Day 4

The men were camped in some ruin that was once a symbol of freedom. They weren’t just men; they were warriors, trained to kill, men who’d seen battle and lived to tell their tale. Ten head strong men huddled round a stone fire pit, the whispered of those who died in the ruin surrounding the band of brothers.

These men had fought battles together, sometime they crossed one another on the same side, other times they were fighting on opposite sides. They always fought for their people; they fought to show they still had hope.

Their king lay dying. The prince had seen fit to take the throne for himself and his wicked bride. Together the royal couple had been terrorising every village they could. The death toll was nearing triple figures now that the prince had stepped up to claim the throne with the help of his wife.

Rumours spread through the land, all saying the same thing. The prince’s bride had poisoned the king. Some even claimed the woman had complete control of the prince. But these men knew, the prince was wicked and cruel well before meeting his bride to be. Those who served the royal court knew how cruel the prince could be. It was rumoured that he had killed a servant girl when he was still a child.

These men were travelling through the land looking for able bodied men to join their cause and upraise the prince and his princess. Some of the villages they’d visited had been too scared to help them, a few had accepted to rebel but were scared for their families.

As they neared the city that was home to the grand castle the roads had been gruesome to continue down. Bodies littered the roads leading to the castle, corpses of all ages, both sexes, all mutilated. These men had stopped and built funeral pyres for the dead until the dead grew too many.

The last village they had stopped in they had recruited people to help go clean up the roads, give the dead proper burials. The village’s people agreed with this, a sense of hope seemed to infect the people, a spark started to grow in their eyes brightening up their faces.

These men left the village in search for shelter to wait out the night before arriving at the castle. The old ruin was in sight of the castle, torches illuminated the castle walls where they had been situated along the castles ramparts.

Not one of these ten warriors were keeping watch, with their keen sight and hearing no one deemed it necessary to keep watch. A spit stood over the fire roasting a pair of skinned rabbits, two of the men took turns when rotating the spit to evenly cook the meat.

Little meat remained on the spit as the night draw closer to the morning. The air had cooled drastically since the band had settled down for the night, the sound of flames crackling was all the men could hear. There was the occasional squeak from the bats hunting their prey.

The whispers hidden within the wind had grown louder over the course of the night. None of these men knew what had once happened in this old ruin, no one even knew what this ruin had been. The land had changed over the years this once great castle had fallen out of use.

One story still remained, shrouded in mystery the ruin had once been a magnificent castle. All that remained was its haunted shell and skeleton, too dangerous to venture into by the local populous. These warriors had been the only humans to step foot inside the ruin in over a hundred years.

The stories told how the castle had belonged to a king gone mad, not with hate or power but with grief. He’d lost everything to a curse that had been placed upon the castle. Spirits roamed the halls; ghosts stood in every window, beasts infested the castle grounds tearing soldier’s limb from limb.

There had been no real proof of these happenings, it was enough to keep people from the castle. There was no record of what had happened to the king gone mad. It was if overnight the castle was destroyed and the king gone, no where to be found.

The crackling grew louder as a figure appeared out of the flames. The men all jumped to their feet, weapons being drawn. Bows strung with arrows pointed at the creature in the flames, Swords raised high in defence, axes held back ready for a hefty swing.

The creature didn’t talk just stared at the men, their backs to the ruins unaware of the hooded figure standing behind them. The fiery creature exploded into tiny embers that fluttered to the floor like millions of feathers. The warriors turned to shield their eyes from the blast. When the sparks disappeared the light returned to normal, the orange glow from the fire.

That was when they noticed the figure standing the length of a broadsword away. One of the men stepped forward raised his sword to the figures throat as he asked who this person was and what they wanted. The figure knocked the sword away before pulling down the hood.

The hooded figure was in fact a red headed female, hair pulled back into a braid, bangs of deep scarlet framed her face. Pale skin illuminated by the pit fire and what moonlight was filtering through the clouds.

Before the men could question the woman she conjured up a magical vision, showing what she was proposing for these men. Raise the dead of those wronged by the prince and his princess to take their revenge. The men accepted her plan, questioning her still. Why did she want to help? Why approach them when she could take down the prince and his wife herself.

They would never know her answer. She never showed them what her reason was. Only dismissed it. Rather than join them around the fire, she kept watch up within the ruins, her pale blue eyes never leaving the castle.

The next morning the warriors left the ruins with the aid of one female necromancer.

The draw bridge had been opened that morning to allow merchants passage. The men crossed the bridge their weapons drawn ready for battle. The soldiers attacked within moments, swords raised battle cries filling the warriors ears.

They were out numbered but it didn’t matter, fighting for what they believed was right. The necromancer joined them by their sides, kukri’s in either hand as she moved to attack one of the opposing soldiers.

The fight felt like it took days when in reality it took minutes. The warriors were well skilled men who were assisted with the help of a necromancer who apparently had hidden talents with a blade. They left the fallen soldiers painting the ground crimson.

The men headed into the castle battered and bruised but no less determined to take the deranged prince. The female joined the band of brothers red swirls of magic forming around her closed fists still holding the bloodied kukris, drops of blood leading from the dead out in the yard through the halls.

The group found the prince and his princess draped across the throne, sadistic smiles occupying their faces as they stared at the bloodied fighters. They were none the wiser having only seen ten warriors entering the throne room, even the men hadn’t noticed the females absence.

The princess climbed to her feet and moved to stand to the right of the throne, her smile growing into a grin as the prince himself stood. His beautiful wife retrieved a sheathed sword, most likely strapped to the back of the throne which she then handed to the prince. He cast the scabbard to the ground before leaping into action.

The man moved elegantly, dancing around his attackers. The princess laughed and cheered for her husband as he knocked each of the warriors to the ground, slashes here and there, the stone floor almost completely coloured blood red while he pranced around unscathed.

The princess gasped drawing her lovers attention. The grounded warriors each looked up in turn. Metallic liquid spoiling her gown where her heart should be, the same liquid dripping from the corner of her mouth as her hands pressed to her chest. The squelching sound filled the room as a blade was pulled from the princesses back. Her knees gave way, shattered upon impact with the stone slabs below.

She reached out to her husband as she fell forward, laying flat upon the cold stone, her arm still out stretched to her companion. He stood frozen, daring to step forward and comfort his bride during her last moments but was forced to remain still with the ice cold metal pressed to his throat.

His mysterious attacker stepped back to avoid being seen in the princes peripheral vision. He knew it wasn’t one of the ten warriors as he could still see them. The prince dared to react, pushing the blade from his neck and twisting it as he turned to face his attacker. His face growing ever so pale at the sight of his father. Ghostly pale, hair and rags fluttering in the none existent wind, a soft white glow outlining his form.

The prince tried to scream, to call out as he struggled against the creature wearing his fathers face. To no avail a larger blade was forcefully thrust into his chest, bones snapping echoed through the hall. His scream finally came as he was thrown to his knees the blade making the wound larger as it was ripped from his chest.

The last thing the prince would ever see was his fathers disappointed look as his world turned black. The kings ghost turned back to the warriors a generous smile directed to each of them before his eyes landed on the one responsible for his demise.

The necromancer stood at the entrance to the hall, her bloodied kukris still in her hands. A soft smile graced her lips as she nodded to the king. His ghostly form disintegrated into nothing.

No one actually knows if this happened. This was a story told throughout the ages, parents telling it to their children to the pass on to their children and so on. But then that’s all this could well be, just a story. Who knows.

They say the prince was cursed to live an immortal live between worlds. Never crossing over but then never truly alive. They say he wanders the earth looking for the red headed woman who summoned his father from purgatory.

But that my friends is another story...