These Hallowed Bones - [Monster Evolution, Dark Fantasy, Heroic Undead]

The parasite stench fades behind borrowed bones. Ahead, the land changes. Cobblestones give way to bone, countless layers pressed into a solid path beneath these plated feet.

Vertebrae. Femurs. Skulls.

These forgotten bones have forgotten how to call.

A road built from defeated armies.

Final pleas trapped in marrow turned pavement.

Memory-fragments stir lost to time.

Death lingers in every footfall.

They do not come to me and I cannot answer.

Corrupted birds circle overhead, things of shadow and clotted filth.

They keep their distance, wary.

Even tainted by demon taint, they sense a greater predator. My titan frame, fifteen feet of bone and steel, casts a bigger shadow.

In their croaking calls, I hear respect born of fear.

They know this shape transcends common horrors.

Knowledge starts to flow.

This place, the Path of Conquest,

I know from half-remembered battles. Here the Demon King's legion under the Duke first marched north, grinding hope beneath iron heels.

Now the bones that stood against him pave the way to his doorstep.

A grim irony.

What once carried his ambitions now leads these chosen bones back to him.

I pass monuments of defeat, suits of armor fused into cairns, weapons melted into abstract sculptures of violence. The Duke marks his territory with trophies of war.

Rusted shields stacked upon greying bones.

Each display tells a story of annihilation.

Ash falls like snow, coating my bones in gray.

The corruption here runs deeper than surface taint.

A noise draws my attention. Movement in the skeletal cairns.

A three-armed demon crouches atop a mound of ancient armor. Its skin, the texture of wet leather. Curved daggers hang from each limb. It studies my approach with seven yellow eyes.

"Bone titan," it hissest. "You walk the wrong direction."

I continue forward, ignoring the creature's warning.

It scuttles down the mound, circling my path. "You deaf? Or just stupid? Duke's fortress that way. Nothing good that way."

These jaws hold no words. I continue my stride.

"Fine. Your funeral. Again." The creature laughs. "The Duke has killed all whose challenged him?"

Borrowed memories surface of screaming bones, twisted by demon fire. This frame knows and will not know it again.

The demon falls in behind me, curious now. "You're bigger than the others, I'll give you that. What lord raised you, bone walker? What binding holds you?"

It circles, examining dragon-forged plates, eyeing Aeternus with unconcealed interest. "Fine workmanship. Ancient steel. Someone important must have died to make you."

A thousand someones. All important. All remembered in these bones.

"Silent type? Fair enough." It shrugs with all three arms. "Marnac's camp lies ahead. He's gathering a host. Punishing the Duke for, indiscretions."

I know this name. Marnac.

Half-formed memories surface those whose I cannot tell. A demon who once served the Duke. Lesser power, greater ambition.

The creature bares needle teeth. "I'm Pan. Outrider for Marnac. I bring news, scout paths, watch walls."

It scuttles closer. "You got a name, bone walker?"

I continue forward. Names are for the living. Purpose needs no introduction.

"Just as well," Pan says. "Names have power. Smart to keep yours close."

The road goes over a hill. Pan scuttles ahead, perching on a boulder. "Behold, bone walker. War's theater awaits."

Hollow sockets narrow. Something vast awaits.

Compulsion pulls me forward. There, I find a monstrous host before black walls. Hulking fiends, wolf-headed brutes, warriors in chitin plate, and other things.

Standards bearing old runes.

Siege engines creak, built from bone and rusted chains, catapults strung with sinew.

Ladders carved from giant femurs lean on scaffolds of rib and horn. Siege towers shaped from titan ribcages roll forward on skull-wheeled axles.

At their center stands the Demon Duke's fortress, walls of curse-stone, towers like crooked fingers clawing at diseased heavens. Red sparks move between battlements where lesser devils patrol.

I have found a war.

"Impressive, yes?" Pan scuttles up my leg bones, perching on my shoulder plate. I permit this only because the creature might provide useful information. "Marnac's gathered quite a force. Duke's not popular these days."

