Cor kept his wits about him as he slowly went down. He could see nothing except dust and cobwebs, but the feeling that something hovered just beyond the light of his torch would not abate. He counted twenty one steps, and then the staircase turned around at a small landing. After another twenty two steps, the staircase opened into a large room. Cor estimated that he was at least thirty feet below Sanctum’s ground floor.
An extreme sense of déjà vu struck Cor; he couldn’t help but notice similarities between this room and the dream he had had more than once. At the same time, there were many differences. The ceiling was only a few feet above his head, and the catacomb had a horribly musty smell. There were crypts everywhere, but they were made of white limestone, not the same indigenous rock as the room itself. Instead of iron stands, Cor saw sconces on the crypts themselves, some containing unlit torches. The crypts were not organized in neat rows, but were clumped somewhat haphazardly, and nearly all of them were marked with names and a glyph signifying them as Dahken. He also found five marked as Lord Dahken; these contained the remains of various leaders of Sanctum throughout the centuries, and it was one of these he stood before for several minutes. It was marked Lord Dahken Rena. Something begged him to open the door to this crypt, but he eventually pulled himself away to continue his search.
Cor found nothing to fear, though he still could not shake the feeling that a constant presence followed his movement. At one end of the catacombs, he found a small dark hole, just barely large enough for a man. He looked in, finding a tiny cave that wormed deep into the natural rock, and listening carefully, Cor could hear the sound of waves and wondered if this was the same cave he’d seen at the bottom of the promontory during low tide. Cor continued his survey of the catacombs and found two other staircases into the catacombs, one a spiral stair that had almost completely collapsed. The other was a stone stair, not unlike the one he came down.
Cor made his way back to the stair he came down, stopping at an unmarked tomb. He stood before it briefly before igniting the unlit torch in its sconce. He gently pushed on the door, and it opened easily. The crypt was completely empty as he expected, with a large stone slab against the wall opposite the door. Having found Rael’s resting place, Cor returned to the ground level.
Cor gathered Rael’s belongings at the top of the stairs; the man had little, only his armor, sword and journal. Cor took the items down to the crypt he had selected and placed the sword in the northeast corner as prescribed, and the armor, which took two trips, he laid neatly in the northwest corner. Cor hesitated before placing the journal at one end of the stone slab. He’d seen journals of other Dahken in the study, but he was certain they were copies. The original belonged with the man who penned it. He left the crypt, headed back upstairs, and used his torch to light several torches in sconces on the way.
Cor returned to the wagon, which still held Rael’s body. He gently pulled the man to the end of the wagon until Rael’s head fell of the edge and hung downwards unnaturally. Cor looped his arms under the man’s shoulders and pulled backward. Rael was not a large man; in fact, Cor was actually slightly taller, but the sudden weight of Rael’s limp body falling to the ground overpowered him. Cor fell backwards onto the ground, Rael’s body lying in a heap in front of him. Cor didn’t know why, but he was certain he owed this to Rael.
He steeled himself, certain that if he could just get underneath the man, he could carry Rael’s body on his shoulders. Cor sat Rael up against a wagon wheel and crouched down sideways next to him, and leaning sideways, he gripped the front of Rael’s tunic with his left hand held over his shoulders. He pulled upwards with his left arm, while straightening from the lean. This let Cor slide his right arm up underneath the man’s body, gripping the bottom edge of Rael’s tunic on the back. Setting his teeth, Cor heaved the man up onto his shoulders loosing a great yell while forcing his legs to straighten. He stood still for several moments, feeling the muscles of his thighs burn, and he waited until the sensation dissipated. Cor adjusted the body slightly to make the load more even. His head was pitched forward at an awkward angle, and he was keenly aware that Rael’s face rested slightly on his left shoulder facing him. Slowly, Cor began the walk into the keep.
