Crom on the Walls

The Wall of Ulest

There was something about the way the mist stirred in the morning, and the way the winds blew coldly across the walls of Ulest. In this cold and desolate place there was no rest, its earth was lifeless and harvested nothing but the corpses of the fallen, its air was bitterly cold and never still, its sun never shone for more than a few minutes a day. Being a Watchman here was meaningless, for none could see more than a few feet. Nay, on the walls of Ulest they had Listeners.

Three Listeners were on the east wall that day, their cloaks flapping in the light breeze, their eyes narrowed and scanning the few feet they could see from the walls. Nothing much stirred out there except for the Daroog, and even they would not dare attack in the early morning, when the restless dead came to seek the living. But one man did this day.

A figure, well toned and muscled, wearing a simple set of leather hose and tunic, deftly and silently scaled the great walls. A sword was strapped to his back, its blade dulled with fire. Like a cross between spider and panther, the figure was inhumanly fast and eventually t reached the top of the walls. Like a shadow, it slithered between two battlements and their it crouched, its ears at the pinnacle of its senses. Slowly and without sound it drew the long blade from its back and held it level with the wall.

A guard walked casually down the battlements with his spear resting against his shoulder, his two companions were no more than twenty foot away, sitting at a small table playing dice.

His warm cloak fluttered in a brief gust of wind and he stopped barely feet from where the beast was crouching. He sniffed the air and took another step closer, his eyes focusing on objects in the distance. He did not see the beast crouched and poised to strike out savagely.

There was a silent flash of steel and a brief cry which none seemed to hear, and before the guard could realise what was going on, he was falling to the earth. He landed as a corpse.

The human in all his feralness stopped to think for a moment, his skin black with soot and white stripes of chalk. His hair was tied back to keep it from his eyes and not a single drop of sweat dripped from his brow. Silently he pounced from the battlements to the wall and sprinted with alight padding of feet to a tower to the left. In one move he leapt to the wall like an ape and clambered silently to its highest point like a spider. There he stopped again, listening and feeling as the stones about him shuddered gently to every move in the towers rooms below him.

Quickly he pulled from under his tunic a horn made from a single Ivory tusk and placed it to his lips. A moment later the unmistakable sound of the Daroog erupted to pierce the misty sky. The guards on the wall below him jumped from their stools and grabbed their spears propped on the wall.

There came a clanging of arms and armour as the whole wall erupted into a chaotic burst which brought to life the empty Ulest. Cries of fear and barking orders rang out over the misty place as the din grew louder and Archers and Spear men alike brought their weapons to the wall. But it was too late to stop the first wave.

All about the wall sprang the Daroog, and screams of terror and pain clanged out, swords and shields collided with heavy ringing and the spill of blood spattered quietly. The black skinned Daroog set about their business here with wanton abandon, the Guards fell like stones in water as more and more of the Devils swamped over the battlements and onto the walls. Then as suddenly as their appeared, they vanished without a sound back into the mists of Ulest.

All about the wall lay the dead and wailing Guards whom were unlucky enough to be the first line of defence. Clutching their spears nervously, the survivors picked their wounded from the blood washed stone slabs. There was no remorse in these attacks, it was as if the dead had a vengeful streak in them, if that was possible. One such dead spirit was still there though, and he went by the name of Crom.

A few hours passed and soon the sun was dwindling away, and the heavier fog of the evening was setting in. Crom let the hours pass by listening to the conversations of the Guards only ten or fifteen foot below him, smiling to himself at how cunning the Tribes men of the Ulest actually were.
“I saw ‘em first I tells ya, Black skinned Demons, all striped with white like Tigers and with fangs sharper than me Dagger ! I tell ya youth, these are troubled times, the Spirits of the dead haven’t always been thus.” Crom had to stifle a laugh at that comment. Spirits of the dead indeed ! They were nothing more than a dream of Crom’s, Made to strike fear and avoid investigation, a perfect lie for perfect Thieves.

The fog fell even heavier this night, and Crom found it more than a little easy to sneak his way through the lines of Guards and to the wall of the Commanders keep. As before on the initial wall, Crom practically glided up the wall, and to the first window he did shrink into.

A few torches burned lazily in the plush corridor, and a single red carpet ran its course through, following the turns of the wooden floored corridor. A quick glance either way told Crom it was safe to move on, and steadily he swung his legs into the building. He landed in a crouch and paused, listening.
“Aye, the Commander is in his room, no doubt scribbling his words down on a piece of parchment to send away to our Lords, if you ask me...” Another voice butted in, one which Crom was unable to pick up on, then the voice continued,
“Aye, Aye I know, Lords and Ladies are always playing tricks on one another, go on then son, off ya go.” Soft steps padded closer from around the corner of the corridor, and Crom was still out in the open. He darted away.

