Around a bend in the passage and he was back at the entrance, his favourite room. There was a sense of space here not found anywhere else in the catacombs. The vaulted ceiling rose high above him, and an expanse as large as a market square surrounded him.
And there was the door, shimmering blue and crackling like fire. In summer the fragrant drafts of marigolds and poppies that grew amongst the graves wafted through its cracks. In autumn the tang of dank leaves and rotting apples from nearby orchards crept through and infused the air. Today there was no wind, and he could smell only dust.
Siarl shuffled closer to the shimmering blue light; his long black robes whispered to the stones. He closed his eyes. Threadbare lids covered a murky glass stare. “Maybe this time,” he said. Weary from centuries of presenting passwords proper to the sisters, he decided on something frivolous. “Bitty boo boo,” he sang and held out a withered hand to grasp the door. The magic made the hairs on his arm stand on end.
“You shall not pass,” a voice rebuked. Siarl’s arm jerked back violently, and he was dispatched across the stone, backside first, in a tangle of robes.
The voice belonged to Maeve, the High Priestess of Murdus. “Good day, Maeve,” he called and smiled. He knew he tried the door as much to escape as to hear another human voice.
Siarl stood and dusted off his robe. “See you soon,” he said to the door.
The room the three companions found themselves in was unlit, and they needed to rely again on Szat’s fire. A small stone altar for ceremonies occupied the centre, and adjoining passages radiated out to the south, east and west of the room. Along each, a pathway was ploughed through the dust which was heaped up against the walls like snowbanks.
“He’s still alive then,” Caroc said. He walked in Goron’s shadow again at the back of the group. His wide, fearful eyes shone like flaming discs in the glow of Szat’s fire.
Morwen cracked a wide grin that split her face in two. That meant the staff was down here too. By possessing a weapon of such immense power, she would gain the magical skills of two lifetimes. No longer would her shadow bolts be wispy and lacklustre. They would be ingots of pure darkness capable of turning an enemy inside out.
Morwen passed under the west arch. The corridors were lined with the dead, stacks upon stacks of them, bones in mouldering rags. Only a few of the shelves were empty which surprised Morwen. She’d expected the dead to be too much of a temptation for a necromancer, like a bowl of boiled sweets left in an empty room with a child.
Morwen couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be trapped for centuries in such a forlorn and gloomy place with only old bones and yourself for companionship. She was convinced she’d go quite mad. And what was it with this dust? It was so thick she felt as if she were eating it with each breath.
They continued along the maze-like corridors. Each looked no different from the last—corpses and stone. What would she do when she found Siarl, simply ask him for the staff? Perhaps after centuries alone here, he’d be as mad as the dribbling idiots in Wichsault’s sanatorium and hand it over willingly. No, it wouldn’t be that easy.
“Where is he? I’m starving and need something to eat.” Goron’s complaining growls interrupted her musings.
“How would I know? If you have any suggestions, I’m all ears,” Morwen snapped.
“What if he’s wandering around too and we keep missing one another? The tracks suggest someone’s been doing a lot of walking,” Caroc said.
“That’s what I thought, and if we go back to the sanctum, we could take a lunch break while we wait,” Szat said.
“Makes sense to me,” Goron agreed.
“Shut up,” Morwen spat. They were right. She kept walking for a few more minutes to save face then announced, “We’ll go back to the entrance and wait for him there. But no eating, we need to be ready.”
Szat and Goron groaned in protest.
They waited until the clack of bone on stone could be heard from the south corridor. Caroc slunk into the shadows. His bow was drawn, but he shook so violently, he wouldn’t be able to hit the side of a barn if he tried.
A short, wizened figure in the tattered black robes of a high exarch emerged from the passage trailed by a small army of skeletons. He was so absorbed in vigorously shaking out a dust cloth from which great plumes of dust swirled, that he didn’t see his visitors until he had traversed halfway across the room.
Siarl froze. A prolonged groan escaped from his gaping mouth. To Morwen, it was the most melancholy sound she’d ever heard, like the howl of a solitary wolf, or the wind whistling through an abandoned tower.
For Goron, it was a declaration of war, the first mutterings of some dark spell. He drew his axe, roared in response, and charged at the necromancer.
“Wait,” Morwen yelled out. She reached out to grab Goron as he rushed past her, but her hand closed on empty air. She wanted to resolve this amicably—the staff for the necromancer’s freedom. You don’t trifle with necromancers.
The undead crowded around the necromancer to protect him. They were no match for the heavily armoured, axe-wielding soldier, and he trampled over them as if they were sticks.
The sight of the huge warrior bearing down on him had a sobering effect, and Siarl mumbled out a defensive spell. “Kroduv nuko ad kulk.”
The shadows in the sanctum lengthened, reducing the light from Szat’s hands to a dull glow, then extinguishing it entirely and throwing the room into absolute darkness.
Goron snarled and
