5. THE AVATAR OF MURDER

Forynnuhr and Harqwenne, the Scribe, wandered a meandering path that sloped downwards, below the surface floor of the necropolis' dry terrain, walking under the vaulting ceiling of an arched promenade. The journey was deceptive -- the distance to their destination was far greater than they had expected. There was a persistent breeze coiling and spiraling through the empty spaces around them as they trudged through the uneven, stone-littered landscape. The rushing air's movement created a hollow, whistling noise that echoed down the length of the hooded walkway leading to the abandoned city's shadowy center. It was a haunted and moody elemental music that unintentionally inspired moments of quiet unease in the two men.

Twilight had descended over the acreage of boneyard and aging masonry.

They were being watched. They could feel it. They could feel the sneer behind the malevolent appraisal of them as they moved past niches containing cracked and crumbling statues of warrior-kings, demons and demigods whose names were lost to history. Here and there they passed the remnants of grime-streaked battle armor, mostly broken helmets and crumpled breast plates, and metal shields on which decals of platoon and troop insignia had faded from exposure to the elements. The place smelled of heat-blasted soil, long dead animal carcasses and wood mold.

But those hidden eyes on the two of them induced a feeling like hot electricity dancing on wet flesh, jittery, prickly and stinging.

"How much further?" Forynnuhr asked.

"Just a few dozen steps around that column to the right, past that partly collapsed wall that you see," Harqwenne said.

They had walked only a dozen steps further when Forynnuhr commented aloud, "You mean a few steps past the human skeleton with the iron war pike sticking through its ribcage?"Harqwenne unleashed a sound that was a cross between a surprised hiss and a fatalistic moan.

Looking past the Pilgrim's shoulder, he could see there was indeed the duty, cobweb-draped skeletal remains of a traveler sitting propped against the pitted, partially-demolished wall. A long war lance with a diamond-shaped hasp was lodged in the rib cage of the bony framework.

"Stand alert. It is apparent we are not alone," the Scribe warned tensely.

Both men peered more attentively into the gloom of their surroundings and, to their consternation, they noticed not so subtle shifts of density and shape in and amongst the patchwork of shadows cast by the day's fading light.

They were being watched --- and followed. Past a towering stone column three times the circumference of a large man, a tall figure carrying some unidentifiable variety of staff or spear peered at them with eyes that glowed a sickly and anemic gold color.

Up on the catwalk of the ornate mezzanine overhead and to their right, a trio of thick, bulky yet definitely man-shaped figures peered down at them with baleful yellow eyes.

From a short distance behind them, they heard the soft shuffling of scurrying, booted feet.

"Under different circumstances, this could be vaguely amusing," Forynnuhr said ruefully. "But not today."

With no discussion between them, Forynnuhr and Harqwenne both instinctively adopted a relaxed, non-threatening stance. They reasoned that if they were being allowed to see what few of their enemy were currently visible, then there had to be at least twice that number hidden in the immediate vicinity. That meant they were gravely outnumbered. And, since they had no idea about the disposition of the watchers, they were not going to risk needlessly offending or alarming them. Arrogantly bulling through the situation was not liable to produce positive results. So they waited for the men-in-shadows to make first contact. A prudent plan, but such a passive-aggressive stance did not sit well with the Pilgrim at all. He didn't like being threatened, even when the threat was merely implied ... and someone was going to pay for that indignity.

"What do you here, Meatmen?" The disembodied distinctly male voice asked the question in an accent that hinted that the speaker was unused to civilized discourse. The voice was deep and rough, growling, and there was a breathlessness to the way the words rushed out that indicated that the speaker was anything but someone accustomed to oral debate. Too, there was an arrogance about the tonality that served to further put Forynnuhr's gritted teeth on edge. "You do not belong. This is not your home. And you are not of The Tribe. You are not Wenkrang. What do you here?"

Forynnuhr turned his head to look to Harqwenne. The Scribe gave an almost imperceptible nod and spoke.

"We are merely travelers. We have no business with anyone here. We have no quarrel with anyone here. We are only passing through..."

The speaker interrupted him before he could finish. "Do not take us for fools. No one would willingly decide to travel through the dusty ruins of the fortress at Shi'draih-Hakaba when they could as easily follow the caravan path around it to the oasis at Bre'Enqachuk Mesa. You are here because you are meeting someone or because you want something. So if you are not known to the Wenkrang, then your business is with the Ashen Brood inside the Duskhelm Priory. And if you have business with them, then you are Unredeemed. To us, who are known as 'The Xsieh'Potheth' to the Unredeemed, those who have dealings with the Ashen Brood are enemies. So, Meatmen, what do you here?"

