CHAPTER ELEVEN

Awakening

 

 

They descended, single file, into the belly of the cold earth. The noise of the assault hammering the ground above their heads grew steadily fainter until they had only silence for company. For all that it was quiet, Stefan sensed none of the peace of final rest in these chill Halls of the Dead.

“It makes my flesh crawl,” Elena commented. “Like something cold running the length of my spine.”

“It is an ill-favoured place,” Andreas agreed, sombrely. “Many troubled souls are here laid to earth. Their mortal lives have ended, but I doubt that their spirits have found repose.”

Bruno exhaled and watched his breath extend like slow coiling smoke in front of him. “Seems calm enough,” he said, not entirely convincingly. “And safe enough for you to have visited these tombs before, evidently.”

Andreas laughed. “As few times as possible,” he said. “I must bless this joyless place as I bless all the Houses of Morr. Do not think that I outstay my welcome, though.”

Stefan found himself shivering. It must be colder than he had realised. “How much further?” he asked.

“Just here,” the priest said. “The roof drops steeply and then we enter the great hall.”

Stefan followed the priest, stooping below the low ceiling. Further ahead the space around them opened out, and he was able to stand upright in a wide, open chamber. The place they were standing in, he now saw, was in fact a hub off which other corridors radiated like spokes from a wheel. Although there seemed to be no source of ventilation, Stefan could feel a faint breeze rippling around his face. The same musty, slightly sweet, smell wafted upon the air.

“This is where the dead are entombed,” Andreas explained. “Each of the six passages leads to a chamber containing their remains.”

“But the chambers are sealed?” Elena asked, anxiously.

“Oh yes,” the priest assured her. “Sealed with stone and mortar. There are rooms here that even I do not enter.”

“And this space?” Stefan asked.

“This is the great hall of the dead itself,” the priest replied.

Stefan gazed around, taking in his surroundings. The great hall was a circular chamber thirty or forty feet in diameter, with a domed ceiling rising to about twice the height of a man. Runes paying homage to the god of death were carved upon the walls, giving the place the look of a simple chapel. Set in the very centre of the chamber was a low platform or table hewn from the same grey stone. Placed at intervals across its surface were six unlit candles.

“This is the place where their spirits come to give worship to the great god Morr.” He smiled, gently, at the group around him. “Of course, that’s just a story.”

“Well,” said Elena at last. “At least we’ll be safe enough from those monsters up above.”

Stefan took the priest to one side. “What of the monsters below?” he asked, quietly. “The monster who may be among us even as we speak?”

Andreas looked around, and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Stefan,” he said. “Dark spirits abound everywhere in this place. It would be like looking for a single shadow amidst a forest.”

“Very well,” Stefan replied. He turned back to face the others. “We must set a watch, if we’re to be here the night. Who will be first?”

Tomas stepped forward without hesitation. “Let it be me,” he said, firmly.

Stefan looked at him, doubtfully. “What’s the matter?” Tomas demanded. “Still don’t trust me?”

Stefan thought about it. It was Tomas alone who had been examined by the priest and found to be true of soul. Ironically, he could be trusted above any of them.

“All right,” he said at last. “You’ll keep watch the first hour. Then wake me, and I’ll take over.” Tomas nodded briskly, clearly pleased that his value had been recognised at last. “Don’t worry, Stefan,” he said. “I won’t—”

“I know,” Stefan said, anticipating him. “You won’t let me down.”

 

The words stayed uppermost in Tomas Murer’s mind over the next half hour of his vigil. He wasn’t going to forget that this mission, and this watch, was a last chance. A last chance given him after a lifetime of wasted chances and lost opportunities. He would not throw it away now. He had no idea how much Stefan and the others really trusted him. Not much, in all probability. Zucharov, he knew, would as soon run him through with his sword. But Zucharov wasn’t here to threaten and bully him. Now he could be judged by his deeds.

Above all, he had to keep himself from falling asleep. His whole body seemed to cry out from lack of rest, and from the cuts and bruises he had sustained above ground. Too many hard years had taken a heavy toll on Tomas Murer, he knew that. His body no longer forgave him so easily. Soon, he would rest, but not yet, not yet.

