Montoya Valley, chapter two

Flynn stood in the center of the graveyard as the sun dipped below the mountains. He held the old book close to his chest, and looked down warily once again at the symbol he had etched into the hard dirt around him. He gulped, hoping that he had indeed read the antiquated instructions correctly, else someone would be finding his body, drained of life by the spectres of the dead. Probably Diego...
Flynn sneered, his confidence boosted. Diego, that sniveling, egotistical fool! A simple peasant boy, elevated to the ranks of the scouts because he was lucky enough to kill an orc. Diego, a stupid peasant brought to be his equal through his luck with a thrown rock! While he, Flynn, the son of a respected guard captain, had to undergo the painful initiation tests, Diego passed them by simply bringing in the orc's head!
The last rays of sunlight had vanished minutes ago, the sky darkened to a deep blue-violet, bright stars peeking through. Only a few more minutes, Flynn knew. He pulled open the book again, squinting to read the words before the light fled completely.
Then it was darkness. The moon would be up in a few minutes. Flynn carefully murmured the words he read, tracing a symbol in the air in front of him. He heard a moan of a ghost nearby, but refused to stop his chants, though his arms seemed so cold now! He retraced the symbol again, and a third time, just as the chant ended. Flynn waited, the darkness seeming so heavy and cold, vision of the spectral ghosts flitting about the sides of his vision, trying to distract him, lead him out from his ward and safety.
He almost did, jumping backwards and catching himself just in time, as the rotted hand burst through the surface a foot away. Flynn stared in horror for a moment, then with mounting glee. He had done it, he had raised a zombie, the creature to do his bidding, anything he pleased! Flynn stared up into the stars in pleasure, grasping the book tightly against his chest, and watched the first tip of the moon rise over the mountains.
Thus, he missed it as the hand pulled back beneath the surface, and burst up again, inside his now broken warding circle. The rotten hand grabbed his ankle, pulling itself further up. Flynn looked down in terror at the grasping hand, paralyzed by fear. The face then ripped through the dirt, a gross, rotten image of the beautiful woman it used to be. The zombie pulled Flynn downwards, opening its mouth, the bloated tongue hanging out as it pulled Flynn in for the last kiss he would ever know, the kiss of death.
Flynn's high-pitched scream echoed through the valley. Diego, still in his slumber then, rolled over uneasily, pulling the flowers closer to his face for comfort. In the Black Boar tavern, several patrons made warding signs, and Kiwin was glad he had been between songs. "A banshee, it was, a bad sign you know. Someone met a horrible death this night." Kiwin glanced at the man, hoping he was wrong. Lenk shivered, hearing the noise, and rubbing the six pointed star with a circle, branded into his left shoulder.
Caine smiled, hearing the wail and basking in the sound. Somewhere ahead in Montoya valley, his former home, a warning had been sent, of the death yet to come to his brother who had taken his throne, tricked their father into exiling him! Caine's left shoulder burned, still as always, a reminder of his exile. The six pointed star, enclosed in a circle, etched into his skin by his father with acid, not a metal brand.
The zombie, its summoner now dead, moaned softly as it sank back into the earth. The book was left, untouched, underneath Flynn's body, fallen through his warding symbol -- a six pointed star, surrounded by a circle.

