It was a cold and stormy night. The village of Greystone was under complete darkness, for the light of the moon was choked by the dark, swirling clouds, and the stars were hidden. The windows of every house were shuttered, so the warm light of merry fireplaces did not escape into the howling storm. Inside the houses, families gathered around crackling fireplaces, warming themselves, glad that they were safe inside the walls of their homes.

The village inn, which stood near the gates of the palisade that protected the town, was likewise barred against the storm. It was accommodated by a few weary travelers sitting around chipped wooden tables, drinking ale and sharing stories and being generally thankful to have found a refuge against the chaos outside. They were a rough lot: strongly-built men and travel-hardened women, their clothes and travelling cloaks patched and threadbare. Most of them carried weapons of various descriptions. The plump innkeeper waddled amongst them, bearing tankers of fresh ale and distributing them among the guests.

At a small table at the corner of the room, there was one man who did not seem to fit in with the rowdy group. He was of medium height; of a slight build that, when compared with other male occupants of the inn, seemed thin and frail. He wore a long, black robe that was obviously of high quality: it was sleek and smooth, with graceful patterns of gold around the sleeves, waist, and hem. A hood he wore, which partially covered his face, although one could just make out a pair of emerald green eyes staring from the depths. A gold amulet hung around his neck and a gold ring on his finger, both set with large, finely crafted emeralds, which were attracting a few greedy looks from the other travelers in the inn. The man, however, paid no attention, and sipped his ale quietly. Then, with a sigh, he stood up, and his features were thrown into view by the merry light of the crackling fire.

He had short, dark brown hair, smooth and carefully combed, as opposed to the long, shaggy mane that seemed to be the fashion amongst travelers. His face was clean shaven, almost boyish. His eyes, however, were hard and cold, and betrayed many long years of knowledge and experience, and something in the way his jaw was set told that he was no novice when it came to combat.

In a few swift movements, the man collected his black travelling cloak, hoisted his bag to his shoulders, and picked up a long, black staff that was leaning against the table. The staff had a cold, metallic look to it, and its tip was fashioned in the shape of a serpent’s head, jaws open wide, as though ready to strike. With a purposeful air, the man walked to the door and opened it. Immediately, a blast of wind and rain swept into the room, and all conversations ceased as everyone turned to stare at the man. Who in their right mind would go out in this kind of weather? Yet before they could contemplate further, the man was outside, and the door swung shut behind him with a resounding clunk.

The storm raged and thundered, as wind and rain came pelting towards the man, battering hard against his cloak, robe and bare skin, eager to destroy the creature which so foolishly came into its power. He heeded not the storm and proceeded to walk out of the village gates, his cloak fluttering violently behind him. The village was nestled between two mountain ranges, in a long, narrow valley. The slopes of the mountains were steep, yet not impassible; and were covered by lush, evergreen forests: tall trees of pine that rose into the air like mystic spires.

After a few hundred meters out of the gates, the man left the road and traveled up the slopes, into the dark, imposing forests. He climbed in silence, occasionally stopping to free his billowing cloak when it got caught in brambles and branches, or to readjust his travelling bag on his shoulder. The storm continued to rage, though the dense canopy of the forest managed to dampen it.

After maybe two hours of climbing, the man stopped and sighed with relief: he had arrived at the mouth of a gaping cave, hewn into the mountainside like a pierced wound. With an obvious increase in enthusiasm, he strode into the shelter of the cave. A few bats squeaked and protested, alarmed by the appearance of an intruder. The man removed his bag and cloak, threw back his hood and sat down against the cave wall, exhausted. With numb fingers, he rummaged in his travelling bag and withdrew a small vial filled with red liquid, and drained it in one draught. Vigour and strength seemed to return to him, and he stood up again, with no sign of his previous exhaustion or fatigue.

He took his staff and chanted an incantation: the eyes of the serpent’s head immediately gave off a pale green light, illuminating the tunnel and caused renewed alarm among the bats that hung above. With a casual glance at his bag and cloak, which remained on the cave floor, he turned and proceeded without ado into the depths of the cave, his boots and staff tapping loudly against the cold, stone floor.