He at least had an ally in that respect. It was bitingly cold in the chamber, so cold that his hands and feet soon began to throb with an incessant, numb ache. Tomas stood up and stamped his feet a few times. When this had no effect he took a few steps around the chamber, cautiously at first. He felt the blood start to pump around his body again, and took a few steps more, circling the huddle of sleepers on the floor of the chamber. He found he had no fear of the tombs of Morr, nor of the priest’s tales of the undead army of Baldrac. There had been too many times when death would have been a welcome release for him to be afraid of it now.

In fact, there was little inside the tomb to occupy him at all. It was cold, quiet, and almost totally dark once he had stepped from under the weak pool of light cast by the lantern. Almost, but not quite. Tomas stopped in his tracks, his eye suddenly caught by something glinting upon the floor of the chamber.

Tomas rubbed his eyes and bent down low. He knew what he appeared to be seeing, but couldn’t quite believe it. It was a bottle, or rather a flask made of a polished, silvery metal. He took a few steps closer. The apparition failed to vanish.

Tomas Murer stood over the flask, then, after a moment’s hesitation, bent down and picked it up. The familiar scent of Bretonnian gin filled his nostrils as he lifted the flask to his face. Tomas cradled the flask, turning it in his hands. Then he pinched his fingers around the cork stopper and gently pulled it free. There could be no harm in that. The perfume seeping from the flask blossomed out, filling the chamber. Tomas now forgot all sense of cold, or his own weariness. All he had in his mind was the warming, sweet smell of the liquid gently swilling inside the flask. It was like turning a corner, and suddenly chancing upon an old friend.

Tomas had not greeted this particular friend for many months, not since that day that Stefan had woken him in his lodgings. He had struggled since then to live without this, his particular daemon. And hadn’t he succeeded in that, over the weeks of hardship that he had endured? But now, here in the freezing silence of the tombs, he suddenly felt in need of his friend once more. He had endured much: too much, most men would say. To have suffered the perils of the Drakwald was one thing. To have come within an inch of losing his life to the men he had believed his comrades was another. He deserved some respite. Surely no one could begrudge him that.

He lifted the flask towards him and tilted it. The smell of the gin brought the memories back in a flood. Memories of good times, and of bad. Memories of what he had once been—and of what he had become. Tomas tilted the flask towards his lips, and then kept turning, tipping it until it was upside down and the precious liquor was draining away before his eyes.

As Tomas watched it seep away, he felt the loss stabbing through him. He shook the flask, vigorously, fighting against himself. And, as the loss began to subside he felt something besides, something he could not remember experiencing in a long while. It might be fleeting, or even yet prove to be an illusion. But it was a feeling Tomas remembered as being whole once more. A feeling of self-belief.

He stood up, taller and stronger. Half of him felt as though he had gone mad, but he was smiling nonetheless.

He was still smiling as he turned back towards the light, and something hit him, hard, full in the face. Tomas Murer fell back, senseless, his head cracking against the stone floor of the tomb.

 

Lisette stood over Tom Murer’s prone body, momentarily unable to remember where she was or how she had got there. She did not remember being asleep; she did not remember waking up. But, after a few confused moments she recognised Tomas, and saw at once that he had been wounded. A stone statue, a carved icon of Morr, lay upon the ground by his side. The statue was smeared with the same blood that now ran from a gash across Tomas’ brow.

Lisette’s first instinct was to do what she could to help him. She was no healer, but she liked to think that Shallya sometimes blessed her with those powers in times of need. But, before she could bend down to tend to the stricken Tomas, Lisette was overpowered by an altogether more powerful instinct.

Where before there had been only silence, something now stirred deep in the belly of the tombs. A sound like sleepers waking from their long dream, struggling to break free of an unnatural confinement. The sound terrified Lisette, yet she found that she was drawn, irresistibly, towards it. She got to her feet, Tomas completely forgotten, and walked slowly towards the largest of the tunnels leading from the chamber. Though she was moving closer to the source of the sound, it did not grow any louder. She realised that the sounds of frenzied scraping were actually inside her own head, rising above the throbbing pain that still pounded at her skull.

They hear me, Lisette remembered. And I hear them.

Inside the tunnel it was pitch black, yet she found herself walking ever faster, as though led on by invisible hands. Where she was going, there would be no need of light.

