by Odom, Mel
“Here,” Effrim said, pointing at a section of the wall.
Tohl redirected the lantern. The beam shone on one of the support posts that had been driven into the wall. Light glanced off bright metal. The staircase had slid sideways enough to clear the bolt and reveal that it was no longer attached.
Effrim touched the bolt sticking out from the wall. He drew his finger back with a jerk, then turned it over to examine it. A thick drop of blood oozed from his fingertip. He put it in his mouth and sucked at it.
The response was a normal one, Tohl knew, but standing there in Borran Klosk’s tomb and prison, knowing what Borran Klosk was and what he had done, the innocent gesture seemed obscene.
“It’s sheared,” Effrim said. “Something snapped it off, and recently, or it would not be so shiny.”
The words hung heavily on all of them.
“Perhaps,” Micahan said, “with all the rains tonight there was a shifting in the earth. The rainy season makes coffins sink into the ground.”
“It’s been hundreds of years,” Vhoror protested.
“It may have been as much as a tenday ago,” Micahan said. His face looked hollow and pasty as it was lifted from the recesses of his cowl by the lantern light. “Metal takes time to rust, just as Eldath in her mercies takes time to convert.” He nodded at Tohl. “If we’re to do this, Brother, we’d be better served by getting it done. Morning will come all too early.”
“Of course,” Tohl said and took up the march down the staircase again. It quivered and quaked the whole way.
Once at the bottom of the staircase, Tohl kept the lead and guided them through the twisting passageways.
When they reached the final room, lantern light reflected from the pools of water that remained of the ice coffin. The light also reflected from the dead eyes of the boys who sat arranged against the far wall. At least, the light reflected from the eyes of those who still had them.
Astonished fear froze Tohl in the entrance to the room. Borran Klosk was nowhere in sight.
“Eldath’s mercy be upon them,” Micahan said. He glanced up at Tohl. “We can’t leave those children here. You know what will happen to them if we leave them.”
Tohl nodded without speaking or returning the older priest’s gaze.
“They will rise,” Micahan said. “They will rise in a day or two.”
Tohl gazed at the horror before him. He remembered the stories of Borran Klosk’s undead army and how the mohrg had raised it.
“We can’t let that happen to these children,” he said.
“They’re thieves,” Vhoror complained. “They came here and broke open this tomb. I say they got what they deserve.”
Tohl whirled on the man, his fear and anger getting the best of him. “Still your tongue, Vhoror. The mohrg has been released. Whatever these boys were before this night, they are victims now, and they will be cared for as best as Eldath has taught us to do. In my presence and in theirs, you will speak with respect.”
“Of course,” the old priest said.
“We’ve got to get the other priests,” Tohl said, gathering his splintered thoughts, gazing with helpless horror at the dead children. “We must lay these …” Words failed him. “… to rest. We must find—” He found he didn’t want to say the mohrg’s name. “We must find the creature that escaped from here.”
He gave the children a final look, said a quick prayer, and led the way back to the spiral staircase.
They made their way up, and Tohl shuddered every time the metal construction hammered against the stone wall. The sound echoed throughout the tomb. Tohl clambered through the opening. His exertions and fear wore on him, leaving his breath ragged and harsh.
He offered his hand to Micahan. The old priest struggled with the ascent. His hand felt cold and clawlike in Tohl’s grip.
Bowdiek came through next, followed by the other priests until all six of them stood in the room.
Turning, Tohl shone the lantern light on the wall with the door. The light fell over a pile of at least a dozen skulls that had been left in a haphazard stack in the doorway.
“Those weren’t there before,” Effrim said.
Tohl gazed at the skulls, unable to speak, swallowed by a sense of impending dread.
“You fools!” Vhoror exploded. “It was Borran Klosk! He’s not gone; he’s still here!”
Something plopped into a thin pool of water in front of Tohl. The light made the dark liquid stand out against the water. Another drop joined the first, and they looked like squids spreading out their tentacles.
“The ceiling,” Effrim whispered. “Eldath have mercy on us. It’s coming from the ceiling.”
