by William King
Lucas held the lantern in one hand and his long knife in the other. Aisha held her staff as if she was expecting to deflect a blow. Shae looked as if at any moment they would need to force him to take another stride downward.
Ahead of him, he could see lights and silhouetted against those lights were humanoid figures. Blades glittered in their hands. It seemed like Morghael had anticipated their arrival and sent some of his disciples to greet them.
As he got closer he could see the figures were robed in black and masked in silver. They had long cold blades in their hands and they looked as if they knew how to use them. Kormak was almost grateful. He was in the mood to cut someone down.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE ACOLYTES RACED closer, brandishing their curved silver swords. They were lean men, stringy and muscular but they looked as if they still belonged among the living. Lucas put down his lantern and aimed an arrow at one. It feathered the man through the throat. Aisha stood beside him, flask of oil in one of her hands, lantern in the other. Shae crouched at her feet.
Kormak stepped forward and slashed the leading acolyte across the throat. Another blow opened the stomach of a second. A third aimed a blow at his head. Kormak ducked under it and slashed the back of the acolyte’s calf, cutting a tendon. As the man fell, Kormak kicked him in the head. He struck again and again and within heartbeats had cut his way through. The last of the acolytes fled. Lucas put an arrow into his back and Kormak overhauled him as he fell. His blow took off the man’s head.
“Look out!” shouted Lucas. Something massive lumbered towards Kormak. He caught the scent of embalming fluid and strange spices, saw glittering green eyes looking out of an ancient bandaged face. A bony fist smashed into his ribs and sent him flying. He let himself ride the force of the blow and land rolling. Kormak knew instinctively that this was the creature Lucas and his brothers had met on the road outside Hungerdale.
Lucas fired two arrows into the monster but it did not slow it down. Kormak leapt forward, driving his blade into the undead thing’s breast. It burned, bandages catching fire, sere flesh taking flame, like summer dried grass taking a spark. Kormak drove the creature backwards, slicing its dead flesh with every blow, driving it back into the chamber from which it had emerged.
Massive stone doors had swung open to reveal a huge chamber. In the centre was a large plinth on which rested a massive open sarcophagus. On the floor, lay the lid. It had been carved to represent a masked man. Standing beside it was a robed and hooded figure. He wore a silver mask and on his arm were three glowing torcs. Kormak knew he had found Morghael at last.
Overhead a green disk glowed, the moon and skull symbol of Kharon reproduced in mystical flames as wide across as the body of a tall man. All the pulsing green energy from the pyramid seemed to flow into it. Straight overhead was a massive shaft. A column of shadow rose from the symbol flowing upwards to the Black Sun. Morghael turned to face Kormak. “So the Old One did not lie,” he said. His voice was cold and cruel and confident. “You have caught up with me, Guardian, but too late. I have the Mask of the Defiler and all his power and knowledge will be mine. The Dark Sun is rising and soon I will have a new army with which to conquer Taurea. I will have my revenge on those who defeated me.”
“You’ll soon be as dead as the Defiler,” Kormak said, racing forward.
The mage stepped back behind the carved coffin and spoke words in the tongue of the Old Ones. The air crackled with energy. A cold light rippled across the room. A monstrous, wizened arm emerged from the coffin to be followed by a giant body. The Defiler’s corpse emerged from its tomb. In one hand it held a long black blade, carved with vile runes. It interposed itself between Kormak and Morghael.
Kormak struck. The liche raised its blade. Its movement was jerky but its speed was sight-blurring. The two blades came together with a hellish clangour.
“Torghul was a mighty king in his time,” Morghael said. “The greatest warrior of his age. His long sleep has not made him any weaker.”
The black blade flickered towards Kormak. The Guardian barely managed to leap clear. Torghul was stronger and faster by far than any wight had been. “This is only the beginning,” Morghael said. “There is a whole city of corpses out there, a nation. I will build an army great enough to overcome kingdoms. The whole of the Northlands will kneel before me. I will defy even death itself.”
