Age of Evil (sampler), Zachary Burz [year 2 reading books txt] 📗

could have water.” Death Sword chuckled, “I did say that. But you didn’t specify whether you wanted it clean or dirty. Nor did you explain if you wanted it to be hot or cold.” The man then started begging, “Please may I have some clean cold water, my lord?” asked the prisoner; he asked nicely because he didn’t want to make Death Sword angry. The Cursed Swordsman answered, “I don’t have water. But you can have some cold wine.” Death Sword threw another leather pouch down and the man drank it eagerly. He continued to drink in big gulps until he consumed every drop. Deathsword watched intently and when the man was finished he asked, “How long before you can stand up?” The man answered, “A few minutes and I’ll be fine sir.” At that response, Death Sword said, “We don’t have a few minutes. That means I no longer need you.” He then snapped his fingers, and the man suddenly reeled over. He felt that his whole stomach was on fire. He couldn’t stand the pain. He started screaming in pain and agony and screaming, “What’s happening to me?!” All the while, Death Sword was laughing evilly, but his minions weren’t. They didn’t know what was going on. Why had their leader given the man a pouch of wine? Why was the man reeling over and screaming in agony? Death Sword then said, “That “wine” I gave you, you ignorant fool was actually my own brew of a special poisonous acid. It responds to my magic when I snap my fingers. After I snap my fingers it starts burning your organs. I was planning to let you live if you recovered quickly, but since you can’t, I have no need for you.” He then said to his men, “Throw him in that pit!” Death Sword pointed in a specific direction, in which his men’s eyes followed. The pit was an exceptionally large one. It looked like it was a hundred thousand meters deep. It was pitch black and nobody new what was down there, and nobody wanted to find out. The soldiers picked the screaming man over to the pit, held him over and dropped him to his doom. You could hear his screams fade slowly as he plummeted towards his death. Then, there was silence. Deathsword then turned towards the other prisoners and asked in a mocking tone, “Anyone else feel, tired?” No answer came from the prisoners. All the while they were harboring feelings of hatred and fear. They hated this man who treated every single one of them, like garbage. He treated them like dirt he had just scraped off his boots. But they also feared him. They feared him because he was under the command of the most evil and most terrifying dark lord in history. They never saw what this monster had done, but they didn’t want to imagine it. They feared that if they imagined it, they would all start crying and babbling, begging Deathsword to let them go. But he would only laugh at them and kill anyone who dared to defy his lord’s rule.
After the long period of silence Deathsword said, “If no one has anything to say then we shall continue our “pleasant” journey” He then kicked his horse and they were on their way. They passed through dangerous forests, scorching hot deserts, and who knows what else. Every time they passed a village, the undead soldiers did their work. They rounded up all the young men in the village to be taken to Lord Muerte’s fortress. The prisoners all wanted to cry out, “Please! Help us! Please help us!” But they couldn’t, because they knew that Deathsword would punish them in the worst possible way imaginable. Every time they stopped at a village inn or to camp, the prisoners would get nothing to eat. They didn’t get one little scrap of food, not even a crumb of bread. Deathsword didn’t give them anything because he wanted to break their spirits. He didn’t want them to look like proud men walking to their deaths. He wanted them to be broken so that the whole world knew how terrifying Lord Muerte could be. Once, a prisoner got brave enough to try and steal some food for his compatriots. But he was not so lucky. As a punishment he got one hundred lashes from a whip with a red-hot nail at the end of it. It was pure torture! His screams could be heard everywhere. It was as if his worst nightmare had been intensified to an immeasurable height. The next morning he wasn’t with the group, and they didn’t need to ask what happened, they already knew.
After several more days Deathsword reined his demon horse to a stop. They couldn’t tell his emotions but it was clear he was happy when he said, “It feels good to be home.” The prisoners stood wide-eyed in terror as they walked through the land that belonged to Lord Muerte.


Chapter 3: The Dark Lord
It was worse than hell itself. That’s all the prisoners needed to describe it. Lord Muerte’s realm was nothing more than a barren wasteland. It was always dark, like you were in a nightmare and couldn’t wake up. There were dead bodies everywhere with flies and maggots feeding on the rotten corpses. Blood was splattered everywhere. The trees were all black and had nothing on them except crows, ravens, and vultures, all waiting for their next meal. But the most frightening object of all was Lord Muerte’s fortress itself. The structure was all tall dark and frightening and forbidding. It was like a huge torture chamber increased to a frightening size. When they approached the gates they saw statues of gargoyles, dragons, demons, and all kinds of creatures of evil. There were members of Muerte’s army everywhere, undead soldiers, goblins, orcs, dark elves, grey dwarves and who knows what else. They passed through the courtyard, which was infested with Muerte’s minions. The prisoners looked for ways to escape but there either were none, or they were too afraid to escape. As they entered the courtyard, Deathsword dismounted his horse and an undead soldier took the horse away to the stables. They then crossed the courtyard and entered the keep to where Muerte himself and his whole court were assembled.