In slow motion, feeling the fear hammering away inside him, Tohl angled the lantern up.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Haarn’s knife sliced through the wolf bitch’s flanks, but he took care to cut through only the outer layer of hide and muscle. Cutting deeper would have released poisons from her body and killed what he strove to save.
“What are you doing?” Druz asked.
“I can save the wolf cubs.” Haarn placed his knife back in its boot sheath. “You killed the mother, but you didn’t kill her cubs.”
Haarn probed at the wound and prayed to Silvanus to guide his efforts. He hoped he had the knowledge to stave off death for Stonefur’s line.
“She would have killed you,” Druz said.
Unwilling to argue, Haarn concentrated on the bloody task at hand. He slipped his fingers into the wolf bitch’s body and felt for the cubs. He let his fingers rest for just an instant against the straining womb and he could feel the squirming bodies inside. He hoped they were strong enough.
Broadfoot padded closer, his shadow covering a pool of water. He stood on his hind legs, tall against the night, and watched the wolves that remained of Stonefur’s pack. Anxious and distrustful, the wolves shifted in the protection of the tree line.
Lightning shivered through the sky again, and for a moment Haarn saw the silver rain flash against the dark tan of his hands streaked with bright crimson blood.
He took a small blade he had sewn into his clothes. It was little more than a knuckle joint long, and he hoped it was up to the task.
Shoving his hand back inside the wolf corpse, Haarn traced the womb with his little finger while holding onto the little blade with his thumb and forefinger. He pressed against the tiny body with his little finger, moving it out of harm’s way as best he could.
With deft precision, Haarn slit the womb. Hot liquid spilled out over his hand, mixing with the blood already there. A moment later it gushed from the wolf bitch’s body. Druz sucked her breath in and took an involuntary step back.
The slit he’d made in the womb remained too tight to allow him to withdraw one of the cubs. Knowing time was running out, that the pups were already suffocating, he pushed his other hand into the wolf bitch’s corpse and tore the womb.
One of the small, furry bodies slid out into Haarn’s waiting hands. He felt it squirm in his grasp, strong and limp as it flexed. Breath tight in his throat, pain pounding his temples, he pulled the pup from its dead mother. He hunkered over to shield the infant from the rain and the bitter cold.
“Get my clothing,” he told Druz. “I’ve got to keep them dry.”
The warrior hesitated for a moment, as though she was going to argue, then she rose and got her own pack.
“I’ve got some blankets in here,” she said, taking one of them out.
Haarn used the tiny knife he held to slit the umbilical cord, then nicked the placenta. He tore the hole in the placenta larger and removed the pup.
“Here,” he said, and Druz took the pup without complaint and wrapped it in the blanket.
Haarn threw the placenta toward the other wolves. The membrane plopped on the ground only a few feet in front of them. One of the females dashed from the shadows, plucked the placenta from the mud with her sharp teeth, and returned to the pack.
“What was that?” D
ruz asked.
“Birth sac,” Haarn said. “The females will eat it, as the birth mother usually does.”
He removed another pup and began tearing the next placenta open.
“How are you going to feed the pups?” Druz asked.
Pain hit him again so hard he thought he was going to black out. He fought his way back to consciousness, then reached for the next pup.
“The pack always cares for the young,” Haarn said as he handed over another pup and reached in for the next. “When one of the females starts carrying a litter, all of the bitches in the pack start producing milk. The pups nurse from all of them, just as all the males share in taking care of the young.”
Druz leaned in closer to Haarn, shielding the pup from the storm winds, then adding it to those already in her blanket. Haarn kept working despite the exhaustion that ate at him.
There were five cubs in all. All of them were healthy except for the last one. Somehow its umbilical cord had gotten wrapped around its neck and almost strangled it.
As he held the young wolf pup, Haarn knew he was going to lose it if he didn’t do something. Summoning his remaining energy, he prayed to Silvanus. The words of the prayer filled him, dulling the pain for a moment. He looked into the newborn wolf’s face, memorizing the blunted length of the pup’s muzzle.
“What’s wrong?” Druz asked.
