A breeze blew through the cemetery, causing the fog to swirl in random directions. To his right, Aramis caught sight of a small stone building. Two torches were lit on either side of the doorway. He wasn’t completely sure, but he thought the door was ajar. And then he had a desperate idea.
“I think I see a defensible position!” he shouted. “We need to clear a path to my right. Can you manage it?”
“Yes,” Mel answered. The word came out more as a gasp.
Aramis managed the knock the sword out of one of his attacker’s hands, then quickly decapitated him. “Let’s go now!”
As one, they turned in the direction of the building and forced their way through the crowd of dead men. Arms and legs got hacked off as the two used the last of their strength to push through the bodies. When they finally broke free, they sprinted to the building and crashed into the stone door. It barely moved. Placing his shoulder against the door, Aramis pushed with all his might. It moved an inch. Mel joined him and they shoved their weight against the door.
With slow momentum, the door finally swung inward. The two men ducked inside and tried to force the door shut. The dead men were quickly closing the distance. Aramis cried out in pain as his muscles threatened to disobey him. He put everything he had into his last shove. The door slid closed with a soft clunk, leaving them in a faintly lit corridor.
Aramis slid down the door, his backside resting on the floor. His exhaustion was complete. There wasn’t a muscle in his body that wasn’t screaming for relief. Against his better judgement, he dismissed his sword and his armor.
For long moments, the only sound was their heavy breathing. Aramis was burning up. He was soaked with sweat and his clothes clung frustratingly to his flesh. He met Mel’s gaze and managed to grin.
“You owe me for this one, my Lord.”
Aramis laughed. The absurdity of their situation was obvious. If they could escape the place before daylight, it would be a hard fight all the way back to the castle. If they waited out the night, assuming they survived, they would have to do it all over again the next night.
The air hissed as Mel dismissed his own blade and armor. They sat quietly, each trying to catch their breath and find what rest they could. As their breathing became normal, Aramis thought he could hear something echoing throughout the corridor. It was faint and sounded like singing. He was about to dismiss it as his imagination when Mel looked at him.
“Do you hear that?” he asked.
“I think so,” Aramis answered. “It sounds like singing.”
“Why would anyone be singing?”
They must have come to the same conclusion at the same time as they both said in unison, “The Warlock.”
Aramis pushed himself to his feet and held a hand out to Mel. They locked hands and Aramis leveraged his weight backwards to help Mel onto his feet. They walked cautiously down the corridor, stepping lightly. The hallway ended abruptly with stairs leading down to a lower level. Aramis took the lead and made his way down the stone steps, Mel right behind him. After roughly twenty steps, they found themselves in a small antechamber.
Small spheres of light hovered at random along the room’s walls. Old paintings, worn and unrecognizable from time, covered the walls. A once lavish rug, now frayed and faded, decorated the floor. To their left and their right were doorways that lacked any sort of door. Straight ahead, a rotting wooden door hung on rusted hinges.
Glancing through both doorways provided nothing useful. They were dark and from what he could tell, were empty. Aramis could now hear the singing more clearly. But it wasn’t singing; it was chanting. It drifted into the chamber from behind the door.
Aramis summoned his blade. He held off on calling his armor. He wanted the element of surprise, and if he entered the room creaking and clanking about, he surely wouldn’t have it. Approaching the door, he paused in front of it and listened. The chanting was in a language he did not know. Raising his eyebrows at Mel, he nodded toward the door. Mel shrugged.
Gritting his teeth, Aramis pushed gently on the door. It creaked softly as it partially opened. Cursing the hinges in his mind, he waited. The chanting didn’t stop. Not wanting to press his luck, he squeezed himself through the opening. The door creaked again when his shoulder pushed against the door. His anger getting the better of him, he pushed the door completely open. Surprisingly, no sound came from the hinges.
Of course, he fumed.
