by Jess Lebow
With little more than a glance over his shoulder at Menrick, Lord Purdun headed deeper into the tomb.
“Stay close.” As he descended, the air grew heavy. Gone was the fresh, flowing breeze on the banks of the Deepwash. In its place were the stale, last breaths of the dead.
The dust on the ground grew thicker and their surroundings colder as they descended. When Purdun finally stepped off the last stair, he found himself in a large, open room.
The young lord thrust the torch out into the darkness. The wavering, shadowy edges of several rectangular polished-stone structures materialized in the dim light. Their sides reflected the glow, scattering the torchlight.
Purdun stepped forward and, sheathing his sword, placed his hand on top of one of the structures. The rectangular box was seemingly carved right out of the stone of the floor.
“Sarcophagi,” he whispered. Moving closer to the center of the room, he waved the torch slowly from side to side, trying to take it all in. In long, straight rows, with just enough space between them for a man to walk, the sarcophagi filled the space from wall to wall.
“There must be over a hundred people buried here.”
In the middle of the room, perched above the others on a stepped dais, sat a larger, gem-encrusted coffin. The rubies and sapphires sparked brilliantly even in the faded orange light of Purdun’s torch.
“You see that,” said the young lord. “I told you this was a treasure trove.”
“My … my lord,” stuttered the wizard. “This tomb is not empty. It is unwise to disturb the dead.”
Purdun smiled. “Do not worry. They will not miss what we take.” He patted his manservant on the shoulder then bounded to the top of the dais to get a closer look at the coffin.
Unlike the bland, rectangular stone boxes along the floor, the coffin was carved and embellished to resemble a human woman. No detail had been spared to make it look as if it were in fact a princess who had just been laid down for a final rest. She was dressed in what appeared to be a long, flowing blue gown rimmed with silver accents and gemstone inlays. Long black hair spilled over her shoulders and ran along her pale, resting arms. And on her lapel was the same twisted rune that had adorned the artifacts on the front of the mausoleum. The woman’s eyes were closed, but the carving was so remarkably detailed it looked as though she might open them at any moment.
Purdun moved quietly up to the head of the coffin. He was gripped by the feeling that any sudden movement might wake the sleeping beauty, and he would be scolded like an impetuous, thoughtless child. He placed his hand gently against the side of the woman’s pale cheek, but instead of the soft warmth of human flesh, he felt the cold solidity of wood. Startled by the contrary sensation, the young lord knocked on the woman’s hair with his knuckles. It made the familiar deep, hollow sound of a wooden coffin.
Menrick stepped up on the dais. “My lord, we should not be here.” He grabbed Purdun by the shoulder and spun him away from the coffin. “It is not unheard of for the dead to rise again. We have seen it here in Ahlarkham many times.” His voice quivered as he spoke. Looking around the room, he took in the rows of sarcophagi. “The invocation may have triggered spells that will awaken them. We should not be here if that happens.”
Purdun took another look at the carved beauty beside him. “I … I.…” He felt compelled to touch her in the flesh, to see what was under the carved wood. He struggled with the feeling. It was like an itch that he just had to scratch. Placing both hands on the lid of the coffin, he lifted.
“No, my lord!” Menrick lunged, trying to stay Purdun’s hand. But it was too late.
The wooden box creaked as it opened, and Lord Purdun looked down on a resting woman. Her long black hair and porcelain skin matched perfectly the carving on the lid of the coffin. Her arms were folded over her chest, and her lips were turned up at the corners, as if she were in the midst of a pleasant dream.
“She’s beautiful,” said Purdun. He reached in to touch her hair. Unlike the coffin he’d touched before, her hair was soft and supple—the way he wanted it to feel. Running his hand down her cheek, he felt his heart sink. “She’s very cold.”
“She’s dead, my lord,” replied Menrick.
Purdun shook his head. He was gripped with a deep desire. “No. She can’t be. I don’t want her to be.” Though he knew it to be false, he felt he’d known this woman his entire life. He started to feel sympathy for her, all alone, deep within the bowels of that musty, awful place. “I want her to wake up. To take her away from here.” He leaned down to put his face close to hers.
