Chapter I
My name is Krzesimir Wolski and I am dead.
Many years ago, I was a mortal man: impetuous, hot tempered, and arrogant. I served in the battle lines of Vaegir warlords for many years, in the same manner as my father, and his father before him, into time immemorial. Use of the bow and spear, the weapons of my people, became second nature to me. Battle after battle, I stained my hands with the blood of my enemies and never once did I feel the remorse of killing other men as all men should. I felt no more guilt killing a man than I would killing an insect. Instead, the spray of blood upon my face, the feel of my blade opening an opponent's chest cavity, all filled me with a thrill that no other diversion could provide.
Off the field of battle, I allowed my temper to rule my actions and few nights passed where I did not take part in some drunken brawl or duel. Many days, I would wake to find my sword stained with blood. It is a mystery that I was not stopped until much later. Feelings of empathy and other chivalric ideals had no hold over my conscience; I let my bloodlust and blind rage to control me. In the end, it was these traits that brought about my demise.
I met a woman. I thought her to be the love of my life, but now, looking back, I can’t even remember her name. We began seeing each other, and for a short time I was happy. At least, until I found out that she had become my lord’s mistress over a month before and had been content warming his bed while professing she loved me. Enraged, I entered her home in the dead of night and throttled her in the bed in which we had first made love. But her death did little to quench my anger. I charged into my lord’s presence, sword drawn and challenged him to a duel. He didn’t even bother to acknowledge my request. A brother knight, whom I had fought beside and loved, stepped forward to try and calm me down. He had barely a moment to speak before the edge of my blade separated his head from his neck.
~~~
A month later, I was executed by royal decree as punishment for the murder of a fellow knight. As they marched me out to the executioner’s block that cold winter morning, I shivered in the cold. I would not say that I was frightened by the prospect of death; I was more apprehensive than afraid. I kneeled down and lay my head upon the block, shivering as I felt the touch of cold steel upon my neck. I refused the hood: no point in it. The sound of the blade falling sent shivers down my spine and I felt no more.
How long I spent in hell after my death I cannot recall. I remember little of the place, only sensations. Pain. Fear. Terror. But never remorse. With all their tortures, all the forces of darkness could not foist a sense of guilt upon my soul. The spectres of my victims, both on and off the battlefield, tormented me, but I still felt nothing. The only emotion I could dwell upon was hatred for my lover and my friend.
How dare they cross me, I thought.
I am the true victim. I was betrayed. I spent eternity and day in that place, wandering the wastelands of the afterlife. I witnessed horrors and sights beyond belief and yet all of hell’s fury only served to inflate my feelings of betrayal. I swore to myself that if by some miracle I had a chance to visit the world which I had once walked, I would settle my scores with the entire land.
~~~
I later learned that the mastermind behind my salvation and damnation was naught but a lad. The boy had stolen a forbidden book from the corpse of a dead necromancer, one of the many who roamed the lands at the time. How he managed to raise a spirit from the underworld I care not. Foolishly, he attempted one of the rituals in the hope of creating a creature whom he could control, but he underestimated the forces he was dealing with.
My eyes snapped open. I stared wildly about me, realizing what had just taken place. I sat up and saw a boy of about thirteen years of age staring back at me. Shakily, he held the book out in front of him. “I command you to heed me, monster,” he whispered. I narrowed my eyes and pounced, my fingers closing around his throat. He struggled and fought, but in my new body, I felt no pain and only squeezed harder. Soon, his eyes rolled back into his head and he grew still. Taking up the book, I flipped through its pages and realized the enormity of the power which I now held in my ends. The Book of the Dead, the Necronomicon, whatever one chose to call it. And for the first time in what seemed like eternity…I smiled.
I dumped the corpse of the child in the hole where my current body had presumably resided before I took possession of it. As swiftly as I could, I buried the boy. The reason for this was not so much a feeling of sympathy but pragmatism. A missing corpse with the child in its place? The locals would put two and two together and come after me. No, better to hide the body. The work was slow and difficult. While I still retained knowledge of my past life, this body would take getting used to. With the Necronomicon in one hand and the spade in another, I set off into the boundless night, ready to take my revenge on this world.
~~~
At dawn, I came upon a group of farmers slumbering in the woods.
Crawling through the underbrush, I took my shovel in hand and crept up to the very edge of the fire. With a mighty heave, I caved in the skull of one of the sleeping farmers. Immediately, the others awoke and with several shouts of alarm grabbed for their weapons. However, I had taken them by surprise and struck several of them dead before they could become properly oriented. As I swung my spade in great arcs, I recalled with glee my days as a warrior, enjoying the rush as I split skulls, severed limbs, and cracked bone. Soon enough, they lay dead at my feet and I set to work looting their corpses.
From their bodies I took their clothing, dressing myself so as to hopefully disguise the fact that I am nothing more than bone. I set out for the nearest town. As I walked, I paged through the Book of the Dead and a set of goals began to take shape in my mind. I must first create a Oujia Board. Once I have this, I can begin raising fellow spirits of the dead. Surely my brothers will be just as willing as I to wreak havoc upon the living. Surely my hatred for life burned in them as well. Once in Reyvadin, I entered a shop, hood drawn over my face.
The shop owner, a large, heavyset man glared in my direction before returning to his business. I did not speak, for I did not trust my voice to the ears of the living. Selecting a suitable block of wood, I set a pouch of coins on the counter before exiting. I breathed deeply as I emerged into the city, enjoying the morning silence.
I'd missed this.
As night fell, I returned to the place where I had killed the farmers and found five of the bodies to be suitable for reanimation. I dismembered one of the corpses to gain the necessary materials and began preparations to make my Oujia Board.
Once I had prepared my equipment, I began the process of raising followers for my journey. I read from the pages of the Necronomicon, foul words dripping from decaying lips as I summoned the spirits of my brothers from the underworld. The air around me grew heavy as I completed the unholy ritual. One by one, their eyes snapped open, jaws flapping wildly as these foul spirits took command of their new forms.
My brothers spoke not, but they did not need to. The fire in their eyes spoke to me. That is good. Hatred will be our weapon.
I am Krzesimir Wolski and I am dead.
~~~
~~~
