by Aaron Bunce
“She cannot see you, Myrddin. It is like I told you, and honestly, you are dead.”
“Who can’t see who? Thorben, what are you talking about? Who is ‘Myrddin’?”
“She can see me…she’s just playing a wretched jest…like you were before. I know it. You fool longleggers and your jest, thinking everything is funny. Well, jesting about someone being dead ain’t funny,” Myrddin argued and turned on Jez again.
“As you can probably gather by now, this place isn’t like any of the other crypts I’ve delved before. When I hit my head back there, I opened my eyes, and well, I was back in the Council’s mine again. I don’t know if I was dreaming, but it felt real enough. There was a man there. He was injured and I tried to help him. I remembered him from my time in chains. He died of pocks,” Thorben said, and rolled up his sleeves far enough for her to see the finger-shaped bruises on his upper arms. “He grabbed onto me, and as soon as he touched me his body started to change. He became the dweorg…the dead one I saw at the casket–”
“Stop saying that! I ain’t dead, fool longlegger. I just laid down me head for a bit, and then…then…” Myrddin interrupted, but stammered and staggered back a few steps.
“When I came to, I could see him, the dweorg…sorry, dwarf that we found up at the crypt’s entrance, the one in the chair. I can see him, as plain as a warm sun shining overhead. He is standing right there,” Thorben said, pointing at the ghostly dwarf.
“Why can’t I see him? Is he touching me…oh gods, is he going to hurt us?” Jez recoiled, jumping back and spinning on the spot.
“I just…I just…laid down me head,” Myrddin stammered, his dark eyes locked on his hands.
“I don’t think he wants to hurt us…although I don’t want to guess whether he can or not. I can tell you that he is not happy that we are here, or,” Thorben silently pointed to the sarcophagus, and his breath caught. A subtle green light shone out of the partially opened burial, wispy trails of mist bubbling up and into the air, curling around the stone lid like grasping fingers.
“What…what do you think it wants with us? Does it just want us to leave?” she asked. Myrddin looked up from his hands, seemingly breaking free from his trance. He finally seemed to notice the green light pulsing brighter from within the sarcophagus.
“No. They mustn’t rise,” he muttered. “You fools…what have you done? They must stay sealed. Must! They told me…many times…told me, the dalan must stay sealed away. ‘Tend the sorrow trees until they’re grown, to lock away our evil natures’. Tend them…tend them, we did,” Myrddin said.
“What does that mean, Myrddin? Lock away their evil natures?” Thorben asked, taking a step back. A strange noise echoed out of the box – a snapping, scratching sound, as if someone was dragging their fingernails against the underside of the stone lid.
“What is that sound? Oh gods, is there something in…there? I want to leave…Thorben, can we get out of here? I’m scared…none of this makes any sense,” Jez said, her eyes sweeping over the dark trees after breaking free from the tomb.
The lid of the sarcophagus rocked to the side, stone grating and dust scattering loudly into the leafy groundcover. Thorben gestured to Jez, motioning for her to move away, to get out of the chamber.
“Gruteo’s hammer, get ye gone, or you’ll join the dead down here,” Myrddin growled, and moved forward to push Jez towards the exit. The dwarf’s extended hands passed right through the girl’s midsection. The unexpected lack of resistance sent Myrddin right through her, stumbling, and to the ground behind her. He straightened, looked at his hands, and back to the girl, his eyes wide in shock.
“Eh,” Jez cried and twisted around, flailing her arms as if she’d suddenly walked through a cobweb. “W-w-what was that? S-s-so cold!”
Something dark curled up and wrapped around the sarcophagus lid, the stone slab shaking again. Thorben swallowed and his breath caught. Mani flail me…they’re fingers. He staggered back, grabbed Jez’s hand, and yanked her around, setting off at a desperate run.
Thorben ducked through the thorny trees, careful to not pull Jez into them by accident. They ran towards the arch leading out into the dark hub chamber, his eyes gravitating up to the massive statue framing the entrance. Dust rained down, and he swore the stone figure started to move. A tingle bit into his finger under the ring, and his whole hand seemed to hum.