Her beauty was entrancing.
As if granting the young lord’s wish, the woman slowly opened her eyes. They were a deep jade green, and they stared up lovingly at Purdun.
“What devilry is this,” shouted Menrick. The wizard tried to push the young lord aside. “We must flee.”
But Purdun stood firm.
The woman sat up, and Purdun leaned back to give her room. A smile crossed her lips as she gazed at the young lord, and he felt his heart jump within his chest. Her eyes seemed to dig right into him, as if she could read his thoughts and know his desires. The feeling was more exciting and terrifying than anything the young man had ever experienced.
Their eyes remained locked for a moment more, then Purdun had to look away. He didn’t want to, but her beauty was too much for him to bear. He felt as if he would wither if he continued to look.
Menrick shoved Purdun again. The young lord was off balance, and he had to take a step back to gather himself. In that brief instant, the old wizard stepped into the gap and drew a dagger. Lifting it, he shouted the words to a quick spell. Purdun didn’t recognize them all, but the last four he did.
“… the bane of the unliving.”
Menrick’s dagger began to glow with a blue-white light. The mage wasted no time in bringing it down on the woman with both hands, impaling its tip in her shoulder.
“What are you doing!” shouted Purdun. He grabbed the wizard’s hands, but Menrick leaned into his dagger, forcing it deeper into the wound.
The woman reeled from the blow, but no blood poured from the wound. She flailed, her arms swinging wildly. One of them hit Purdun in the gut. The woman’s arm had the strength of ten men, and the blow knocked the young lord backward off the dais. He landed on his back and the room grew darker as the torch clattered to the floor next to him.
With her other arm, the pale woman grabbed Menrick by the neck and lifted him off the ground.
“Who dares wake Shyressa?” The woman spoke her words with a quiet hiss, as if forming them without the help of air.
She shook the wizard. The empty blackness surrounding the woman began to shimmer and move, lighting the room in a dim purple glow. Her smooth, porcelain cheeks withered and turned gray. Her paper-thin skin shriveled, pressing tight against her cheekbones and pulling away from her gums to reveal long, sharp fangs. Her lustrous blue-black hair slipped away, leaving in its place random clumps of graying straw clinging to a cracked, purplish scalp The flowing gowns that had covered her soft, curved body became tattered and worn, leaving nothing more than a torn, hole-filled rag hanging from her bony frame. Her beauty and youth drifted away, leaving in their place a hard, hideous visage.
Purdun leaped to his feet, drew his sword, and charged up the dais. The woman held Menrick off the ground with one hand, and with her other she slapped at the oncoming lord. Her sharpened claws caught Purdun on the left side of his face and once again he was sent flying. His sword skidded across the dusty floor, and he landed hard on his back between two stone sarcophagi, the wind knocked from his lungs.
Seeming to float, Shyressa stood up inside her coffin, keeping her one-handed hold on Menrick’s throat. Her claws dug in deeply and blood ran down his neck, staining the collar of his white robes. The old wizard’s eyes were closed, and he struggled against her grip, scratching at her hand with his fingers. His lips moved feverishly, as if he were trying to coax the air into his
lungs by talking to it.
Shyressa reached up and pulled Menrick’s dagger from her shoulder. It left a deep wound, but had apparently hit nothing vital. Tossing it to the ground, she glared up at the wizard in her grip.
“You will pay for that.” She shook him again.
Menrick looked like a child’s toy, his legs flopping as if they had no bones while he dangled from the withered woman’s grasp. He struggled, letting out a coughing, gurgling sound. Then his body seemed to relax, and he opened his eyes. His hands lit up with yellow-white fire, and five glowing orbs of energy, each a different color, appeared circling his head. With a nod, the wizard sent the orbiting projectiles flying down on Shyressa.
The crypt lit up from the impact, the mix of colors sending hideously deformed shadows out to all corners of the room. The decrepit woman let out a hissing scream as the spells splashed over her skin.
