“You came.”
The voice was familiar, he had heard it a thousand times in his visions but now it was broken and cracked. He turned toward the far end of the hall, from the direction he had just walked. Hanging from the wall, arms and legs spread, in some kind of distorted crucifix was the old man from his dreams.
Viddus had been hung, not with ropes and nails, but his hands and feet seemed to be melded with the black glass of the walls. His arms and legs ended where his hands and feet disappeared into the glass, as if they had grown into the living, blood soaked temple. He was naked, his body twisted, every muscle and tendon in spasm, tearing itself apart.
He looked down at Regulus with pain etched on his face. His skin was mottled and torn. Hundreds of small wounds marked him, and each one edged with infection and mould. In one place, on his shoulder, the flesh had been eaten away, exposing the bone beneath.
“The beast is free,” the old man said, his voice barely a whisper.
“I know. He is controlling the undead, isn’t he?” Regulus replied, looking up at the broken figure above him.
“Only you can return him to his prison,” Viddus said.
“How? How can I do what you cannot? You are a god,” the boy asked.
“I was never a god, I was once like you. I was a sacrifice to imprison the ancient one, Zombie. They called me a god, they named me Viddus, but now I am failing. Now at the end I remember some of the life I left behind. I must pass the calling on to you, before it’s too late. I have held on as long as I can.” The old man fell into a fit of coughing, blood spilling from his mouth, running from his chin and onto his chest below. His speech was nothing more than the jumbled ramblings of an old man. Regulus fought to make sense of what he was being told.
“Why me? I am nothing special,” Regulus asked. He had so many questions but he let this one stand for all the rest.
“The power chose you. I am but a vessel, the power I hold wants to pass to you, but you have to accept it.”
Behind Regulus a deep booming growl rent the air. Regulus felt his bladder weaken with terror at the sound.
“Come closer, boy, I would show you,” Viddus begged.
Regulus stepped toward the tortured old man, more through fear of what was behind him than a longing to be nearer this broken thing. He could feel Viddus willing him to come closer, but his mind was filled with terror and dread. Then a cascade of images assaulted his mind, flashes of long forgotten people.
A boy kneels before a fire, a painted mage dances to appease the spirits, before the boy drops to the ground with his throat cut. A young girl is tied to a sacrificial alter, her life drained to protect their people from the horror that stalks them. Images of sacrifice, death upon death, in order to imprison the creature who now breaks its bonds and stalks this place. Each child, each life a tribute to Viddus.
Zombie is huge as he comes through the archway between the temple halls. He fills the very air with blackness and doom. His flesh is corruption itself, his skin boiling with untethered infection. It rots and dies, becomes animated with pestilential life and then dies again.
There is no smell, no assault of the senses in the conventional way. Regulus feels the aura that Zombie exudes with his whole body. His skin tightens, his muscles bunch in preparation of flight, and his mind is assaulted by the very presence of such degradation.
Drawing his sword is useless, he knows this, but he does it anyway. He throws off his cloak, feeling its loss like a child stepping out of bed after a nightmare, sure in those first few seconds that they have given away the only thing protecting them from the evil that awaits.
The young man, the boy, stands before this ancient destructive evil, powerless to defend himself but knowing, somehow that it is his duty to try. The very walls of the temple quake as Zombie lumbers toward Regulus. Splintered lines of fracture tear at the very fabric of this place. Viddus screams, pure agony in vocal form - he is becoming one with the temple and the temple is falling.
“The gateway is almost open, old man,” Zombie says, speaking over Regulus’s head as if he is of no consequence, and why not? What would a being of this power fear from a young boy? “Your final sacrifice will amount to nothing. This place will fall and you will come to an end. The last of your line, our last jailer, then we will be free. My brothers have waited too long.”
The ancient one’s voice is corruption itself. Deep and powerful, yet each word breaking down like an expression of entropy. Regulus hears the words and fears that voice being directed at him, knows it will be his end. Tears form in his eyes, his nose fills with watery mucus and his head buzzes.
The old man hanging up on the wall, becoming part of this disintegrating doorway between the worlds, turns a defeated eye to Zombie. There is no fear in his voice but the words seem hollow and empty after the sound of the ancient one.
“I am not the last,” Viddus says, defying Zombie despite his agony. “The people have forgotten the old ways, they have abandoned the rituals but there is still hope.”
Zombie begins to laugh. Hearing it makes Regulus want to scream. He wants to tear at his face in order to stop himself hearing the noise.
“This?” Zombie asks as he turns and points down at Regulus. The boy cowers under that gaze, sure it will stop his heart. “This thing, this weak thing is your hope?” The nightmarish monster laughs again and sweeps a hand toward Regulus. It is a casual gesture but the young man feels it like a wave of undeniable power. He is thrown back across the temple, sliding on the smooth surface of the floor, coming to rest against the blood-soaked wall. He feels the terror and panic of the souls, trapped in the very fabric of this temple and suddenly understanding dawns.
The old man, the trapped souls, the temple. Each trapped soul has been a guardian of this place, and now Viddus is joining those that came before him and Regulus is to take his place. This is what is being offered to him, this is the destiny he has been called to fulfil. He can not do it, he won’t do it.
