It was then that Morwen noticed a chomite had also managed to outrun the blaze. It had jumped the fence and sat on top of a tomb adorned with a statue of Night Mother Odia. The chomite’s stunted wings had been burnt off and steam rose from the shell. The cooked meat gave off a sweet fragrant smell. How fitting, thought Morwen, the last of its kind throwing itself on the mercy of the night mother.
The chomite made a low whining sound as the three approached and lifted its front legs to rise but fell back down. “It’s suffering. We should do something to help it,” Caroc said.
Goron raised his axe and lopped of its head. The chomite’s legs twitched once, and it was still. Caroc opened his mouth to say something, but Goron walked away to examine the graves.
Morwen followed, keeping her own pace, and inspected the tombs. The bigger the tomb the more important the person. She stopped by the mausoleum of Siwan the Ninth High Exarch of Wichsault. It boasted fifteen-foot-high columns carved into the intricate shapes of demons.
“Bones inside, just like everyone else. I don’t see the point,” Caroc said sidling silently up to her.
“It’s so people know how important you were in life…that you did great things and were respected and feared.” Morwen was almost looking forward to being buried here herself in a particularly large and magnificent mausoleum, so people would be humbled by her importance. She’d already made a few preliminary sketches of the building she had in mind. It could house a whole village and its livestock. She doubted now that it would ever become a reality unless they found out the cause of the sickness that infected Wichsault.
Caroc shrugged, not impressed.
“So you’re happy for your body to rot under a tree somewhere? Gone, forever forgotten.” Morwen snapped.
“I had hoped I would be remembered by my deeds,” Caroc said his eyes downcast.
“I don’t think there’s any chance of that.”
The two continued the melancholy walk in silence and found themselves at the same tomb as Goron. Goron read from a plaque on the wall, “Here is imprisoned Piran Fourteenth High Exarch of Wichsault.”
Morwen was surprised that Goron could read.
“Do you think he’s really still alive?” Goron asked. He grasped the iron bars of the gate and stared quizzically down the stairs which emitted a strange blue glow.”
“In a way, necromancers don’t die, not like we do. When natural death occurs they become lichs,” Morwen said.
“What did he do to be imprisoned for hundreds of years in such an awful place?” Caroc asked.
Morwen was sure Caroc knew the story and simply wanted to delay going into the tomb, but she humoured him anyway. “Piran was a necromancer. The act of necromancy was strictly forbidden in Wichsault. When the Sisters of Murdus found out about his midnight jaunts to the graveyard, they imprisoned him in the catacombs, and he’s been there ever since.”
“Does he really have an undead army down there with him?” Caroc asked.
“What else would a necromancer do with his time while imprisoned in a graveyard?” Morwen tried the rusted iron gate. It was locked.
“Do you really need this staff?” Caroc asked. He’d gone very pale and the familiar tremble in his hands was back.
“It’s mine by rights, and we will need it for the trials ahead.” She tapped the gate with her dagger. “If you’d put those muscles of yours to some practical use, Goron, and get the gate open
Goron gave the gate a kick. It fell over and clanked down the stairs.
The three descended. The twisting stairway led to a tarnished bronze door from which a faint blue light emanated.
Morwen reached out to push the door open.
Goron grabbed her firmly by the wrist. “It’s magic,” he warned.
“No magic that will affect us. It’s a ward on the door to keep the necromancer and his dead trapped within the catacombs.” She brushed his hand aside and pushed with both hands. The door grated on stone as it swung open, and sour air rushed past them. Szat’s hands lit up the darkness.
Siarl shuffled down the long corridor. The stone beneath his feet was smooth, sculpted by centuries of his passing. His eyes were on the puffs of dust, a medley of corpses and stone, that floated around him and settled softly on all the surfaces in these halls of death.
“Everywhere,” he muttered deftly flicking a soiled cloth at the yellowed bones that rested in the recesses of the corridor. The dust motes took flight like a flock of startled birds only to resettle as the wizened figure passed by with his undead retinue.
There were fifty-seven skeletons in total, the best the catacombs had to offer. They weren’t the perfect specimens he’d animated hundreds of years before when the Sisters of Murdus had imprisoned him for practising the forbidden art. These skeletons were attired in tatty garments. Their bones were porous, and in some cases, the odd one was broken or missing. He kept them for companionship only. Dreams of world domination now forgotten, all Siarl wanted was to be free of his prison and the terrible dust. He dreamed of building a cabin, perhaps in a forest, with few surfaces and many windows.
“Hey, Mervyn,” Siarl said to a legless skeleton leaning against the wall holding an iron staff crowned with a shiny, black onyx. The skeleton nodded with a click of his neck. Mervyn had always carried Siarl’s heavy staff for him until his legs broke, and then it didn’t seem right to take it from him. Siarl gave Mervyn’s cranium an affectionate flick of the duster.
The long corridor was crossed by another. Siarl never ventured down that one, and the stone floor remained hidden under a virgin carpet of dust. He hurried past, his eyes closed to the melancholy. The passage, ‘The Crypt of the Infants’, as