Turning as best as he could, Menrick looked down on Purdun, who was still struggling to regain his breath.
“Run … my lord,” Menrick spat out in a strangled voice. His eyes seemed to bulge in his head.
Shyressa shook her head, obviously hurt and angered by the wizard’s attack. Her withered skin smoked where it had been struck and tattered bits of it fell from her face, revealing the stark white bone beneath. She let out an angry hiss and drew Menrick to her open mouth.
“No,” coughed out Purdun.
Biting down on Menrick’s neck with her massive fangs, Shyressa shook her face back and forth, tearing away the fresh flesh like a wild animal devouring its prey. The old wizard’s body went stiff as he let out an anguished wail. Blood flooded down Shyressa’s cheeks, spattering her hunched shoulders and the ragged remains of her dress.
Menrick shook for a moment longer, his body twitching in agony. Then his head slumped to one side, and he stopped struggling.
Menrick was gone.
Purdun felt his whole body tingle then go numb. Only by sheer force of will did he manage to pick himself up off the ground and grasp hold of the torch. Leaving his sword where it lay, the young lord turned away from the still-smoldering Shyressa and the body of his dead manservant and bolted for the stairs.
Lord Purdun ran with all of his might, skipping steps on the way up. The musty air burned his lungs as he drove his legs on, trying desperately to escape the damned tomb.
Finally, with a last burst of speed, Purdun forced himself out of the stairway, down the hall, and out the door into the sunlight. As soon as his foot touched the ground outside, the archway slammed closed. The smooth, polished stone that had been destroyed by the demon returned, leaving in its place a perfect replacement.
With only a single glance back, the young lord continued to run. Menrick, his mentor and confidant, was dead. Purdun had enough of that tomb for a lifetime. He wanted to put the whole episode as far behind him as humanly possible.
Deep inside the crypt, Shyressa pulled her teeth from the weeping neck of the wizard. Stepping down off the dais, she lowered his limp body to the ground beside one of the stone sarcophagi. Then she picked up the discarded blade lying on the floor. Examining the hilt, she read the inscription on it.
“Well, well,” said Shyressa. “Lord Purdun.” A smile crossed her weathered, now magically burned lips. “I think we shall meet again one day.” Turning to survey the room, she lifted her hands into the air. “Rise, my children.”
A loud grinding sound filled the chamber as the stone lids on all the sarcophagi began to slide away.
CHAPTER 1: 1369 DR
Ryder ran his hand over Samira’s soft black hair. He felt her arms tighten around his middle.
“Don’t go,” she said.
He returned her squeeze. “I must.”
Samira looked up at him, her beautiful blue eyes filling with tears. “Then promise me you’ll return. Promise me that you’re not going to get yourself killed doing something foolish.”
Ryder smiled. She loved him. She loved him dearly, but knowing that only strengthened his resolve.
“I promise you, Samira, I will return to you.” Though it pained him to do so, he pushed her gently away. “I will be back before nightfall.” Then, grabbing his belt and sheath from the table, Ryder kissed his wife goodbye and stepped out the door into the afternoon sunshine.
“Close the bar behind me, and don’t let anyone in until I get back,” he said over his shoulder.
He could hear the extra-heavy crossbeam slide into place behind him as he crossed the dirt road. On the other side, Liam was leaning against a heavy tree, his arms folded on his chest.
Ryder clasped him on the arm as he approached. “You ready, little brother?”
Liam slapped the hilt of the sword dangling from his belt. “Ready.”
Ryder nodded, satisfied. “Then let’s go meet the others.”
Liam knelt in the bushes alongside the well-traveled dirt road running west from Zerith Hold, Lord Purdun’s fortress in Duhlnarim, through Furrowsrich village and out of Ahlarkham. Six other men knelt beside him, including his brother. They were waiting for a carriage that was reportedly leaving the Hold with a diplomatic letter bound for High Watcher Laxaella Bronshield, the still-mourning baroness of Tanistan. Liam and the others intended to make sure that letter never reached its destination.