She came at last to the end of the tunnel, a smaller chamber framed by thick, stone walls. A dank, lifeless chill hung upon the air, beading Lisette’s face with moisture. Unbidden, her arm lifted up, and reached out into the darkness. Her fingers found the outline of carvings upon the face of the wall. This, she understood, was where the unquiet dead had been lain to face eternity. The clawing sounds inside her head doubled in intensity as if something lying trapped behind the stone wall now sensed her presence.

Her hands continued to move over the stone, tracing the pattern of the carvings overlaying the face of the tomb. These were the holy seals, the chiseled runes that held the dead confined. These spells could not be overcome from within the tombs. Only from without.

As if on a given signal, the sounds and the pounding pain inside her head both ceased. Lisette experienced a moment’s blissful peace, and then the spell entered her mind, an incessant, flowing mantra repeating the words in an ancient tongue.

Lisette’s lips parted and she spoke, giving the words life.

 

The sound was like a low, animal moan, and it sent a tremor through the walls, as if the tombs themselves were calling out in anguish or pain. Stefan rubbed his eyes hard to make sure he really was awake. He looked round, momentarily disorientated. The first thing he saw was Tomas, face down upon the floor, a pool of blood spreading out beneath him. Stefan shook Bruno awake. “For Taal’s sake,” he said. “We’re under attack.”

The two men lifted Tomas and lay him upon his back. Elena appeared by their side, and lay one hand upon Tomas’ chest.

“He’s still breathing,” she said. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“I assure you, it’s very bad indeed.”

Andreas was listening intently to the sounds coming from all around them, his expression betraying the gravity of what he knew.

“It’s the Scarandar,” Bruno said. “They’ve found a way to break into the tombs.”

Father Andreas shook his head. “No,” he said. “Those sounds aren’t coming from outside.”

Lisette emerged from the shadows, her face deathly pale. She clutched her hands together in desperate prayer. “Our presence has disturbed the fragile sleep of the unquiet dead,” she said, slowly. “Great Morr forgive us.”

“This is not Morr’s doing,” the priest muttered. “These cursed souls have been called back to this world by a darker power. The dead are rising from their graves.”

Elena’s attempt at a laugh choked in her throat. “But the dead can’t do us any harm, can they—I mean it’s not as if they’ll be—”

“Armed?” The priest hesitated as though burdened with some very bad news indeed. Stefan spared him the need to answer Elena’s question.

“If I understand it correctly, it would be the custom to bury with the dead along with the tools of their wrongdoing,” he said. “In which case…”

“Armed,” Bruno affirmed.

A sound like a great door being broken apart filled the chamber. Stefan turned back to Father Andreas. “Is there anything you can do?” he asked. “Any prayer, or incantation that might reverse this?”

“The prayer of transfiguration,” Andreas replied. “Offered by the graveside to speed the soul on its journey to the kingdom of Morr. But I don’t know whether—”

“In the name of the gods, do what you can,” Stefan exhorted, drawing his blade. “The power of prayer may prove as mighty a weapon as the sword now.”

The sounds around them were growing louder by the moment. “It looks as though we’ll soon have the chance to put those weapons to the test,” Bruno commented, grimly. “How are you supposed to kill a man who’s already dead?”

A good question, Stefan admitted. “We’ll find out,” he told him. He held his sword steady and stood his ground. Wherever Alexei Zucharov was, right at that moment Stefan was cursing him.

The first warning of the attack came as a gust of air expelled from each of the six passageways surrounding them. But this was no cooling breath of life, but the very stench of death itself, foul and corrupt.

A bitter bile rose in Stefan’s throat as the putrid draught invaded his lungs.

“Stand your ground!” he shouted. “Mortal or not, they’ll still yield to our blades.”

Now that the moment was finally upon them, any fear inside Stefan dissipated. The sword in his hand became an extension of his body. He knew he would wield it to savage and merciless effect. He forced down a deep breath, and, as he did so, the first opponent emerged from the mouth of the passage ahead of him.

It was a being that had rested long in the embrace of the dread Lord of Decay. The bleached ivory bones protruding from the tattered remnants of clothing marked the figure as once human, but no longer. The flesh upon the corpse’s face and arms had been replaced by the same blood-red worms that had feasted upon it. Its jaws hung slack open, and a foul yellow pus dripped from the remnants of its mouth.