No…don’t you dare. You stay open, damn you! he thought, frantically, pulling Jez hard and kicking into a faster run. His boot snapped on a vine, tripping him, but the plant broke and he managed to keep stride. They charged under the arch and stomped heavily out into the hub.
“Thorben, what is happening,” Jez gasped, pulling on his arm, her hands trembling violently. “I-I-I…”
He turned back towards the chamber, just as the stone lid of the sarcophagus slid free and tumbled to the ground, a cloud of mist and leaves pluming around it. A dark shape slowly appeared from inside the box, half-standing and half-crawling, its movements jerky and wholly unnatural. Myrddin sat on the ground not ten paces away, his face in his hands.
Thorben jerked back as Jez pulled him towards one of the other archways. He had to do something. Could he help the dweorg? He was a ghost…did he need help? The dark shape crawled spider-like out of the box, the sight of it almost loosening Thorben’s bladder entirely.
“It’s coming this way,” he muttered, as the dark figure dipped forward and moved towards them, its body practically disappearing into the layer of cold mist.
Thorben watched the dark figure moving towards them in the mist, a silent wish filling his thoughts. He wished for something to come between them, to block the horror away, to make them safe.
“…find my father!” Jez pleaded, but he couldn’t catch all that she said.
The ring pulsed a little brighter, the metal growing warm against his skin just as something moved above them in the darkness. He swiveled up to track it as Jez wrenched him away. The statue shifted, the elegant, almost beautiful man’s face rotating his way, the smooth, featureless eyes turning towards him.
Thorben’s guts twisted about, a horrible shiver running up his back. He pushed to run as the massive statue came to life, multiple arms twisting and straightening, its unnaturally long legs breaking free in a shower of dust and rock. And then with a crash, the statue straightened, pulling its arms together and slamming the archway shut.
Chapter Twenty
The Neverdead
Thorben and Jez ran from archway to archway, stopping only long enough to scan the chambers inside for Gor and the others. He stopped, turned, counted, and continued. Twelve chambers, two archways closed.
They found Iona and the others in the last chamber, the guildsman standing around the sarcophagus. Jez ran forward, stumbling and crying, into her father’s arms.
“Jez…Thorben, thank Mani, thank every god old and forgotten, we thought you lost,” Iona gasped, throwing his arms around his daughter.
“We have to leave…now,” Thorben said, looking from Iona, to Gor, and chancing a glance back to the archway. He felt a prickling from the ring – a subtle vibration that echoed deep inside. It had been there the whole time, he was just too preoccupied and distracted to notice or listen. It was the crypt – the stone, the strange sorrow trees, the black vines…all of it – buzzing or singing as if it were alive, and somehow the ring connected him to all of it, and Myrddin.
“Aye, we’ll leave after we finish…and look, Owl,” Gor said, hoisting a bag into the air, metal trinkets and artifacts clattering together inside. The big man’s hands and sleeves were covered in thick, goopy sap. “These boxes are full of fantastic left-behinds – daggers, circlets, clasps, and even a hairbrush. We found it, and didn’t even need your help. Iona assured us that they will fetch a king’s ransom with his buyers.”
Thorben looked from the big man’s face, his rotten teeth and ruddy cheeks, to his slightly yellowed eyes, back down to the sarcophagus, its lid pulled off at an angle.
Shriveled shoots and broken brambles curled off to the side, a stream of green mist bubbling into the air and flowing back into the open crypt.
Can’t they see it? Can’t they see any of it? he wondered, as a noise echoed out of the hub behind him.
It is coming, whatever it is. You need to move, you fool!
“It’s not safe…these burials…these plants. They were sealed for a reason and we’ve disturbed them, they will…” he said, growling in frustration and turning back to the hub, a tickle running up his back. Something was there, moving, he could feel it.
“Is this more of your spirits talk?” Gor asked, looking to Hun and laughing. “You spooked me good back there in the darkness, surrounded by all them dead dwarves…with yer talk about angering the spirits. I tell ya, we looked in these boxes, and you know what we found?”
Thorben moved to argue and reached for Iona to pull him back towards the exit, but Gor spoke first.
“We found the treasure that Iona promised us, and some shriveled up, dead people. They are just dead…long dead by the looks of ‘em, and we ain’t seen no spirits or any of the other stuff you tried filling our heads with. There is nothing, Owl, no spirits, no ghosts, or things that crawl out of the dark corners. You were just telling us stories.”
