There were fifty-seven skeletons in total, the best the catacombs had to offer. They weren’t the perfect specimens he’d animated hundreds of years before when the Sisters of Murdus had imprisoned him for practising the forbidden art. These skeletons were attired in tatty garments. Their bones were porous, and in some cases, the odd one was broken or missing. He kept them for companionship only. Dreams of world domination now forgotten, all Siarl wanted was to be free of his prison and the terrible dust. He dreamed of building a cabin, perhaps in a forest, with few surfaces and many windows.
“Hey, Mervyn,” Siarl said to a legless skeleton leaning against the wall holding an iron staff crowned with a shiny, black onyx. The skeleton nodded with a click of his neck. Mervyn had always carried Siarl’s heavy staff for him until his legs broke, and then it didn’t seem right to take it from him. Siarl gave Mervyn’s cranium an affectionate flick of the duster.
The long corridor was crossed by another. Siarl never ventured down that one, and the stone floor remained hidden under a virgin carpet of dust. He hurried past, his eyes closed to the melancholy. The passage, ‘The Crypt of the Infants’, as he named it, was lined with rows and rows of Wichsault’s children. Their tiny bones lay forgotten on the dusty shelves. It broke his heart to see death in those so young.
Around a bend in the passage and he was back at the entrance, his favourite room. There was a sense of space here not found anywhere else in the catacombs. The vaulted ceiling rose high above him, and an expanse as large as a market square surrounded him.
And there was the door, shimmering blue and crackling like fire. In summer the fragrant drafts of marigolds and poppies that grew amongst the graves wafted through its cracks. In autumn the tang of dank leaves and rotting apples from nearby orchards crept through and infused the air. Today there was no wind, and he could smell only dust.
Siarl shuffled closer to the shimmering blue light; his long black robes whispered to the stones. He closed his eyes. Threadbare lids covered a murky glass stare. “Maybe this time,” he said. Weary from centuries of presenting passwords proper to the sisters, he decided on something frivolous. “Bitty boo boo,” he sang and held out a withered hand to grasp the door. The magic made the hairs on his arm stand on end.
“You shall not pass,” a voice rebuked. Siarl’s arm jerked back violently, and he was dispatched across the stone, backside first, in a tangle of robes.
The voice belonged to Maeve, the High Priestess of Murdus. “Good day, Maeve,” he called and smiled. He knew he tried the door as much to escape as to hear another human voice.
Siarl stood and dusted off his robe. “See you soon,” he said to the door.
The room the three companions found themselves in was unlit, and they needed to rely again on Szat’s fire. A small stone altar for ceremonies occupied the centre, and adjoining passages radiated out to the south, east and west of the room. Along each, a pathway was ploughed through the dust which was heaped up against the walls like snowbanks.
“He’s still alive then,” Caroc said. He walked in Goron’s shadow again at the back of the group. His wide, fearful eyes shone like flaming discs in the glow of Szat’s fire.
Morwen cracked a wide grin that split her face in two. That meant the staff was down here too. By possessing a weapon of such immense power, she would gain the magical skills of two lifetimes. No longer would her shadow bolts be wispy and lacklustre. They would be ingots of pure darkness capable of turning an enemy inside out.
Morwen passed under the west arch. The corridors were lined with the dead, stacks upon stacks of them, bones in mouldering rags. Only a few of the shelves were empty which surprised Morwen. She’d expected the dead to be too much of a temptation for a necromancer, like a bowl of boiled sweets left in an empty room with a child.
Morwen couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be trapped for centuries in such a forlorn and gloomy place with only old bones and yourself for companionship. She was convinced she’d go quite mad. And what was it with this dust? It was so thick she felt as if she were eating it with each breath.
They continued along the maze-like corridors. Each looked no different from the last—corpses and stone. What would she do when she found Siarl, simply ask him for the staff? Perhaps after centuries alone here, he’d be as mad as the dribbling idiots in Wichsault’s sanatorium and hand it over willingly. No, it wouldn’t be that easy.