Neither Forynnuhr nor The Scribe answered, choosing instead to stare defiantly back at those glowing eyes in the shadows.

"I will not ask again," the speaker for the Wenkrang warned.

"And what business is it of the Wenkrang?" Forynnuhr countered, allowing his growing irritation with the situation to show. "Meatmen, are we? Unredeemed? You are not natives of the necropolis and you are not the recognized or authorized commanders of the fortress within it. We owe you no allegiance and, so, we owe you no explanations. Our business is our own."

"The two of you stand defenseless in the dark, surrounded, ignorant to the true power of the foe you face and yet you are so sure of yourselves. Such pridefulness. You have named us 'Xsieh'Potheth' in your primitive tongue," the voice said. "Do you know what that means? The Ravenous Horde. Insulting. We were a great and ancient culture who roamed the far continents of the Western Hemisphere eighty heliars before you built the first temples to your imaginary false gods, but you on this continent of the Eastern Hemisphere call us 'the Ravenous Horde'. We abandoned the continent of the West, crossing the Ocean of Wrath, seeking to expand our kingdom and spread the word of the One-Master-Adept-Over-True-Men, the Primereign, and we encountered your kind: masters of war and death, a race of soulless killers."

The speaker paused while the many eyes of his dark kin stared with raw animal fury at Forynnuhr and Harqwenne. When the hidden orator resumed speaking, his voice was more emotional. Angrier.

"We came in peace. You embraced us with deceit. You stole from us our sciences, our literature, our healing arts. And, with your terrible weapons, you ultimately enslaved us. And you felt you could do this to us because of the dictates of our genetic nutritional predisposition, because we are forced, by our own biology, to consume the flesh of others. To you, we are less than your beasts of burden. To you, we are monsters. But you come here, to this place, a dead fortress-city, a city once dedicated to conflict and bloodshed, to stand before us in the dark, bringing with you more secrets. So again I ask, what do you here?"

"Gods," Forynnuhr said, his tongue rolling the word around in his mouth like a dirty and unwanted stone. "Of course there'd be 'gods' involved. You people and your so-called gods... Because your meager, parochial intellects, and your unsophisticated and immature societal sensibilities, CAN imagine something bigger and grander than yourselves, you assume such a being MUST exist. You need such a being to exist. And because that IMAGINED deity must exist, then your kind absolutely must be its favorite children. So, by extension, you and your kind are supremely special. You're chosen. And everyone else, meaning the people who don't subscribe to the same cosmic fantasy as you, are all unenlightened liars and savages. And they have wronged you and your people, even persecuted you. So you now sit in judgment over any strangers you encounter, proclaiming a holy right to vengeance. Is THAT how this goes?"

The Scribe involuntarily held his breath as the Pilgrim openly sneered at the army in the shadows.

"That story has been told by one group or another throughout the universe throughout the ages. No one cares anymore. You and your people deserved what happened to you, you ignorant sheep."

The silence that followed was tense as a sharp knife's blade resting against a soft and pulsing throat. The next words the faceless, hidden speaker for the Wenkrang issued were less confrontative, but nonetheless menacing. His voice held the sound of someone struggling desperately to control their temper.

"What is your name?"

The Pilgrim squared his wide shoulders and answered. He remained unaffected by the speaker's story of betrayal and persecution. If anything, so far as the Scribe could see, he appeared to be bored.

"Name? I have many. Here, in this place, I am Forynnuhr, and, by most, called 'The Pilgrim'," the Offworlder answered.

"Pilgrim," the speaker growled, the dawning of recognition in his tone. "An alien from Upworld. We know of you. Wizard, thief, liar, and assassin. We believed you were only a myth."

Forynnuhr shrugged. By the way he stood, The Scribe could tell his imperious and egotistic companion was weary of the discussion. Harqwenne, himself, was nervous beyond words, but he resisted letting his hand stray to his weapons, not wanting to give the Wenkrang reason to attack.

"My words have no meaning to you, do they? What and who we Wenkrang are, matters not at all to you. So I think we will kill you today," the speaker finally said.

"Then get to it. I'm busy," the Pilgrim taunted.

Before anymore words could be exchanged, before anyone could make a move, there was a sudden and startling electronic screech, an eye-searing flash of bright light, and an explosion of sparks from the impact point where the energy beam had hit. The discharge of a blast weapon. From up above.

Harqwenne looked overhead and saw five men in crafted leather combat fatigues and plate armor, all with curved scythe-swords scabbarded on belted holsters, each standing atop a hovering, triangular aerial device and each levelling a long-barreled, electronic assault weapon down at the necropolis floor. Ashen Brood marksmen.