“It’s dying,” Haarn said, never losing the thread of the spell.
A golden glow filled Haarn’s cupped hands as he shielded the pup. The glow reflected against his chest, showing the blood that streaked his body. His bare skin was pebbled in goosebumps from the cold and aches dawned deep within his bones as the spell took the last of his strength.
The golden glow from the druid’s hands seeped into the small, still form he protected. Just before the glow died away, the wolf pup stirred. A moment later, as the cold ate into Haarn with redoubled fury, the pup opened its mouth and whined with hunger. Haarn turned to Druz, feeling the sickness seething in his own head, and offered her the wolf pup.
Showing care and concern, Druz plucked the pup from Haarn’s hands.
Without another word, knowing he couldn’t have moved even if he’d tried, the druid pitched over. He had a brief impression of cold mud over his face and body then felt nothing at all.
The oval yellow beam of Tohl’s lantern raked the tomb’s ceiling then froze on the bizarre figure of Borran Klosk clinging to the uneven stones there. The claws of his fingers and toes wedged into the space between the stones. A horrific grin split the mohrg’s cadaverous face. Blood covered Borran Klosk’s body and spattered his cloak.
“Welcome,” the mohrg whispered in his thin, cold voice. “Welcome, and prepare to die.”
Effrim lunged forward with his warhammer, singing the praises of Eldath in his strong, clear voice.
Borran Klosk scuttled away and the warhammer missed by inches. The long, grotesque purple tongue uncoiled from his obscene mouth and lanced at the young priest.
Tohl watched in numb horror as the tongue smashed through Effrim’s forehead and out the back of his skull. Chunks of white bone and bloody matter flew over Micahan, who stood as if dazed. Then the old priest slumped to the floor, his eyes locked wide and staring at nothing. Effrim’s corpse dropped only a moment later.
With a jerk of his head, Borran Klosk tore his tongue free of Effrim’s body. Blood smeared his face and ran down his chin as the tongue recoiled. He smiled again, cocking his head.
“The Vilhon Reach will die, dragged to its doom by those who have died already.”
Praying, Tohl raised Eldath’s symbol before him. The disk showed the graven image of a stream. He invoked his spell, one of the earliest he’d been taught to use against the undead. He felt the energy leave his body and saw Borran Klosk wince.
“Foolish priest,” the monster crowed in triumph, “you cannot turn me with your piety and your faith. I am death incarnate, made whole by Malar’s strong hand. I will slake my thirst with your blood.”
Vhoror slammed into Tohl, causing him to stumble and struggle to stay on his feet. Borran Klosk’s tongue missed its mark, slapping against the wall behind Tohl and shattering through stone.
“Move, you damned fool!” Vhoror roared.
He continued shoving against Tohl, striving to reach the doorway.
Knocked forward by Vhoror’s greater girth, Tohl staggered through the skulls, sending them flying in all directions. Tohl caught himself, his mind flying through the spells available to him.
“Move! Move!” Vhoror shouted, continuing to push him.
Tohl turned to the other priest, wanting to tell him that they’d stay alive if only they kept their heads. Before Tohl could speak, Vhoror’s head broke and came apart in crimson ruin, his features leaking down from his shattered skull. Borran Klosk’s tongue emerged from the priest’s head like a caterpillar seeking escape from a too-tight cocoon.
A last, surprised gasp puffed from Vhoror’s lips as life left him. As quickly as it had thrust through the priest’s head, the tongue withdrew, leaving a gaping hole in its place.
Tohl’s stomach lurched as he realized how much of Vhoror’s blood was on him, and how it felt blazing hot against the chill of the wind and rain. Tohl stood his ground and prayed as he’d been taught, holding fast to his faith. He dropped his mace to the stone floor, knowing it would do him little good against the mohrg. Raising the symbol of his goddess before him, he sat the lantern at his feet, and gestured with his free hand.
For a moment, Tohl thought the spell had failed, then the buzzing and chirping of insects filled his ears.
