Free The Temple of Heart and Bone by S.K. Evren Page A

powers to give their
march cover. They spoke of him in awed and silent voices, casting fearful
glances at his wagon. Troseth, also, believed the rain had come from his
Master. He, however, kept his eyes away from the wagon, afraid to even think of
the old man, lest his thoughts somehow betray his hatred and earn him even
greater pain.
    The Necromancer had not called
down the sky-blackening rain. He appreciated it none-the-less, as it provided
an excellent curtain for his army to march behind. There were living souls
moving about the land again, soon to find open—and empty—graves. Some of them
might even think to investigate. Those who did would be cautious even on a
clear day. In this threatening rain, they would slow to a crawl, searching for
signs and portents. He, on the other hand, could move with confidence, and
soon, his passing would be the stuff of myth and legend—a ghost story told in
taverns. Even the evidence of the disrupted graves would begin to fade after
the rain had muddied the ground.
    Leaning back in his chair, the
old man listened to the rain. It did not lull him to rest, but set his mind to
musing. The water lashed at his wagon, sounding like the claws of a hundred
minor demons eager to get in and devour his very soul. Their clawing was
frustrated, but continuous, as if they knew they could get in, but only with
time. Their frustration, he thought, stemmed from that time. They didn’t want
to wait to get at him. They wanted him now. Patience, he thought, as his wagon
continued to roll to the east, patience…

Chapter 7 – Rising
     
    Drothspar
woke slowly. It seemed as if the weight of the world pressed down upon his
mind, blanketing it, smothering it, trying to keep him from waking. He listened
for the voice that had called out to him. It had promised life and purpose and
then… vanished. At least he thought it had. Or was it just a dream?
    He struggled to move his body,
but it didn’t respond. He felt as if he had been covered in molten lead, a dire
liquid density pushing down upon his limbs. Still partly asleep, he reasoned.
He focused on his slumber, trying to remember his dreams.
     
    But there were no dreams…
     
    Were there?
     
    His memory touched on a profound
blackness. No sound. No light. No beginning, no end. He had woken up from…
nothing. There had been only blackness, an eternal black wall.
     
    It couldn’t have been drink. He
hadn’t had a real drink in years—more years than he could remember. If it
hadn’t been drink…? His mind struggled with the thoughts, yet there was no
urgency to the struggle. He had no sense of time. He felt almost, but not
quite, lucid.
     
    If it hadn’t been drink, it must
have been…
     
    Fever, Drothspar thought to
himself, it has to be fever. He felt the weight of his body pressing him down.
He was tired, so tired. He tried to concentrate. He was lying down, he was sure
of it. Wasn’t he? The more he thought about it, the more he was certain he
could feel his body.
     
    He tried to move his left arm and
felt it slide forward, haltingly, as if breaking free of an oppressive weight.
He tried to move his right arm and it, too, responded. He experimented with his
legs, and they also began to move. He kept his arms and legs moving, afraid to
lose his physical link to consciousness. He tried to lift his head, but the
effort was too great. He could not see or hear anything, so he simply continued
to move. He was crawling, he was almost certain. Why was he doing that? Where
was he going?
     
    His sense of time had not
returned when the first sound intruded itself upon him. Every time he moved, he
heard a strange clatter, like metal on wood. He stopped moving and the sound
stopped. The silence was frightening. He needed to keep moving, needed to hear
that sound, any sound. He began to crawl and heard the rattle once more. He was
dragging something with him. He wasn’t sure what it could be. It didn’t really
matter, so long as he could hear