Renlo shifted uncomfortably off to the side, his dark eyes flitting up to the chamber exit. Did he know? Could he hear something? Thorben met his gaze, but the mule quickly looked away.
“I don’t know how you closed that door back there, but it was mighty tricky of ya. I’m guessing that was your plan all along, clever man, to get us down here, and find some way to trap us, maybe even kill us. Heh? I’m believing that he was never going to help us find our treasure, right, Hun? I’m thinking that the owl here wanted the spoils for himself,” the big man said, turning to his smaller counterpart.
Hun sniggered, nodding, and tapped his spearhead against the sarcophagus. Tap tap tap.
“That is absurd. I–”
“A branded man, struggling to pay his way to the taxman…a desperate man,” Gor interrupted, “Iona told me, right after you about smashed us in that door stunt back there. Told us everything, when he thought you and his girl were dead.”
Thorben looked to Iona, the small man still favoring his wounded leg. He looked away, refusing to meet his gaze, a series of fresh bruises and scrapes now marring his cheeks and chin.
“I don’t hate you for it,” Gor said, accepting the spear from Hun. The smaller guildsman rested his elbows on the sarcophagus and licked his lips, before turning to Thorben, a horribly smug smile firmly in place.
“We’re all here for our own ends – Iona because his wife ran off with his gold, his daughter because he wasn’t man enough to keep his woman satisfied, and you are here because you are desperate, broken,” Gor said, and stepped out from behind the sarcophagus. Hun chuckled, leaning forward on his palms as if readying for a spectacle. The green glow flickered out of the dark box, the strange mist flowing in and around Hun before disappearing inside. The guildsman couldn’t see it. How could he not see it?
Thorben knew what was coming next, and took a step to his right and back, moving away from Iona and his daughter. He took a look at the ground around him, trying to find the best footing, but couldn’t see anything in the damned foggy leaves. His hand wove into his bag, searching, groping for his rock hammer. It wasn’t much compared to a spear, but it was better than nothing.
“You impressed me back there in the entrance chamber when you figured out the trick with those three keys, but I’m starting to think even that was one of your tricks. Iona has use to us, value, but he’s got no trust left with the guild. His daughter will stay with us until he sells our relics, to ensure he fulfills his duties as needed. We got what we came here for, that is what is important. Iona will sing our song, and if he doesn’t, well, then his daughter will suffer for it,” Gor said, shifting his gaze to Iona and shaking his head, the shiny copper coin now gleaming between his fingers. “If his daughter isn’t enough incentive, then we’ll track down his runaway wife and son. We’ll kill her, but a son…now I think we can agree that a son is a special kind of leverage to a man like Iona. ”
Thorben looked to the broker, the man’s dark eyes stabbing daggers into Gor. Jez stood next to him, her dark eyes filled with doubt and fear. How had he allowed himself to get wrapped up with such people, to delve, and desecrate things better left to rest?
“And you…you’re no owl, Thorben. You’re a fox, and any fisherman worth his silt knows you never suffer a fox to live, lest he will run off with your catch.” The big man tossed the bag of relics to Hun, who set it down on the crypt and leaned in to watch.
“I don’t want your relics. I don’t want anything from you,” he said, and watched the big man’s thumb snap up, the coin flicking into the air, shining as it fell back into his big palm. He knew there was nothing he could say that would dissuade Gor now, nor did he really want to. He was tired of cowering, bending, and scraping, tired of being a prisoner to fear. No, he was fed up with being told that he had no value…less than any other, by men no better, or worse, than he.
Gor opened his palm to look at the coin. Thorben heard something in the chamber to his back – a crawling, scraping sound. The guildsman smirked. “A Thatcher’s bundle, sorry clever man.”
“Not better than a Ram’s head? I thought it was the other way around? Chance is fare, balanced. It’s the same every time – honest, fair, and unbiased, unlike you,” Thorben said, returning the big man’s gaze. He pulled the rock hammer out and held it behind his leg. The green light glowed more brightly out of the crypt, shifting and pulsing, as if something was moving. The strange mist surrounded Hun’s upper body, flowing rapidly into the box.
