Hey everyone, so this is the first guest post like this I'm doing here on the blog. Mr. Parkes reached out to me after I asked if anyone was interested in being hosted here and I've gotta admit that I love the process and this story. I'm excited to see where he goes with his writing and I'm glad to offer him up a space here to show his work.
If you want to check out his website It's located Here.
Without further ado, I present to you Eternity By Micheal Parkes.
Eternity
It was supposed to have been a simple exploratory expedition. A treasure hunt to an ancient fortress that had witnessed atrocities in ages past, nothing more than a crumbling pile of stones now, or so they were led to believe.
The malevolence in that ancient castle was partly why they had been sent to it. It was built long ago by a community of pech, halflings, and dwarves as a bastion of the little folk. Gor’ol Ja, it had been called then. The dwarves quarried the stone, the mighty gnome-like pech carried them with ease, and the nimble halflings set the mortar between the stones. The keep was built through cooperation, and the little folk lived their lives upon that virtue and upon the division of labour: the dwarves mined for material wealth, the halflings tended the crops and livestock, and the pech formed the warrior class. For several generations, Gor’ol Ja was known for its heather ale brewed by the pech and its delicious nut bread baked by the halflings.
It was the arrival of dark forces seeking the riches within the keep that was the end of that peaceful community. A necromancer of some power, craving ascendence to lichdom, had set his sights upon Gor’ol Ja as his base of operations. Hoping to use the slaughter and material wealth to achieve his foul goal of becoming an immortal abomination, he also sought an army to repel the holy warriors who would undoubtedly come to slay him. In his mind, taking Gor’ol Ja would provide both wealth and bodies in great numbers, and he would not be deterred from his ignoble goals.
The pech were strong combatants, but a sword does little against he who screeches like a banshee to erase the lives of entire platoons in seconds, then subsequently raise the dead and send them against their former brethren. Facing their own risen comrades, the pech lost their usual nerve, and quickly fell to hopelessness. Their own dead were those they fought, and who could raise a sword against their own friends, brothers, and fathers? Even if they slew them, they would simply be risen anew. It was an army of the risen dead that marched upon that once peaceful keep, and it wasn’t long before Gor’ol Ja was in ruins, overrun by the fallen that had once called it home. Ragged hats,
shattered axes, and smashed barrels did not convey the extent of the horror that the keep had seen that day, though perhaps it was best left unsaid. The necromancer wasted no time preforming the unspeakable rituals to become immortal, tying his life force to gems he had taken from the dwarven
hoard. Setting them into his skull’s eye sockets as well as replacing his teeth with them, these soul gems were made to hold his soul’s essence. In due time, his ambitions sent him off to journey elsewhere. Leaving the ruined keep behind and taking his army of zombified little folk with him, only blood-stained stones and eerie silence were to remain behind.
Of course, a lich’s view of what is valuable and what is not differs greatly from the viewpoint of mortal men. The expedition was to plumb the castle and its mines, finding treasure, rediscovering ore veins, or possibly finding arcana the lich deemed too unimportant to bother with. They had been told the castle was abandoned and that they would be paid handsomely for exploring it.
The castle wasn’t hard to find, but it was remote; it took several days of travel from the capital to get to the keep. The countryside was beautiful, peaceful, and dotted with farmhouses and tiny hamlets. It did not reflect the evil that had once dwelt within those pitted cobbles and worn stones, despite some of the settlements being scarcely a day’s travel from the keep. The expedition managed to get there without any trouble. The stones of Gor’ol Ja were stained by both ancient blood and the elements, making the once grey castle look blackened in many places. They looked up at it,
wondering what was to be found within.
There was a faint whipping sound from above. Following soon after, a stone from one of the
crumbling spires tore through a stable boy’s skull. His brains splattered the ancient, weed-choked cobblestones, and the quiet air of subtle malaise was immediately replaced with the electric nerves of combat. The mercenaries drew their weapons as shouts filled the air. The stable boy lay in a pool of blood, flowing between and into the cobbles beneath, soaking the ground with gore just like that day many ages ago.
