“We can applaud your cleverness later,” said Arthuras, pointing at the hideous black shape of Moragannon. “If we do not stop Marsile at once, he will unleash some evil. And even if we do stop him, he might kill the children.”
“The children?” said Lionel. “Of course. Let’s go.”
In truth, Raelum had forgotten about the children.
They didn’t matter. If Marsile killed them, it was only more blood on his wretched fingers, one more crime that Raelum would avenge.
Chapter 17 - Those Who Wait
No sunlight reached into Moragannon’s black depths. Brackets for torches stood on the dark walls, and delicate lamps hung from the ceiling, but neither had been lit for centuries.
Yet Marsile had no trouble seeing.
Ghostly green light flickered within the dark walls. Marsile caught glimpses of wraiths flowing through the stone, their faces twisted in agony, mouths forever open in silent screams.
He shuddered and looked away.
“This way, master,” said Tored, gesturing. Green fire glimmered about his claws, matching the radiance from the dark walls. “This way.”
“How do you know this?” said Marsile. “Have you been in here before?”
Tored said nothing.
“Answer me,” said Marsile. “I command you to answer me!”
“This way, master,” said the reaper-ghoul, gesturing. “You must come.”
Marsile gritted his teeth, fighting his growing fear, and followed Tored into the dark tower. The very stones of the floor and wall writhed with the power. Strange veins of shadow pulsed in the stone walls, conducting some sort of hideous ichor into Moragannon’s black heart.
The groaning, the whispers that echoed in Marsile’s mind, grew ever louder.
Tored led him through a great gallery, the high, vaulted ceiling supported by slender pillars. In niches rested statues of the Hierarchs of the Old Empire, of grinning demons, of bestial, misshapen creatures more horrible than anything Marsile had ever seen. They walked past pools of clear water, pools that reeked of foulness beyond description. Marsile soon grew numb, his senses overwhelmed, his mind able to do little more than put one foot before the other. The corridors went on forever, through chamber after chamber of twisted ugliness. Green fire glimmered in the walls, and the shadow-veins pulsed and creaked.
Then Tored stopped. The ghouls halted behind him, the comatose children swinging from their leather straps.
Marsile blinked, coming out of his daze. Tored had taken him to a great vaulted chamber, similar to many others he had seen. Yet in the far wall stood a massive pair of black iron doors. The bas-reliefs in the stone walls showed images of the Hierarchs of the Old Empire, the inscriptions written in High Imperial.
The iron doors showed scenes from the conquests of Baligant himself.
Despite his fear, Marsile felt a surge of exultation. He had found the Tomb of Baligant. Marsile’s hands shook as he reached into his satchel, feeling the Books of Summoned Dead and Stolen Blood. Let the Ashborn perish! It mattered not. No mattered who triumphed, Marsile would wrench the secret of life eternal from Baligant’s high demon.
“Here,” said Tored. The reaper-ghoul’s voice had changed yet again, become still deeper and more confident. “Here I was commanded to bring you, Marsile of Araspan, and here we have come, have we not?”
Marsile stared at the reaper-ghoul, and Tored laughed at him.
“Who?” said Marsile, managing to find his voice, “who commanded you to bring me here?”
Something moved in the shadows.
###
“Now where?” said Carandis.
A pale stream of sunlight leaked through the gates and vanished into the darkness of Moragannon. Yet greenish light glimmered from the black stone of the walls and floor, sometimes resolving into the images of tormented men and women. Statues leered down from the balconies and niches in the walls, faces twisted and bestial. Corridors branched off in all directions, stairs rising into the heights of the tower.
“I know not,” said Arthuras, sword held in guard. “I have never set foot in this place.”
“I know,” said Raelum, stepping forward. His sword blazed in his fist like a torch. “I can feel it.”
“Feel what?” said Carandis.
“It’s…like a seed,” said Raelum. “Or a heart.”
His demonborn senses felt something dark pulsing within the depths of Moragannon, a writhing concentration of dark power. It washed over his senses like an ocean of filth, beat against his face like a sun of darkness.
