The Fallen World

Algol - Part 2

     “You were hard on him,” said Malefactos, using telepathy since, as a maggot, he had no voice. “He was right, I gave him no choice, and I planned to release him soon anyway.”

     Algol stared at him in disgust. “Mercy from a rak?” he sneered. “Of course, thou art but newly transformed, and thou hast still some residual human qualities. These shall surely pass in time, but until they do be sure thou keepest them under control. There is no place for mercy in the Shadowarmies.”

     The older rak then began to walk back towards the centre of Arnor, dropping the maggot into a pouch on his belt, but Malefactos was exultant at the success of his mental mask. Fooled you, Algol! he thought, being careful to shield his thoughts from him. You’re not quite as infallible as you think, are you? He sobered quickly, though, as a new thought struck him. No, and neither am I. Who would ever have thought that I, Malefactos, would find myself in a predicament like this?

     Despair hovered close around him, just barely held at bay as he tried to tell himself that everything was going exactly to plan. To distract himself from these gloomy thoughts, he looked out through the spectral material of Algol’s leather pouch at the city around him, using his rak vision since, as a maggot, he had no eyes. They soon left behind the still largely ruinous outskirts of the city and entered the built up inner regions of the Necropolis in which virtually every building had been restored almost to its original condition, after a fashion. There were differences, though, and an inhabitant of the city from before the fall of Agglemon, somehow transported into the city as it was now, would have been shocked to the very core of his being at what he saw. The function and purpose which every building had served was instantly recognisable, and Malefactos saw opera houses, theatres, art galleries, shops and restaurants lining both sides of the wide avenue they were following; an avenue that had a wide strip of what had once been tree lined gardens along its centre.

     Each and every building had been subtly altered making them things of horror and revulsion. It was nothing you could put your finger on, but there was definitely something, and it was more than just the bleached white humanoid bones that covered everything or the obscene and disgusting ‘decorations’ that some of the more imaginative of the undead had added. Perhaps it’s just the Shadow, thought the young rak as he tried to puzzle it out. Maybe the Shadow affects our perception of things, making them look worse than they really are. If it can have that kind of affect of me, though, a rak, then it must be really powerful here. Really powerful indeed.

     Much worse then that, though, were the shades. Wandering the streets, sitting on park benches, going in and out of houses and buildings were the faint but clearly visible images of the people who had once lived here, centuries ago, before the fall. They weren’t ghosts, spectres, wraiths or any other of the various kinds of spiritual undead who possessed the memories and personalities of the people they’d once been. They were shades. Mere images without minds or consciousness, absorbed by the rocks, the walls, the ground, even the air itself and now released by the power of the Shadow. Memories of a lifestyle and a society that had vanished three hundred years before.

     Malefactos watched in fascination as he saw Agglemonian noblemen strolling in total confidence and security along the paved walkways, discussing weighty matters with other noblemen or with high ranking military men in splendidly elaborate uniforms. White robed senators with shaved heads and large, heavy looking rings of office on their fingers. Tall, self important wizards whose defensive spells were deliberately made visible as status symbols, forming a shimmering in the air around them. Modest looking, sandal footed clerics who refused to allow the richness of the society in which they lived to change their simple way of life. Nannies pushed babies in prams or herded small children like sheep. Older children played in parks, running, laughing and shouting happily, and smartly dressed, immaculately clean street traders sold fruit, vegetables and hand made goods from beautifully painted and polished barrows and carts, occasionally stopping to show their permits to a passing patrolman armed only with a short baton. It was, at first sight, a peaceful, tranquil scene, contrasting vividly with the awful reality of the Necropolis, and the young rak marveled that the idyllic scenes were permitted here. Perhaps they can’t help it, he thought. Perhaps it’s an unavoidable side effect of the Shadow.