Zombie moves toward him, huge powerful arms reaching out to take hold of him. He knows if that being touches him, all is lost. He cannot hope to withstand the degradation that Zombie carries. The merest touch of his flesh would be enough to end his life.
Regulus rolls to one side, avoiding Zombie's grasp. He swings out with his sword and feels the blade slice into the ancient one’s flesh. He backs away, the pain and suffering he has felt over the previous months is forgotten in the face of this living terror. He glances down at his blade and it is rusty. Contact with Zombie's skin has corroded it, making it old and useless.
“There is no hope, boy. You cannot win against me. Even from this cell I have destroyed your kind. I have turned their very nature against them and they were powerless to stop me. Every impure thought, every act of evil. I have fed on them, as I have always fed. Waiting and growing, biding my time until I could set myself free. I escaped my cell but found that I was only free to walk the halls of the prison, but even from here I have brought your world to its knees. Now, I will free my brothers and we will walk the earth.”
Regulus says nothing, his voice is lost to the power of this being. Nothing he could say would amount to more than a single breath of wind in a storm. Instead he does the only thing he can think to do, he picks up his rusty sword and charges again. Zombie lazily swings toward him, once more, and a blast of pure evil energy throws Regulus across the temple to land at the feet of Viddus. The old man has grown silent, his head has dropped, his lifeless form hangs limp from the wall of the temple.
He is not dead, because Regulus still hears the voice of the old man in his head. Not as it is now, corrupted by countless years of being jailer to the ancient ones, but strong and whole - young.
Viddus says a single word to him, “Sacrifice.”
Another series of images flash across Regulus’s mind. A multitude of moments, a cascade of endings. Young boys, young girls, sacrificed to one cause; the incarceration of the ancient ones.
He sees th
e temple, not as it is now but clean, white and whole. It is a place of worship and a place of hope. It is also a place of protection, for the keepers of the ancient ones who know the danger and know how to control it.
A child sacrificed, a renewal, a new era of hope. The cycle of life and death is continued for another generation. Blood cleans blood, and youth holds back corruption and decay.
A young boy kneels before the priestess, knowing his life will protect the world but unable to understand how, he kneels anyway. His blood let out on the altar, locking the door to the ancient one’s cell. Regulus understands that this child is the man who now hangs above him. He has been told that his death will protect his people, and so he gives his life without fear.
More and more images of sacrifice flash across Regulus’s mind and one thing becomes evident. Each child, each sacrifice has given their life willingly. They have known that their death will be the life of others.
They don’t understand, none of them, it is not Viddus that they worship, they become him. Each soul is the next generation, adding to the multitude that have come before. He sees all this and understanding begins to settle in his mind. Each becomes Viddus, but not by choice.
Each sacrifice means an eternity in this realm, time stretching before them without end. They are not a tribute; they are trapped here with the ancient ones. Bound to fulfil the duty of being jailer to these beings, until eventually they begin to fail and the renewal begins again. With each renewal, the reward is to finally pass on, to spend eternity in bliss, joining the previous generations as part of the temple, becoming one with it.
Then as the generations pass, the secret of the ancient ones is lost to time. The temple falls and is forgotten. The line of Viddus is broken. This last jailer is left to grow old, to decay, to become corrupted by the beings he is charged with confining, without renewal. The previous generations awake from their bliss into a realm of terror and eternal agony. The temple is doomed to fall.
The power reaches out and finds a new hope. It calls through Viddus and brings Regulus to this place. One last chance, one last hope.
“No!” he shouts, denying the visions, denying this hell he has been called to face. He understands the sacrifices faced their fate willingly, but he is different. He is the only one who understands that there is no eternal bliss, that there is no hope of renewal. He has seen the fate of the old man, he has felt the power of the being who now steps toward him. He cannot bring himself to willingly subject himself to this hell.
He pushes himself to his feet, corroded weapon gripped tight in his hand and waiting for Zombie to attack once more. The ancient one reaches up toward Viddus and the old man looks dead, but Regulus knows there is a little life in him yet. Zombie lifts Viddus’s face so that he can see his doom. The twisted and broken figure looks on the ancient being and smiles. It is a smile of triumph and Regulus senses, just for a moment, that there is doubt in the creature.
The wall of the temple shimmers, becoming clear and Regulus feels his heart drop. He sees Vitus and Lucia. The people he loves most in the world are here; somehow they are in the temple. They are fighting for their lives. Risen attack them, they run and fight and he watches them, wanting to cry out because he knows now that he has no choice at all. There never was a choice, he just hadn't realised.
He watches as Lucia is bitten and understands that his fate was always sealed. His sacrifice was not just necessary but carved in the very love he felt for her. What is an eternity of pain compared to seeing her become the plaything of a creature like Zombie?
He watches her, drinking her in one last time, knowing that he will do this thing for her, and do it willingly. As he watches he realises something, she can see him too. He can not hesitate, if he does all will be lost. He will falter under her gaze and his courage will wilt and die, dwarfed by his longing to be with her one more time.