“Where Baligant lies,” said Raelum. “I am sure of it. This way.”
###
Three black skeletons glided from the shadows.
Marsile stepped back, raising his hand, but the skeletons kept coming. Their bones looked like obsidian, or polished marble, shimmering in the pale light. Marsile had never seen such demons before, but he had read of such creatures. They were human souls fused with greater demons, becoming creatures of terrible madness.
And equally terrible power.
“Stop,” said Marsile. “Name yourselves. Speak!”
The skeletons stopped, and misty light coalesced around them, condensing into faint, flickering images over their bones, as if ghostly flesh sheathed the skeletons. Over one skeleton appeared the image of a grim-faced warrior with a massive bushy beard. Over the second appeared the shape of a lean, hawk-nosed man with a dagger and a coiled whip at his belt.
The third skeleton stepped forward. The green light focused into the image of a beautiful, smirking woman, clad in wispy garments that would have made a whore blush.
“We,” said the ghostly woman, mouth moving over the skeleton’s grin, “have been waiting for you.”
Marsile gathered his will and cast his domination spell, flinging it over the demons.
A backlash of pain lanced through his skull, and Marsile stepped back with a wince.
The woman laughed. “We serve a greater master than you,” purred the woman, her voice like warm velvet. “But fear not. We will not harm you.” She laughed again. “Why would we? We have been waiting a very long time for you.”
Tored slid past Marsile and bowed at the woman’s feet. “I have brought him, great mistress, brought him as you commanded.”
“So you have,” said the woman, lowering her hand. Tored kissed it, his rough tongue rasping against the black bones. “You have done well.”
“You sent him?” said Marsile. “Who are you?”
“Who are we?” said the woman, smirking.
“We are those who wait,” said the warrior. “I was the Hierarch Baligant’s marshal. I led his armies into battle. I slaughtered thousands at his command, and raised pyramids of their heads.”
“I was his spymaster, his assassin,” said the hawk-nosed man. “I slit the throats of his enemies, and laid their heads at his feet.”
“And I was his concubine,” whispered the woman, her eyes filled with gleeful madness. “I murdered my husband to lie in his arms. I was at his side as he brought fire and death to the kingdoms of the unworthy, as he ripped open the way to the astral world so we might become as gods.” Her face twisted into a mask of hideous rage. “And we bore his body here after he fell, after the wretched Seeress betrayed and murdered him as he reached out his hand to claim victory.”
“But he shall return!” rasped the assassin. “The Hierarch Baligant shall return, and raise a new Empire that stretches from the east to the west.”
“This has naught to do with me,” said Marsile. “I have no quarrel with you. Let me pass.”
“It has everything to do with you,” said the woman, stroking Tored’s head. “We brought Lord Baligant here, and we bound ourselves to him.”
“And here we have waited,” said the warrior. He had a necklace of human ears. “Waited while the endless years ground ever on.”
“For what?” said Marsile. “Waiting for what? Baligant is dead, defeated. He will not return!”
<
br /> “Why, for you,” said the woman.
“For you,” said the assassin.
“For you,” said the warrior.
“You’re mad,” said Marsile, “witless ghosts reliving meaningless defeats.”
The woman’s laughter mocked him. “We knew one like you would come, one day.” She pointed at his satchel, ghostly finger superimposed over black bones. “Was it not written in the books? We commanded our servants to watch for you.”
“And I watched,” said Tored, snarling at Marsile, “for long years.”
“It is your destiny, your purpose,” said the woman, “to come here. The dark currents of the astral world have marked your life and brought you to us.”
“And what is this vaunted destiny,” said Marsile, “this purpose?”
Her laughter sliced into his mind. “Come, then, and find out, mighty Adept. Why do you fear?” Her ghostly lips twisted in contempt. “Surely your spells can defend you from any peril.”
“Try to harm me,” said Marsile, forcing the words through his dry throat, “and see for yourself. ”
“But did I not say you have naught to fear from us?” said the woman. She pointed at the iron doors. “Go. Do what you have come to do.”