The cave seemed almost endless: as the man proceeded deeper into the heart of the mountain, the passage became increasingly magnificent and treacherous. The roof was clustered with needle-sharp stalactites, dripping water and quivering ominously at the tapping of his boots and staff. Tall columns of stalagmites rose out from the cave floor, as though challenging the stalactites above. Here and there were huge, round pools of clear, blue water, and in them swam schools of pale, blind fish and strangely shaped crustaceans. Crystals of wonderful shapes and hues glittered upon the cavern walls, and it was like gazing at the starry hosts on a clear, cloudless night. It was both beautiful and imposing, yet the man paid no heed to the wonders around him, and simply proceeded purposefully down the tunnels. Occasionally, when he was met with branching paths, he would stop and consider each of them in turn, then proceed with a sure pace down one of the branches.

After what seemed like a long time, the man came to a dead end, stopped and gave an appreciative chuckle. The pale light of the serpent staff fell upon a large, ancient-looking door, wrought of some strange, blue metal. It was elaborately carved with many mystic signs and runes, and in the middle was the symbol of a triangular eye, with a large, glowing sapphire set in the pupil. There was no handle, no keyhole, or any sign as to how the door worked, if it indeed worked; but the man did not seem deterred: on the contrary, he seemed to know exactly what to do. A pale smile was now playing upon his face, yet it was an oddly chilling expression. The smile did not reach up to his eyes, which were now ice cold and flickering with malice.

He raised his serpent staff and chanted in a strange tongue. A blast of emerald green light flashed suddenly from the eyes of the serpent staff, flooding the tunnel; yet it disappeared almost as fast as it was emanated. The blast of light seemed to cause no visible damage to the door, but the smile upon the man’s face was now apparent, and the malice in his eyes was almost scorching. Then, slowly, almost deliberately, the light of the sapphire failed, and with a sudden crack it broke.

The man made to push the door open, but suddenly the runic shapes on the door blazed electric blue and the symbol of the eye seemed to jump out of the door. He reacted almost immediately: in one swift, fluid movement, he tapped the eye with his staff, raised his other hand at the door and uttered a word of command. There was a second flash of green light, and the door shattered into a million fragments, its powers and protective enchantments broken. With an awful sense of finality, the man strode through the door.

The room beyond the door was surprisingly exquisite and elegant; especially considering it was in the depths of a natural, limestone cave. The walls and ceilings were made of grey, stone blocks, and the floor was covered with fluffy blue carpets decorated with elaborate silver patterns. Numerous mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, all filled with ancient, tattered tomes. In the middle of the room was a round, stone table, where a single wax candle stood, as well as a few empty vials and opened books.

Behind the table in an elegant teak chair sat a man, apparently frozen with shock. He wore pale, sky blue robes, with a rather silly, wide brimmed blue hat that ended in a sharp point. His hair was shoulder length and was a dirty blond colour, as was his short and carefully trimmed beard. His eyes were the palest grey, to the point that they seemed almost white. He was quite tall: even when seated, he was no shorter than the black-robed man, and was built far more powerfully. There was, however, something about the other man’s demeanor that made him far more intimidating and imposing, and there was murder in his eyes.

The two stared at each other for several moments. Then, with a sudden movement, the blue-robed man stood up, and although there was no sign of one in the room previously, he was holding a white staff, the tip carved into two graceful avian wings supporting a single, spherical sapphire. The black-robed man did not move or speak, but merely continued to stare at the other. Finally, the blue-robed man spoke.

“You!” He spluttered. “You!” He added again, more strongly this time. “What are you doing here? And what is the meaning of this? How dare you barge into my dwelling like that! How did you find me?”

“Tut, tut… so many questions, my dear Travers...” Said the other man, in a mock disapproving voice. His voice was cold and daunting, almost as though the very air was chilled. “Which one would you like me to answer first? You know full well what I am doing here, and the meaning of my presence. As to why I have the guts to enter your little cave… why, you make it sound like I have reason to… fear you.” Travers turned slightly pink, and gripped his staff more tightly.

