[Stefan Kumansky 01] - Star of Erengrad

by Neil McIntosh - (ebook by Undead)

  The lights of the torches suddenly sprang up at the edge of the thicket. Their pursuers were close at hand.

  “There’s no time left,” Stefan declared. There was no choice. If Alexei was still alive he would have to fend for himself. “Unfasten the door, Father Andreas, as quickly as you can.” He helped the priest haul upon the heavy iron door, lifting it clear of the moss-covered earth. “Hurry,” he said to Elena, “The two of you first.”

  Elena’s face was lined with anxiety. She steadied herself upon the first step and took a deep breath. Stagnant air, pungent with the sweet scent of decay, wafted up from the subterranean chambers. “Come on,” she said to Lisette. “We won’t let each other out of our sight. With the gods’ blessing we’ll come through this unscathed.” She gazed quizzically at the Bretonnian girl. Lisette was struggling to find her footing behind her, as though she were dazed or carrying a wound.

  “It’s all right,” Elena assured her. “It’s the living we must fear, not the dead.”

  Lisette looked unconvinced, but finally managed to move her foot down upon the smooth stone step. Her face in the thin light of the lantern was leeched pale.

  “Lisette!” Elena called again. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so,” she called down to Elena. “I’ll be fine.” She steadied herself upon the stairway and took another step down. “Gods protect me,” she whispered. “Gods protect us all.”

  The steps led down below ground and grew rapidly steep, becoming more like a ladder than a stair. The space inside was so narrow that they were forced to descend one at a time, as though climbing down a shaft into the belly of a mine. The smell of damp earth filled their nostrils, and it quickly became cold enough for them to see their breath frosting in the air around them.

  Father Andreas waited at the top of the steps until Stefan, last in line, had reached the bottom. Then he drew down the heavy door above them, and fastened the locks in place. Now the darkness was total. They had left the domain of the living behind them, and had crossed into the realm of the dead. There could be no retreat.

  The priest climbed down and re-lit his lamp, casting light into a narrow corridor at the foot of the steps. “This way,” he said. “I can promise you no comforts, but at least we will not lack for room.”

  “You’re sure there’s no other way out?” Stefan asked, looking around him. “Or in?” The priest shook his head with a rueful smile. “These tombs were built for one purpose only,” he said. “Those who enter here make but one single journey, without return. Neither might nor magic will breach the door above us.”

  Stefan gazed into the darkness ahead of him. There was no movement, not the faintest stirring of the air, but he sensed no tranquility. “What is the history of this place?” he asked. The priest drew a sceptre from beneath his cloak, and clasped his hands tightly around it.

  “The passageway before us leads to the Tombs of Baldrac,” he said, “most dread of all the Halls of Morr.”

  Stefan shook his head. The name meant nothing to him.

  “Long ago,” the priest continued, “long before any now living were even born, Malthus Baldrac brought an army to the gates of Middenheim to attack the city.”

  “But he failed,” Bruno said. “His army was defeated?”

  “At length the army was indeed driven back,” Andreas confirmed, “but not before Baldrac and a squadron of his most terrible warriors had managed to enter the city.” He paused, and took a breath. “It took a long and bloody battle before they were at last destroyed. Their remains were brought here for burial.”

  Stefan had the distinct feeling the worst was yet to come. He waited for the priest to continue.

  “The tomb below is carved from the thickest stone. Bar this door there is no other way in, or out. You see,” the priest explained, “Baldrac was a necromancer. This was the only tomb deemed safe enough to contain those who might yet rise again to wreak their havoc upon the living.”

  Andreas looked at the sombre faces gathered around. “It’s not so much a tomb as a prison,” he said. “A prison for the unquiet dead. Not a place I would willingly spend the night hours.”

  A quiet descended upon the group as Andreas’ words sank in.

  “Nevertheless,” Stefan said, finally breaking the silence. “Choice is a luxury we don’t have. I’ll take the unquiet dead over the insane living.” He looked around the others. No one was offering any disagreement.