The demon camp spreads below in chaotic sprawl. Fires of green and purple flame illuminate clusters of creatures grouped by kind. Wolf-headed gnolls gnaw on limbs of indeterminate origin. Trolls with stitched-together flesh lurch between tents of stretched skin. Winged devils perch on siege towers, tails lashing with impatience.

"Politics," Pan explains, as if reading my thoughts. "Duke got greedy. Tried claiming territories beyond his right. Insulted Baron Thex. Refused tribute to Lord Malekrath." Its seven eyes blink in sequence. "Bad business all around."

I continue my descent toward the camp. Purpose cares nothing for demon politics. Let them waste strength fighting among themselves. These bones need only one clean strike.

"You'll want to meet Marnac," Pan says, still perched on my shoulder. "He grants hunting rights. Territory claims." The creature pauses. "Unless you're freelance? Some bone champions serve no master."

Pan mistakes my silence for confirmation. "Ah! A mercenary dead. Even better. Marnac pays well. Flesh, souls, power, humans to kill? Whatever currency you prefer."

The camp grows larger as we approach. Demons of all types turn to watch my titan frame.

Some point. Others cluster.

I catch fragments of their harsh speech.

All studying my fifteen-foot frame .

A hulking brute with brass-plated horns nudges his companion, pointing at my dragon-bone joints.t.

Three bat-winged imps perch on a rack of spears, chittering about my size compared to someone called Haagarath's champion. A demon wearing fragments of stolen armor circles behind me, muttering about the lack of binding marks or banners that would show allegiance.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Their observations spread through the camp, my unmarked status, my considerable height, the ancient dragon bone fused seamlessly into my skeletal frame.

Each creature seems unsure whether to approach or retreat, leaving a cautious space around my path as I continue forward.

A pair of horned warriors block the path. Their armor, black iron veined with pulsing crimson, bears symbols of rank and allegiance. They cross halberds before me.

"State your business, dead thing," the taller one demands.

Pan scuttles down to address them. "Fresh ally for the cause. Powerful bone champion. Freelance."

The guards exchange glances. The shorter one sniffs the air. "Smells wrong. Not like our dead."

"Because it's not bound," Pan explains with exaggerated patience. "Independent contractor, so to speak."

The taller guard narrows sulfurous eyes. "Marnac will decide."

They uncross their weapons. Pan scuttles back up to my shoulder as we continue into the heart of the demonic encampment.

More creatures watch our passage. A hunched sorceress approaches and caresses my bones, reading magic with a touch.

Her eyes widen.

"Old power," she whispers to her acolytes. "Very old."

A massive troll, skin stitched from multiple victims, lumbers over to examine me. Its breath reeks of rotted meat and brimstone. It leans close, single cyclopean eye blinking wetly.

"Me know you?" it rumbles.

It reaches toward my skul. I do not react. The troll's proximity means nothing to these bones.

"No touch," Pan hisses. "Bad manners, Gorthrax."

The troll withdraws its hand. "Just curious. Many bone champions. Duke burned them all." It thumps its chest. "Me remember. Me was there."

Its single eye narrows. "This one different. Bigger. Stronger."

The troll leans closer, drops its voice. "Smarter?"

I move past the creature, continuing toward the center of the camp where the command tent must be.

These interactions provide useful intelligence, but they delay purpose.

"You're causing quite the stir," Pan observes. "Not often a free-willed dead walks into war camp."

Demons part before my titan frame. None recognize the truth, that these bones serve no dark master, that this frame marches to protect, not destroy.

Let them misunderstand.

This purpose courts no allies, only opportunities.

The road curves north around a ridge. Black smoke stains the horizon, signs of demon warfare.

The camp center reveals a clearing where various demon captains gather around maps spread on table. War trophies hang from posts - banners, armor, weapons, even preserved heads of enemies whose expressions still hold final terror.

Pan leaps from my shoulder. "Wait here. Protocol and all that."

The demon scuttles toward a massive tent constructed from dark leather and bones of enormous size. The entrance flap bears symbols that pulse with malevolent energy.