They entered a large, circular room. Spheres of light, identical to the ones in the previous chamber, illuminated everything with their soft light. The walls and floor were made of marble. The ceiling arched overheard, a dome supported by delicate columns. Embedded in the walls of the room were row after row of glass chambers, chambers intended to hold bodies. Many of them were empty, but others were occupied. From the light of the spheres, Aramis could see aged corpses inside. A mausoleum, he realized.
Rows of benches lined the room from left to right. They were separated by a walkway down the middle that led to a raised platform. Upon the platform was a long slab, and in front of that slab stood a robed figure. His back was to them and he was bent over the slab. Aramis inched into the room, treading lightly. Kneeling behind one of the benches, he waved Mel in.
Mel entered the room and knelt behind the row of benches across from Aramis. They watched the figure in silence. Aramis suddenly noticed that atop the slab lay a corpse. The figure continued chanting softly.
“What should we do?” Aramis whispered.
Mel’s face scrunched in thought, and after a moment he shrugged.
Aramis looked around the room. Besides the door they entered, there was only one other located to the right of the platform. The chanting stopped. Aramis froze, not even daring to breathe. The figure left the room. Without having any sort of plan, Aramis sprinted across the room, holding his sword up before him. He stopped just shy of the door and peeked through the doorway. A narrow hallway, roughly fifty feet long, ended abruptly with a stone wall. There were no other doors, yet the figure was nowhere to be seen. He turned to see Mel examining the body on the slab.
“This one is fresh,” Mel said softly.
Aramis joined him and looked at the body. He gasped. “That’s Lord Abriel. Or, it was.”
“Where’s the Warlock?” Mel asked, looking toward the doorway.
“I don’t know. There’s nothing but an empty hallway through there.”
Mel frowned. “I don’t like this,” he said. Then he summoned his armor.
Aramis shuddered. An intense feeling of dread crept up his back and the tattoo on his arm began to burn furiously. The hovering spheres of light were unexpectedly snuffed out, leaving them in darkness. Aramis summoned his armor. The air hissed as it formed.
“I should have known the Lady would send her minions looking for me,” a deep voice echoed in the room.
A dull red light broke the darkness. The robed figure stood on the other side of the slab, holding a black wooden staff in his left hand. The light shone from a small crystal on the tip of it. His robes were as black as the staff. A hood was pulled low over the top half of his face. Judging by the lower part, Aramis guessed the man was young.
“I did not expect a fellow follower of Mordum, however. Are you here with orders? No? I didn’t think it likely.”
Aramis tried to move, but his muscles wouldn’t obey him. His eyes darted to Mel. He seemed frozen as well.
“A neat trick, isn’t it? Not when you are on the receiving end of it maybe, but no matter. So, what to do with intruders …” the man tapped his chin with his index finger. He smiled. “I know.”
Leaning down, he began a whispered chant in the corpse’s ear. Aramis’s skin tingled. The air grew cold, so cold that Aramis could see his breath. Despite the spell the Warlock had cast, he shivered. He could feel the warmth leaving his body. And just as suddenly, the cold was gone.
The Warlock stood back up, the same smile on his face. The body of Lord Abriel began to spasm, here and
there at first, but growing in frequency. Abriel’s mouth opened and he exhaled loudly. His eyelids opened and Aramis saw nothing but black where the whites of his eyes should have been. Abriel sat up. A wave of foul smelling air hit Aramis’s nostrils. The signs of decay had already set in.
“I think I’ll leave you two here to get acquainted with the previous lord of the city. I’ve got people to terrorize and I’d rather not be late.”
The Warlock stepped around the slab. “It’s a pity the Prophet wants you kept alive,” he said to Aramis. “Though there are others who … don’t care as much. Like your brother. Personally, I don’t see the resemblance. You can judge for yourself soon enough. Goodbye, gentlemen.”
The Warlock faded from sight. As soon as he was gone, the spell of binding ended. Aramis staggered back from the slab. The soulless body of Abriel turned his dead gaze on them. He got off the slab and took shaky steps toward them. Aramis and Mel backed away but took defensive positions.
“I don’t know what he’s planning, but we’ve got to stop him,” Aramis said.