“Where is he? I’m starving and need something to eat.” Goron’s complaining growls interrupted her musings.
“How would I know? If you have any suggestions, I’m all ears,” Morwen snapped.
“What if he’s wandering around too and we keep missing one another? The tracks suggest someone’s been doing a lot of walking,” Caroc said.
“That’s what I thought, and if we go back to the sanctum, we could take a lunch break while we wait,” Szat said.
“Makes sense to me,” Goron agreed.
“Shut up,” Morwen spat. They were right. She kept walking for a few more minutes to save face then announced, “We’ll go back to the entrance and wait for him there. But no eating, we need to be ready.”
Szat and Goron groaned in protest.
They waited until the clack of bone on stone could be heard from the south corridor. Caroc slunk into the shadows. His bow was drawn, but he shook so violently, he wouldn’t be able to hit the side of a barn if he tried.
A short, wizened figure in the tattered black robes of a high exarch emerged from the passage trailed by a small army of skeletons. He was so absorbed in vigorously shaking out a dust cloth from which great plumes of dust swirled, that he didn’t see his visitors until he had traversed halfway across the room.
Siarl froze. A prolonged groan escaped from his gaping mouth. To Morwen, it was the most melancholy sound she’d ever heard, like the howl of a solitary wolf, or the wind whistling through an abandoned tower.
For Goron, it was a declaration of war, the first mutterings of some dark spell. He drew his axe, roared in response, and charged at the necromancer.
“Wait,” Morwen yelled out. She reached out to grab Goron as he rushed past her, but her hand closed on empty air. She wanted to resolve this amicably—the staff for the necromancer’s freedom. You don’t trifle with necromancers.
The undead crowded around the necromancer to protect him. They were no match for the heavily armoured, axe-wielding soldier, and he trampled over them as if they were sticks.
The sight of the huge warrior bearing down on him had a sobering effect, and Siarl mumbled out a defensive spell. “Kroduv nuko ad kulk.”
The shadows in the sanctum lengthened, reducing the light from Szat’s hands to a dull glow, then extinguishing it entirely and throwing the room into absolute darkness.
Goron snarled and roared as he swung the axe blindly. Bones cracked and clattered to the ground as he reduced the undead to splinters.
The necromancer still needed to be dealt with, but the darkness left Morwen as good as useless. She needed to see her target to cast her spells. “I need a light,” she complained.
“I’m trying,” the demon replied. Sparks were firing from his hands, but they were snuffed out immediately.
“Got it,” Szat said. His hands lit up the sanctum and everyone within it.
Goron and his axe still whirled around on a floor strewn with bone fragments. Caroc was nowhere to be seen. Siarl stood beside the altar, his cowl pulled down over his face. Wreaths of shadows twirled around his hands like serpents. Morwen stepped back and stared. The necromancer’s staff was not with him. If it wasn’t with him, where was it?
“Kill my children, will you. “Daro sarod kado ka do,” Siarl chanted.
The bones around Goron sprang into the air and whirled around the necromancer.
Goron stopped dancing with his axe to gawk in amazement.
Siarl’s hands swirled around kn
itting the bones to his person with invisible threads. He added layers and layers to his skeletal suit until he was invisible under the ten-foot tower.
“Bone golem,” shouted Morwen. Her eyes were frozen wide open. Only the most powerful necromancers could command such magic and without the use of the exarch’s staff too.
The room shook as Siarl stomped toward Goron who stood motionless with his jaw locked in an expression of disbelief.
Szat’s flung a fireball at Siarl’s head, but it bounced off harmlessly in a shower of sparks and left only a black smudge.
Morwen cut a deep gash into the back of her hand with her dagger. She needed a lot of blood for this. “Kroduv.” She absorbed the shadows surrounding her and revealed a cowering Caroc.
“Birm.” Morwen hurled a clot of darkness, the size of a cow, at the bone golem. The bolt slammed into the golem’s chest momentarily throwing it into darkness before dissipating.
The bone golem kept coming.