Canaan grunted as he stumbled down the hill, his side bleeding profusely. A mix of sweat, blood, and the paint that made his clan markings swirled down his face like mercury. Despite his grievous injuries, Canaan was elated. He had survived. This valley was no great trouble compared to his home in the North. He sometimes wondered why he had come here, but he was sure what he would find would dispel all his fears.
His northern home, nicknamed the Bloodlands by southerners, was an icy land, which was between the mountain ranges of Spielburg and Mordavia. Home of the Frost Giants, led by Braggui, and clans of semi nomadic humans which had almost the constitution of the giants, the Bloodlands were a source of turmoil and violence between factions because of the rich deposits of metal it had in abundance.
As he ambled downwards, his foot met a rock with a sharp clang. He tripped a short ways, cursed, and shattered the rock with a blow from his foot. The silver prosthesis, marked with clan designs as many parts of his body were, shone brightly in the ominous moonlight that shone that night. In the distance, he heard a shriek unlike any monster or animal he had ever come across. It seemed deliberately foreign, out of place. He shuddered, made a few brief oaths to Cerrunos, and continued his trek. Just within his sight, he could see torchlight burning brightly in what looked to be a small dukedom. Yes, this looked to be the place. The peril to get to here rather than nearby Mordavia was entirely justified, after all. Here, he would find all that was necessary to restore him to a full man. He gave a brief grin that had no trace of humor.
He was foraging deeper into the valley when he heard the sounds of a scout nearby. His voice, hoarse and weak from the beatings he had taken on his journey, called out weakly to his would-be aid.
A few moments later, the undergrowth near him rustled, and parted. Out emerged a slight man, by Canaan's estimation. Most people he had seen in his life were at least six and a half feet tall. The man had long hair, pulled back, and was armed in the fashion rangers usually were. His surprise to see Canaan was not veiled at all.
"Name of Erana, what happened to you?" The man said slowly in amazement, "I'd better get you back to town. Lucky for you I've been having trouble sleeping lately." Using the man, who informed him his name was Diego, as a support, Canaan hobbled to the village, where his wounds were treated by a petite woman with blonde hair, which he had never seen before.
"More strangers in town. Yes, all elements seem to be coming together... I can't even begin to assuage my own fears now. This is definitely it..." she murmured nervously. He did not hear much else of what she said, as his wounds left him dazed and weak. She pulled a stool up to the two cots that had been laid out to accommodate him, and began to ask him some questions.
"What's your name?"
"Canaan. Canaan Cecht." he replied stoutly
"Cecht..." she mused, "My, you're a northerner, aren't you?"
Canaan grinned weakly. "Yes, you're right." he affirmed.
"Do you mind if I ask about your foot, Canaan?" she inquired. Blonde hair. He had never seen that. It was quite pretty.
"I lost it a few years back. That's why I left the North." He said, "Blemished men are not allowed to slow down the rest of the clan."
Charmain gasped. "That's horrible!" she cried, "How can you justify that?"
Canaan shook his head. "Things are not the same in the North. I cannot make you see things the way we do. You have your way of life, and we have ours."
She sighed and slowly nodded, shrugging. "I know you must be tired, Canaan, but can you tell me one last thing? About your foot... it's enchanted, is it not?"
Canaan smiled and vigorously agreed. "It was a gift from Braggui, the Frost Giant leader. It has the power to smash anything I kick, but it will only work by the light of the moon. It's forged of the rare silver that the Mordavians and Spielburgers are killing each other, and us, over." His voice was bitter as he said this, and Charmain dared not to pry farther. She could, however, tell that although his intentions were good, he was not telling the full truth somewhere.
"Well, I have many things to do, this is a busy time for everyone now. I haven't much time to waste. Goodbye, Canaan." she said, and whirled out the door, her enchanting blonde hair whistling behind her.
Shortly after, Canaan slept, dreaming of six-pointed dreams...

Irini was awakened to the sound of loud banging.
Sleepily, she shuffled to her door and opened it.
She was met by a small, squat woman dressed in a plain, woolen dress; at the sight of Irini, the woman immediately curtsied to show her compliance.
"What is it Charmain?" Irini asked, trying to stifle a yawn.
"Your highness is needed most urgently. There's been an accident in the township, you must come quickly. Your brother is downstairs talking to the scouts now." Charmain was rarely panicked, but this morning Irini noted that she seemed particularly frightened. She nodded her understanding and hastened to get dressed. A silk white dress and a red travelling cloak with a hood. She raced through the hallways leading to the main courtyard. Her brother's horse was already saddled, being tended by a young stable boy. Gerard stood nearby. She could see two other men, scouts by their garb. One she recognized as Diego, the other she did not know. She approached the group.
"What has happened?" she said urgently. Gerard turned to face her, his expression grave.
"My dear, I would not disturb you with normal matters, but this is far from normal. A scout this morning was found in the graveyard, his death is an apparent mystery. The only evidence we found was an old book of strange markings, that the scouts have presumed to be magic. You are skilled in this area and can determine that theory." She nodded and informed the stable boy to fetch her horse.
"Very well, we shall go to the graveyard at once. I feel a strangeness in the air, something evil is amiss." She shivered and wrapped her cloak more tightly around her.