The mask glowed with its own internal light, glowing bright as the moon; against the background of Morghael’s black-hooded robes it seemed like a disembodied, demonic face just floating there.
Morghael chanted and magical energies swirled all around him. The lids of the upright sarcophagi lining the walls sprang open, more tall animated corpses emerged, an honour guard of the walking dead, to accompany an undying king through all eternity. Each held a blade that was a replica of the one the long dead king bore. Each wore a torque that was like a lesser version of the ones that emblazoned Torghul’s own arm. In the sockets of every skull face witch fires burned. With great pacing strides they moved towards Kormak.
Torghul himself loomed over Kormak. His blade descended with all the force of a thunderbolt. Kormak sprang to one side. The black sword sparked where it hit the floor, sending chips of stone flying. The Guardian did not want to think about how strong his foe must be to do that. His movement brought him closer to the rest of the animated corpses. They lashed out at him with their blades and it was all he could do to keep himself alive, dancing among the lashing swords. Morghael kept chanting.
From all around the great sunken palace came the sound of coffin lids being thrown open, of the dead emerging from their final resting places. Kormak sensed his doom approaching.
He moved like lightning but there were too many of his foes and he could not avoid them forever. Already he was starting to feel tired. From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of grey and heard a fearsome howling. Shae leapt on one of the walking corpses and tugged it off balance. It fell sprawling and started to rise while the wolf worried at its throat. Something flew headlong at the nearest liche, splashing it. Aisha was tossing the contents of the flasks they carried at the walking dead.
At least she had remembered the plan, Kormak thought. The question was whether it would work now. A blade slashed out of nowhere. He moved too slowly and it cut his arm, even through the armour. Pain seared his muscles. Instinctively he lashed out with a counterblow. The dwarf-forged blade cut through dried, mummified flesh and severed a limb. Its owner kept coming. The separated hand crawled like a great spider towards him.
Still Morghael chanted and his words seemed to echo from a great distance out of a cold void. There was a sense of power being gathered and ancient things returning that should not be. Kormak tried to fight his way towards the necromancer but then Morghael moved towards the chambers exit and the Defiler interposed himself between them.
A ball of pale fur flew past going for Morghael. The Defiler reached out and grabbed the wolf. It snapped at his hand, foam spraying from its mouth. Torghul threw the wolf one-handed and it smashed against the wall. Shae lay there, whimpering. He heard shouts from behind him that could only have come from his companions. The undead fought in eerie silence.
Looking round he saw Lucas wrestling with a black-robed acolyte. It seemed that there must have been more of them, that they had missed on the way in, who had run to save their master. Then Kormak noticed the ropes of gut that were snaking out to entangle the hill-man and he realised that the acolyte too was one of the walking dead, raised by Morghael’s spell and the power of the Mask. It seemed like every corpse in the palace, in the city, perhaps all across the Barrow Hills was coming to life as the power of the Black Sun asserted itself.
With horror, he saw another corpse appear, the tall armoured form of Brandon, face pale, armour blood-streaked. He was standing beside Morghael, face blank, eyes empty.
A lantern flashed across the room and landed on one of the liche guards. Burning oil spread from it to join the stuff
with which the monster had already been splashed. It caught light like a pile of twigs dried by summer heat. Ancient bone and desiccated skin blazed up and was consumed. The giant form reeled as it burned crashing into another, and spreading the blaze to its soaked form.
Kormak lashed out at the nearest, striking with berserk power, driving it back towards its burning brethren. This one was not soaked but it caught light anyway, and twisted, trying to escape the blaze. Kormak chopped it down with the dwarf-forged blade and it fell, skin seared through by the power of the swords runes, body joining the pyre of bones made by its brethren.
A huge fist smashed into Kormak, knocking him to the ground. He looked up to see Torghul looming over him, blade held high, about to strike the blow that would have Kormak join him in death forever. Kormak desperately tried to bring his blade up to intercept the deathblow. He was too slow. He knew he was not going to make it.
