Chapter 2 : All You Zombies

Mnemon Rhomon, Sorcerer

Realm Year 764, Descending Water

The City of Dead Flowers, An-Teng, Satrapy of the Realm

The borders of the city were lined with statues and altars, and scattered homes were surrounded by fields of sickly looking crops and pallid livestock. Looking one way or the other allowed him to see troupes of masked performers making plays at the edges of the city to appease the spirits- spirits who gathered at the edges to watch. 

There was an immediate, sudden chill to the air as they passed the invisible boundary of altars. A shrinking of life and heat away from the space they now entered. The sun above dimmed by another degree, light now little more than a pale yellow shining down over the long dead ruins. The entire city was run through by a river once- the river now nothing more than a barren trench carved through the earth.

“These roads are bare of stone.” Brahm noted as they moved through, a tension in his shoulders and suspicious glances cast to the shadows of rotten and tumbled buildings. 

“Not roads.” Rhomon corrected with a firm scowl of his own, the flame atop his staff being the lone source of ready warmth. “Like many cities in An-Teng, these were canals once, and all travel throughout the city was done over boats and suspended walkways.”

The monk glanced down to the bare earth, dark and rich and gleaming with thin salts. Very little but hardy weeds grew in inconsistent places throughout the filled canals. Most of the more vibrant life hung from the broken rooftops, dark flowers that twisted and coiled with the parody of life in the thin winds that channeled through the ruined canals. 

“...Which is why so little grows in this soil, I suppose.” Brahm frowned, brows furrowing as he looked down to the soil. 

“The soil is salted, and thus should be impossible for all but the mightiest of ghosts to pass over.” Rhomon nodded with a frown. “What we’ll need to worry about is the things that are not ghosts. Hold a moment.” He raised his hand and bid the monk to stop, as the road ahead grew choked with the hanging vines of rich blue and red flowers. They hung from the sides of an ancient stone walkway that connected two buildings that no longer existed. 

He narrowed his eyes at it suspiciously, before slowly extending his staff and the wick of flame within.

The vines writhed to life, tendrils immediately extending out to grasp and strangle the intruding object. The flame within the staff burst to life, leaping out of its container and twisting into the shape of a bright sword. The sword of flame smashed into the sides of the vines, sending them aside and catching them aflame.

He stepped back and allowed the flames to grow and spread, the sword of fire returning to inconsistent shape and settling into his staff again.

“Another spell?” The monk asked, glancing behind them and then back to the burning vines.

“Virtuous Guardian of Flame.” Rhomon replied, casting his own gaze back. The pale, ghastly shapes of ghosts lingered in the darkness under ruined buildings, staring at the pair of them and the bonfire of predatory vines. “The flame will leap to defend me from any attackers. It’s imperfect, but is well worth the effort to cast and maintain.”

“I can imagine so.” Brahm replied, glancing at the flame and then back to the bonfire before them. Soon enough the flames had pulled far enough away from the salted earth and devoured enough of the vines that Rhomon felt confident in passing through, staff raised first. The vines did not try to reach out and strangle them again, possibly on account of being on fire at the moment.

“Please… fresh… lovely blood…” A ghost at the edges of the street begged, head low and arms stretched above his head. “A drop of essence…”

“Hurry onto Lethe and reincarnation, fallen one.” Brahm said firmly, waggling a finger as they passed. 

So morose and earnest was the sound of the ghosts’ voice that Rhomon longed to aid him, but he knew better than that. Moving to aid the unfortunate soul would just draw more and more ghosts looking for free essence, and Rhomon had not enough to provide an entire city of dead with renewed energy. He clenched a fist and grimaced, passing by and focusing his gaze on the canals ahead.

“We’re looking for the old Palace- the Palace of the Lotus.” Rhomon said aloud, partially to focus his thoughts on their objective again. “It should be within sight of the canals, and in the very center of the city. If we’re lucky, it’ll look like a giant lotus so it’ll be simple to distinguish.”

