fingers. His hand shook.
“Now!” ordered Asgrim.
Bjorn, startled at his brother’s voice, seemed to see him for the first time and nodded. He tossed the bone fragment back into the coffin, where it struck with a thud that resonated throughout the chamber, as if the bone weighed far more than it should have.
Panting heavily, Asgrim wiped his palms across his sweaty face. He shook his head. “There’s nothing here. Let’s go.”
He turned and walked toward the stairs, resisting the urge to run. At the bottom of the stairs, he waited for the others, trying to act like a leader. The other men must have shared his terror, though, because they practically ran over themselves going up the stairs. Only Bjorn hesitated, still at the rear of the crypt, still staring into the coffin.
“Bjorn!” Asgrim raised his voice.
His brother turned away from the coffin and stormed past Asgrim, heading up the stairs. Asgrim took the stairs three at a time and would have run had it not been unmanly.
* * *
It stood in the darkened woods, staring at its grey hands in contempt and wonder. Scornful of the weakness within these beings, it still marveled at the potential for destruction and carnage. Already, the rot was starting as the body it wore began to die. It had to be careful this time, or else it might become trapped again, existing as nothing more than a shade within the bones, powerless without physical contact. And even this body, a warrior’s body—stronger than the others had been—was still not going to last very long, not as long as the monk had. But until then, at least it wore flesh again, flesh that allowed it to move and act, to rend and tear. And act it would. These lesser beings would suffer greatly for its forced inaction.
It sensed life—and wished to crush the offensive foulness of it. An entire village of souls to devour stood before it. A rictus of pleasure, more snarl than smile, spread across its grey face.
So long, it had been locked away for too long. Strong though he had been, Philibert had died too soon, without enough warning. And it had happened while it had been unaware, while its consciousness had been elsewhere, sleeping. Existing in this realm required constant effort and was a never-ending struggle to remain. It didn’t belong here, so this reality fought it and tried to push it away. Had it been aware Philibert was that close to death, it would have taken another body— before they locked away the rotting corpse within that damned crypt. Even then, when it had awakened and found its servant dead, it still should have been able to escape the tomb, to find another human shell to possess. But the other monks had loved Philibert and had, of all things, believed him to be holy. So they had engraved his coffin with silver etchings—not much silver because they were poor, but just enough to bar its passage in its weakened state. So it had been trapped, just as surely as if it had been locked away within a silver jar. It had been all the monk’s fault. The mortal should have been stronger, strong enough to last years. Instead, he had died in less than a single year.
Trapped within the crypt, its awareness drifted in and out, like the waves. Then, while it slept, through some happy chance, those fools had finally released it. They opened the coffin and touched the bones, awakening a portion of it and absorbing some of its influence—not much, just the most infinitesimal portion of it, but far more than enough to poison their souls, to turn them away from their god. Without even being fully awake and aware, it had taken them all, driving them to acts of depravity and joy. And as the priests died, it started to wake, convalescing into the body of their leader, the head abbot. And when a stronger body of the warrior appeared, it abandoned the abbot.
And now it was finally awake. After years of drifting in the void, it was awake and hungry for carnage, so very ravenous for destruction.
It had been
“Now!” ordered Asgrim.
Bjorn, startled at his brother’s voice, seemed to see him for the first time and nodded. He tossed the bone fragment back into the coffin, where it struck with a thud that resonated throughout the chamber, as if the bone weighed far more than it should have.
Panting heavily, Asgrim wiped his palms across his sweaty face. He shook his head. “There’s nothing here. Let’s go.”
He turned and walked toward the stairs, resisting the urge to run. At the bottom of the stairs, he waited for the others, trying to act like a leader. The other men must have shared his terror, though, because they practically ran over themselves going up the stairs. Only Bjorn hesitated, still at the rear of the crypt, still staring into the coffin.
“Bjorn!” Asgrim raised his voice.
His brother turned away from the coffin and stormed past Asgrim, heading up the stairs. Asgrim took the stairs three at a time and would have run had it not been unmanly.
* * *
It stood in the darkened woods, staring at its grey hands in contempt and wonder. Scornful of the weakness within these beings, it still marveled at the potential for destruction and carnage. Already, the rot was starting as the body it wore began to die. It had to be careful this time, or else it might become trapped again, existing as nothing more than a shade within the bones, powerless without physical contact. And even this body, a warrior’s body—stronger than the others had been—was still not going to last very long, not as long as the monk had. But until then, at least it wore flesh again, flesh that allowed it to move and act, to rend and tear. And act it would. These lesser beings would suffer greatly for its forced inaction.
It sensed life—and wished to crush the offensive foulness of it. An entire village of souls to devour stood before it. A rictus of pleasure, more snarl than smile, spread across its grey face.
So long, it had been locked away for too long. Strong though he had been, Philibert had died too soon, without enough warning. And it had happened while it had been unaware, while its consciousness had been elsewhere, sleeping. Existing in this realm required constant effort and was a never-ending struggle to remain. It didn’t belong here, so this reality fought it and tried to push it away. Had it been aware Philibert was that close to death, it would have taken another body— before they locked away the rotting corpse within that damned crypt. Even then, when it had awakened and found its servant dead, it still should have been able to escape the tomb, to find another human shell to possess. But the other monks had loved Philibert and had, of all things, believed him to be holy. So they had engraved his coffin with silver etchings—not much silver because they were poor, but just enough to bar its passage in its weakened state. So it had been trapped, just as surely as if it had been locked away within a silver jar. It had been all the monk’s fault. The mortal should have been stronger, strong enough to last years. Instead, he had died in less than a single year.
Trapped within the crypt, its awareness drifted in and out, like the waves. Then, while it slept, through some happy chance, those fools had finally released it. They opened the coffin and touched the bones, awakening a portion of it and absorbing some of its influence—not much, just the most infinitesimal portion of it, but far more than enough to poison their souls, to turn them away from their god. Without even being fully awake and aware, it had taken them all, driving them to acts of depravity and joy. And as the priests died, it started to wake, convalescing into the body of their leader, the head abbot. And when a stronger body of the warrior appeared, it abandoned the abbot.
And now it was finally awake. After years of drifting in the void, it was awake and hungry for carnage, so very ravenous for destruction.
It had been
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