The floor trembled, and the iron doors swung outward.
“And when you have come out, I shall bow before you,” said the warrior.
“We shall be restored, and I shall kneel to you,” said the assassin.
“And I shall prostrate myself before you,” said the woman, “and lick your boots.”
The iron doors ground open with a massive clang. Beyond Marsile glimpsed a great domed chamber and a squat shape like a massive sarcophagus…
A wave of blinding terror struck Marsile like a crossbow bolt. He staggered back, hands raised as if to ward off a blow. A horrible sense of wrongness chewed at his brain. How could Baligant’s servitors have known he was coming? How could they have expected him? Something was hideously wrong.
Their contemptuous laughter lashed him like whips. His heart fluttered like a trapped bird.
“The great Adept afraid?” sneered the warrior. “Bah! In my legions you would not have been fit to dig privy trenches.”
“I saw the Lord Baligant’s enemies go to their deaths with greater courage than you,” said the assassin, “and we offer you life unending.”
“Then run,” said the woman, leering. “Flee like the coward that you are. Endure the few months of life that remain in your mortal shell. And when your flesh fails, when your soul goes screaming into the darkness, you will curse your folly forever.”
“No,” grated Marsile, straightening. “No.”
He would not turn back now. He had endured too much. And the wraith-woman was right. His life-draining spells no longer had the power to prolong his life. How much time did he have left? A year? A few months?
A few days?
“Get out of my way,” said Marsile.
The wraith-skeletons stepped to the side, leaving a clear path to the iron doors.
“Go, my lord,” whispered the woman, “and we shall bow before you.”
“Do whatever you wish,” spat Marsile, “but hinder me not.”
He turned to beckon the ghouls forward just as Raelum and his companions burst into the chamber, their swords blazing.
###
Raelum stepped into the vault, Sir Oliver’s sword ablaze in his fist.
Marsile looked awful, his face gray and lined, eyes glittering. Around him stood four ghouls bearing the nine unconscious children. Nearby squatted a reaper-ghoul, glaring at them with burning eyes. Behind the reaper-ghoul stood three skeletons of blackened bone, wreathed in ghostly images in lieu of flesh.
Marsile stared at Raelum, a muscle trembling in his face.
“This is over, Marsile,” said Arthuras. “No more running. Stand and fight.”
“Just go,” said Marsile. “ No more. Leave.” He clutched the satchel hanging from his shoulder. Inside Raelum glimpsed the book he had seen in the vault of St. Tarill’s. “I’ll kill you all, if you attack. Leave and I will let you live.” In his other hand he held the black spear. “Go!”
“I will never stop following you,” said Raelum, “not while you live, and not while I live. Not until you have paid for what you did to Sir Oliver.”
The muscles in Marsile’s jaw worked. He leaned on the black spear like a staff.
“Fools!”
The shriek came from one of the demons, the ghostly image of a woman over a black skeleton. She stepped forward, a translucent sword shimmering in her hand. Behind her the two other black skeletons stepped forward, bearing ghostly weapons.
“You dare to enter the tomb of Hierarch Baligant?” said the woman, her voice like a snake’s hiss. “Then perish! Perish, all of you!”
She threw back her head and screamed.
The shriek sliced into Raelum’s ears like a knife. He gasped in pain and stumbled back, hands twitching towards his ears. The other two skeletons stepped forward, ghostly weapons raised. Out of the corner of his eye, Raelum saw Arthuras go to one knee, shuddering, and heard him begin to sing a spell.
The scream cut off, and the woman turned a furious glare on Arthuras.
“You’ll forgive me, I hope,” said Arthuras, raising his sword in salute, “but I have seen your like before, slaves bound to the Hierarchs of the Old Empire. You were Baligant’s whore, I assume?”
“Kill them!” screamed the woman. The black skeletons and the reaper-ghoul leapt forward. The woman pointed at Marsile. “You! Through the doors! Do what you have come to do, and do it quickly!”
Across the great hall, the massive iron doors began to shudder closed. Marsile hesitated, shouted a command to his ghouls, and ran, the ghouls following him.