Once he began moving steadily, Cor found the weight relatively easy to bear. He had a task to complete; Rael was owed the burial of a Dahken. Cor thought about this as he walked, wondering if he was now a true Dahken beyond definition of his blood. For that matter, was he the only one left? He regained focus on his task once he reached the stairs. He had lit several torches on his way up, but the climb down would still be treacherous. The stairs were less than safe when one wasn’t carrying a body. Cor briefly considered dragging Rael down the steps, but quickly convinced himself that would be unwise. If he dragged Rael by the shoulders, no doubt the weight would cause him to lose balance and tumble down the stairs, and dragging the man by his ankles to slowly bash the back of his head in on each stone stair simply would not do. Cor carried Rael this far; he simply must continue.
Cor took the first step gingerly, stepping down with his left foot, followed by his right. He felt the weight on his shoulders keenly as he took the second step in the same manner. He took each step down the first twenty one steps to the landing one at a time as if each one were a challenge in itself, before turning and starting down the second set. By the time he was halfway down these, Cor had become relatively comfortable with the rhythm of his task, and though his muscles began to complain from the effort, he made it to the catacombs without incident.
Cor carried the body to the crypt he had selected, now containing Rael’s few personal items. He reached the door, realizing with a sigh of relief that he had left the door open, for the closer he got to the final destination, the more tired his muscles became. He entered the crypt, lit inside by a single flickering torch and turned backwards laying Rael’s corpse onto the large slab as gently as he could. Cor turned around and arrayed the man in repose legs and arms straight, his hands at his sides.
Cor understood that typically one of his fellow Dahken would speak, summarizing Rael’s accomplishments, but unfortunately, Cor realized he knew very little about the man, except that he had found, protected and taught Cor of his own strength. Cor hoped that Rael’s journal set at the foot of his resting place would serve to fulfill such requirements. There was but one other action to take before closing the crypt, and as the most powerful Dahken present, Cor drew a small knife and lightly pierced the tip of his left index finger. A small amount of blood quickly welled up from the tiny cut, and Cor pressed it to Rael’s forehead, thus anointing him. Cor wiped the knife’s point on the leg of his breeches and sheathed it. He turned and left the crypt, closing the door behind him.
15.
After the ordeal, Cor needed sleep. Every part of his body began to ache, and he felt slowed as if he walked through sand. He stopped in the larder briefly to consume an apple and what was left of a stinky cheese. Cor barely remembered lying down, and he did not remember anything before falling asleep. Cor awoke with no idea how long he slept, and looking outside, he found it was yet still dark, at least three hours from sunrise. He had the unshakable feeling that he needed to do something right now, and the anxiety increased as he neared the stairs to the catacombs. Cor remembered the crypt he felt drawn to before, the crypt of a Lord Dahken named Rena, and he turned for the study, though he felt urged to go into the catacombs.
He reached the study in darkness; Cor rarely needed much light to simply move around these rooms in Sanctum. Once there, he lit a candle, then in turn lit five more on a candelabrum. Cor spent some time searching the shelves before finding a thin tome that looked promising, and opening it, he found an accounting of every Lord Dahken of Sanctum going back to Tannes himself. The tome was clearly modern, and Cor was certain it was written in Rael’s hand. In fact, the name of the last entry was Rael’s, starting at seven twenty eight A.C. Cor took the book to the study’s table and sat down. There was always a
quill pen and inkwell at the table, and Cor entered the current year, seven thirty eight A.C., to mark the end of Rael’s service.
He continued to search the pages of the ledger, finally finding Rena. She was Lord Dahken for nearly two hundred years before The Cleansing, and there was very little information about her. Idly, Cor wondered what the Dahken did with themselves for nearly two thousand years. Rena was known as a great warrior; her ability to channel the power in her blood to increase her strength was apparently unmatched in her time. Cor reached a section that gave him a tingling sensation in his right arm and flooded his entire body with warmth. Rena fought with a single edged longsword that she had found in an ancient tomb, but there was no explicit description of the weapon. Regardless, Cor knew he would know the sword the moment he saw it, and he also knew exactly where to find it.
Cor placed the book back on the shelf where he found it, and candelabrum in hand, made his way back to his room. There he strapped on his armor; he wasn’t sure that he would need it, but after the incident on the road, he vowed never to be caught without it again. It consisted of a chain shirt he simply pulled over his head, a steel breastplate that strapped over the shirt and a set of arm and legguards.