The creature plunged at Stefan, one maggot-arm fastened around a sword encrusted with the filth of the grave. Stefan met the sword stroke with an upward thrust from his own. He pushed the attack away, then swung the full weight of his blade down, slicing the creature’s body in half across the waist. A sea of writhing worms spilled across the marbled floor of the tomb as the creature disintegrated before him.

Stefan had barely a moment to savour his victory before two more of the undead were upon him. He found himself under attack by what, once, would have been a young man. The cadaver’s face was bleached to a green-ringed white, but its skin was still smooth and unbroken. In its face, Stefan saw the vestiges of the kind of a man with whom he might have shared ale and stories around a tavern table. He did not let such thoughts deflect the purpose of his sword. His parrying stroke slipped through the creature’s guard and slit open its head from throat to forehead. Like his ghastly comrade, the cadaver crumbled upon the ground.

Stefan had destroyed two of the undead in quick succession, but it did not lessen the resolve of the others still pouring from out of the tombs. It seemed that they who had no life could have no fear of death. A third assailant was upon Stefan now, forcing him to retreat from the sheer ferocity of the attack. Stefan stared into the face of the dead man. The eyes bulged, bright and clear, in the creature’s otherwise decaying face. But they did not seem to see Stefan, or even to be aware of his existence. Some malign force was turning the carcasses to its will, animating the rotting bodies like grim marionettes.

Marionettes or not, the creatures could still wield a sword to deadly effect. Stefan lost his balance momentarily and had to roll sideways across the floor of the tomb to avoid the chasing sword of the undead. As he looked up, he saw Elena dispatch the creature with a double-handed stroke. She was covered in all manner of filth from the battle, but she drove on with her blade as though possessed with an avenging energy more than equal to that of her opponents.

The moment’s respite gave Stefan a chance to take stock of the turmoil raging around him. Father Andreas was upon his knees before the table, the sceptre of Morr held out before him. His eyes were fastened and his lips were moving, endlessly repeating the words of a prayer. Stefan’s other comrades were holding fast in the thick of battle; no one yet had fallen. But Elena now had a clutch of attackers upon her. Lisette was huddled at Elena’s feet, her body drawn up in a ball. She held her hands tight over her ears, as though trying to block out a deafening noise. The undead creatures appeared to take no notice of her, but were drawn like flies towards their pursuit of Elena.

Stefan rushed forward but found his way blocked by at least three more of the creatures. He caught sight of Bruno on the far side of the chamber and shouted his name, trying to alert him to Elena’s plight. After a split second that seemed like an eternity, Bruno broke away from the combat, saw Stefan, then turned toward Elena.

Hurry, man, Stefan implored, beneath his breath. They’ll cut her to pieces. Bruno beat a path through with his sword until he stood but a few paces short of Elena and her attackers. Blood was trickling down her face from a cut across her forehead. She was fighting with the courage of a warrior, but the strength and number of her adversaries would inevitably overpower her.

As Stefan regained his feet he saw Bruno lunge forward as if to thrust his sword into the midst of the cadavers bearing down on Elena. And then, for no apparent reason, he stopped. Bruno was standing fixed to the spot, as though his body had suddenly been cast in ice.

Stefan screamed out his comrade’s name again, but this time to no effect. The sword was knocked from Elena’s grasp. As the creatures closed upon her, Stefan saw Tomas clamber to his feet and lurch unsteadily towards the ring of attackers. He was barely conscious, but his clumsy sword bought some precious respite.

Stefan now wielded his blade in a fury, dispatching each successive cadaver that moved in to block his path. Butchered limbs still writhed and twisted upon the ground where they had fallen, and eyes rolled in the sockets of severed heads, but they would do no more harm. A gore-spattered apparition staggered in front of Stefan, a sabre rammed into the bloodied stump of one flailing arm. Stefan thrust his sword to the cadaver’s gut, releasing a cloud of winged insects that glittered in the lamplight before falling to earth. Stefan kicked the tottering corpse aside and reached Elena, drawing her in behind the protection of his sword.

