The Corpse King

  **

  They took shelter in one of the larger houses, one of the few which was not completely rotted away. This one at least was dry, if not warm. There was a hearth in one wall which seemed to have not been lit for several weeks or months, yet there was a pile of dry kindling and logs sitting just beside it, slowly gathering dust. Kitchen utensils, pots and pans and other household items hung from their hooks or lay on rickety wooden tables, all with a thin sheen of grime atop them.

  There didn't seem to be a single living soul anywhere.

  No dead ones, either, for that matter. It was as though the people had all simply left their belongings behind.

  They managed to get a warming blaze going in the fireplace before long. Though there were no ingredients for hot food, salt pork, jerky and some soggy, two-day old bread with the moldy ends cut off made a decent repast.

  Khaine hunkered down by the fire, stripping off his sodden cloak and hanging it over a rickety wooden chair to dry. D'Arden shed his cloak as well, spreading it out across the floor a few feet from the hearth.

  "It certainly is nice to have shelter," Khaine said, stretching out to let his clothing dry. "The fire's not a bad thing, either."

  "Mmm," D'Arden grunted, poking at the growing blaze with a longer stick.

  "I'm sorry we had to leave that last village so quickly." The elder man grinned, tilting his head sideways at D'Arden.

  "I don't mind the sudden movement," answered the apprentice. "It didn't bother me."

  "Not what I meant," Khaine chuckled. "I saw the way you had your eye on that farmer's daughter."

  D'Arden tightened his jaw and turned his face toward the fire to hide the flush that crept up his cheeks. The girl, though not exceptionally beautiful by any means, had been quite fetching – long, blond hair and blue eyes that sparkled in the sunlight. The wart on her cheek hadn't been particularly attractive, nor were her twisted teeth, and the blue eyes were set a bit too wide… but after two years on the road, away from the Arbiter's Tower and his friends – and Shaera, he thought wistfully – the farmer's daughter had been quite intriguing. Receptive, too, he'd found out… quite accidentally. An innocent conversation among the goats and chickens had transformed into something less so, and before he'd realized…

  Khaine must have seen something in his face, because he burst out laughing, a deep, booming sound that echoed in the little hut. "So it was a good thing we got out of there with all due haste, I see!"

  D'Arden didn't take his eyes off the fire, but his upper lip twisted slightly in a mockery of a smile. "Perhaps."

  Still laughing, the master Arbiter shook his head. "Just wait until you've lived as long as I have, D'Arden. After eight decades, they all look alike, and they just don't seem that interesting anymore."

  The younger man sat back from the fire, still staring at the flickering orange tongues of flame that leapt up, consuming the wood. The logs and kindling crackled and popped as air and tiny bits of water exploded out of them.

  Though the fire was warm, D'Arden felt a sudden chill. The image before him seemed foreboding somehow; he shuddered.

  As Khaine's laughter died down, a tiny scratching sound burrowed its way into D'Arden's awareness. He looked up, twisting his head in each direction, trying to shake off the fire blindness that now ruled his eyes. He looked at Khaine.

  The older man tilted his head in the direction of a second door in the small hut, which D'Arden hadn't previously noticed. The gloom was so deep, and he'd been so concerned with getting the fire started and warming his chilled bones that he'd not paid enough attention to see it. Another flush crept into his cheeks, and he bit down on his tongue to stifle the embarrassment; there was no time for it now.

  Nodding agreement, D'Arden picked up his sword, got to his feet and made his way across the floor, well aware that he was trailing muddy footprints across the wooden planks. There was so much grime and muck already, though, that his own prints could barely be seen against the dull, murky gray color.

  The air seemed to get colder as he approached the door, and he slowed down his steps instinctively. He was farther away from the fire, of course, but the sudden chill seemed deeper than that, somehow. One hand crept over his shoulder to grip the leather-wrapped handle of his manna blade, ready to draw it in case something should strike from the shadows.

  He pushed open the door slowly, revealing a darkened chamber within. The gloom was so thick behind the orange-lit walls around him that his eyes had difficulty adjusting, but slowly, the dancing dark spots before his eyes began to fade.

  "You're welcome to the hearth," creaked a voice like yellowed, crumbling parchment.

  Though the voice startled him, D'Arden managed to control his reaction and not jump out of his own skin. He pushed the door open the rest of the way, letting the firelight dimly illuminate the darkened room.

  Against the far wall, in a very old, cushioned chair, sat a man. At least, D'Arden thought it was a man. The skin was so old and wrinkled, the hair sticking out wildly in all directions in its stark white stiffness, that it was difficult to say for certain. Bundled up in blankets and shawls, his body was completely covered; only the wizened old head was visible.