Renlo moved around to his left, sidestepping slowly, quietly to block him in, but Thorben caught the movement in his peripheral vision.
Damn! Be ready.
Gor laughed loudly, his rotten teeth appearing as his mouth pulled into a self-satisfied smile. “Oh, Owl, the fates have already decreed that you are going to die down here. They did before you ever set foot in this place. I was just allowing them the chance to choose how. It is me. I am blessed with your death.”
Thorben swallowed, the lump absent from his throat now, the hesitation and doubt, gone. He brought the hammer out as soon as the big man flinched forward, lifting it above his shoulder to strike.
“Argh…what?” a startled shout rang out, stone grating loudly against stone as Gor stabbed straight for his midsection.
Thorben jumped to the side, swinging the small hammer hard diagonally across his body. The big man’s thrust missed, but he quickly reset his feet, preparing for another attack.
Hun cried out again, and Thorben turned in time to see the crypt’s stone lid upend wildly before falling back and cracking in half. Hun tipped headfirst into the box as Gor snarled, jabbing the spear again. He narrowly missed the skewering blade, and pointed. The large guildsman sneered, but readied the spear and set his feet.
“Your man!” Thorben pointed and yelled, finally managing to form the words.
The big man reluctantly turned, Renlo already moving towards the sarcophagus. Iona and Jez huddled together and shied away as Gor wheeled about, his voice booming in an unintelligible string of curses and commands.
Thorben watched as Gor joined Renlo at the burial, hooked an arm around the struggling man’s legs, and wrenched him free. Hun flopped over the lip of the stone box, thrashing and flailing onto the misty ground.
The two men picked their counterpart off the ground, only to jump back as he flailed around, clutching his neck in one hand and tearing his sword free with other.
“Did you fall in?” Gor asked, halfheartedly laughing.
“Rah! No I didn’t…fall in,” Hun snarled, stomping his feet. He clomped in a circle, his face twisted and red. Thorben watched him pull his hand away. A round, bloody wound marred his neck, the flesh broken and torn beneath his scruffy stubb
le. Dark blood dribbled, soaking into the collar of his thick shirt. “Something grabbed me, and…and…bit me.”
“Something? Bit you?” Gor echoed, his voice rising into a bark of a laugh.
Thorben retreated several steps and looked sideways to Iona and gestured towards the archway. The broker’s eyes, wide and unblinking, flitted from him to Hun in rapid succession.
“You fell in. We saw you,” Gor said, lifting the spear and slapping it against the edge of the stone box. “You probably put too much weight on the lid in just the right spot and it shifted.” The big man turned back to Thorben and managed a single step towards him before a horrible, agonized keen split the air. The raspy, breathless cry echoed off stone and mist, seemingly filling the chamber around him. Thorben’s skin prickled from the sound.
A black, desiccated hand appeared on the lip of the sarcophagus, and then a forearm, and shoulder. A mangled, withered form slumped over the edge and tumbled into the mist. Thorben saw it, but the guildsmen were too busy arguing.
Jez turned and screamed as the shrunken figure stood, appearing out of the mist like a silent, melting shadow. Thorben almost dropped the hammer, his hands twitching and shaking. The horror straightened, its skin as dark as mossy tree bark, shriveled and cracked, pulled tight over desiccated muscles and knobby bones. It lifted its arms out to the side, dry skin cracking and flexing, and tilted its head back, the round, lipless mouth pulling open to reveal brown, time-ravaged teeth. The undead creature wailed, its voice ruined and broken.
“W-w-what is that thing?” Gor stammered, pointing at the emaciated figure with the tip of the spear.
Another cry echoed out of the archway behind Thorben, and then another, and another. A silence stretched between heartbeats, until a host of horrific shrieks seemingly filled the space.
“That’s what bit me. It must be…” Hun snarled, gesturing to his bleeding neck.
“Leave it, Hun. Let’s be gone from here,” Gor argued. He reached for his shorter counterpart, but before he could grasp him Hun lunged forward. The guildsman drove his sword deep into the creature’s midsection. The blade broke easily through withered flesh and muscle, audibly striking bone and knocking the ghastly figure to the ground. Thorben turned to Iona, the broker holding Jez in a smothering embrace.
