He wanted to run away, to bolt in fear. Instead, he took a tentative step forward, then another. Slowly, he descended the stone stairs, his pulse racing like the wind in a storm. The others followed.
A large chamber, perhaps twenty ells long by ten wide, met them at the bottom of the stairs. Numerous carved stone arches, each thicker than a man and linked by countless spiderwebs, held up the chamber’s high curved ceiling. All along the arches, the monks had carved scores of their crosses and more of their mysterious runes. Recesses, each holding a desiccated skeleton, had been set into the brick walls all along the length of the tomb. Why have a cemetery and a tomb, Asgrim wondered. Was this place only for their dead leaders?
The otherworldly presence they had felt from above was unmistakably stronger down there. Its cloying presence threatened to suffocate Asgrim and to crush his faltering courage, yet somehow, he forced himself to move forward. The flames from his torch dampened, as if the fire had to struggle to survive. The smell of the ocean was overwhelming now, and just for a moment, Asgrim thought he heard the crashing of waves. The air he breathed was thick with moisture; the stones of the chamber were soaked, and puddles splashed beneath their boots. Behind him, Gorm cursed, and then whispered a prayer to Odin.
Swinging the faltering torch from side to side, Asgrim stepped farther into the crypt, and a crypt it was. This was, without a doubt, the monastery’s inner sanctum, its most sacred place. At least it should have been, but there was nothing holy there.
Asgrim’s vision focused until it was tunnel-like. At the far end of the crypt, a figure stood watching them. Asgrim’s heart throbbed in warning, and he almost dropped his torch before he realized it was only a statue carved in the likeness of a monk. Just beside the statue was an open stone coffin. The stone lid had been carefully placed on the floor. As Asgrim drew closer, he expected to see a corpse within it, but it was empty.
The statue’s face had been carved with a beatific smile, as if he saw secrets others could not. This man must have been important to the monks to have earned a place of honor beneath their monastery. But if so, where was the corpse now? Had it awoken somehow? Had it climbed from its stone coffin and walked away as an undead spirit, a Christian draugr ? Only scraps of rotted cloth and dust remained.
“Gods help us,” muttered Gorm. “What’s wrong with this place? I feel… I—”
“We all feel it,” said Bjorn as he stepped closer to Asgrim and peered into the empty coffin.
Asgrim walked past the coffin and examined the stone wall behind it, looking for signs of loose stones or perhaps a hiding place, but he found nothing.
“There’s something here,” said Bjorn from behind him.
Turning, Asgrim saw that his brother had drawn his knife and was using it to poke at the rags within the coffin. Asgrim’s fear spiked abruptly, and he was about to lash out at his brother when Bjorn suddenly thrust his hand into the coffin and picked up something. He held a small fragment of bone in front of his eyes.
“Brother…” said Asgrim.
“It’s nothing,” answered Bjorn, staring intently at the fragment. “Just a piece of bone. Old, very old.”
Asgrim stared, mesmerized at the bone in his brother’s hand. It was yellow with age and was perhaps just a piece of finger, maybe a knuckle-bone. Asgrim’s skin felt clammy, and he found himself gasping for air. He lurched forward, gripped his brother’s large forearm, and felt a shock pass through him. Just for a moment, in place of his brother, Asgrim saw a monster, a green-skinned aquatic thing with an impossibly elongated and hairless skull. Its flesh pebbled, and its giant eyes were all black, like a shark’s. Then the vision was gone. Bjorn stared at him in confusion.
“Put… put it back,” Asgrim croaked.
Bjorn paused, staring at the fragment in his
A large chamber, perhaps twenty ells long by ten wide, met them at the bottom of the stairs. Numerous carved stone arches, each thicker than a man and linked by countless spiderwebs, held up the chamber’s high curved ceiling. All along the arches, the monks had carved scores of their crosses and more of their mysterious runes. Recesses, each holding a desiccated skeleton, had been set into the brick walls all along the length of the tomb. Why have a cemetery and a tomb, Asgrim wondered. Was this place only for their dead leaders?
The otherworldly presence they had felt from above was unmistakably stronger down there. Its cloying presence threatened to suffocate Asgrim and to crush his faltering courage, yet somehow, he forced himself to move forward. The flames from his torch dampened, as if the fire had to struggle to survive. The smell of the ocean was overwhelming now, and just for a moment, Asgrim thought he heard the crashing of waves. The air he breathed was thick with moisture; the stones of the chamber were soaked, and puddles splashed beneath their boots. Behind him, Gorm cursed, and then whispered a prayer to Odin.
Swinging the faltering torch from side to side, Asgrim stepped farther into the crypt, and a crypt it was. This was, without a doubt, the monastery’s inner sanctum, its most sacred place. At least it should have been, but there was nothing holy there.
Asgrim’s vision focused until it was tunnel-like. At the far end of the crypt, a figure stood watching them. Asgrim’s heart throbbed in warning, and he almost dropped his torch before he realized it was only a statue carved in the likeness of a monk. Just beside the statue was an open stone coffin. The stone lid had been carefully placed on the floor. As Asgrim drew closer, he expected to see a corpse within it, but it was empty.
The statue’s face had been carved with a beatific smile, as if he saw secrets others could not. This man must have been important to the monks to have earned a place of honor beneath their monastery. But if so, where was the corpse now? Had it awoken somehow? Had it climbed from its stone coffin and walked away as an undead spirit, a Christian draugr ? Only scraps of rotted cloth and dust remained.
“Gods help us,” muttered Gorm. “What’s wrong with this place? I feel… I—”
“We all feel it,” said Bjorn as he stepped closer to Asgrim and peered into the empty coffin.
Asgrim walked past the coffin and examined the stone wall behind it, looking for signs of loose stones or perhaps a hiding place, but he found nothing.
“There’s something here,” said Bjorn from behind him.
Turning, Asgrim saw that his brother had drawn his knife and was using it to poke at the rags within the coffin. Asgrim’s fear spiked abruptly, and he was about to lash out at his brother when Bjorn suddenly thrust his hand into the coffin and picked up something. He held a small fragment of bone in front of his eyes.
“Brother…” said Asgrim.
“It’s nothing,” answered Bjorn, staring intently at the fragment. “Just a piece of bone. Old, very old.”
Asgrim stared, mesmerized at the bone in his brother’s hand. It was yellow with age and was perhaps just a piece of finger, maybe a knuckle-bone. Asgrim’s skin felt clammy, and he found himself gasping for air. He lurched forward, gripped his brother’s large forearm, and felt a shock pass through him. Just for a moment, in place of his brother, Asgrim saw a monster, a green-skinned aquatic thing with an impossibly elongated and hairless skull. Its flesh pebbled, and its giant eyes were all black, like a shark’s. Then the vision was gone. Bjorn stared at him in confusion.
“Put… put it back,” Asgrim croaked.
Bjorn paused, staring at the fragment in his
Similar Books