A cloud of strange glittered dust enshrouded the liche. It opened its mouth as if it would roar but only a strange wheezing noise emerged from the broken bellows of its chest. Its burning eyes looked away from Kormak towards Aisha. Kormak followed its gaze. She spoke a word of power again. The liche let out another wheezing roar.
Whatever power was in that undead form was too strong to be overcome although she did seem to be causing it pain. The Defiler moved towards her, pushing against the magic of the cloud as if it was as much effort as moving upstream against the current of a great river. Kormak clambered to his feet and dove forward, driving his blade into the Defiler’s back, cleaving through long dead flesh, splitting it in twain. He twisted his blade, and the liche fell, all the evil magic in him pouring out in a great dark cloud. Kormak swept his blade through that, dispersing it.
His attention was drawn to the necromancer still casting his great spell. Brandon moved forward, swinging his sword through a massive arc. At first Kormak thought it was aimed at him but Brandon twisted, bringing his blade round in a mighty arc.
“That’s for little Olaf,” he shouted. Morghael raised his arm as if to ward off the blow. The steel cut through flesh and bone and buried itself in his head, cleaving the mask almost in twain. Tiny flickers of green lightning danced over its surface and then went out. The burning liches began to caper out of control. It took Kormak no more than a few heartbeats to finish the burning monsters.
Brandon looked over at Kormak and smiled a sickly smile. “I told you I wasn’t afraid. And I’m not bloody dead either. Not yet anyway.”
He kept himself unsteadily upright. “Just needed a little time to catch my breath.”
Kormak strode over to where Lucas lay on the ground. Ropes of gut were wrapped round him and he was struggling to be free. Kormak cut him free. Aisha looked sadly in the direction of Shae. The great wolf’s broken body lay against the wall. She looked ill and he understood why. The strain of working magic and the breaking of her bond with the wolf must be enormous.
The greenish disk overhead glowed ever brighter. The sense of power in it intensified. Overhead the Black Sun continued to burn, becoming darker than night, blacker than black, like a hole in the surface of reality looking into an alien realm of evil power.
“It’s running out of control,” Aisha shouted. Kormak offered up a prayer to the Holy Sun and threw his blade into the centre of the disk. It buried itself in the glowing magical circle as if the disk were solid. The runes along its blade glowed bright as the fires of hell. The blade itself shimmered as if white hot and for a moment Kormak feared that the metal would run and melt. The skull face seemed to widen as splitting into a grin and then it came apart in a cloud of flickering sparks. The sword dropped to the stone floor.
Fountains of greenishly glowing flame rose from the floor, and surged up the shaft until the hit the Black Sun. It exploded in a nova of shadow. The whole ziggurat shook as if in the grip of an earthquake. Large bits of broken masonry began to drop down the shaft. Kormak leapt forward, through the rain of rubble and grabbed his blade before it could be buried forever.
“What the hell have you done, Kormak?” Brandon shouted.
“He’s disrupted the master binding spell,” Aisha said. “There’s nothing left to focus the flow of energies throughout the pyramid.”
“What will happen?”
“This structure is bound by magic. I think we’d better get out of here before it collapses on us.”
The pyramid shook like a frightened beast. “She’s right. Pick yourselves up and get out of here now,” Kormak said. He helped support the big man and began to run back the way they came. Lucas took the other side. Aisha stayed with them.
Behind him he could hear the sound of stones falling. He prayed that the building would remain standing long enough for them to get out.
“Leave me,” said Brandon. “No sense in all of us being buried here.”
“I’m not going to explain to Gena how I left you here,” said Kormak.
“Fair enough,” said Brandon. “I could see how you would prefer being buried alive to that.”
The big man was heavy in his armour, and Kormak felt drained from the fighting but he kept reeling forward and Brandon kept moving his legs. They lurched up the long corridor and back into the chamber where they had left their horses. Below them, the city was still a riot of uncontrolled, animated dead.
