By Julia LaFond
Pounding on the door jolts me out of the haze between sleeping and waking. Remaining alert while resting is one useful trick I still use from my army days. I rise from my chair, brush the wrinkles out of my robes, and grab my lantern. Yawning, I stumble past the carved stone tombs and climb the granite steps. I peer through the door’s peephole, then open it.
“What is it, Tiberius?” I groan. “Any louder and you’ll wake—”
“Necromancers got past the graveyard walls,” he interrupts breathlessly.
My skin prickles; I feel as if a cold wind has passed through me.
“Reinforcements on the way. Until then, stay on alert.”
Nodding, I close the door and slide the iron bar in place. I would love to join them, but I’m no longer a soldier. Now that I serve the Goddess, it is not my role to seek glory on the battlefield. My only duty is to her, and to the dead.
Pushing down my whirling thoughts, I say the prayer of warding slowly and solemnly. A faint flicker of the shadows tells me that our Goddess has accepted it. Yet I still feel uneasy.
I descend the steps two at a time. The brazier has burned low. I add charcoal and incense, stoking the flames. Smoke trails up and out through the ventilation shafts. I gently turn my mind back to my prayers: that the soldiers interred here continue to rest in peace, and that The Queen of Death drives back the intruding desecrators.
The back of my neck prickles. I’m being watched. I whirl around, seeing nothing but empty air. My imagination must be playing tricks on me.
As I settle back down, the feeling of dread clings to me. I look over my shoulder once more, just in time to see the air shimmer as it coalesces into a solid form.
Intangibility. One of the necromancers slipped by when Tiberius came to warn me. Biting back vulgarities, I lunge for the alarm cord to summon reinforcements.
Behind me, the intruder utters a single profanity. I collide with an invisible wall, blocking me from the alarm. Drawing my silvered dagger, I whirl around. The intruder is quite clearly visible now: a man of average height in tattered black funeral robes.
He charges me, staff brandished. The battle I wished to join has come to me.
I dodge, slashing at him, but he parries the blow at the last second, my blade biting into the twisted thorns of his staff instead.
“You should curl up in the corner and pray to your goddess, little girl.” He sneers, swinging the staff at my legs. “It will be over quicker.”
No need to waste words on one such as this. I hop aside, drawing my other knife and attacking with it. He flinches away. I only slice through the fabric trailing his arm. Hoping to catch him off-balance, I charge. He parries and swings at my head; I barely evade his counterattack.
For a moment, we draw back, circling each other. He’s a surprisingly skilled combatant. Will he continue to rely on his weapon? Or will he instead reach for his infernal magicks?
He reaches into his cloak and tosses a vial into the brazier. It shatters, mixing blood with the coals and incense. He chants: “Princeps Mortis, audite—”
I lunge with a wordless cry, heart racing as the smoke turns red. This is no ordinary necromancer. This is a servant of the Betrayer, the Goddess’ brother and would-be usurper. I cannot let this champion of our sworn enemy conscript these fallen warriors into his undead army, trapping their souls in their decaying corpses.
He continues to chant as he parries my desperate, hasty blows. He punishes my impatience by slamming the head of his staff into my abdomen, knocking me to the ground. He raises his staff again. Raw instinct overrides my pain; I roll out of the way. His staff strikes the ground where my skull would have been.
A tomb provides enough support for me to rise to my feet. My breathing is labored, and my movements dulled. This is a fight I can no longer win.
My eyes light on the brazier. I’ve still been thinking like a soldier, treating this like an honorable duel. But victory is too important to waste on personal glory.
He smiles confidently, though he approaches with a caution only years of training can instill. I do not move, as if I am too weakened to dodge. Without interrupting his chant, he taunts me with his insolent eyes. He brandishes his staff once more.
With a prayer to the Goddess, I dart past him to the tainted brazier. I upend it, raining down embers and sparks upon him.
Now he screams, dropping his staff. He staggers back, beating at his cloak to extinguish the spreading flames.
I sink my dagger into his heart.
His body falls to the floor, catching fire with unnatural speed. I crawl clear of the inferno, calling upon the Goddess to contain the hungry magic. It smolders out, leaving nothing but ash.
My muscles protest as I limp to the storage cabinet. I collect the ashes in an urn, sealing it shut with wax and prayers to the Goddess.
I am once again startled by pounding on the door, which I rush to answer.
“All clear!” Tiberius reports. His smile fades, face wrinkling with concern. “Patientia, what happened?”
I shove the urn into his hands. “An intruder. Put him with the others.”
He takes it gingerly, scurrying away. I’ll need to report on what happened, but not yet. There are other duties to attend to.
I return to the crypt to sweep up the coal, dispose of the taint, and purify the brazier. Once that is finished, and no trace of the conflict remains, I take my seat again. Duty is one thing that never changes. For the rest of my shift, I will guard my post.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Great action! Scary thought of the dead becoming unwilling pawns!
Great action
fast paced, gripping, the outcome in doubt, until most hope is gone. great!
A wonderfully-told story that kept me on the seat edge!