Then, nothing happened. Shouts became murmurs which then became silence again. No undead dwarves attacked them, no lich stole their souls, not even an animal leapt out. It was decided to have been an accident.
“Ah will spill th' guts o' anythin' that looks at me funny a' ower th' stanes 'n' cobbles o' this thrice-damned keep” said one of the painted mercenaries gruffly as he sheathed his sword. The others followed suit as the priests of the group made their way forward to raise the boy. They had high priests amongst their number who had communed directly with the gods; there were magi presentwho had wandered the most stygian corners of the underworld and the most splendorous sparkling fields of the planes beyond conventional reality. Why would they fear an errant stone?
A fallen stable boy would not deter them from riches. They made camp within the courtyard of the keep, unnerved by the lingering malaise such a place filled with bygone horrors produces, then entering the crumbling archways and holes within the castle walls to find the opening to the old mines. It took less than an hour to discover the cellars, and not long after that the expedition discovered a collapsed tunnel, hewn from crude stone rather than the chiseled bricks of the cellar walls. The day deemed a success, though some of them were still on-edge, they made their way back to camp and drank from the kegs they had brought with them, dancing and singing, forgetting all about the terrible events long since passed, and not paying attention to the clack of pebbles against the cracked cobbles underfoot. Stones occasionally fell from above, but no mind was paid to them,
nor did anyone notice.
Sometime later, one of the mercenaries wandered off to relieve himself after one too many flagons of ale. Stumbling off to their arrival point as his vision swam and bracing himself against a stone wall, he released his stream. Looking about drunkenly, he noticed the stain where the stable boy had lain dead a few hours before, blood and brains pouring from his open skull, causing a shiver to run down his spine. There had been so much blood. Holy magic was a wonderful thing to undo that in a few seconds. He also noticed a smooth stone not far from the stain, and after finishing his trip to the improvised outhouse, he clumsily wandered over to it. Crouching down, he noticed it was bloody; it had hair and brains on it – definitely what had killed the boy – though it looked more like a bullet from a cleric’s sling than a stone that would fall off the towers above. He drunkenly looked up to see
where it had fallen from. A stone loudly clacked behind him. Whirling around, he saw nothing but woodlands, though quickly found himself falling backwards onto the cracked cobbles as something sliced his Achilles tendons from behind. He shouted, but no one heard over the din of the merrymaking, and the swift slice of a sickle across his throat ended his life. As his blood pooled around his body, his assailant removed its cap, soaking it in the sanguine fluid.
*****
The sun shone the next morning on a camp in disarray. Drunken revelry had led to rather
hungover mercenaries, and it seemed the priests and mages had misplaced their spell books and ritual scrolls, and would thus be unable to divine where any treasures lay as a result. A few mercenaries were missing as well, but they were assumed to be asleep in a bush somewhere nearby.
The horses seemed agitated, and a few must’ve wandered off, though it was the pounding in everyone’s heads and the burning in their stomachs that let such things fall by the wayside unnoticed. Slowly and sluggishly, a morning meal was prepared, eaten slowly, and it wasn’t until it was nearly midday that anything resembling actual work was done. Some felt better by then. Others were worse. What was once headaches and burning in the stomach became excruciating migraines and vomiting blood. The priests tried to heal the afflicted, but having had no time to petition their deities the previous night for power and lacking their scrolls, they couldn’t heal them all. It seemed to be purely the mercenaries affected, which was troubling, as without force of arms or magic to safeguard the expedition, they were fairly vulnerable. This sentiment was felt by all present, who were uneasy and on-edge, knowing that even a band of thieves could pose a real threat to them in this state. The magi
felt exposed with their limited spells available and began frantically searching for their lost tomes. The priests searched for their scrolls. The afflicted mercenaries writhed in agony whilst the unafflicted looked pale and afraid.
“There’s a body!” came a cry from atop the ramparts. The few able-bodied mercenaries remaining drew their weapons and ran to investigate as a bush rustled near one of the tents. The priests and mages, distracted and panicked, failed to notice the creature creep into the nearest tent. Nor did they notice when others appeared, creeping silently despite their heavy iron sabatons, making their way to the mercenaries lying about and silently slitting their throats. Each time a person was slain, the creature removed its hat, dipping it in the blood.