  “How long are we going to have to spend down here?” Elena asked. She could find little humour in being entombed below ground with only the desiccated corpses of the undead for company.

  “As long as it takes,” Stefan replied. “But my guess is they won’t risk continuing the attack beyond dawn.”

  “And how will we know when that will be?” Elena demanded, edgily. “It’s eternal night down here.”

  “We’ll worry about that later,” Stefan retorted. “The important thing is that we are secure.” He looked at the priest, his question hanging unspoken.

  “The door was built to withstand the most murderous of assaults,” Andreas assured him. “And the stone walls encasing the vault are as thick as any in the Temple of Morr itself. No one will reach us—not from the outside, at least.”

  Elena took Lisette’s hand in hers and gripped it tightly. “Come,” she said, forcing some cheer into her tone. “Let us not fear the dark.”

  “It is not the dark I fear, only what it brings,” Lisette said. She turned her face away from her mistress, her eyes wide with fear.

  “I can hear them,” she whispered. “And they can hear me.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Awakening

  They descended, single file, into the belly of the cold earth. The noise of the assault hammering the ground above their heads grew steadily fainter until they had only silence for company. For all that it was quiet, Stefan sensed none of the peace of final rest in these chill Halls of the Dead.

  “It makes my flesh crawl,” Elena commented. “Like something cold running the length of my spine.”

  “It is an ill-favoured place,” Andreas agreed, sombrely. “Many troubled souls are here laid to earth. Their mortal lives have ended, but I doubt that their spirits have found repose.”

  Bruno exhaled and watched his breath extend like slow coiling smoke in front of him. “Seems calm enough,” he said, not entirely convincingly. “And safe enough for you to have visited these tombs before, evidently.”

  Andreas laughed. “As few times as possible,” he said. “I must bless this joyless place as I bless all the Houses of Morr. Do not think that I outstay my welcome, though.”

  Stefan found himself shivering. It must be colder than he had realised. “How much further?” he asked.

  “Just here,” the priest said. “The roof drops steeply and then we enter the great hall.”

  Stefan followed the priest, stooping below the low ceiling. Further ahead the space around them opened out, and he was able to stand upright in a wide, open chamber. The place they were standing in, he now saw, was in fact a hub off which other corridors radiated like spokes from a wheel. Although there seemed to be no source of ventilation, Stefan could feel a faint breeze rippling around his face. The same musty, slightly sweet, smell wafted upon the air.

  “This is where the dead are entombed,” Andreas explained. “Each of the six passages leads to a chamber containing their remains.”

  “But the chambers are sealed?” Elena asked, anxiously.

  “Oh yes,” the priest assured her. “Sealed with stone and mortar. There are rooms here that even I do not enter.”

  “And this space?” Stefan asked.

  “This is the great hall of the dead itself,” the priest replied.

  Stefan gazed around, taking in his surroundings. The great hall was a circular chamber thirty or forty feet in diameter, with a domed ceiling rising to about twice the height of a man. Runes paying homage to the god of death were carved upon the walls, giving the place the lo
ok of a simple chapel. Set in the very centre of the chamber was a low platform or table hewn from the same grey stone. Placed at intervals across its surface were six unlit candles.

  “This is the place where their spirits come to give worship to the great god Morr.” He smiled, gently, at the group around him. “Of course, that’s just a story.”

  “Well,” said Elena at last. “At least we’ll be safe enough from those monsters up above.”

  Stefan took the priest to one side. “What of the monsters below?” he asked, quietly. “The monster who may be among us even as we speak?”

  Andreas looked around, and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Stefan,” he said. “Dark spirits abound everywhere in this place. It would be like looking for a single shadow amidst a forest.”

  “Very well,” Stefan replied. He turned back to face the others. “We must set a watch, if we’re to be here the night. Who will be first?”

  Tomas stepped forward without hesitation. “Let it be me,” he said, firmly.