A young boy, no older than sixteen walked steadily up the steps, his hand grasping a small scroll sealed by wax, a smile on his face and a bounce in his step. He wore a tabard embossed with many symbols and flags, no doubt a Page for one of the Lords. He stopped as he rounded the corner, certain he saw something sliver away. He shrugged it from his mind and walked to a large door, knocked once and left the scroll on the floor. He then walked briskly away, leaving the scene behind him.

Crom lowered himself back down to the floor, amazed that the young boy had not noticed him braced against each wall near the ceiling. He landed with the smallest of sounds and drew the blade from his back once more. The commander he noted, did not answer the door. Crom decided to open the doors himself.

The room was dark, lit only by a few candles which burned brightly on a desk on the opposite end of the room. The walls were draped with fine silks and pictures of great Heroes and Generals. To his left rested a conventional bed utilitarian in design, and to his right sat a heavy chest of draws and a cupboard. Both lay open to show sets of uniform, some bright and flashy, other dull and worn. An exotic bird slept in its cage near by, and sat at the desk was a silver haired man, hunched over.

Silently Crom stalked forward three steps, and put the door lightly in its frame. A chill ran over his spine and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled up. He felt the weight of his sword and it steadied him, slowly he raised it above his head and took a few more tentative steps closer to his prey, this was for the assault on the villages of the Plains Folk of the north, three years earlier, he thought to himself. The blade came down in a racing arc.

But with skill and strength it stopped barely an inch from his targets skull. His wilder side noted that the prey was not breathing, and cautiously he raised one hand to pull the mans head back.

Crom reeled in sudden panic and let the body drop to the floor with a dull thud. The Commander had no eyes, they had been gauged out and left dark, empty and bloody. His throat had been mauled heavily and Crom noted how it had been crushed with powerful, tireless hands. He glanced all around him superstitiously, and then gripped his Sword tighter, knowing there was something else in here with him. Sure enough, he heard a shambling from inside the cupboard, and the racks of clothes stirred.
“Hells bells, face me Dog and lurk no more in the shadows !” He roared, all fear washed away by his eagerness for battle.

Sure enough something came from the shadows, a shambling man some seven feet tall, garbed in rags and smelling of foul substances. Its eyes did not exist, instead there was balls of green energy, and its skin, which seemed taut like hide, was grey and fetid, half rotten and mangled. Its hands were large and powerful, and they reached for Crom with an insatiable lust for more death.

It swiped at him, knocking Crom back through the air to land heavily on the floor, shouts from below suddenly erupted and the clamour of armed guards came hurtling up the stairs. Raising himself quickly, Crom readied his sword and took a few steps closer to the nightmarish Undead, with a swift move he pierced its torso and wriggled the blade around. Chunks of dried flesh and powdered blood fell to the floor and did nothing to stop its advance. A great hand clasped his arm and the other batted him across the skull.

Any other man would have had his neck snapped in twain by such a blow, but Crom rolled as best he could with the blow, and raised his foot to collide with its groin. Again to no affect. He released his sword and both locked hands with one another, attempting to brake each others wrists.

The door burst open and the valiant charge of the Guards was halted as they saw the epic struggle of man and death in the throws of brawling. They watched on in awe and fear as muscle pitted against decay and was losing. Then the creature stopped and drop Crom to the floor and turned to face the Guards, playing dead, Crom landed and moved not. Screams followed the creature out the room and then Crom raised his sword and ran for the door, aiming to jump from the window.

Four great strides carried him from the room, and a single hack cleaved a Guard in two as he ran to intercept. The Undead thing was blasting its way through the guards as Crom mounted the window sill, but he paused to look at the thing and the ease which it battered the skulls of these men. Something in his heart told him that no man should fall to the Undead. He raised his blade high and charged down the corridor, his feet thumping loudly, and he yelled with all his lungs.

His blade cut cleanly an arm from the shoulder and it fell to the floor, bursting into dust as it landed. There was no howl, though it turned in one fluid motion and slammed Crom square in the chest, he flew back the distance he had just covered, and lay still.

Dazed and confused Crom brought himself up on his elbows and viewed the carnage which was unfolding down the corridor. More Guards were filing up the stairs, and their boots slipped on the blood pooled floor. Crom shook his head and made another similar run at the creature.

He hacked it down the shoulder to the waist, and it moaned with agony. The Thing does feel pain ! He thought as he hacked again, slicing it across the waist and toppling its torso to the floor.

There came a silence in the Keep, as the Guards watched in amazement at the Undead fighting the Undead. But a cry came from one of them,
“He is living, look he sweats !” And the guards surged forward, spears pointed for Croms heart. Without hesitation he dived to his left, and vanished out the Window.

Three heads popped out the window behind him, blinking in amazement, and then in wonder.
“Where’d he go ?!” Asked one
“Surely the fall would have killed him straight out !”

Crom smiled down at them as he crawled up the Keeps wall, and then down the other side with haste. His work was done, and with the truth about the Undead being real, he was no longer going to be working for the Tribes. He had fulfilled his vow of vengeance, and now was going further a field.


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