“If we’re lucky? Do you not know what our objective looks like?” Brahm asked with scrunched features. 

“The most important relic we’re looking for is the Seven Lotus Crown. A headband of orichalcum set with seven jade lotuses.” Rhomon ignored the accurate assessment of his familiarity with the region, and instead barreled along. “Doubtless the ghosts that linger in the palace will oppose us, so be prepared to be firm and insistent on the matter.”

“We’re being followed.”

Rhomon turned, following the gaze of the monk down the canal paths behind them, and then to their sides, finally spotting their pursuers. A gaggle of spirits that lingered and stalked around in heaps of long rotten and sun-dried wood, with eyes covered in a murky white film and sharp teeth bared in a lipless grimace. Their features were skeletal and pulled into predatory shapes, and their hands bore wicked claws.

“Hungry ghosts.” Rhomon replied with narrowed eyes. When a man dies, his two souls separate from each other. In most instances, both souls simply enter Lethe, are dissolved, and re-enter the cycle of reincarnation. Both souls, however, can form ghosts.

The higher soul, governing a man’s higher impulses, becomes a normal ghost. The lower soul, governing a man’s lower impulses, becomes a hungry ghost. A bestial predator bereft of intellect and hungry for essence, blood, and flesh. 

Leaving them alone would just cause more problems in the future, so… He raised his hand, extending his index and pinky fingers while bringing his middle and ring fingers down to touch his thumb. He reached out to the pallid, thinned essence of the world around him and started to gather it.

Fire began to grow between his extended fingers. His brows furrowed in concentration, as the fire grew and grew, and ambient essence was gathered and set ablaze. Nearly ten seconds of concentration passed before he judged the flame powerful enough, and twisted his hand.

A flash, and the fire collapsed into itself and exploded out again into a man-sized bird of prey, screeching with fury at having to leave its home as raw essence. The bird screamed forwards, wings of fire flapping powerfully as it raced through the air and towards the gaggle of bestial spirits.

The bestial spirits looked a lot like deers to approaching headlights.

A burst of flame, twenty feet wide, exploded to life as the firebird impacted the ground. An explosion of elemental flame that caught most of the hungry ghosts in its fury. One of them managed to avoid the initial impact, leaping to the side, but it quickly dashed away on all fours. Its fellows were caught in the blaze for longer, slumping to the ground and enveloped by quietly crackling flame.

“They were harmed by that?” The monk questioned with furrowed brows, face illuminated by the rapidly dying blaze in the distance. 

“Only about half, it looks like. The other half disappeared.” Rhomon observed with a frown. “Returned to an immaterial state- they’re likely still watching us, but they’ll be somewhat drained of strength the next time they materialize.”

“If destructive force alone was enough to force ghosts to Lethe, Creation would have far fewer ghosts.” Brahm pointed out as they started moving again, eyes roaming around suspiciously. 

“Most of them will reform or return eventually, yes. But some of them will not, and Creation will have slightly fewer ghosts as a result.” Rhomon corrected with a mild quibble. “But yes you are largely correct. My spell there mostly just scared them off briefly. If I was looking to purify as many ghosts as possible, we’d be entering at night.”

“Wouldn’t we be in the Underworld if we entered at night?” Brahm asked with a mildly annoyed tone.

“Correct- and ghosts are as material in the Underworld as we are in Creation. They’d be unable to dematerialize to avoid my spells.” Rhomon elaborated with a nod. “We’d be fighting through an army of the dead, but they’d be unable to escape, and a good number of them would never reform after destruction.”

“...You are certainly brave, to think in such a matter.” 

“It takes a foolhardy mind to ignore the risks of heroism.” Rhomon joked, turning at a canal edge and looking up, squinting around at the rooftops. They were nearing the city’s center, with more and more buildings in better repair. Bases of stone trailing up into towers of dry ivory and near-petrified teakwood. 

He narrowed his eyes in triumph. There in the distance, at the end of the long canal and a series of terraces leading up, was the clear shape of a palace. Its form was half-consumed with a strange black stone, but its overall frame was clearly regal and ostentatious. The only visible damage were the shattered gates and a collapsed roof, but the walls held strong. 