“And finding you was no hard task.” Continued the man, who was now smiling – an expression which was somehow more dangerous than a snarl. “Your competency as a magician was, is, and will forever be – pardon me – most inadequate.” Travers stiffened, his expression hardening from shock to anger.

“Incompetent, am I?” He replied, his voice shaking. “Excuse me, Dreylan, but I have very different ideas as to what competency in the magical arts implies. I can assure you, murdering innocent lives to swollen the ranks of this – this – undead army your Conclave is building - is not one of them!”

“Drop the moral high ground, Travers,” Drawled Dreylan, his voice positively dripping with malice. “You’ll just make yourself seem more hypocritical. You joined the Conclave willingly, out of your own free will, and you knew what it meant. You knew the magic we practice. Yet now, you’re trying to pretend you knew nothing of what we were doing? Don’t make me laugh.”

“That was different.” Snapped Travers, his voice increasing in volume as his anger grew. “Raising the dead as servants is one thing, but killing people to create the dead is another! I will not massacre thousands of people for this – this purpose!”

“Drop the hypocrisy, you’re embarrassing yourself.” Replied Dreylan in a bored voice. “That isn’t the point. You know why I am here. You tried to escape the Conclave. You know our laws, and you know the fate that awaits those who betray our order.” He twitched his staff casually. Travers flinched, the colour drained from his face.

“You… you…” spluttered Travers, his voice now shaking with fear instead of anger. “You wouldn’t… I swear, I will never reveal the secrets of the Conclave… you don’t need to…” His voice trailed into nothingness as Dreylan grinned, and his emerald green eyes gleamed murder.

“Ah, but this isn’t just about the secrets of the Conclave, Travers;” Said Dreylan, his eyes glinting. “It is about the culling of the meek, the weeding of the unworthy, and of course, to swell the ranks of the undead. Oh, and also because I don’t like you. Frankly, the world would be far better off without slimy little cowards like you.”

The last sentence seemed to work on Travers like a stimulant. His eyes blazed fire and the colour returned to his face. They stared long and hard at each other for a few seconds. Then, without warning, a blast of fire streaked across the room at Dreylan, but disintegrated before it was halfway across. At the same time, the eyes of Dreylan’s serpent staff flashed, and a stream of bubbling acid gushed from the serpent’s jaw. With a raise of his staff, Travers levitated the stone table into the air: the candle, the vials and the books fell onto the floor. The jet of acid was blocked by the table, which sizzled and melted into nothingness. Before Dreylan can make another move, Travers swung his staff violently, releasing a blast of swirling energy at his adversary. There was a deafening bang, and a strange, glittering mist filled the room.

The mist dissipated and Dreylan was revealed, unharmed. Grinning crookedly, he raised his staff and began chanting an incantation. With a sudden jolt of realisation, Travers flung another fireball at Dreylan in an attempt to interrupt the spell: but it was too late. With a sudden flash, several glowing runic symbols appeared in thin air, blocking the blast of fire. There was a strange, whooshing sound, like a great wind blowing, and a swirling portal expanded behind Dreylan. A third blast of fire flew towards the portal, but it was again deflected: this time by a skeletal hand. Half a dozen skeletons had jumped out of the portal. Two of them moved swiftly before Dreylan, defending him. The other four advanced on Travers, their sightless eye- sockets glowed with green wisps of magic, their jaws chattered soundlessly. They wielded long, thin blades of fell shapes, which seemed to be made of stone. Backing away hastily, Travers held out his staff in front of him: a brilliant white light flashed from its tip, but it did not crumble the skeletons to dust as he expected: instead, they simply slowed, but continued to advance. Dreylan smiled coldly.

“That was pathetic even for you, Travers. Did you think that you will be able to destroy my undead? True, the Holy Light is supposed to banish undead, but in the hands of a fool...”

Ignoring the taunt, Travers raised his staff again and chanted an incantation. The skeletons rushed forward, swords raised high, their empty sockets flashing. Travers jumped out of the way and shouted a spell. In an instant, the skeletons were engulfed in a swirling inferno, their fleshless throats shrieked something terrible, their jaws worked furiously as though trying to speak. In a few moments, they were completely incinerated, leaving nothing but a coarse, foul smelling ash on the scorched carpet.