They rode quickly through the forest path. The two scouts rode with them as bodyguards. The forest creatures scurried from their path and they galloped towards the city's graveyard. Gerard signaled a halt as they approached their destination. Irini dismounted and hurried to her brother's side, warily approaching the graveyard gates. The scouts took the lead and led them to the spot where the body was found. Irini could not see clearly, it was obviously a man of average height with an strong build. A heavy broadsword was girded to his belt, a very expensive weapon as well. He was of a wealthy family, which added to the strangeness. Why would he be here? She bent forwards and brushed the dirt and grass from his face and gasped. His face was shriveled and desiccated, his mouth twisted into a look of abject terror. She fell back in horror. What could have done this, she thought? Gerard helped her to her feet.
"Are you alright?" he asked concerned. She nodded.
"There is obviously magic at work, but I do not know the origin. Who was this man?" She shivered in the morning air. Diego stepped forward.
"He was Flynn, your highness. The son of Montoya's guard captain." Diego said softly. Though rivals with Flynn for many years, he did not wish to see him end like this.
"Gerard, we must give him the proper burial he deserves. Prepare his body for travel." She turned back to the horses, intending to wait there.

After several minutes, she heard her brother calling for her.
"Irini, look at this. Diego found it beneath Flynn's body." Irini saw what appeared to be an old book, fraying at the edges and obviously improperly stored. She took and gasped as she saw on the cover, a six-pointed star encased in a circle. She looked at Diego who nodded his understanding. Diego knew the symbol, from his dreams. Irini recognized it, the symbol burned into her shoulder by her grandfather, when she began her magical studies.
"The sign of the beast," she shuddered. "Witchcraft caused this man's death. He was attempting to summon a creature from the depths of darkness, it must have escaped his control." She handed the book back to her brother. Gerard looked at her skeptically.
"How do you know this?" he asked.
"There are other forces in this world, different from the magic I wield, yet still similar. This is one of those forces, a twisted form of power designed to help those without it naturally. Any mortal can command this magic as long as their will is strong. Otherwise, they would all end up like Flynn here." She turned back to the horses and walked away from the sight of death.
Her hand holding her left shoulder, the brand burning into her, stinging sharply. Something big and dangerous was coming, she thought.

Feeling stronger after having his wounds looked after by the town's healer, Charmain, Canaan downed another pint at the Black Boar. He shuddered from the effects of the strong alcohol, mixed with some kind of acrid smelling fluid. Putting down another silver coin, he hailed the bartender and said, "Another Troll's Sweat."
The bartender gave him a bit of a suspicious look, went to the bar, and filled another tankard with the pungent liquid. The moonlight poured in through the shutters, making eerie shadows that danced in the firelight. The sound of a man loudly clearing his throat turned Canaan's head. He saw that charming-minstrel type sitting by the fire. What was his name..? Kirin, no, Kiwin. That was it. There was something odd about the man, although he could play a tune and sing as sweetly as the songbirds of El Marid. As he came closer to listen, the area around his prosthesis twinged with pain slightly. Shifting his weight, he sat down on an old oaken stool, which protested loudly at supporting his massive frame. The bard cleared his throat once again, and began to speak.
"Greetings, fair people of Montoya valley. I, as most of you know, am Kiwin Farwalker, distinguished bard and master of the musical arts." There was some scattered applause, which died down as he spoke again. "My next song," he explained "Is one dating back a long ways but it is also a personal favorite. Please sit, have some of the excellent house ale, and enjoy."
Canaan's leg was definitely bothering him. It jerked a bit, then calmed down. He then realized what the cause was, but the song was about to start...
Heroes of lands both broad and far
Gathering to the calls of the star
There comes a cry that all shall hear
Then, the dead will shed a tear
The people then will live by Flame...
The song continued, but for a few moments, the outside world seemed to stop. Canaan's mind was numbed. He head heard this before, when he was younger... But he was getting some of the words wrong. Canaan pondered what this could mean, but he knew it bode no good. The pains in his leg flared up again. He cursed inside. He was certain this Kiwin man had some of the magic silver on him somewhere...
...A land in peril, a family torn
No love lost, nor time to mourn...
Kiwin sang automatically, as he surveyed the crowd. Not really anyone rich in this town, he supposed, but the way that other stranger, the tall one, was looking at him... almost if he knew... his flute was secure in it's strap against his chest... waiting...