They entered the keep and into the court where there were nearly twenty or so men assembled. Most of them were either wizards or warriors who were outcasts. Each one of Muerte’s courts was an outcast or someone rejected. They all served the dark lord because he was the only one who took them in and understood how they felt and recognized their power. Then the prisoner looked up and at the very end was the dark lord himself.
Muerte was seated on a blood-red throne, which seemed entirely to be made of human bones. At the top of the throne rested a statue of a small dragon on its hind legs, with its wings spread out. Muerte himself was dressed in pitch-black armor, which overlapped like dragon scales. At the knee joints and elbow joints there was a plate that was shaped like a skull. He wore a battle helmet in which the top resembled half of a sphere and that widened just a little bit in a straight line as it reached down to his neck. It had slits wide enough for his eyes and mouth. Muerte wore a long black cloak that when he stood up it was only about two or three inches off the ground. The armor was light but was very effective in protection. There were no openings between the slates, so that an enemy sword or dagger could not slip through the spaces of plates like regular armor. Strapped to his back was a black-bladed Elvin style sword. But the most horrifying part of Muerte himself was his face, or what remained of it. The head that wore the helmet was a pitch-black skull with bright blood-red eyes with black pupils. This was how evil Muerte was; he was so evil that his very bones were black. Legend told that when he was born or first appeared, his bones were already pitch black as midnight. It was as if he had an evil power that was waiting to be awakened. He was the Supreme Dark Lord, the leader of all dark lords.
When he spoke it was a rich, haughty and smooth voice. But at the same time it was menacing, it sent shivers down your spine and made your blood run cold. He stood up and approached the returning party. “Ah, Deathsword,” Muerte exclaimed, as his second in command came towards him, “How was your trip? I hope those peasants didn’t give you much trouble did they?”
“No my Lord,” replied Deathsword, “They didn’t give me much trouble.”
“Excellent.” said Muerte, he seemed to smile at the thought and then asked mockingly, “These are the latest recruits for my army?” He motioned towards the prisoners.
Deathsword replied, “They are my Lord. I have broken all of their spirits, so they don’t have the strength to resist.”
“Good.” said Muerte, “Have them killed, and turned into undead for my army.” He turned to head towards his throne.
“As you wish, my Lord.” replied Deathsword.
“You’re sick.” said a voice.
Muerte turned around quickly, wanting to find the voice that had insulted him. “Who said that?” he demanded. There was silence as nobody said a word. Muerte then asked, “Is there anyone who knows who insulted me?” A red-robed man with a skull for a face and with a black cloak and hood answered, “I saw the man who said it, my Lord.”
Muerte replied, “Then bring him forward Malcorez.” The red-robed man then went to the line of prisoners, grabbed one by the neck, dragged him forward and threw him at Muerte’s feet. The dark lord stared down at the man who insulted him, this piece of dirt.
“Stand up.” Muerte commanded.
The man did nothing; he just remained in his normal position.
Muerte reached down and grabbed him by the neck with his black-armored gauntleted hand. He was not used to people, let alone ordinary humans, disobeying his orders. “I said stand up,” the dark lord said more seriously. He forced the man in a standing position, but the man had his head still down. Muerte grabbed him by the hair and forced the man to look at him in the face. The man didn’t show fear. He had a calm face, with brown hair and brown eyes. You could tell even if he was a human he was very annoying and you would immediately hate him. Muerte then asked calmly but as if he didn’t care, “What is your name, boy?”
“I’m not a boy, I’m eighteen years old,” the man said. “I’m a full grown man.”
Muerte replied, “You are a boy to me because I have lived longer than you can imagine. Now answer my question, what is your name…boy?”
The youth replied, “My name is Jacob.”
“Jacob, what?” asked Muerte.
“Do you want me to give you my last name?” replied Jacob.
Muerte then moved his hand from Jacob’s hair to his neck and tightened his grip to the point where Jacob tried to pry Muerte’s fingers open.
“When properly addressing me,” said Muerte, “You say, “Jacob, my Lord” not anything else. Now say it.”
Jacob then said, “My name…is J-Jacob, m-my L-Lord.” He said it with much annoyance.
Muerte then released his grip and dropped Jacob to the ground. As he was standing up, Muerte said, “Now why do you find me sick, Jacob?”
Jacob replied, “Because you enjoy killing people and turning them into monsters. That’s just sick.”
Muerte replied, “Oh it is, is it? That’s not what I call it. My subordinates and myself all call it an act of