Travers immediately turned to face Dreylan, his staff held at ready. But Dreylan made no move: he merely stood there, smiling, his staff held loosely in his hand. The portal still swirled behind him, but no new undead horrors came out. Travers felt slightly bemused, but continued to stand ready, his body tensed to react to the slightest action. There was something amiss, however…

Suddenly, a sharp, sickening pain jolted through Travers’s body. He saw Dreylan’s grin widen. Slowly, he looked down. A stone blade was protruding from his chest, dripping blood. His blood.

“All too easy.” Said Dreylan, still grinning. With a swish the blade was withdrawn, and Travers fell to the floor, and his blood soaked the fluffy carpet beneath him. A skeleton stood behind him, jaws wide open in silent laughter, the wisps of magic in its eyes glinted maliciously. As Travers felt his life blood draining away from him, he realised that Dreylan’s skeleton guards had sneaked behind him while he was concentrating on the other skeletons. But it was too late now…

With a kind of malicious casualness, Dreylan walked over to Travers’s body and took his white staff from his limp grip. With a crack, the staff was snapped in two, and the pieces fell to the carpet with muffled thuds. He gestured to the two skeletons, and they picked up Travers’s body and carried it into the portal. With an odd squelching sound, the portal shrunk and closed, swallowing the body and the skeletons into the Netherworld. Still grinning, Dreylan walked out of the abandoned room, whistling to himself as he began the long journey back to Greystone.

Another fool had swollen the ranks of the undead.

Excellent work Necro. Well paced and written with exemplary character and expositionary detail. I love detail work...I firmly believe its the life-blood of all fiction.

I very much enjoyed reading your work. I have written many short stories and mini-epics for small publications in the past (my college days and shortly thereafter). Not to mention the endless prose and journaling, lol. Originally, it was planned for me that I become a free-lance author, but my first child postponed (necessarily) that dream and has had it on hold for a long time (I'm not regretting my choice, just stating a fact). This is at very LEAST on par with the work I've seen from other published authors - myself included - that have had a couple of years of creative writing training and the beneficial experience of rejection and revision.

I'm very impressed Necro. Keep up the good work and practice. Is this a portion of a larger work you are planning on writing, fashioned currently into a short story?

And are we supposed to post after this? Or would you like this topic reserved for this piece of work specifically.

There is no need for reservation space, I don't plan to add any more to that. The truth is, I can't really hold on to resolutions for very long, and that means I never finish anything that will take a long time: which I why I only try to write short stories. I'm afraid I will never reach "publishing author" level, because I usually have severe problems with tensing and other grammatical things. This one had to undergo several readings and corrections before I managed to weed out about 80% of the errors.

Thanks for the comments. =D

Let me offer a bit of encouragement as well. I tend to run a little long, but I assure you I have some good advice if you plan to keep writing and read through to the end.

What I find most impressive is your ability to recognize your own shortcomings, although you seem to see them as limitations rather than challenges.

I have been writing, off and on, for more than 30 years, starting with songs in my early teens (one sold and published but never recorded, sadly) and graduating to informative articles and later, fiction. I have published short stories and contract features for trade magazines internationally, as well as some very dry tech manuals. But the time that benefited me most was that spent in the newspaper business. I started out as a part-time reporter/news writer and within a year became the editor of several weekly newspapers (earning Press Association awards) before getting out of the business entirely and focusing on IT/Tech. It is extremely difficult to make a decent living as a writer!

One of the hardest things in the world to do is edit (accurately and effectively) your own prose. It takes a selfless detachment and an impartial view of the work, as well as an excellent grasp of formal writer's style. I found that having someone else read, critique and ultimately edit my work revealed flaws and obvious improvements that I could not readily recognize as I was too close to the subject. I learned more from comments and corrections by other journalists than I could have by reading and studying stylebooks alone.