Borran Klosk dropped from the ceiling, intent on the two priests remaining in the room, but the mohrg’s baleful glare took in Tohl as well, letting him know he hadn’t been forgotten. The monstrous tongue cleaved Daraghin’s chest, tearing like a blade through cloth.
Thousands of flying insects filled the tomb. They flew toward Borran Klosk and clustered upon him.
To Tohl, it was like watching moss grow on a rock, only measured in the space of heartbeats. In less time than it took to draw a panicked breath, the insects covered Borran Klosk like a layer of wriggling skin. Other insects formed a cloud around him, but even more continued to pile onto his body.
Borran Klosk screamed, but the sound wasn’t filled with pain as Tohl had hoped. Rage fueled the inarticulate roars. Still, the mohrg seemed trapped as the clusters of insects filled the room.
An arm thrust through the flying cloud, and it took Tohl a moment to realize that it was human.
“Brother Tohl!” Bowdiek called. “Eldath’s mercy, help me!”
Seizing the lantern again, Tohl ran forward and yanked the other priest from the embrace of the flying insects. Tohl felt something crunch beneath his feet. When he looked down, he saw that the stone floor was covered with beetles and other crawling insects.
Bowdiek coughed and wheezed, and Tohl guessed that the man had swallowed some of the insects. Glow-bugs, locusts, and flying beetles littered his hair and body, but when Bowdiek was out of the room where Borran Klosk was, they left him and streaked for the mohrg.
“Come on,” Tohl said. “The spell won’t last for long.”
He tugged Bowdiek’s arm and got them both moving toward the next door. Bowdiek slammed against the wall near the doorway. Thinking for a moment that the priest had misjudged his step, Tohl turned to Bowdiek and grabbed his shoulder, prepared to pull him onto the correct path.
Bowdiek’s face pressed against the tomb wall, blanched white in pain and fright. His mouth worked but no words came out, then a gout of blood covered his lower face.
Lifting the lantern, Tohl saw that Borran Klosk’s obscene tongue had ripped through Bowdiek’s lower back so hard that it had penetrated the tomb’s stone wall. Bowdiek couldn’t move—he was pinned. Pain flared through Bowdiek’s eyes, then they turned up until only the whites showed.
Tohl felt Bowdiek’s corpse shiver as Borran Klosk’s tongue tensed a
nd shifted. Glancing over his shoulder, Tohl spotted the mohrg tearing free of the insect-infested room, pulled by his tongue, which was still anchored to the wall, and to Bowdiek.
Borran Klosk gibbered and raked insects from his eye hollows. Other insects crusted his mouth and the remains of his nose.
“Still here, priest?” Borran Klosk mocked as he drew himself toward Bowdiek’s twitching corpse. “Your friend is still hanging around.”
The mohrg stood only a few feet away. He yanked his head back and his tongue popped free of both the wall and the corpse then snapped back into his blood-drenched jaws.
Bowdiek dropped to the floor.
Tohl turned and ran. He fled through the hallways, listening to the bony slap of Borran Klosk’s skeletal feet against the stone floor.
The doorway to the graveyard appeared ahead. Tohl pushed off the last passageway wall with his free hand, still carrying the bobbing lantern with his other, struggling to keep his bearings even though the wick’s flame flickered. In a dozen more strides, he was through the final door and out into the graveyard.
Eldath’s blessing, but he was old. Tohl knew that, but the wheezing breaths that seared like hot irons through his lungs branded that truth into him. His knees felt like they were coming apart, but he kept them moving. Before he could stop himself, he glanced over his shoulder.
The mohrg ran with surprising speed, and the cloud of insects pursued him, though they were beginning to thin. The spell should have lasted longer, but it was fading. Tohl wondered if the magical nature of the mohrg had altered the spell in some way.
Tohl wished he was in another dream, but just as he had known he was dreaming before, he knew he wasn’t now.
He tripped. Something caught his foot and he went sprawling. The wet ground coated him and he smacked up against a leaning headstone whose letters had long since worn away.
The splat of bony feet cleaving the graveyard mud drew Tohl’s attention, sounding almost as fast and as loud as his heart hammering in his chest. He clawed his way to his knees and looked back the way he’d come.