Liam, Ryder, and the rest of the Crimson Awl had made significant headway in the past few months against Lord Purdun’s elite guard. The last thing they needed was for Lady Bronshield to add her might to that of Purdun’s. The Awl would worry about one barony at a time, starting right here at home. But to do that, they had to make sure the neighboring lords didn’t broaden the scope of the fight too soon. That was why they were all here, to stop Purdun’s request for aid from getting through to Tanistan.
In the near distance, Liam heard the telltale sound of horse hooves and rough wooden wheels rolling over the packed earth.
His brother must have heard it too. “This is it,” said Ryder. “You all know your jobs. There should only be two guards. If we’re swift about this, nobody needs to get hurt.”
Liam looked over the other men. Locals, all of them. They nodded at Ryder’s instructions. All of them, that is, except Kharl.
The young man, the son of a local merchant, had never been on one of the raids before. He hadn’t heard a word Ryder said. His eyes were focused on the road and his right hand gripped the hilt of his long sword so tightly his knuckles were turning white. A line of sweat had started to form along the edge of his golden blond hair, and he looked a little pale. Liam could have sworn he was shaking.
Ryder must have noticed it too. “Don’t worry,” he said, smiling at Kharl. “You won’t even have to use your sword.”
Kharl nodded hesitantly. “But what if they give us trouble?”
Ryder shrugged. “Then I suppose you’ll get the opportunity to use your sword after all.”
Kharl shook his head. “No. I mean, what if they don’t give us the letter? What do we do then?”
Jarl, a great big bear of a man with a tattoo of a mermaid on each forearm, spoke up. “We take it from them, lad.”
The other men nodded their agreement.
“But …” Kharl stuttered. “But … do we …?”
Ryder put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Kharl, I won’t ask you to kill anyone in cold blood, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Kharl nodded, his shoulders relaxing a bit.
“But if things do get out of hand, you may have to defend yourself.” Ryder suddenly got serious. “If that happens, if you find yourself in the position where it’s your life or his—” Ryder looked up at each of the other men, his eyes lingering on Liam a moment longer than the rest, then back at Kharl— “Then I expect you to kill that man dead. I won’t be losing anyone on this raid. Is that understood?”
Kharl nodded, and the other men grunted their assent.
“Good.” Ryder chuckled, and the moment of seriousness passed. “You know, Kharl, you can do me a favor.”
“Really? What?”
“Your mother makes the best beef stew in all of Erlkazar. When you get back, see if you can’t get her to make a pot and invite Samira and me over for dinner.”
The worry on Kharl’s face faded. “All right, Ryder. I’ll do that.”
Liam shook his head. His brother had always had a way with people. “Hey, Kharl.”
The blond man leaned back to look at Liam. “Yeah?”
“I want some of that stew too.”
Kharl threw his arms out wide. “You’re all invited.”
The sound of horses and wheels grew louder as it came around the bend, transforming into a well-appointed carriage pulled by a pair of majestic-looking horses draped in the livery of Lord Purdun. The coach wasn’t in any hurry. The doors were painted with the familiar shield-and-double-crossed-sword crest that turned Liam’s stomach every time he saw it. It was the official seal of Lord Purdun, the owner and master of the land on which all of Liam’s family and friends lived and had to pay taxes for.
Just as Ryder had said, there were only two guards and the driver. Whoever rode inside was concealed by velvet drapes covering the windows. Liam imagined the occupant was some corpulent, bloated diplomat with a double chin and greasy fingers. Who better to deliver a letter of alliance from the bastard Lord Purdun to one of the other regional barons?
The carriage drew near, and Ryder rose onto the balls of his feet, still hidden from the road by the tall brush. He held his hands to his face and whispered to Liam, “Before you can truly move forward, you have to be willing to live with the consequences.”
Then Ryder smiled and looked at the other men. “It’s time to give it to old Firefist.” He dropped into a deep crouch, then sprang out of the bush. “Now!” he shouted, pulling his long sword from its sheath as he came down in front of the carriage.