  Stefan looked at him, doubtfully. “What’s the matter?” Tomas demanded. “Still don’t trust me?”

  Stefan thought about it. It was Tomas alone who had been examined by the priest and found to be true of soul. Ironically, he could be trusted above any of them.

  “All right,” he said at last. “You’ll keep watch the first hour. Then wake me, and I’ll take over.” Tomas nodded briskly, clearly pleased that his value had been recognised at last. “Don’t worry, Stefan,” he said. “I won’t—”

  “I know,” Stefan said, anticipating him. “You won’t let me down.”

  The words stayed uppermost in Tomas Murer’s mind over the next half hour of his vigil. He wasn’t going to forget that this mission, and this watch, was a last chance. A last chance given him after a lifetime of wasted chances and lost opportunities. He would not throw it away now. He had no idea how much Stefan and the others really trusted him. Not much, in all probability. Zucharov, he knew, would as soon run him through with his sword. But Zucharov wasn’t here to threaten and bully him. Now he could be judged by his deeds.

  Above all, he had to keep himself from falling asleep. His whole body seemed to cry out from lack of rest, and from the cuts and bruises he had sustained above ground. Too many hard years had taken a heavy toll on Tomas Murer, he knew that. His body no longer forgave him so easily. Soon, he would rest, but not yet, not yet.

  He at least had an ally in that respect. It was bitingly cold in the chamber, so cold that his hands and feet soon began to throb with an incessant, numb ache. Tomas stood up and stamped his feet a few times. When this had no effect he took a few steps around the chamber, cautiously at first. He felt the blood start to pump around his body again, and took a few steps more, circling the huddle of sleepers on the floor of the chamber. He found he had no fear of the tombs of Morr, nor of the priest’s tales of the undead army of Baldrac. There had been too many times when death would have been a welcome release for him to be afraid of it now.

  In fact, there was little inside the tomb to occupy him at all. It was cold, quiet, and almost totally dark once he had stepped from under the weak pool of light cast by the lantern. Almost, but not quite. Tomas stopped in his tracks, his eye suddenly caught by something glinting upon the floor of the chamber.

  Tomas rubbed his eyes and bent down low. He knew what he appeared to be seeing, but couldn’t quite believe it. It was a bottle, or rather a flask made of a polished, silvery metal. He took a few steps closer. The apparition failed to vanish.

  Tomas Murer stood over the flask, then, after a moment’s hesitation, bent down and picked it up. The familiar scent of Bretonnian gin filled his nostrils as he lifted the flask to his face. Tomas cradled the flask, turning it in his hands. Then he pinched his fingers around the cork stopper and gently pulled it free. There could be no harm in that. The perfume seeping from the flask blossomed out, filling the chamber. Tomas now forgot all sense of cold, or his own weariness. All he had in his mind was the warming, sweet smell of the liquid gently swilling inside the flask. It was like turning a corner, and suddenly chancing upon an old friend.

  Tomas had not greeted this particular friend for many months, not since that day that Stefan had woken him in his lodgings. He had struggled since then to live without this, his particular daemon. And hadn’t he succeeded in that, over the weeks of hardship that he had endured? But now, here in the freezing silence of the tombs, he suddenly felt in need of his friend once more. He had endured much: too much, most men would say. To have suffered the perils of the Drakwald was one thing. To have come within an inch of losing his life to the men he had believed his comrades was another. He deserved some respite. Surely no one could begrudge him that.

  He lifted the flask towards him and tilted it. The smell of the gin brought the memories back in a flood. Memories of good times, and of bad. Memories of what he had once been—and of what he had become. Tomas tilted the flask towards his lips, and then kept turning, tipping it until it was upside down and the precious liquor was draining away before his eyes.

  As Tomas watched it seep away, he felt the loss stabbing through him. He shook the flask, vigorously, fighting against himself. And, as the loss began to subside he felt something besides, something he could not remember experiencing in a long while. It might be fleeting, or even yet prove to be an illusion. But it was a feeling Tomas remembered as being whole once more. A feeling of self-belief.