“I agree, my Lord, but I fear we have troubles of our own now.”
Abriel raced toward them, his arms swinging wildly. Aramis threw his sword in an upward arc, cutting off Abriel’s left arm at the elbow. That hardly stopped him. He slammed bodily into Aramis and they tumbled to the floor in a mass of blows. Mel jumped in and grabbed Abriel by his tattered shirt and pulled him off Aramis. Pushing Abriel back, Mel brought his own blade across and cut Abriel’s head cleanly off his shoulders. The body dropped lifelessly onto the ground.
Mel offered his arm to Aramis and helped him back onto his feet. They stared down at the corpse. Aramis wondered if it was truly that easy. After a few minutes had passed, and the body still hadn’t moved, Aramis figured it was safe.
“I don’t feel right leaving the body like this,” Aramis said.
“What do you mean? What are we supposed to do with it?”
“I think this place is used for putting the city’s nobles to rest. I’d hate for someone to come down here and see their previous lord cut to pieces. Let’s put him in his …” he waved to the glass chambers embedded in the walls, “coffin thing.”
Mel sighed. “Yes, my Lord.”
They found that a small placard with each person’s name and house was placed below the chamber that the body rested in. They found Lord Abriel’s easy enough as the placard for his name was made of gold. Several minutes of struggling later, they had placed the lord’s body, severed arm and head in his chamber and closed the glass paned door.
“Now we must fight our way back to the castle,” Aramis said. “Gods, this night just keeps getting better and better.”
They backtracked their way to the stone door that sealed the outside world out. No sound could be heard from the other side, so they took the risk of pulling the door open. They were greeted with silence and an empty cemetery.
“Do you think we should get back to the castle?” Mel asked.
“I think that would be a good idea.”
They ran the entire way. Aramis fumbled with the map as they ran, navigating them to the correct street. Once they reached the street that led to the castle, Aramis could hear a commotion. They sprinted the remainder of the distance to the gates and found the castle swarming with the dead.
“I bet the Warlock is in there somewhere,” Aramis said.
“I know he is,” Mel replied, pointing with his sword. The robed man was striding across the courtyard, headed for the castle doors.
“I’ll see you inside,” Aramis said. Mel nodded to him.
Aramis began cutting his way through the mass of dead, trying to push his way through to the castle. He had to stop the Warlock before he got to Lynessa. Her guards were hard pressed to provide a decent defense. The courtyard was overrun and they were highly outnumbered. Aramis managed to break through the line of dead in time to witness a handful of guards rushing the Warlock.
The Warlock used his staff to block the sword strikes of the guards. He began chanting loudly and waved his hand at the closest guard. The man began screaming and clawing at his own face. Aramis watched in disgust as the man’s flesh began melting off his body. The guard dropped dead to the ground a moment later. Aramis tried to close the distance to help the guards.
He was too slow. The Warlock dispatched the other soldiers in a similar fashion and disappeared into the main keep. Aramis growled in frustration. He could feel the power of his tattoo pounding in his body. He denied the temptation to use it.
Entering the keep, he found a scene of chaos and death. Servants and soldiers alike lay dead. Blood was on the walls and the floor. Booted footprints smeared the blood in places. Aramis had to force himself not to vomit. All these innocent people were dead because of Mordum and his servants. Gritting his teeth in anger, he stalked through the room and navigated his way through the confusing halls of the unfamiliar castle.
He encountered a few skirmishes, mostly small groups of soldiers driving the dead back from the inner rooms. Aramis avoided these as much as possible, searching furiously for Lynessa. He managed to find the dining area they had eaten in earlier. After getting turned around a few times, he finally found Lynessa’s private chambers. She wasn’t present, but the secret door she had emerged from was ajar. Pulling it open, he charged into the darkness.
After a few seconds, his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Torches, too few for adequate light, revealed a narrow corridor. The ceiling was inches above his head and it was only wide enough for one person to pass through at a time. Aramis walked down the hall. He kept his sword up before him, ready for any surprises. The beginning of the corridor was made of stone, but as he continued it became hardened dirt.
