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

The imp's blade hovers inches from my ribcage. Its yellowed eyes search for thought, for reaction, for any sign that I am more than animated bone and necromantic shadow.

Something it should fear.

I give it none.

"Go on," an imp from the back taunts its companion. "Test the dead thing. See what passes for strength among Pan's new allies."

Pan shifts nervously beside me, his three hands suddenly very interested in adjusting his rings. "Perhaps we should continue on our way—"

"Quiet, pretender," the lead imp snarls. "We're evaluating your protection."

More shapes emerge from the cracked earth and shadowed rocks. Five become ten. Ten become twenty. They rise from hiding places with the coordinated movement of pack hunters who've spotted wounded prey.

Pan's breathing quickens. "This is more than—"

"More than you were expecting?" An imp laughs. "Did you think the road had grown safe? That we'd forgotten how you fled when Kazud fell?"

They form a circle, cutting off escape routes. These aren't random scavengers, they're an organized pack that's survived by picking off the weak.

The first blade presses forward, scraping against sternum bone. The imp grins, thinking it'll take me down first then move on to Pan.

"Nothing," it declares. "Just another skeleton."

Pan backs against me. "I can pay—"

"With what?" Another imp spits. "Those stolen rings? That threadbare finery? You have nothing we can't take from your corpse."

The blade drives deeper, finding the gap between ribs. It scrapes against the inner bones that have been fortified by the parts folded back within. The imp twists the blade, expecting the satisfying crack of breaking calcium.

My bones hold.

"Harder!" the lead imp snarls. "Put your weight behind it!"

Three more join the first, their blades seeking different joints. One aims for my spine, another for my knee. They probe but aren't patient, they have dismantled easier creatures.

Pan attempts to invoke authority. "I am a candidate for Duke! The conclave—"

His words are cut off as an imp backhands him across the face. Pan staggers, black blood running from his split lip.

"The conclave won't miss one failure who never had the chance," the first imp says. "Especially one who brings nothing but a skeleton for his protection."

The attacking imp's blade snaps against my ribs. It staggers backward, holding a hilt attached to nothing.

"It's reinforced somehow," one observes. "Try the joints."

They swarm forward. Ten sets of claws rake across my frame. Some climb my back, others attack low, trying to topple me through weight and leverage. Their strategy is sound, even the strongest skeleton can be dismantled piece by piece.

But I have become so much more than that.

Pan tries to crawl away but is kicked back into the circle. An imp plants a foot on his chest, pinning him down.

"Watch," it tells him. "This skeleton first."

More imps continue coming from the wasteland. Thirty now, perhaps more. They've been tracking us, waiting for the perfect spot to strike. They always sought to execute Pan.

The lead imp draws a cleaver. "It's undead. The skull. Always go for the skull first."

The blow comes down with surprising force. The cleaver strikes where neck meets skull, a killing blow for any normal undead. Metal meets bone that has weathered dragon fire and divine forging.

The cleaver shatters.

The imp stares at the broken weapon. "What is this thing made of?"

"Doesn't matter," another growls. "Everything breaks eventually."

They redouble their efforts. Some bring hammers now, others use picks meant for cracking stone. The sound of metal on bone creates a hellish percussion. Sparks fly with each impact.

Pan whimpers as an imp presses a blade to his throat. "Perhaps we'll start with you instead."

The Arkashoth fragment observes with cold interest. They show organization. Pack tactics. This is how the weak survive in corrupted lands.

Twenty imps now cling to my frame like insects. They've realized brute force won't work, so they try cunning. Ropes appear, attempting to bind my arms. One spews acid on my spine, watching for any sign of weakening.

"Why won't it break?" Frustration creeps into their voices.

The scarred imp commander maintains discipline. "Everything has a weakness. Keep trying."

Pan's eyes meet mine, wide with terror.

He mouths a single word. "Save me. Please."

One imp, more clever than the rest, reaches directly for my eye socket.

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Its clawed finger extends toward the blue light.

Now.

I move.

Not just my hand, my entire form shifts. The compressed skeleton expands slightly, just enough to throw off the clinging imps. Several lose their grip, tumbling to the ground.

My hand closes around the throat of the imp reaching for my eyes. The motion is deliberate, measured, allowing them to see it happen.

"Mistake," I say.

The word carries more weight now, emerging not from a simple skeleton but from something that chose to appear simple.

The imp's eyes bulge as I lift it. Its companions freeze, suddenly aware that the statue-like skeleton they've been attacking was never just animated bone.

I squeeze slowly. The imp's neck compresses with wet pops as tissue tears. Its eyes hemorrhage, black ichor running down its face. I maintain eye contact with the imp commander as I continue the deliberate killing.

The body drops with a wet thud.

"More?"

I ask, turning to the rest.

The blade at Pan's throat trembles. The imp holding it looks to its commander for orders, but the leader is trying to figure out his own survival.

"Kill them both!" the commander shrieks, desperation overriding tactics. "All of you! Now!"

They surge forward as one. Twenty-nine bodies driven by panic and bloodlust, weapons raised, claws extended. The imp holding Pan presses its blade, drawing a line of black blood.

I expand.

Bones elongate. Joints reverse. My spine extends, adding height but not my true height.

My hand shoots out, fast, long, first two feet, then more, catching the wrist of the imp threatening Pan. I don't simply break it, I fold it backward until the imp's own blade pierces its eye.

It screams, stumbling away with steel protruding from its socket.

Two more rush from my left.

I pivot, my arm sweeping in an arc that catches both at neck height. Their forward momentum meets immovable bone that forms and reforms fingers, hands that grip the throat. Tracheas collapse. They hit the ground choking, clawing at necks that will never draw breath again.