“No!” roared Raelum, drawing on the Light. The reaper-ghoul clawed at him. Raelum caught the claws on his shield and stabbed the reaper-ghoul in the chest. The creature howled and tried to rush him, but Raelum sidestepped and bashed the reaper-ghoul across the back with his shield. The creature toppled to the floor.
Marsile and his ghouls had covered half the distance to the closing iron doors.
“No!” repeated Raelum, breaking into a sprint. As the three black skeletons closed with Arthuras, Lionel, and Carandis, Raelum dashed for Marsile’s ghouls. Without the unconscious children, Raelum guessed, Marsile could not complete his spell.
He reached the first ghoul and chopped it in half, taking careful aim so that his blade missed the children. Bones and rotted flesh struck the ground. Raelum leapt forward and decapitated the second ghoul.
“Stop!” said Marsile, whirling. He raised his hand, andRaelum drew on the Light for protection. A shaft of blue fire struck Raelum across the chest. The Light’s protection took the worst of the blow, but Raelum went to one knee, gasping in pain.
Yet he leapt back to his feet, took down a third ghoul, and found himself face to face with Marsile at last. He roared and brought his blade hammering down before Marsile could work another spell.
His sword struck Marsile’s chest and bounced away in a spray of sparks and green flame. The black spear must be one of the enspelled lances Raelum had seen the demon knights carrying. Raelum kept attacking, hammering again and again, sparks flying. Marsile backed away in desperation. The black spear flashed and splintered in Marsile’s hand, its store of stolen life energy drained away. Marsile yelled and flung the shards at Raelum. The blade and broken shaft bounced off Raelum’s shield, and Marsile raised his hands and began a spell. Raelum resumed his attack just as Marsile cast his spell. A blast of invisible force slammed into Raelum, knocking him to the floor.
Marsile, dashing towards the closing iron doors.
Raelum growled and drew on the Light, his legs pumping as he raced after his enemy. Marsile slipped through the iron doors. Raelum flung himself forward, sliding through the gap an instant before the iron doors slammed shut.
The door slapped his shoulder, and Raelum fell h
ard to the floor.
###
Lionel battered the ghostly warrior, ignoring the numbness in his shield arm. His shield had proven incapable of stopping the skeleton’s ethereal blade. His sword, fashioned with an aurelium core and imbued with the Light, had no such difficulty. A short distance away, Carandis grappled with the hook-nosed demon, astralfire shining around her hands. Arthuras battled the woman herself, slender swords in both her hands.
The woman glided back and raised her swords. “Stop!”
The other two demons fell back to her side.
Lionel watched them, his sword still raised. “Where’s Raelum?”
“He slipped through the door before it closed,” said Arthuras.
“He is beyond our reach now,” said the woman. “Why should we fight? Either your devil-eyed friend shall conquer, or our lord shall triumph.” She laughed. “Why risk perishing, when our fate no longer lies in our hands?”
“Your lord?” said Arthuras. “Your lord has been dead fifteen centuries. He cannot triumph, only molder.”
The woman’s laughter mocked them. “You shall see.”
“What do we do now?” said Lionel. He didn’t know if they could defeat the black skeletons or not. The power of Moragannon seemed to permeate them.
“We wait, then,” said Arthuras, grounding the point of his sword. “Raelum is on his own. We cannot help him now.”
Chapter 18 - Baligant
Marsile stumbled to a halt, gasping for breath.
The domed chamber was almost empty, the black marble floors and walls smooth and unmarked. The same hideous green light shimmered in the walls as in the other chambers of Moragannon. In the exact center of the chamber lay a massive sarcophagus of black iron. The lid had been sculpted in an effigy, showing a haughty, proud-faced man in robes, the hilt of a greatsword clenched in armored hands. Scenes on the sides of the sarcophagus showed the triumphs of the Old Empire, the Hierarchs crushing their foes beneath their boots.
Whatever remained of Baligant, Hierarch of the Old Empire, lay in that metal box.
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