Odela's Grimoire III
Last of Late Winter
fortnight past in the walls of Dorbagh before we make ride to the profane spring. Our company grows heavy with waiting swords, by our kinsmen and Lord Donnagh lent.
The alchemist made casks of quicklime, which shall burn like hot coals when cast into the water. I had proffered the druidess to teach me a healing balm, or means to stem the sickness before we lay ourselves against the power of the Imundissimus. Such aid was denied to us, her mysteries secreted until her appointed time.
Already I think she has given me more than she would like. Hers is the lore taught to me of these isles, of old donnashoe and ancient kings. Questions borne out the shadows of those spirits and ruined towers we learned in Ogannelloe.
The hour came at last and we levied ten and five, abreast of six strong fighting men from Lord Donnagh’s arms. We made camp at midday to stake through the night, or else we would arrive to our enemy’s threshold at point of dusk. A kinsman swore to slay a trophy stag, as a duel aside the aid of missiles. He and all our company failed to find quarry that day or night. Only bitter war roomed our stomachs.
By morning we came to the river’s throat, and split. One company and I would go atop the hill with the casks of lime and throw them into the river. Another company would jab exprimere at the wights who may try to stop us. This plan worked well at first. As we went amidst the trees they fanged at the water edge and its foul cinctutum.
Very quickly the wights rose up from the dead, their wizened bones hardened as if were heavy stone against the swords and spears of mortal men. As they fought we toppled the cart into the water from the hilltop, cresting a gout of heavy bile in the splash. At once the spring seethed and roiled like a cauldron and churned up its innards. Bodies floated to the sunlight, and the battle went on. Little by little our company crossed, but drew short. Too used to making quick work of death, their battle strategy was crude impetus. Many were struck down. Their commander dead. Made worse as the bloated cadavers burst foul slime against the shore, a miasma to add to the stench of iron.
I rushed downward, in convoco to call for wounded to be brought behind spearmen behind swords lines, but was not heeded. The alchemist had rushed out before me, and I found a man nearly dead by the trees. Quickly i made to treat him of his injuries.
It was there I saw the rise of the Immundissimus from the waters' black heart, where the low sweat of slakelime had not found its surface. A shroud of sour dead against him, on his thorn-horned brow a sickly crown, his feet stood at the mist like a mock Christ. In his hand a spear like that of Longinus. The pictdam lay out her mark and drove arrowhead through his ancient flesh. Doing nothing.
Then he came to kill me.
His careful stride brought him across the grass turned sudden black, and he struck at me with that terrible spear, the spear of old kings long forsworn and buried, and drove me in the leg like a rabbit. Then he turned the man aside me, and killed him, and then moved onward to the company while I made escape with my charge on my back.
My calls for retreat ignored and three more dead. One, a footman, speared him in the heart at cost to his life. Others plagaed by that befouled lance, as though mounds of wormy earth where they had stood.
By him who I name The Worm King.
We fled straight to Donnagh. The wound still does not heal. I am hungry. I consider if it is better to forswear my oaths than contest what seem the natural evils of the earth.
The moslem I am told showed cowardice in battle, calling upon his god at cost to his men. Challenged, he was slain in a duel on the morrow. He has left me his tomes and learnings.
I grow sick of monsters.