Two days had past since that horrid scream, but still, Lenk felt unsafe in the forest. He had passed north from Montoya valley, running away again. Just like all his life had been, he thought sadly, fleeing from one danger after another. The twilight was fast approaching, and Lenk looked for somewhere to hide for the night. There seemed to be many more shadowy things about now. Lenk wasn't sure if it was because of the scream, or not.
Scrambling about in the hills, the renegade goblin found a small cave and crawled inside. His eyes adjusted after a moment, and the cave seemed small and empty, just the way he wanted it. Lenk propped the broken pike against the wall next to him, and tried to curl up for sleep. But sleep eluded him, as something prowled about outside. It was looking for him, Lenk knew -- something out there, something real and solid, not the cold shadow creatures that felt like a spiderweb. Something was burning ... after a moment, Lenk realized it was his shirt! With a frantic scramble, Lenk pulled his shirt off, seeing for the first time the six point star and circle design that was being burned into the shirt by his own scar. Then something loomed over the entrance to the cave, blocking out the faint moonlight.
Caine smiled, feeling the pull of the brands between himself, and whoever hid inside the cave. Caine gripped a rock supporting the side of the entrance. "Come out! Else I collapse your shelter on top of you!"
Lenk saw the massive hand gripping the rock. A giant! Surely it must be ... and it knew he was there, knew it because his brand called out to the giant standing outside! The poor goblin whimpered, but took his pike and slowly crawled out of the cave entrance. Though the goblin sometimes wished for death, being buried alive was not appealing.
Caine looked quite surprised as the goblin, whimpering in fear, crawled forth from the cave, wielding the broken shaft of a pike. The man scowled for a moment, thinking this some kind of cruel joke. He bent down, and grabbed the goblin around the head with one hand, yanking the poor creature into the air at his eye level. Lenk's eyes widened with shock; this was a man, no giant!? Then Caine spotted the star and circle brand, burned and burning into the goblin's shoulder. With a strong mental command, he quieted the magical burning the goblin felt.
"You are now my slave and my servant. Serve me well, and I can grant you riches and comfort when I rule Montoya valley. Oppose me, and that brand will be the least of your worries."
Lenk shivered, lacking the will to break away from the man's powerful gaze. As he tried to nod, the goblin wondered if he should have let the other goblins kill him, or even stayed as a captured informant for the Montoya scouts, rather than try to flee.

Irini had recognized the book, of course. Anyone who practiced magic seriously knew of the book, or a copy of it. The Necronomicon, the book of ultimate evil. No one, even the (supposedly) wisest minds, knew why the magical rites within could be cast by anyone. Irini knew this book by sight however. This copy, partial only (thank Erana's ghost!), had been one of her mother's prized possessions. Thankfully for them all, the late Duchess was only selfish, not evil. Irini had never thought of her mother as a kind loving person, not after Irini discovered that her brother's magical abilities, as strong as her own, had been somehow locked away by their mother.
Irini sat in her tower room, watching as the infernal book turned to ash in her brazier. Flynn ... she hadn't let it show, but she knew the boy, by sight at least. A spoiled brat, from what she knew. Irini was on good terms with all the servants, and none of the women had anything kind to say about the scout. By all reports, he was selfish, cruel, and convinced that the world was against him. Irini had taken a look through the book before she burned it, and found the folded down page that Flynn had apparently read from.
And yea, did the mighty priest trace the symbol, and the ground before him quaked about, shaking as though a million bugs crawled beneath the surface. As I watched, the hands burst through from below, the dead rising again, to do the bidding of their new master.
On the next page was a description of the magical symbol was written out. The six pointed star and circle design, a symbol and a seal against magic. This design, unlike a normal pentagram, was meant to concentrate and deflect magical power into whoever stood inside it. In cases like the one from the Necronomicon, that Flynn was obviously trying to recreate, the power was instead sent into a corpse, to animate it or destroy it utterly.
Irini traced the brand in her shoulder, put there soon after she had reached maturity and was well into her magical studies. It also served as a seal of protection, to lock away demons and other foul creatures. Irini barely remembered her grandfather, could barely recall why he had traced the brand into her skin. Something else to do with protection ... she shook her head, gazing out the thick windows at the faint starlight of the night. With a wave of her hand, ice crystals sped from her palm to extinguish the ashes in the brazier. She walked through the door, and down the stairs to her room, to sleep for the night.