  He stood up, taller and stronger. Half of him felt as though he had gone mad, but he was smiling nonetheless.

  He was still smiling as he turned back towards the light, and something hit him, hard, full in the face. Tomas Murer fell back, senseless, his head cracking against the stone floor of the tomb.

  Lisette stood over Tom Murer’s prone body, momentarily unable to remember where she was or how she had got there. She did not remember being asleep; she did not remember waking up. But, after a few confused moments she recognised Tomas, and saw at once that he had been wounded. A stone statue, a carved icon of Morr, lay upon the ground by his side. The statue was smeared with the same blood that now ran from a gash across Tomas’ brow.

  Lisette’s first instinct was to do what she could to help him. She was no healer, but she liked to think that Shallya sometimes blessed her with those powers in times of need. But, before she could bend down to tend to the stricken Tomas, Lisette was overpowered by an altogether more powerful instinct.

  Where before there had been only silence, something now stirred deep in the belly of the tombs. A sound like sleepers waking from their long dream, struggling to break free of an unnatural confinement. The sound terrified Lisette, yet she found that she was drawn, irresistibly, towards it. She got to her feet, Tomas completely forgotten, and walked slowly towards the largest of the tunnels leading from the chamber. Though she was moving closer to the source of the sound, it did not grow any louder. She realised that the sounds of frenzied scraping were actually inside her own head, rising above the throbbing pain that still pounded at her skull.

  They hear me, Lisette remembered. And I hear them.

  Inside the tunnel it was pitch black, yet she found herself walking ever faster, as though led on by invisible hands. Where she was going, there would be no need of light.

  She came at last to the end of the tunnel, a smaller chamber framed by thick, stone walls. A dank, lifeless chill hung upon the air, beading Lisette’s face with moisture. Unbidden, her arm lifted up, and reached out into the darkness. Her fingers found the outline of carvings upon the face of the wall. This, she understood, was where the unquiet dead had been lain to face eternity. The clawing sounds inside her head doubled in intensity as if something lying trapped behind the stone wall now sensed her presence.

  Her hands continued to move over the stone, tracing the pattern of the carvings overlaying the face of the tomb. These were the holy seals, the chiseled runes that held the dead confined. These spells could not be overcome from within the tombs. Only from with
out.

  As if on a given signal, the sounds and the pounding pain inside her head both ceased. Lisette experienced a moment’s blissful peace, and then the spell entered her mind, an incessant, flowing mantra repeating the words in an ancient tongue.

  Lisette’s lips parted and she spoke, giving the words life.

  The sound was like a low, animal moan, and it sent a tremor through the walls, as if the tombs themselves were calling out in anguish or pain. Stefan rubbed his eyes hard to make sure he really was awake. He looked round, momentarily disorientated. The first thing he saw was Tomas, face down upon the floor, a pool of blood spreading out beneath him. Stefan shook Bruno awake. “For Taal’s sake,” he said. “We’re under attack.”

  The two men lifted Tomas and lay him upon his back. Elena appeared by their side, and lay one hand upon Tomas’ chest.

  “He’s still breathing,” she said. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

  “I assure you, it’s very bad indeed.”

  Andreas was listening intently to the sounds coming from all around them, his expression betraying the gravity of what he knew.

  “It’s the Scarandar,” Bruno said. “They’ve found a way to break into the tombs.”

  Father Andreas shook his head. “No,” he said. “Those sounds aren’t coming from outside.”

  Lisette emerged from the shadows, her face deathly pale. She clutched her hands together in desperate prayer. “Our presence has disturbed the fragile sleep of the unquiet dead,” she said, slowly. “Great Morr forgive us.”

  “This is not Morr’s doing,” the priest muttered. “These cursed souls have been called back to this world by a darker power. The dead are rising from their graves.”