  "Who are you?" D'Arden asked, and he managed to keep a quaver out of his voice. There was something still not right about this entire place, and he kept having to grit his teeth to keep from shuddering uncontrollably in fear.

  "I own this house," murmured the ancient figure in the chair. "Who are you?"

  "Is there anyone else here?" D'Arden asked, a bit uncertainly.

  "Oh yes," the old man said. "Oh yes, there are others here."

  "We haven't seen anyone," answered the young Arbiter. "Where could they have gone?"

  "Oh, they'll be here or there, unless they've all gone on to the castle," the old man said. "Come in, come in. Let me see your face."

  D'Arden cast a glance back over his shoulder at where Khaine sat by the fire. His master was sitting on the grimy floor, staring into the flames in contemplation. He considered calling out to his Master, but it might have startled the old man, and they were going to need information.

  Cautiously, he took a step into the room.

  "My, my, such a wary lad," muttered the ancient lips. "Worry not. No one here will harm you. Come, come closer. My eyes are not what they once were, I'm afraid."

  The room was dark as the door swung closed behind him, so D'Arden drew the manna blade from its scabbard on his back, and it came free with a rasp. Cold blue light instantly illuminated the room, and the paleness only served to make the old man look even more decrepit. It surprised D'Arden that the man was even still alive.

  "Oh, an Arbiter," breathed the old man, as the azure light fell across his face. "It has been many years since we have seen one of your kind in our little kingdom. What brings you all the way out here? You are far from your Tower indeed."

  "We are travelers," D'Arden said, taking a few more strides across the room. "The rain is strong and has been since dawn. We were seeking shelter when we came across your village."

  Something tugged at the back of D'Arden's mind. The room was cold, and seemed even colder in the blue light from his sword. He couldn't quite place what it was that was bothering him, and though some part of him was screaming a warning, his curiosity about the sole-remaining resident of this little village overrode all else. He brushed off the thought as he might a troublesome fly.

  It returned an instant later, when he noticed a strange, muted buzzing at the bottom end of his hearing. Flies…He brushed it off again. He'd glimpsed structures outside that might have been for beehives. Perhaps the old man was a beekeeper.

  He finished crossing the room and looked down at the ancient features. The flesh was dry and papery, seeming as though it were about to crack each time the pale lips moved. Pale eyes were sunken deep into the sockets, the irises watery and the sclera heavily bloodshot. There was an odd cloudiness above the dark pupils that seemed to reflect back the li
ght of D'Arden's sword.

  "You said something about a castle?" D'Arden asked.

  "Oh, yes, the castle," whispered the old man. He twitched; a strange movement, as though something had prodded him. "I have… a message for you. From the castle. From the king."

  "Where can we find this castle?"

  "Oh, it is not far. Not far at all. The King requests your presence, Arbiter. You are cordially invited to his court."

  "What is your King's name?" asked D'Arden.

  The lips were silent for a moment. One pale, milky eye fixed on him with a disturbing intensity.

  "The Corpse King," wheezed the old man.

  The blankets exploded outward, and D'Arden stumbled back with a startled cry. The buzzing amplified within the span of a second to a deafening roar as the air filled with flies, and the horrific stench of death and decay. He swung his sword uselessly before him, trying to dissipate the cloud of insects.

  "Master!" he shouted, stepping back toward the door, his blade cutting through the air in great swaths, accomplishing nothing but to leave trails of blue light in the air.

  The door burst open behind him, and for an instant, the swarm of flies parted. D'Arden caught a glimpse of the old man, wizened head perched atop a naked, colorless, emaciated form that was slowly shambling toward him. The belly was swollen to the bursting point, dragging entrails across the wooden floor. Maggots writhed everywhere, covering the body nearly from neck to foot as they feasted. D'Arden felt his gorge rise in his throat as he took in the scene of death and decay before him.

  "The King requests your presence, Arbiter," the corpse said, taking another ragged step forward. "You are cordially invited. Cordially invited. The King requests your presence…"

  Then Khaine was there, sweeping his manna blade down in a flawless arc that left a blue stain on D'Arden's vision. Khaine's sword cleft the corpse in twain from left shoulder to right hip, and it tumbled to the ground.

  Cobalt fire sprung to life as the blade cut through the old man's dead flesh, greedily consuming it. Even the flies were not spared as sparks leapt into the air, burning the tiny black things from the air. They plummeted toward the ground like tiny falling stars, burning to nothingness before they reached the ground.

  Seconds later, the room was dark once more, save for the steady glow from the two manna swords.

  "So," Khaine said, a grin flashing white teeth in his dark brown beard. "Looks like the rumors are true after all."