The glow vanished, the sense of gathering power abated, the animated corpses started to slump.
“Our Lady be praised,” Aisha said. “The Black Sun did not shine long enough for them to absorb enough of its energies to become self-sustaining. They are losing animation.”
“Then it’s done,” Lucas said. “We’ve stopped it and we’re still alive.”
Kormak nodded. The Mask of the Necromancer was broken. The opener of tombs was dead. It was over.
“I am going home,” said Brandon. “I am going to give these wounds time to heal and if I ever get the fool notion of seeking adventure again I am going to give my wife instructions to brain me with a frying pan and keep me tied up until the madness passes.”
“That sounds sensible,” Kormak said, “except for the bit with the frying pan.”
“What about you?” Brandon asked.
“It’s back to Hungerdale for me,” said Lucas. “With a short stop off to see the girls in Elderdale along the way.”
“You did not take anything from the Tomb,” Kormak said. “There was gold and silver down there.”
Lucas spat on the ground. “Stupid as it sounds, I don’t want anything that has lain under the ground here for so long. I don’t see as any good can come of it.”
“Others might not feel that way,” said Kormak. “Soon word will spread that the vault is open and the city is clear.”
“I won’t tell anyone if you won’t,” said Lucas. “That way I can always come back if I change my mind. What about you, Mistress Aisha? What will you do now?”
“I will return home,” she said, “and I don’t think I will go travelling for a while.”
Kormak looked at them all. They were waiting for him to say something. “I must return south, myself, I have an oath to keep. I would be happy if we could ride together for a way until our paths part.”
They nodded and sat themselves down on the ziggurat’s cold stone side and waited for the dawn. Beneath them, the walking dead slowly sank into their long cold slumber once more.
WEAVER OF SHADOW
CHAPTER ONE
GREEN-FLETCHED ARROWS crucified the corpse against the trunk of the ancient oak. Columns of light broke through the canopy of leaves overhead and dappled the forest floor. The undergrowth rustled although there was no wind.
Kormak dismounted and walked towards the body. A big man with greying black hair, he moved with the wary readiness of one who knows he is being watched. A dwarf-forged longsword, the sign of his calling, was scabbarded on his back.
This part of the forest had been blighted by the Shadow. The signs were everywhere; in the mad eyes of the diseased ravens sitting
on the trees, in the mould-covered leaves of the newly grown bushes, in the mangy look of the few small animals visible. The stink of corruption underlay the scent of pine. Blotched fungus strewed the ground.
Mad the carrion birds might have been but even they had not touched the corpse. This close Kormak could see the greyish peeling skin and catch a whiff of the odd stench. Worms were eating through the flesh.
In life the man had been almost as tall as Kormak, and he had carried considerably more weight. Kormak inspected the body, noticing the leather forester’s jacket and trousers and the moccasins that covered the dead man’s feet. This was a local then. He had got lost in the wrong part of the forest, that was sure.
Kormak reached out and touched one of the arrows, running his finger along the wood. The shaft had been carved with runes in ancient inhuman script. The workmanship was beautiful. The magic in it made the flesh of his hand tingle. He took a grip as if to pull it out.
“I would not do that if I were you, stranger,” said a voice from behind him. Kormak turned and saw the woman. She was tall and slender, whipcord lean. Her hair was green as her eyes, and flowed back past her pointed ears. Her skin was the brown of healthy bark. Odd blotched patterns, intended to let her blend in to the shadowy undergrowth, marked her high-cheek-boned face. They matched the patterns on her tunic and britches. The bow she held in her hand was steady and the arrow was aimed directly at him. It was green-fletched. “Not unless you want to join him.”
Kormak looked back at the dead man. “Did you do this?”
“I doubt he is your clan-brother, man of the north. You cannot claim you have blood-debt.”
“Leaving a corpse unburned in a Shadowblight is an unclean thing.”