*****
The few men-at-arms who were not poisoned, along with the stable boys, charged up the crumbling stone steps, swords drawn and shields in hand. There was only a collapsed tower and broken battlements to greet them. Looking back down to camp quickly, the poisoned mercenaries were still lying around and the priests and magi were still searching for their tomes and scrolls. Then the realization dawned upon them.
“Hold then,” one of the stable boys said, “who called out from up here then?”
Behind the collapsed tower, a thin trickle of blood began running through the pitted and uneven surface of the rampart’s walkway. The painted man-at-arms walked over tentatively.
“This one's fresh. A few auld bodies tae. Th' scrolls 'n' tomes ur 'ere as weel. Torn 'n' charred.”
Their hearts sank and their eyes widened. A fresh body. Old bodies. Worst of all, every spell book and ritual scroll was destroyed. They hadn’t been misplaced. They had been stolen and rendered useless. They were being picked off one by one. The expedition was doomed now. If they couldn’t raise their dead, heal their wounds, or access the arcane might of the mages, they were dead. Most of their warriors were poisoned, so even military strength wasn’t an option. Fear set in.
*****
An acolyte was the first to notice the mercenaries were all dead. He screamed, making the others look about, their eyes widening and their hearts pounding as they saw the scene around them. Nervous, the magi and priests prepared to cast the few spells they still had available. Shouting came from the ramparts above.
*****
The warrior fell to the ground, a bullet having torn through his head and lodged in it. The others shouted in panic, whirling around in wide-eyed and heart pounding terror trying to locate their assailants.
A bullet tore through the same stable boy’s skull as before, this time ripping most of the side of his head off as it passed through his skull.
“Thare,” said the scarred and painted warrior, his face a snarl. He pointed his sword to a wall some ways away. “They cowardly bastards ur ower thare.”
They all looked to the spot, seeing nothing. Except one of the stable boys.
“Sir,” he whispered to the painted warrior, “there’s a sabaton poking out from behind the wall.”
“Sae thare is. Guid wirk laddie. Ye a' form a defensive line, ah will gut thae milksop bastards lik' trout.”
Trying their best, and especially paying attention to their heads, the warriors managed to form a defensive shell with their shields. They used part of the collapsed tower to cover their flank. Battlements behind them, tower to their right, and the courtyard was out of view to their left. They watched their champion creep up to the wall. Oddly, no stones pelted them.
The painted warrior crept along the wall. He was right at the spot where the sabaton lay now.
“Die ye gutless murderer!”
Leaping out, he swung his sword wide, but only cut through air. The sabaton was a lone one, and seemingly abandoned. Beyond it, a dead end. Nothing was there.
*****
The nearest tent rustled. A priest bellowed as he swung his mace into it, crumpling it and wrapping it around his weapon. The only thing he revealed were bedrolls and supplies. There was momentary relief, though only for a split second; the creatures had found their way behind them all. The strong smell of blood filled the air at their approach, but it was too late as the creatures cut the Achilles tendons of every mage. Screams of pain pierced the air as sickles glanced off of the cleric’s heavy armour, but the clanging of steel-on-steel caused them to whirl around to come face-to-face with their assailants.
There were about twenty of them, all a bit shorter than a halfling. Their faces were bat-like, their bodies sinewy and emaciated, their arms spindly, and their skin deathly pale. Between their tall, pointed ears was a ragged conical hat, and every one of them was dripping with fresh blood. Sickles were in every hand, and a sneer on every face. The clerics stood wide-eyed and confused. What were these things?
The high priest reacted quickly, pulling out the symbol of his deity and reciting the scriptures at the creatures. They hissed and recoiled, some even dropping their sickles, and every other priest followed suit. As the priest advanced, the creatures cowered, and the other priests followed suit,chanting and holding out their holy symbols. Finally, the creatures screamed and disappeared in bursts of flame. All that was left behind was their sickles, sabatons, and dust. Triumphant, they cheered at having vanquished the foul monsters. Though none of the mages joined them in their revelry.