The first thing you need to do is get a copy of the Writer's Market. It is a rather large volume, jam-packed with resources for anyone hoping to get published. From interviews with major authors and tips on better writing to sample query letters and book proposals, this is the "bible" you need. It even includes literally thousands of potential markets for your literary product. Don't feel you have to get the latest copy, (it is published annually) you can get by with last year's edition to save a few bucks, although it is less than $20 new.

You also need to get your hands on a stylebook. I recommend the AP (Associated Press) Stylebook, though there are stylebooks for broadcast media and other more specific markets. It will give you a better foundation on accepted style and techniques to help make you a stronger writer.

Lastly, if you really want to learn how to write, get a job at a newspaper. Chances are good your city or a neighboring one has a small weekly newspaper that will accept stories from freelancers like you. Write a couple of concise and well researched articles about a notable resident (war veteran, local philanthropist) or event (charitable fundraiser, controversial community development) and make it balanced and impartial. Be sure to make it meaningful or vital to the local reader and submit it to the editor. You may be surprised that you have a knack for it. I sure as hell was.

Also, short stories are truly interesting animals. They can have a life of their own and grow into something quite different than was originally intended (or even imagined.) Don't give up on a story that you are emotionally vested in. You may find that it is actually the kernel of a much larger story that is just waiting to be rewritten and fleshed out once you put your mind to it.

I started a "short story" 20 years ago, intending it to be another submission for Isaac Asimov's SF Magazine. Instead it grew, seemingly of its own accord, into what threatens to be an epic novel of future history approaching 300,000 words and nowhere near completion. It may in fact end up being a series of shorter novels making up the entire story. Or it may never be finished. I look at it more as therapy than avocation.

My main point is that "tensing and other grammatical things" can be learned, talent can not. What you have is some fairly significant potential. What you do with it is up to you.

What nunja said, lol. PLus, I don't know if you do this now Necro, but it can be INFINITELY helpful to many writers to actually read their work aloud to themselves. This provides you with the simple ability to hear intended tone, tense and pacing of action and dialogue.

I read everything I write out loud at least twice, and I don't have any friends that write that don't edit stuff at least 5 times. Three times by themselves (myself), then twice after being read, criticized, and edited by two others. Editing isn't a sign of inability or lack of writing skill. It's a necessary skill that is done by all successful authors and screenwriters. So is humility and the ability to accept the fact that at least half of the things you write that YOU think are just "the cat's meow," aren't to other people. The most successful writers usually succumb to the opinions of a small group that share the same opinion of a section of a writer's work - even if that particular section seemed like it just HAD to be in there to make the piece shine. Not true at all.

Again, good work! Persistance and personal character are the real qualities that make good writers. Some writers aren't even naturally talented, they've just learned how to write well "mechanically" in school, and then re-written the work according to suggestions and professional editing advice. Don't forget, the average writer gets 20 rejection letters to each acceptance letter... Seems daunting eh?

Teclis, sounds like you have been doing this awhile too.

What did you do with your first check for a published work?

I remember vividly when I got the check from "an unnamed music company" for the first song I sold. It was only $500, but that was in 1976 and I actually bought my first vehicle with it - a barely street legal motorcycle. That kind of set the pace, too. I can't remember ever spending "writing money" on sensible things, only on splurging and making myself happy, especially when the checks got big enough for weekends in Reno, high-end stereo equipment and cars.

I am kind of living with a self-imposed writer's block right now. It has probably been 5 years since I wrote for myself instead of writing help text or documentation for my job. However, I do have firm plans to get back to work on the "great american novel" during the next long holiday weekend (Memorial Day, I guess). I am really looking forward to it.

Make no mistake, though. In my (not so) humble opinion, writing is not a hobby. Done right, it is a sickness and an obsession and a thirst that is only slaked by long hours of pounding on the keyboard and rewrite after rewrite after rewrite.

Enjoy!

Thanks for the feedback guys. Personally, I'm not looking at a career involving writing, I simply... well, enjoy doing it. It kill time when time seems to drag on and on, and being satisfied with your story after many rereadings and corrections is quite... well, satisfying. Thanks guys. =D