the ground with his bolt.

“Bullshit,” Marcus commented. “I’ve seen these painted freaks before.”

“I have as well,” Stiles added.

“You’ve seen humans, believing in the Aken God,” Fikumin explained tiredly. “This thing either came from the Plague Isles, which is rare enough and strange,” He grimaced, not wanting to delve into the other possibilities.

“Or?” Marcus insisted, himself very interested to know more.

Fikumin grunted, pressed his eyes closed, wished he wouldn’t have to open them again and with a sigh replied matter-of-factly.

“We need to burn the bodies.”

“Why?” Stiles inquired, a cut on his cheek bleeding, but he didn’t seem to mind it.

“To be sure.”

“Of what?” Marcus snapped angry. “Speak dwarf!”

Fikumin smacked his lips, regaining some of his composure.

“Are there bones missing from the dead?”

“Bones?” Marcus scrunched his nose confused.

“Fingers, toes… have ye looked?” Fikumin probed.

“That freak was missing two,” Stiles said and seeing everyone staring him surprised at his conviction, he added defensively. “Checked for jewelry. What? Ye don’t think it proper?”

Damn it, Fikumin cursed.

“Burn the bodies, sergeant. Burn everything,” He ordered and seeing Norec’s red-rimmed eyes glaring at him, he added with a clench of his haw. “Hers as well.”

Speaking her name again, would kill him.

“There’s not much wood layin’ about,” Marcus said, arms crossed on his chest.

Fikumin shrugged his shoulders indifferently. His face had hardened. “We’ll cut off their heads, if we can’t. Crush ‘em bones to a pulp.”

“By Abrakas swollen tits,” Stiles retorted, recoiling at his words. “Ye fuckin’ dwarves are right vicious little buggers!”

It was an arduous, gruesome job, dealing with the dead bodies. Easy to propose, difficult to realize. They ended up using Norec’s warhammer for the deed and a couple of sharpened blades that got dull really fast. The crunching of bones and the flesh melting under their blows stomach-turning. The smells and murky blood scarring their psyche and blackening their souls. Stiles was the one to destroy poor Lorfouna’s head, the act too grisly for anyone else to consider, but even the callous former pirate looked sick to his core, after he finished.

An hour later, they took the long road back, no one in the mood for words. They were too traumatized to even take a bite for the whole day. The second night, their road camp set near the noisy forest at the base of the plateau, Stiles sat next to him and stared into the flames for long, before speaking.

“How did ye know?” He asked.

“I was taught for many years,” Fikumin replied. “I’m of the Folk. It is how we do. The elders will gather the few younglings and try to teach them, as much as they can about the history of the Realms. Most tend to listen,” He added ominously. “Calamity waits, those who forget.”

“The history of the kingdoms,” Stiles guessed and Fikumin snorted in difference.

“There were kingdoms before Kaltha, Lesia and Regia. Before the Khanate,” He explained. “An empire ruled these lands forever almost.”

“What about that thing?”

“The Queen of Queens, didn’t allow anyone to venture there, beyond the haze waters. They guarded the land, kept everything out. Battles were fought against the horrors, but they stopped them, losing only the Plague Isles. All these happened well before our time. They were at war with the Aken of Mistland the stories say,” He closed his eyes to remember those obscure details better. “For a thousand years at least. Probably for much longer. Long before the humans appeared in the picture.”

“What brought that thing here?” Stiles asked soberly.

Fikumin sighed deeply and opened his eyes to stare into the dancing bright flames of their campfire.

“Opportunity,” He finally said, words coming out with difficulty. “The Empire's Fall left a void, I reckon.”

Evil can smell weakness.

“Aye, it makes sense,” Marcus agreed, speaking over his other shoulder; the large man had sat next to him totally unnoticed. “And everyone 'n their dog, is fixin’ to fill it.”

His last sentence saying the quiet part out loud.