Goron recovered his wits and sprang to meet Siarl. The golem threw a wild right with a fist made from a human skull.
Goron slipped under it easily and brought his axe down on an exposed kneecap. There was a shower of bone shards, but the knee held. Siarl delivered another right.
Goron was lifting his axe to strike again when the fist thumped into his chest and sent him skidding across the floor. He lay cradling his ribs and gasping for air as the golem bore down on him with his fist raised for the death blow.
Caroc bolted for the door and plunged his hand through the shimmering aura. There was a burst of blue light.
“You shall not pass,” a voice boomed. Caroc somersaulted into the air and was hurled across the stone floor to join Goron.
The shadows around Morwen had resettled. It was up to her. “Kroduv g’uo.” Tendrils of shadow shot out from Morwen’s hands and snaked around the bone golem’s legs. Siarl took one more step and halted, unable to move.
“Run,” Morwen shouted. The tendrils wouldn’t hold for long.
Caroc dragged himself up. He was about to bolt but hesitated and extended a hand to Goron. The warrior reached up and grasped it. Wincing from the pain, he heaved himself to his feet, and together they stumbled to the door.
Morwen groaned, “Not the door, you idiots. This way,” Morwen dashed under the southern arch and stormed down the passage. Szat’s arms were wrapped so tightly around her neck she struggled to breathe. Caroc jerked his head up at Morwen’s warning, then flung out an arm to redirect Goron who was still doubled over.
Siarl’s clattering footsteps gradually grew distant, and Morwen slowed to a walk so she could think. They didn’t have the magic or brawn to defeat Siarl, that left escape as the only option. As far as Morwen understood, the blue door was the only way in and out of the catacombs.
The door required a password to exit. She realised that now. Knowing the zealotry of the Sisters of Murdus, she guessed the password would be religious and from their beloved sacred text, The Light of Love. The sisters, in their arrogance, would never have suspected a warlock to have read the sanctimonious tome. It so happened, Morwen had and could recite it verbatim. Know your enemy was her belief. All she required was several hours alone with the door, so she could recite the various passages to unlock it.
“What do we do?” Caroc asked.
“We keep running, and I’ll try passwords on the door every time we pass it. It might take a day, but there’s no other choice.”
The three continued through the dust-choked corridors until they found themselves back at the empty sanctum. “Love is the light in the darkness,” Morwen repeated and motioned Goron to try the blue door.
“You shall not pass,” a voice boomed and Goron catapulted through the air to land with a thud on the dusty stone floor.
Goron groaned and rubbed his backside.
“I think I have it this time,” Morwen said. “Service to others not to self.”
Goron got back up and tried the door. Again the voice boomed he could not pass and flung him like a rag doll through the air.
Loud footfalls echoed from the north passage. Morwen and Caroc helped Goron up and fled through the southern passage. They were too tired to run, but a brisk pace kept them well ahead of Siarl and would guarantee Morwen several minutes at the door. It was a ridiculous game of cat and mouse. If Siarl had any sense, he would camp beside the door and leave the companions no choice but to fight him. It was a fight they would lose.
“Aren’t we looking for a staff?” Caroc said. The question jolted Morwen from her thoughts. He stood over a skeleton whose bony fingers clasped an iron staff. His skull was tilted at Caroc, and he appeared to watch them benignly from hollow eyes. Morwen had walked right by it. The dead were part of the furniture in a place such as this.
The weapon matched the staff’s description. Morwen snatched at it, but the skeleton gripped it tightly. They played tug of war until Goron intervened with a mighty kick that sent the skeleton rattling across the floor.
Morwen held up the heavy staff and inspected it with glinting eyes. Scratched in the iron shaft were power runes. The knob at the top was a fist-sized, black onyx.
Morwen felt something gently tugging at the hem of her robe.
It was the skeleton, eyeless sockets staring into her eyes, jaw clicking open and closed. ‘Please give it back,’ it seemed to implore.
Morwen kicked the skeleton away, and Goron stomped on it until it was dust and shards.
“Let’s go and wait for Siarl in the sanctum,” Morwen said, a wily smile on her face.