While waiting, I observe the war council. Commanders argue in guttural languages, clawed fingers pointing to different locations on maps. They debate tactics, supplies, betrayals. Their concerns are mundane despite their monstrous forms.

A gnoll captain growls at a winged devil, accusations of cowardice met with threats of evisceration. A troll commander smashes a stop of rocks meant to imply Duke's tower, demonstrating where he believes defenses are weakest.

They are monsters playing at being generals. Their tactics lack the discipline of human armies, relying instead on numbers and ferocity.

This knowledge will serve my purpose well.

The tent flaps open. Pan emerges, followed by a figure of grafted metal and corrupted flesh.

Their leader.

Marnac the Defiler, a risen demon who once served the Duke. His skull stretches backward, crowned with curling horns.

Not as powerful a demon as first thought, but something hungrier, a lesser power seeking to rise. His armies mix demon, undead, and things that defy description.

The Defiler's gaze passes over this frame without interest.

To him, these bones are merely another piece in his grand assault. His attention fixes on the Duke's walls.

Let him think that. Let them all think that.

His captains gather, scaled monsters that tower over common demons, winged terrors with flesh like oil-slick metal, things of too many limbs and eyes that drip venom from needle-teeth maws.

They form a half-circle.

"You who stride from ashen waste." Marnac's voice scrapes like chains dragged through gravel. "We know not your name, nor need we. There is plenty of battle to feast on."

These jaws hold no words. I tilt my skull, letting ancient magic pulse behind hollow sockets.

I point to the sword and then the Duke's fortress.

My point is made.

Blue-white light flickers across bone and dragon-forged plate.

Metal teeth flash as Marnac grins with corrupted gums. "A greater dead drawn to conquest. Good. The Duke trembles in his fortress."

His claws spread wide, encompassing siege lines and massed horrors. "Help break his walls, and spoils shall be yours."

A massive devil with wings of rusted metal steps forward. "Lord Marnac," it growls, "can we trust this thing? It bears no mark of binding. No master's sigil."

"Precisely why it's valuable," Marnac replies. "Power resides in the dead that rise. This one is unrestrained."

A devil's tail lashes. "Or claims to. Perhaps it serves our enemies. Perhaps it serves the Duke himself."

Marnac laughs, a sound like cracking bones. "The Duke, employing a bone champion? He would never." He turns to me.

Memory flickers through borrowed bones.

Flame. Scattered fragments across scorched earth. These bones remember.

Marnac reads something in my stillness. "Ah. Personal grudge, is it? Even better." He dismisses the devil with a wave. "The dead make reliable allies when vengeance drives them."

A gnoll captain pushes forward, muzzle wrinkled in disgust. "Skeleton smells wrong."

Several demons mutter agreement. Unease spreads through their ranks. These creatures understand power on an instinctual level. They sense something different in these chosen bones.

Marnac silences them with a gesture. "Enough. All I care for is results."."

He turns back to me. "You seek the Duke's destruction? So do we. Common cause makes temporary allies."

The horde approves. Weapons clatter against shields. Roars echo across the camp.

They accept my silence as consent.

Marnac signals, and commanders bark orders in coarse tongues. I stand among their ranks fire-maned gnolls gnawing on old bones, stitched trolls drooling acidic saliva, insectoid devourers.

Fetishes of horn and sinew dangle from wooden poles.

A three-armed demon with curved horns approaches. "Marnac honors you with forward position," he announces. "You'll join vanguard assault. Break through outer wall. Kill defenders."

I nod once. The position suits my purpose. Direct path to the Duke's inner chambers.

"Follow," the demon commands.

We move through chaotic camp.

Different demon species prepare for battle in their own ways. Gnolls work themselves into frenzy, slashing themselves with knives, blood mixing with saliva as they howl battle-prayers to forgotten gods.

Trolls consume massive quantities of raw meat, growing visibly larger as they feed.

Despite their differences, a common mood binds them, anticipation of violence, of plunder, of advancement through another's downfall. These are creatures of ambition wrapped in monstrous flesh.

We approach the forward camp, closest to the Duke's walls.