Cor walked to the stairs leading down into the catacombs. He had forgotten to extinguish the torches before lying down to sleep, but they had burned themselves out anyway. When he reached the catacombs, the air felt noticeably different from a few hours ago. It was thick and heavy, almost humid, and Cor had to force the breath in and out of his lungs. It almost felt as if the air itself impeded his movement.
His destination was Rena’s crypt, of course, but he realized he had forgotten one thing when he interred Rael. He stopped at the crypt and examined the door closely; it was like the others, a heavy oak door banded with iron. Cor drew his knife and quite carefully scarred the door deeply, carving two Rumedian glyphs into the wood, one for Lord Dahken and the other for Rael. He appraised his handiwork, and finding it sufficient sheathed the knife and continued on.
Cor had no trouble finding Rena’s tomb again; it seemed he was inexorably drawn to it. Barely breathing, he stood outside the small limestone crypt staring at the marked door. He knew he would enter, but something about the entire matter felt ghoulish to Cor. He supposed it was his leftover sentiments towards the morality of Garod, reminding himself that he was about to do would not be viewed negatively by any Dahken in history. Cor set his candelabrum gently on the floor and pressed against the door; déjà vu again swept him as he pushed with increasing force. It likely hadn’t moved in nearly a thousand years, and it stubbornly resisted his strength. The door finally budged and, with a screech of rusted iron hinges, swung slightly inward. Cor retrieved his candelabrum and slowly entered the crypt.
Lord Dahken Rena’s tomb was no different from Rael’s other than its contents. A great number of artifacts, trophies from adventures no doubt, littered the floor of the crypt, and many were in varying stages of decay due to their age. The northwest corner contained several pieces of armor, made of a mix of leather, scale mail and plate, though what protection it would have afford the wearer he wasn’t certain. It seemed to Cor that the armor would leave vast portions of the body uncovered. Time seemed to stand still, Cor’s heart in his throat when he saw a sheathed sword leaning in the crypt’s northeast corner, covered in centuries of cobwebs and dust.
Cor wiped the detritus away with his free hand, examining the sword closer, and as he did so, the air grew heavier, an oppressive feeling building in the crypt. Sweat rolled off his brow onto his face and dripped off the end of his nose. The scabbard itself was made of rigid leather; gold accents inlaid with small gemstones adorned the tip and the mouth of the sheath. The sword’s guard, hilt and pommel were all wrought of a gleaming metal, which Cor was certain not to be steel. The guard itself was relatively plain; unadorned, it was a straight crosspiece about six inches wide that turned up slightly at either end. The top half of the hilt was leather wrapped, leaving the bottom half naked to flow into the pommel, which was some sort of stylized skull, shaped as nothing Cor had ever seen. He longed to feel the weapon in his hand, inspect its blade, but somehow he knew he couldn’t just yet.
Cor turned to the limestone slab that lay against the rear wall of the crypt. On it lay a near naked skeleton; tatters of clothing remained, but most of it had decayed over time with the corpse itself. The skeleton was smaller than him, perhaps only five feet in length, and Cor was certain that in life Rena had been a fairly small woman. He sank to both knees before the remains of the Lord Dahken.
“Lord Rena, your sword has called me for years, since I first came to Sanctum as a child,” Cor said. He wasn’t even certain why he spoke to this skeleton; it just simply seemed the right thing to do. “I am young, but I’ve already spilled the blood of men. Your sword yearns for someone to wield it; I feel it in my blood. I swear to you I will do you no dishonor.”
Cor bowed his head reverently to the remains for a long moment, and as he did so, he felt the oppressive weight of the air begin to dissipate as if pushed away by a light breeze. He stood and picked up the sword and his candelabrum, and turning from the crypt, he pulled the door shut behind him. Cor ventured back up the stairs, the sword cradled lovingly across his left arm to find the sky beginning to lighten with the first rays of dawn.