“What are the chances that isn’t the Palace of the Lotus?” Rhomon asked rhetorically, cracking his neck and beginning a power-walk down the salted canals, straight to the ancient stone docks of the palace before them. 

“Hardly impossible.”

“Naysayer- Now, do you know how to perform exorcisms?” Rhomon waggled his finger, then tilted his head back and asked. Brahm tilted his own head before nodding.

“The arts of warding and exorcism both. They were taught to all mortals who sought a place at the Immaculate order.”

“...Hah? Why didn’t you interrupt me when I was explaining to use salt then?” Rhomon asked with a mild irritation. “You could’ve just told me you already knew.”

“Well… It would be rude to have interrupted.” The monk’s face had the smallest, almost impossible to detect, smirk on his face as he replied. 

Rhomon rolled his eyes and huffed. “Well then, since you know- If we encounter a ghost of unusual potency, you’re to draw a ward of salt to protect yourself while I hold it off, then begin the banishment.”

“Why are you taking on that duty? Wouldn’t it be better for me to keep it at bay while you chant, sorcerer?”

Rhomon reached up and rapped his bronze-hued knuckles against the side of his face, producing a series of soft metallic clangs. The monk’s mouth opened in slight realization before nodding in understanding. 

They paused at the ends of the canal, the salted earth bleeding off into ancient stonework in the broad arches of a withered dock. The withered dock led directly into a crumbled staircase and a series of long-shattered gates, culminating in the gaping maw of a ruined palace. 

“Ready?” Rhomon asked, hefting his staff and narrowing his eyes, anticipating the shadows to leap to violence the moment they left the salted path.

“Not particularly.” The monk replied, reaching into the bag of salt and taking two handfuls of the pure mineral out, clenching his fists. 

Rhomon stepped off the salted earth with confidence, fist clenched and staff raised, making a direct march towards the palace. Brahm followed immediately after, hands full of salt. Nothing immediately leapt to attack them, which only aroused further paranoia.

The stairway up to the palace was lined in the shattered rubble of stone statues, each of which depicted a soldier in ancient styles of armor or a great beast. Tigers or elephants and great birds of prey- all broken into rubble and inconsistently strewn about the terraces of the outer palace. 

“Intruders…” A voice faintly whispered, making them briefly pause and turn their gazes about. 

“...That was in Old Realm.” Rhomon observed with narrowed eyes. “Ghosts of the original inhabitants.” 

“Old and powerful then.” Brahm grimaced. 

Rhomon kept moving forwards, holding his staff up. Rubble to his sides began to shake around, rising up and then exploding towards him.

The flame in his staff leapt out, shaping itself into a broad shield of flame. Rubble bounced against it, scattering to either side and breaking apart as it rolled across the crumbled stairs. Stray pebbles bounced against the sides of his head and his feet, doing nothing to his metal skin. 

More and more rocks and pebbles were hurled their way- the monk twisting around and dodging the hurled stones, and the sorcerer simply walking through as his flaming defender and bronze skin protected him. They reached the threshold of the palace soon enough, looking into a pillared hall filled with broken roofing and littered with corpses. Relatively fresh corpses, by the look of their state. Slain within the last few months or years, rather than centuries.

“They must gather anyone who dies near the city when the sun falls, and drag them here.” Brahm observed. “These corpses are too fresh to be the original inhabitants.”

“Intruders…” The same voice whispered, a hateful note in its voice. In the distance, a corpse near the throne began to rise. Plated in ancient armor and covered in a masked helmet, wielding a long and unnaturally large blade. “This grave does not await your kind… Why have you come?”

“The regalia of the old royalty of An-Teng.” Rhomon replied simply. “In a few years time, the servants of evil will come to claim it, and use it for their own ambitions in this land. We have come to pre-empt them, and deliver the regalia to the Three Princes, where it will be safer.” 