“This place was carved into the earth,” he muttered to himself.
Ahead, he could see the corridor curved to the left. He slowed his pace as he approached. He could hear voices. He peeked around the bend. The hall opened into a large room. Several other corridor and stair cases were scattered around the room. Apparently Lynessa had an entire series of secret passages in the castle. As he inched closer, he could see the robed figure of the Warlock. He was standing over someone … Lynessa!
“It seems a pity to kill you,” the Warlock said to her. “I could use a queen to help me manage this city. Among other things, of course. Beauty like yours shouldn’t be wasted … but the Prophet was very clear on this matter.”
“Please,” Lynessa pleaded, “I will give you whatever you want. Please don’t kill me.”
“As enticing as that sounds, I’m afraid it won’t do you any good. If I want something, I take it. Your husband’s life, your city, and now … your throne.”
“Not if I can help it,” Aramis said as he entered the chamber.
“Aramis!” Lynessa screamed in relief.
“The exiled prince,” the Warlock said with a tone of boredom.
“I’m not as easy to kill as you presume,” Aramis said.
“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” the Warlock replied with a laugh. “I was merely trying to slow you down. How did it feel, anyway?”
“How did what feel?” Aramis asked, spinning and twisting his sword around in front of him. He was ready to end this already.
“Why, cutting up the lord of the city. Did you know that he was down in the mausoleum?” the Warlock asked Lynessa. “He went down there to desecrate your dead husband’s body.”
Lynessa looked at Aramis with uncertainty. Aramis glared at the Warlock.
“You know that’s a lie,” Aramis said. “Stop talking and fight me.”
“Fight you?” the Warlock asked as he pulled the hood of his robe back. Aramis had been right. The man was young, perhaps only a few years younger than himself. The Warlock set his staff on the ground and removed his robe. The staff remained standing upright and the Warlock placed his robe on it. He wore black leather boots, black breaches, and a loose fitting black tunic with no sleeves on. He took a few steps toward Aramis with
his arms outstretched. Aramis could see the mark of Mordum on his forearm.
“I fear that what is about to happen will not be so much of a fight as it will be a slaughter.” The Warlock laughed maniacally.
“Tough words,” Aramis said. “Prove them with your actions.”
“Fair enough.” The air hissed as armor formed around the Warlock from mist. A wicked looking blade formed in his hand. It was completely different than Aramis’s own blade.
They stood staring at each other in silence. Aramis was confident he could take the Warlock if their fight was only with blades. If the man used magic, he’d be at a sore disadvantage. He glanced to Lynessa. She was sitting on the ground with her knees pulled up against her chest. Even dirty and forlorn she was breathtaking.
The Warlock came at him in a blinding rush. Aramis forced his attention to the man and brought his sword up defensively. As their swords clashed, a multitude of black sparks filled the air and their blades disappeared with a loud hum. They staggered back from each other in confusion. Aramis tried to summon his blade back, but nothing happened. He still had his armor. That was something, at least.
“Mordum certainly has a sense of humor,” the Warlock said. “Looks like we must settle this with magic.”
Aramis cursed the god of death in his mind. Feeling for the power of his tattoo, he was surprised to find it was gone. Frantic with fear, he focused all his willpower into finding the power. He could feel it, barely. There was some sort of barrier around the power. When he tried to grab at it with his will, it slipped away from him.
“Having trouble?” the Warlock cackled. “This will be fun.”
An intense, searing pain erupted in Aramis’s torso. He gasped and collapsed to his knees, clutching at his chest. His breath came in short wheezes. His body shuddered from the pain. Any thought of trying to summon his power quickly fled his mind. The burning sensation spread down from his chest into his stomach, all the way down to his legs. His body jerked involuntarily with spasms. He thought he could hear laughing. In the chaos, a voice spoke to him inside his mind. It was somehow familiar to him. It broke through the pain enough for him to understand it.
The Restored King (The Fallen King Chronicles Book 4) Page 4