Cor could barely contain his excitement, but he wanted to see the sword in the morning light, and his stomach growled. He dug through the larder, finding little to eat except for some remaining fruit and vegetables. Rael apparently stocked the larder with extreme efficiency, purchasing exactly what he needed for a set amount of time. He laid the sword on the table while chewing through the last few edible apples, staring at it with wonder, and the longer he looked at the weapon, the more anxious he became to use it. Finished with his small meal, Cor stood up and took the weapon outside, still cradling it in his arms as if it were a babe. The sun had broken the horizon, and yellow and orange light filtered in through the open gate and damaged parts of the walls. It was cool this morning, and everything seemed to be coated in a layer of fine, cold dew. He breathed deeply of the spring morning air, smelling the ocean on the wind.
Cor quite carefully and deliberately fed his belt through the sword’s scabbard and then buckled it on. He took his pestle fetish in his left hand as normal and stood in solemn consideration of the sword’s hilt. He could feel something in the back of his mind, as if something were singing to him, urging him to draw the weapon. He only placed his right hand on the sword’s hilt and immediately jerked it back, stricken with the sensation of pins and needles clear up to his elbow. The feeling faded and left him feeling oddly alone in the courtyard. Cor gripped the sword again, and the sensation returned, though not nearly as strong as before. He held his hand there for a few moments, not releasing the weapon, and the feeling again faded.
Cor drew the sword in a quick, high arc meant to decapitate a foe. It was amazingly light, seeming to weigh no more than the fetish in his left hand and cut through the air with lightening speed. The blade had a single, razor sharp edge that was completely free of rust, and the other side of the blade was dull and strong, designed for parrying. A channel ran up the center on both sides of the blade. The weapon was absolutely gorgeous, completely free of notches or scratches, and the blade gleamed with an odd purple shine in the morning light unlike any steel Cor had ever seen.
He practiced for some time with the sword, finding that he could maneuver it with far more agility than his old weapon. This weapon felt more like an extension of his arm rather than a separate entity, and it moved precisely as he willed it with grace and strength. Cor noticed the sword’s hilt warmed in his hand as he used it, but not from a sense of exertion. The sensation was both comfortable and assuring, and as he sheathed the weapon to return inside, one word came to unbidden to his mind - Soulmourn.
* * *
Cor began arranging things he would need for travel. There was very little food left othe
r than preserved jerky. He could certainly eat it if that’s all he had, but he quickly realized that he knew nothing of living off the land while traveling. He would need to purchase provisions, and his only source for that would be Cade. Of course, that was a hope and could be a completely different problem; if Cade chose not to help him, he would likely have to seek provisions in Hager. Cor gathered two large water skins and fashioned himself a bedroll. There was little else he could do to prepare, so it was time to find what he could only term the Dahken treasury.
Taking several large sacks, Cor walked around the outside of the keep, nearing the front entrance. Two huge wood doors, each about twelve feet tall, stood closed with a bar across them. The bar was little more than a wood plank, but clearly had been added recently, likely to keep the wind from opening the doors. This he hefted off its brackets and dropped to the side, and the doors opened rather easily.
The immensity of the hall surprised Cor; it was over fifty feet wide and larger than that in depth. Light filtered down from unclosed windows high above, perhaps three times Cor’s height from the floor, and as he entered, he found the final resting place of many warriors. Centuries old skeletons, most of them fully armored with weapons lying nearby littered this room, and many of them were contorted in unnatural positions of agony, while others seemed to lay in peaceful resolve. Cor disturbed none of these, determined to let them rest as they were, though his passage did aggravate several birds that fluttered about, chattering angrily before lighting elsewhere or simply flying away.
At the rear of the hall was a great rectangular table, nearly as wide as the room itself with no less than fifty chairs around it. At the center of the far side sat a chair that was larger than the others and carved from a dark wood, perhaps mahogany. The back was nearly seven feet tall, and it had large arms carved into the shape of downward turned claws whereas the other chairs had none. It also bore the remnants of an upholstered cushion, long eaten away by time, rodents and moths.
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