“Servants of evil? I see those before me. Sons of Usurpers and Scavengers.” The corpse snarled in hateful fashion, turning creakily around and raising its blade to point at them. The blade was as wide as a hand and at least five feet long, but the corpse wielded it as deftly as one would a normal sword. “Ambitions of delivering my Queen’s crowns to the slaves of those treacherous dragons? Guards- kill them!”

Other corpses began to shake and rise, hateful spots of light in their eyes. The armor was rotten and falling apart in many places- patched over with newer plates and lengths of chain- and worn by corpses significantly younger than the palace itself. 

The ghosts had been doing their best to maintain their defense of this place, for all this time. The loyalty was admirable. “Brahm, ward yourself and begin the exorcism.”

“Just as I was about to fight.” The monk muttered, dropping the salt from his hands and taking the bag, spinning slowly and pouring it out to form a perfect circle around his feet. He almost immediately began a series of chants and prayers- invocations to the Immaculate Dragons to focus his will and disrupt the hold the ghosts had to creation. 

Rhomon strode forwards, watching as more and more ghosts began to arrive, forming out of the darkness in the shadows of the broken palace and striding forwards. The ones possessing corpses were more dangerous- they didn’t need to spend as much energy to materialize. Not to say that he could ignore them.

They hesitated to attack briefly, before one lunged forwards with a thrust of a spear. The possessed corpse moved sluggishly, even more than usual, as if trying to attack through water.

The warding talisman on his chest warmed with protective, weakening energies. The flame in his staff leapt to turn aside the spear, cutting the rotten haft entirely through and sending the rusted tip flying away. 

The corpse staggered comically as Rhomon swung his iron-banded staff, smashing into the side of its head. Its jaw was ripped off entirely, staggering to the side and spinning once before falling over. 

Another corpse latched onto him, grappling at his side and trying to slow him down. He shaped his hand into a flat palm and thrust up.

Hard, bronze fingers broke through rotten, withered flesh and up through the jaw- into the head of the corpse. Putrid rot and bile spilled over his arm as he spun and tossed the corpse away.

The monk’s chanting grew louder. 

Another rusted sword was thrust towards him, and his sword of flame cast it aside. Another heavy swing of his staff knocked the head of the corpse around entirely, breaking the spine with a dry crunch and sending it staggering back and to the ground.

The staff of an enemy was thrust forwards, crashing into his midsection. The sound of chainmail and clang of bronze greeted it, and the thrust skid across his midsection and deflected to the side. 

They could attack through his warding talisman, they could overcome his flaming guardian through numbers, and they might be able to harm him through his bronze skin- but they couldn’t do all of those things at once. 

The monk’s chanting grew louder. 

The champion with the masked helmet leapt forwards with a heavy swing of its massive blade. His own sword of fire rose to meet it, crashing and delaying it, but ultimately unable to divert the swing. Rhomon raised his hand.

The sword, weakened and slowed by his flaming guardian, was caught in his bronze fingers. The corpse-champion tugged, trying to rip the blade from his fingers. Its arms were sluggish and its movements weak.

Rhomon pulled back, tugging the champion with him while thrusting with his staff. The blade was torn out of the corpse’s hands. 

A ghost swung a sword made of shadows at him, and the flaming guardian leapt into a broad arc to sweep it aside. Another ghost swung down on his arm with a broad axe, crashing into his chainmail and bronze skin ineffectually. 

The monk’s came to a climatic finish, delivering a great shout that boomed through the palace hall. The corpse-champion staggered, clutching at nothing before suddenly and anti-climatically dropping to the floor. 

The other ghosts and corpses paused, looking to their banished champion and then back to them. 

Rhomon spun his staff once, flipping the immensely heavy sword with his other hand and grabbing it by the hilt. It was much too heavy for him to wield reasonably- never designed for mortal hands. 

“Monk- another exorcism, if you would.”

“Very well.”

The chanting began again, and Rhomon leapt forwards with a heavy swing of his banded staff. 

The ghosts were not prepared for them.