Confused, they looked around, only to notice every mage had their throats cut. Well, nearly every mage. It seemed one mage had managed to kill one of the creatures despite his own injuries.Wandering over to heal his wounds, they looked at the dead creature. At least they thought it was dead. Its purple tongue lolled out of its mouth, its eyes were crossed, yet the others had left no corpse…
As the high priest was about to mend the mage’s wounds, the creature leapt up and pounced at the fallen wizard. Panicked, wounded, and terrified, the mage’s last words were a screamed incantation as the entire courtyard erupted in orange flames. The horrid smell of burning flesh and the haunting, echoing screams of the priests as they cooked alive in their armour rang out, filling the mercenaries above with pure terror.
*****
Flames erupted from the courtyard. Horrible, agonized wails rang through the ruined ramparts and into the skies above Gor’ol Ja. The men-at-arms whirled around as they lowered their shields, panic-stricken and horrified, as the screams abruptly ended. The flames retreated, with only gouts of smoke coming from the courtyard now. They couldn’t see the courtyard, only the smoke that erupted from beyond the battlements on their left, but they were too terrified to investigate. Then the smell hit them.
The stable boys puked immediately. The other warriors followed suit. The stink of charred flesh and blood permeated the area in a repugnant miasma that sunk into their clothes.
Their hearts pounded. Their stomachs burned. The Lich was down there and had slaughtered everyone! With no mages, no priests, no supplies, and no horses, and only a few stable boys and men-at-arms left, they began to despair. Some wept, others accepted death, and a few broke down shrieking. There were only a handful of them left, and they were all going to die.
“We’re doomed. They’re all dead, and we’re next,” a mercenary said, tears streaming down his face as he leapt off the parapet behind him.
“The Lich is going raise us all!” shrieked a hysterical stable boy.
“Damn it, a' o' ye clam up noo!”
A bullet tore through a stable boy’s head and lodged into a man-at-arms’ at the same time. Both fell to the ground, blood pouring from their wounds.
The group, save for the painted warrior, all bolted for the stairs to the courtyard. The painted warrior, however, panicked and terrified, dove behind the ruined tower. Hyperventilating, his hand brushed the ruined scrolls and tomes. Maybe he could use them? No, they were all ruined and charred.
The last stable boy was killed by a barrage of bullets from somewhere unseen. He looked over the battlements from where he sat. The warrior that had leapt was dead some ways below, but there was a rather deep looking lake. He thought about jumping into it. It would probably kill him, but…
Screams came from the courtyard. Then abruptly ended. He was the last one.
There was no choice. He clambered up onto the crumbling battlement, had it give way beneath him, and send him tumbling forward off the parapet. He wanted so badly to scream, but if he did, he would be killed. He knew it.
He tried his best to aim for the lake, but the ground was rapidly approaching and he was terrified he’d miss. He couldn’t even swim, but he pointed his arms into a diving position and –
He slipped underwater very quickly. It rushed all around him, knocking the wind out of him and filling his mouth instantly. He panicked and aimed forward instead of down into the water, then he smashed into the bottom of the lake hard. The silt erupted silently all around him. He screamed reflexively, taking more water in. His lungs burned. He had no air. He would die here.
Panicked, lungs on fire, torso aching, and strength leaving him, he frantically kicked and flailed his arms upwards. He hoped it worked.
He was going to pass out. He was dead. He was–
The water fell away from his body. He surfaced. Coughed. Fell back underwater. Surfaced again. Treaded water. He spit out water, lungs still burning, torso still throbbing in pain, but he was alive. He slowly swam to shore, not knowing if he’d make it, but he did, and he flopped on his side, water pouring from his mouth as he coughed harshly. Coughing hurt his torso even more. He tried to flip to the other side only to scream in sudden agony. He’d definitely cracked a rib. Maybe his other side was best.
Panting, exhausted, injured, but alive, he lay there for quite some time. Finally, he got to his feet, stumbled, then stood up. His side hurt bad, and patting his chest down hurt terribly, but that could be solved by a priest.
Mourning his comrades and ashamed of his defeat, but happy to be alive, the painted warrior limped away from Gor’ol Ja, a terrible place that he would be glad to be far away from.