An imp leaps onto my back, trying for my spine. I reach behind, seize its leg, and swing it like a club into three others charging from the front. Bones shatter on impact. The living club's skull caves in on the second swing, brain matter spattering across the ancient stones. I continue using the corpse until it falls apart in my grip.

"Get the joints!" The commander hasn't given up. "Dismember it!"

Five converge on my right arm with picks and hammers. I let them cluster close, then flex. The bones of my arm separate momentarily, not breaking, but creating gaps. Their weapons pass through harmlessly, throwing them off balance.

I reform my arm inside their guard. My fingers extend, then become claws that tear through the nearest imp's chest. I lift it off the ground, its heart visible through the hole, still beating before I crush it. The body slides off my hand.

The battle shifts, they realize this is not battle at all but massacre.

Another tries to flee. I catch its spine between thumb and forefinger, lifting it up. One squeeze. Vertebrae separate with a sound like snapping twigs. I drop the paralyzed creature, leaving it to die slowly in the dust.

Three more coordinate their attack, coming from different angles. I grab the first by its lower jaw, my fingers hooking behind its teeth. A sharp pull removes the entire mandible. The imp staggers away, trying to scream through a mouth that no longer closes, drowning in its own blood.

The second reaches me just as I turn. My fist goes through its torso, emerging from its back clutching a handful of organs. I open my hand, letting the gore splatter on the ground, then backhand the third so hard.

The head snaps and turns.

It takes a step before realizing it's dead.

Pan scrambles away from the carnage, his fancy clothes now splattered with gore. An imp pursues him, blade raised. I intercept, catching the creature mid-stride. My hands grip its shoulders and pull in opposite directions. The wet tearing sound continues for several seconds as the imp splits down the middle, each half falling separately.

"Form ranks!" The commander tries to restore order. "Surround it! Attack together!"

They obey from trained fear. Fifteen survivors form a rough circle, weapons pointed inward. They advance in unison, a closing ring of death.

I crouch, then leap straight up. Not my full capability, just enough to clear their heads. I land behind their formation and immediately grab the nearest two by their skulls. A simple squeeze that showers its companions with brain and bone fragments.

The formation breaks. They scatter, survival instinct completely overriding everything.

I move among them.

One trips. I step on its spine, applying pressure until I feel each vertebra crack in sequence. Its screams rise in pitch with each break.

Another brandishes a spear. I catch the weapon, reverse it, and drive it through the wielder's mouth and out the back of its skull. The body remains standing for a moment, balanced on the spear, before toppling backward.

The next three I hardly register, only that I drop the bodies, stepping over the spreading pool of ichor.

An imp with a scarred face, not the commander, another one, swings a mace at my knee. I catch the weapon's head, then push it back into the attacker's face. Teeth shatter. The jaw dislocates. I maintain pressure until the mace emerges through the back of its skull.

Seven left, including the commander.

One has climbed a rocky outcrop, thinking height provides safety. I pick up a stone, gauge the distance, and throw. The projectile takes off the top of its skull. It sways, confused, then reaches up to touch the exposed brain before falling.

Another attempts magic, weaving shadows around its claws. I let it complete the spell, curious. Dark energy crackles toward me. I walk through it. The magic parts around my bones. I reach the caster and push my thumb through its forehead. The bone gives way. I hook my thumb and pull, removing the front portion of its skull. It drops and the magic goes.

Five remain.

"Please," one begs, weapons forgotten. "We didn't know—"

I grab its tongue and pull. The organ comes free, trailing tissue. The imp clutches its mouth, blood pouring between its fingers. I push it over and move to the next.

This one fights. It scores lines across my ribs with its claws, accomplishing nothing. I catch its arms. Bones break. Joints dislocate. When I'm done, its arms are melded together. It screams until I crush its windpipe.

Three left. Two guards flanking their commander.

The guards exchange glances, then charge together. Loyalty or fear drives them forward. My claws dart out and grab. Their bodies flip backward, but their heads remain in my grip. Two headless corpses hit the ground. Two heads roll away.

The commander stands alone. The scarred imp that started this, that thought numbers meant victory. Its confident sneer has been replaced by terror.

"I... I yield," it stammers. "Mercy. Please. Mercy."

I approach slowly, letting each footstep echo on the blood-slicked stones. The commander falls to its knees, hands clasped in supplication.

"I was wrong. You're not just bone. You're—"

I place my hand on its head almost gently. Then I push down. The skull resists at first, then begins to deform. The commander's pleas become screams, then whimpers, then silence. I continue pushing until its head disappears into its torso cavity.

The body falls over with a squelch.

Thirty corpses litter the King's Road. Some still twitch. Others leak their final fluids into the thirsty ground. The air reeks of copper and voided bowels.

Pan emerges from behind a boulder, his stolen finery ruined beyond repair. Black blood, mostly not his, drips from his clothes. He surveys the carnage with wide eyes, trying to count the bodies, losing track, starting over.

"Thirty," I inform him. "All dead."

He swallows hard, then attempts to reclaim his composure. "Well. That was... thorough."

I compress my form again, bones folding back into the shape of a simple skeleton warrior. The blood coating my frame makes the disguise less convincing, but it will dry and flake away as we walk.

"Your throat," I observe.

Pan touches the shallow cut, wincing. "Superficial. I've had worse." He looks at the scattered corpses again. "Though perhaps not witnessed worse."

"Shall we continue?" I ask. "Acre still awaits."

Pan nods, stepping carefully around the spreading pools of blood. "Yes. Let's leave this behind."

We resume our journey down the King's Road. Behind us, thirty corpses cool in the wasteland dust. Soon, other scavengers will come to feed. The cycle continues.

But word will spread.