“Can we have lunch?” Szat said weakly.
Morwen didn’t bother to recite passwords for the door. She’d have all the time in the world for that very shortly. Besides, she was too excited and wanted to try out her new toy. Goron and Szat kept busy stuffing their mouths with a loaf of stale bread and dried beef. Morwen smirked at the thought of their faces when they found their packs empty before the journey’s end. She’d be fine, of course, she could always summon a demon and have it slow roast itself.
Caroc didn’t eat; instead, he stood against the wall near the door and glanced furtively from passage to passage as he awaited the necromancer’s approach.
The bone golem unwittingly lumbered into the sanctum. Morwen slid down from the altar. Goron briefly glanced up and returned his attention to a bottle of dandelion wine he’d found in Morwen’s backpack, while the demon begged for a just a sip.
The assumption was obviously Morwen had all this in hand.
Siarl stopped and glared at the staff, “Where did you get that?”
“Some skeleton gave it to me. It took a little persuading, of course.”
“Mervyn,” Siarl cried and stumbled to Morwen.
“He looked like a Mervyn,” Morwen said picking at the scab forming on her wrist and pointing the shiny end of the staff at the necromancer. “I’ve always wanted to use this spell on something other than rats, but I’ve never been very good at it.” No manipulation of shadow or blood price was necessary. The spell was a gift for the powerful from the night mother herself. “Dordmakk kvaod.”
The runes on the staff glowed faint red, and a pale green beam zapped Siarl. Morwen waited. Nothing happened. Goron looked up from his bottle of wine, a questioning eyebrow raised. Szat’s face was buried in Morwen’s backpack. Caroc began to edge away along the wall. Morwen started to worry. Siarl was drawing very close.
Siarl’s steps slowed. A femur from the necromancer’s bone armour fell to the stone floor and disintegrated into a pile of dust. With the next step, a spine and a tibia, equally decrepit, dislodged and puffed into a powder. By the time Siarl was close to the altar, he’d shed his bone armour and was wearing only his black robe. His face already wizened, now took on a sunken and parched look like a corpse baking in the sun.
“Blight ray, it steals all the moisture from your
body and turns you to dust,” Morwen said.
Siarl’s eyes widened, “No, not dust,” he groaned. His jaw wouldn’t close and hung open twitching before it fell away and took half of Siarl’s face with it. A mouldering skull was exposed beneath. Both Siarl’s legs broke simultaneously and he fell with a grunt. His body exploded in a cloud of dust as it hit the stone.
Morwen trampled through it on her way to the door. She knew what the password was now, a particularly nauseous verse. “Everything for Love,” she said, and pulled the door open. Caroc pushed past her and bolted up the stairs. A strong breeze that smelled of dry leaves and rotting apples scattered the dust that was Siarl into the air and sent it whirling down the three passages.
Caroc had taken charge after they left the sanctum and decided they should follow the river into the forest. The ranger was proving his worth in this capacity at least. Morwen, exhausted after her fight with Siarl, was happy to follow his lead—for now.
Grayl’s cold waters ran down from the mountains, through the forest, and emptied into the Black Sea in a spectacular waterfall. Willows lined the river’s edge like sad sentinels. Their drooping branches trailed in the grey waters. Birds, the size of small children, floated on its rippling surface and ignored the bulbous translucent fish that swam beneath.
The journey wasn’t easy. The bank was muddy from a recent rainfall, and it sucked at Morwen’s feet with each step. Her heavy packs and the fat demon sitting on her shoulder didn’t help, and now there was also a heavy iron staff to lug around. Her mood was becoming more sour by the moment
“What?” she yelled catching Goron observing her. He looked away and pretended to study a strange, six-legged lizard crawling along a tree branch. “I’m not interested in men like you, and besides, have you forgotten your curse?” If she were honest, she had little interest in men full stop, nor they in her. They perceived her as being too haughty. Men were time-consuming creatures who required constant reassurance. Her principal concern was power and its acquisition; any other pursuits were pointless.
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