Gerard had been truly shaken by the death of the scout. The next day, all day, he had spent talking with Diego and his friend, Romero, about the scene. Diego had found the strange northerner in the forest, and helped him back to the village, where Charmain managed to heal most of his wounds. The next morning, their sergeant asked them where Flynn was. Since the dead scout had a habit of disappearing when he wasn't supposed to, no one was very worried. They ran the short half mile to the graveyard the next morning, after the strange scream. There, they could see through the fence Flynn's dead body, and the stick he had used to trace his magical ward.
Without entering the graveyard to examine the body, they raced back to the castle. Charmain went to wake Irini, and the group went out to the graveyard. No, the scouts hadn't entered at all, and didn't think anyone else had either.
Gerard scowled, thinking over the memories again. Something just wasn't right about Flynn's death ... from what he knew, the Necronomicon never always worked the way it should. Could it really be that simple? The scout was jealous and angry at his rival, and sought to raise a zombie to kill Diego, so that he would be free of blame?
The young man shook his head, and again pulled out the small volume he had been reading every night. He again read over the same two pages, and moved from his desk to the clear spot in the center of his room. With several deep breaths, he centered his concentration, and began his routine. Jump circle kick, punch, low kick and trip ... on it went, for a half hour. Finally, he reached the final move. He jumped in the air, his legs lashing out in a triple kick, coming down with no time to land them underneath him, and caught his balance perfectly on his left hand, flipping over into another attack routine with almost inhuman grace. Back on his feet, Gerard assumed the ready, waiting position, and let his mind slip out of his meditation state. He glanced once at the moonlit window, and traced a symbol in the air -- the six point star and circle design, that he and his sister wore on their skin, the broken ward that Flynn thought to protect himself from the dead with.

Diego barely knew Flynn's father, a captain of the normal gate guards. There were three captains, one for the scouts, one for the gate guards, and one for the village militia, who patrolled the edges of the village and farmlands night and day. The scout passed the grieving man that afternoon, headed back out to the forest again. Truly, the captain looked pale, shaken, and weak. Diego had never liked Flynn, never thought someone with his cruel temperament should be in the guards at all. But it seemed not that Flynn's death had struck the captain hard, but rather that his son's body had been found gripping a book of unspeakable evil, a book that even Irini loathed to touch with her bare hands. Diego sighed, and waved to Romero as his friend jogged across the courtyard to catch up.
"Hey Diego! Three more kills today! How about yourself?" Romero grinned. The scouts were keeping a tally of kills, all in friendly sport of course. Flynn had been third in the scouts, running very close behind Diego and Romero.
"Only two for myself. But one was an orc." Diego grinned back at his friend, and Romero scowled at his friend, realizing he'd just been passed again.
"Drat it all, you have all the luck! Well, you heading out for a night time hunt?" Romero clapped Diego on the shoulder, smiling and rubbing the edge of his wooden shield.
Diego looked out at the forest, as a guard raised the gate. Diego wasn't quite sure how to tell his friend about the strange dreams he had been having. Or even if he really wanted to. "Actually, I was thinking of going to sleep in that garden again. It's lovely weather for the spring."
Romero looked worried. "Are you sure it's really safe there? I mean, it was supposed to have been enchanted by Erana, but that was almost a hundred and fifty years ago!"
Diego smiled, a small smile. He remembered last autumn, with the leaves in gold and red on the trees, when he had headed towards that garden one afternoon, planning to bring back a few of the apricots that grew there. Standing in the middle of the garden was (so he thought at the time) a figure of unrivaled beauty, purity of nature. He stood, awestruck, as the lady there sang her song of peace and harmony, binding the garden even stronger against conflicts and violence. Not until she turned around did Diego realize that it was no nymph or dryad, but the Duke's daughter Irini! He had dropped to his knees, but she walked over and made him stand again. He remembered her voice, as she whispered in his ear to tell no one what he had seen, then she kissed his cheek before she vanished.
Diego realized that Romero was staring at him. "Believe me, Romero, I feel safer sleeping in that garden than being here in the barracks." His friend looked doubtful, and bid Diego a farewell as he headed back into the stone walls of the Duke's keep.
Diego hadn't seen Irini, at least not that close, until the night before. Seeing Flynn like that made him start shuddering all over again, and he felt a brief touch of the nightmare again. He was only dreaming in the garden, he knew. Diego had stayed in the barracks the night before, and slept soundly, his dreams empty. Yet when he awoke, he felt tired, as though all night he has been fighting. The dreams were bad ... but not as bad as the empty sleep he endured at the castle.
Diego reached the garden around nightfall, stretching out between two of the always-plentiful fruit trees. In the grass before him, he traced the symbol he saw in his dreams again, a six point star inside a circle.