At least he had survived.
*****
The pitted stones and cobbles were much the same as he had remembered them. The bodies strewn about were all bled out and most were heavily burned. The armour had melted off some of them even. Its metallic surface glinted in the moonlight. Some of the bodies were so charred as to just be blackened specks on dark bones.
Picking his way amongst them, he noticed a movement from his periphery. Whirling around, his cloak billowing as he did, he saw several goblinoid creatures in bright red caps before him. Sickles in one hand, slings in the other. The cause of all of this.
“What do I find before myself here?” the voice asked, echoing and ethereal, “what is the meaning of this?”
Stepping forward, one of the creatures looked up at the hooded and cloaked figure before
him.
“Master,” it rasped through its undead throat, “we did as you said to. We repelled the
intruders.”
“Repelled the intruders, did you? Then why are some of you missing, and why did I hear talk of a broken warrior limping into a town nearby, completely mad from exposure ranting about invisible creatures here?”
“Master, we’re sorry, we–”
Fingers of bone adorned with glowing rings snapped. Green sparks flew up and around the cloaked figure, shining off of the jewels beneath his hood and on his fingers. The energy flew in tendrils all around, passing through the ground, circling the walls and turrets, and passing through every body that lay all over the courtyard.
“Sorry? Might I remind you that without victims you’ll wither and perish? I induce the expeditions, you kill them, I get the bodies, you get to live, is that not how this works?”
The corpses shifted. The mostly intact ones rose immediately, their wounds reforming and
mending. The more charred ones rose as skeletons, what little flesh they had left sloughing off as they stood. Some of the risen clerics rose in the same armour that fused to their bodies, walking in bizarre, twitching, and unnatural ways.
“Now tell me: how will expeditions come here if they KNOW your kind are here? Hm?”
“Master, we tried, but one got away! Please, we didn’t choose this, we only wished to–”
“SILENCE!”
The green energy all shot to the offending redcap. The hood flew back, revealing the skull of the lich, its jeweled eyes and teeth glistening in the light of the green magic.
“You chose to live like this. You chose to remain at your home. You all chose this!”
“Our souls are in thrall! There is no choice! You have damned us to this existence!”
“Damned you, hm? Then enjoy damnation.”
The green energy formed a circle beneath the redcap.
“GODS NO! PLEASE!”
“YOU. CHOSE. THIS,” the ethereal voice boomed with rage. The jewels in the lich’s eye sockets burned with green energy.
The circle formed into a pure black portal. Within it, there was utter nothingness. The redcap sank into it slowly.
“NO! PLEASE GODS NO!
“If you are dissatisfied with this arrangement, then your soul is of no use to me. But I have friends who can make use of it. Enjoy the stygian abyss of the nether world.” The lich let out a low, evil cackle as the redcap sank into the blackness and the portal closed.
The other redcaps were wide-eyed and terrified. They looked speechless to the Lich.
“Well then, I suppose there will be no more hiccups?”
They all shook their heads quickly.
“Excellent.”
The lich again snapped his bony fingers, and in an instant flesh and sinew ran up and down his bony form until he resembled the man he once was in life. His pale skin and black hair
complimented his black and gold robes.
“Look after my new pets as I go deal with the one that escaped. The next expedition will be one of little folk to bolster your numbers,” the lich said, though his human voice was cold and callous rather than echoing and hypnotic.
Resigned to their fate, the redcaps nodded. They had chosen to defend their former home. They did not choose to become what they were now. Knowing what awaited them if they protested, they resigned themselves to their fate as slaves.
It was of cold comfort, but it was an idea in the back of all of their minds: they had fallen defending Gor’ol Ja in life, and now in death, they were damned to defending it again. For eternity.
Until existence ceased, until all had crumbled to nothingness, until time itself lost all meaning, and even then, their undead forms might persist if their master willed it.
They would be reminded of their failings to defend it in life, and their failings to defend it in death, and even now their acute and painful helplessness and hopelessness overwhelmed
them. This was how it was to be. On and on throughout the ages.
Forever.