Regulus knelt, knowing instinctively that this is the right thing to do, knowing the sacrifice is the important thing, not the ritual. This is what Zombie will never understand, it is the willingness, the purity, the essential goodness that traps him here. The innocent have always given themselves in order to overcome his nature of corruption and decay, and it is that innocent love that defeats him.
The ancient one reaches down to crush the man before him and knows, an instant too late that he has made his mistake. His fury tears rents in the very fabric of reality. He has known eternity imprisoned, and now he knows he will return to his captivity.
Lucia watches the creature reach down to Regulus, she sees her love fall and knows that he is dead. His crumpled body lies on the black glass of the temple floor, and she cries out in anguish and pain. She clings to Vitus, and cries her lover's name over and over. She buries her face in Vitus’s chest and doesn’t see the temple dissolve around them. When she looks about once more, they are in the forest and it is daytime. The sun is shining through the branches of the impossibly green trees.
Legionaries are wandering between the trees, unable to understand how they are still alive. They call out to friends, but as many are dead as alive. Vitus leads Lucia through the undergrowth, guiding her as she walks unseeing toward the edge of the forest. She does not see the bodies, she does not see what has happened to the undead, now that the temple is gone. Vitus stops and pulls her to him, he reaches down and picks her up, cradling her in his arms. She buries her face in his neck and does not see.
The legionaries escort them out of the forest, leaving their dead behind them, at least for now - in time they will go back to gather their friends and honour them. As always there are feelings of relief and guilt. This time they have survived the fight. They know that each man who lies dead behind them has paid with his life in order that they might live. They will drink to the dead, give thanks to the gods for the life they still have and remember their friends. They have lost so many.
The sun is warm and bright, despite the lateness of the year. Vitus places Lucia on the ground and kneels next to her. She cries in deep, breathy sobs of pure dismay. Her heart is breaking and he can do nothing for her.
In the midst of her grief, he has an idea. He gently takes her arm and unwraps the makeshift dressing that covers the bite marks on her skin. The wound is fresh, it still bleeds a little but there is no sign of infection. This is not a wound that will turn her into one of the undead. He is almost certain that whatever Regulus did has ended the threat. His friend is dead, of that he has no doubt, but he feels no sadness. There is just an emptiness inside.
Waiting to fill the hollowness there is hope.
Chapter Thirty
The weight is almost unbearable. Bodies crush Garic, some are dead, most are undead. The Risen have swarmed over the remains of the living legions like insects over the rotting corpse of an animal. Although they don’t know it, they are eating their last great meal. After this there will be slim pickings, as the last gathering of men is here.
Garic tries to free his leg. It is trapped under the body of a legionary, who is in turn weighed down by the decapitated body of an undead woman. He is on his knees. Above him men still fight, taking their last breaths. His sword is gone, torn from his hand, but he can’t remember when.
The men around him unknowingly push him one way then the other. Unaware that he is trapped and vulnerable, and unable to free him even if they knew. They are about to die, and try to take as many of the undead with them before they go.
Garic is at peace with his own death. He has known it was coming since he first saw the Risen gather on the slope above the camp. The sheer number of the enemy meant that his end was inevitable. The waiting was worse. The constant anticipation of that first bite; the surety that he would feel teeth tear at his flesh.
The darkness surrounded him as he waited on his knees. The sky was lost in the crush of bodies above him. Out of the darkness a face appeared, a teenage girl, savage and broken. The snarling mouth was topped by a nose that had been crushed and distorted and two vacant sockets that hel
d no eyes. She thrashed around, blindly seeking prey with her mouth. Garic watched her from his entrapment, then took his knife and thrust it into one of the empty eye sockets. She hung in front of him, suspended by the closeness of the crowd.
A space appeared behind a legionary who stepped back into it, instinctively trying to gain a moment's respite from the enemy. As he did, he slipped and backward and landed on top of Garic. The legionary's weight drove him to the floor and he felt his ankle twist with a sharp pain as the bones snapped under the combined weight of himself and the fallen legionary. He screamed but the sound was lost in the multitude of cries of dying men.
The pain was immediate and terrible. The crush of the armoured man on top of him forced him down, grinding the bones of his ankle. He fought to remain conscious, then asked himself why. Would it not be easier to let himself drift away? He might even still be unconscious when the Risen tore into him.
Suddenly the weight above him lessened. The armoured man was still there but the space around them seemed less packed. He tried to see what was happening but the bulk of man and armour blocked his sight. The movement around him seemed less frantic, and there even seemed to be more daylight than there had been before.
Somebody pulled the legionary to his feet and Garic saw the iron grey sky above him. Something tickled at his nose and he sneezed, once and then twice more. Men moved around him, looking stunned and unable to understand what was happening. Everywhere Garic looked, people were covered in grey dust. The Risen were gone.
“Can someone help me, please,” he shouted. It took no more than a few seconds for the weight that trapped his ankle to be lifted off him. Slowly and with infinite care, he rolled and moved so that he could straighten his leg out in front of him. The leg was already blackening with bruises and swelling, filling his life with pain.
A man dressed in a blood-soaked tunic offered him a hand, and then a second man put an arm around him and lifted him to stand on his healthy leg.
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