“Thanks,” she said. Her body was shaking. “Thank you, both of you,” she said to Stefan and the still dazed Tomas. Stefan looked around for Bruno. Like a clock that had been rewound, he was fighting again as though nothing had happened, beating back more of the undead.

Father Andreas had not moved. He still knelt before the stone table, holding the sceptre of Morr aloft.

“Our lord of all souls,” he intoned. “Grant these your children their eternal rest.” He intoned the phrase over and over, the words gaining intensity with each repetition.

A shadow fell across the priest where he knelt as something emerged from the mouth of the passage in front of him. Stefan gazed at the creature in disbelief. He doubted whether it could have ever have been human. It stood head and shoulders above the tallest man, and was so broad that it completely blocked out the passage from which it had emerged. A gangrenous pus leaked from the weeping sores upon its body, and horns of blackened bone could be clearly seen budding on top of its swollen head.

“Our Lord of Souls,” Andreas repeated. “Grant these your children—”

Suddenly, the giant cadaver seemed to falter, swaying as though overcome by some mightier power. As the monster fell back, it lashed out at Andreas, raking his face and body with yellowing claws. The priest dropped face down upon the ground, and did not move again.

Several things now seemed to happen at once. Stefan and Elena rushed forward as one, Elena to tend to the fallen Andreas, Stefan to press home the attack upon the monster which had fallen back upon its haunches at the mouth of the passage. As the huge creature sank to the ground, so the parody of life that had been animating the cadaver army seemed to ebb away. Bones splintered and cracked, flesh peeled away from bones. Heads drooped and hung slack as the light retreated from dead eyes.

Lisette had spent the last minutes cocooned in a ball upon the ground. Now she suddenly leapt to her feet, and raced ahead of Elena towards Andreas as though her very life depended upon it.

For a moment the two women were jostling for space over the priest’s prostrate body. “Please, I beg you, mistress,” Lisette entreated. “I have the power of healing. I may be able to help him.”

Andreas seemed to hear, and opened his eyes momentarily. “I am beyond help now,” he mumbled, pain blurring his words.

Elena looked at Lisette for a moment then stood back. “All right,” she said. “Do what you can.” Lisette bent low over the priest, and lay her hands upon his body.

“The prayer,” Andreas whispered, “did it work?”

“It worked,” Stefan affirmed. “Hold on. You’re going to live.”

The priest smiled briefly. “No,” he said, his voice now growing weak distant. “But fear not for me. Soon I shall journey to meet an old friend.”

Lisette continued to work desperately, as if unwilling to accept that her healing could not prevail. At the last Andreas opened his eyes and found Elena.

“May all the gods bless your journey,” he whispered. As his head slid to one side his gaze fell upon Lisette. As the priest looked upon the girl his eyes widened. A final urgency suddenly seemed to grip the priest. He started to raise his head, and his mouth opened and closed, desperately trying to form around the words.

“Peace!” Lisette implored, her hands pressing the sick man down. “Peace!”

“He’s trying to tell us something!” Elena shouted. She pulled Lisette back. “Andreas, what is it?”

A convulsion shook the priest’s body, then his head dropped back against the ground. Elena stared for a moment at the priest’s body. Lisette was still crouched over the dead man. She seemed either not to have heard or heeded Elena’s words.

“In the name of Taal, get away from him!” Elena commanded. Lisette turned a baleful stare upon her mistress and, finally, backed away. Stefan took hold of Elena, and pulled her gently away from the priest. “It’s too late,” he said. “We’ve lost him.” He turned towards Bruno. “What happened back there?”

“What do you mean?” Bruno responded.

“You froze,” Stefan said. “Elena nearly died.” He stood staring at Bruno, waiting for some kind of explanation. Bruno shook his head. He looked confused, uncertain.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Everything went blank. I don’t remember anymore.”

“You’d better start pulling things together,” Stefan said, his anger cooling. “You’re not going to survive for long like that.” He looked round at Tomas, leaning upon Elena for support. “For your part, well done,” he said.

Tomas’ face was a mask of blood, and a heavy bruise was starting to swell above one eye. “It was nothing,” he said.

Stefan fixed the wounded man with a stare and then smiled. “No,” he said. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t nothing by a long way.”