Here, elite units prepare specialized weapons. Bone ballistae inscribed with curse-runes. Catapults loaded with writhing masses.

Siege towers housing things that scratch at wooden walls from inside.

My escort points to a massive barricade where other large creatures gather. "Kill everything."

I take my place among creatures bred for siege warfare. Trolls with reinforced skull plates designed for ramming.

Devils with claws that secrete stone-melting acids. Massive quadrupedal beasts with battering rams grafted to their spines.

None speak to me. They recognize a specialist when they see one.

Dusk approaches. Torches sputter greenish flames. Siege crews test ropes of sinew that creak under monstrous tension. The horde's mood darkens with excitement. They see my silent form as a lucky omen, an avatar of death.

They do not understand that death is not corruption.

The horde grows restless. Claws scrape stone. Wings rustle like dead leaves. A gnoll captain sniffs the air, hackles rising at my presence.

Pan arrives, standing next to me. "Exciting, isn't it. Grand alliance like this happens once a century."

A massive devil nearby snorts. "Alliance? Temporary convenience. We'll be killing each other before the Duke's body cools."

"Perhaps," Pan concedes. "But tonight, we feast on common enemy."

The devil studies my frame with slitted eyes. "You're the free-willed dead, yes? What drove you to our cause? Vengeance? Ambition? Boredom?"

These hollow jaws offer no response.

"Silent as the grave," Pan explain. "Mysterious, this one."

"Mysterious or mindless," the devil rumbles. "Makes no difference to me, so long as it kills what it's supposed to kill."

"It will." Pan pats my shoulder plate. "I can tell. This one's different. Special."

"We're all special," the devil growls. "Until we're dead."

A horn of sounds across the camp.

Demons rush to positions. Siege engines creak forward on massive wheels made from skulls and vertebrae. Captains shout orders in dozen different tongues.

Marnac stands before his command tent, running claws over a map of the Duke's fortress. His warriors give my frame wide berth as I move through their ranks.

Pan gives one last pat on shoulder bones. "Good hunting, bone walker. See you inside the walls."

The demon walks away, joining scouts and infiltrators preparing to exploit any breach we create.

These demons plot complex strategies, but my purpose remains simple.

Direct. Pure.

The death of the Duke, and then of these monsters.

Llesser devils patrol distant battlements. They peer down at the gathering army, unaware that death walks among their enemies in borrowed bones.

Horns of bone and brass sound. The horde surges forward.

The first volley launches, spheres of cursed bone trailing green fire arc toward the Duke's walls.

They explode in bursts of corrupted flame.

Lesser devils scatter.

I march among them, each step driving old bones deeper into the road. The horde's bloodlust propels them forward.

Ladders of titan bone slam against black walls.

Demons surge upward, claws scraping stone. The Duke's defenders respond with arrows tipped in burning silver.

Scaled forms fall, but more take their place.

Marnac's voice booms across the battlefield, words of power filled with dark commands.

The siege towers groan forward, pushed by things enslaved with chains.

I glimpse winged horrors ready to leap onto the walls.

A catapult releases with a sound like snapping spine. Its projectile - a writhing mass of flesh and bone, strikes the wall and burrows inward. Where it touches, stone begins to bubble and melt.

The horde howls. They see victory in each breach, each fallen defender. They do not understand that their celebration is premature.

Green fire rains from above as the Duke's forces counter-attack. Demon flesh melts, bone warps, but the assault continues. The siege engines keep firing, targeting weak points in blackened stone.

These bones feel the pulse of battle.

Old memories surface, tactics, weak points, paths of approach.

But these fragments come from fallen warriors who fought against demons, not alongside them.

No matter.

Let the horde spend their strength. Let them crack the Duke's defenses. My purpose remains pure among their corruption.

The walls begin to crack.

My titan frame moves forward with the vanguard. Trolls rush ahead, battering the damaged section with reinforced skulls. The stone groans, fragments falling.

A breach forms.

Demons pour through.

Defenders meet them with blades of cursed silver and spells that turn flesh to stone.