CHAPTER 6

He froze as the undead dog turned and began to growl at him. Fear seized him, held him tight. It was an enormous thing, the size of the largest wolf. But before it could dive for him, the blade of a halberd clefted its skull from body. It was a moment before it grew back, but it was enough to change the thing’s attention to Virgil.

The Dusken Knight pointed to Jeran’s pack, which lay on the floor next to the wailing priest. With shaking hands, he pulled open the pack as the priest wailed in pain. He dug inside, pulling out glass vials in a made dash. He found one, with a long stem and wide bottom, filled with a luminescent blue liquid and marked with a small cross symbol. He prayed the priest was as good at healing potions as he was at strength ones. It took him three tries to pull off the stopper, and he was trembling so badly he shook half of it out when he finally did. He doused the priest’s hand wildly with it, but it did nothing to slow the blistering flesh.

The flesh had burned and decayed across the man’s entire hand now. It was beginning to reach his wrist. If Yannick didn’t do something, he would lose more than just his hand. He glanced towards the others. Audie and Virgil were fighting an endless battle against the skeletal warriors. Virgil had discarded her halberd now, and instead drawn her longsword. Audie seemed to dance between the swiping blades of the skeletons, striking back with a pair of long daggers. Any normal opponent would have been felled by now - both were making powerful strikes, slicing away fingers of bone or even entire limbs that turned to dust as they fell from the corpses. However, each time they cut their opponents, the bone would simply resprout.

For now, at least, they were managing to keep their opponents occupied.

Yannick turned his attention back to Jeran, who was now lying on the floor, spasms of pain wracking his body like lightning bolts. He clutched at his dying hand, gobs of spittle flying from his mouth. Yannick had an absurd vision of a wild leper, begging from the gutters.

He scrambled through the potions, looking for something different. He was running out of time. Audie and Virgil would not be able to keep the skeleton thralls occupied forever. And then they would come for him and the priest...

Could he try the same thing again? There was another healing potion. Perhaps one potion wasn’t enough, maybe two was needed. He shook his head wildly, tears forming as the sensation of utter despair set in. Was this how his life ended, a party of reluctant adventurers sent to their deaths due to his stupidity? Oh, how he wished he had never left Lanherne…

His gaze met that of the High Revivalist inside the ragged canvas. He laughed even louder, doubling over with exertion, his eyes wild. Yannick had seen that look in mages: the endless, relentless pursuit of some fatal form of magic. In it, he saw a mirror to himself: a stupid old man, driven to one last fatal quest.

His bones would now never lie at the end of the quince orchard, next to those of his husband for all eternity. Instead Ricard would be alone, forever waiting, and his bones would crumble here, becoming the thrall of this cursed Revivalist. Ricard would be alone, waiting for him forever.

No! He would return home. He would not die here! There was more to give, more fight to be had...

He looked around desperately, frantically searching like a wild creature caught in a snare. He was drawn again to the disgusting, portrait and its laughing inhabitant. Had the canvas been so warped before? It seemed to hang slightly unusually, as if stretched. Was that a tear? There was a tiny hole, and another. He stood up and tried to rip the thing with shaking hands, but it was as if it was made from steel.

He ran a finger around the edge. It looked burned, reminding him of Jeran’s hand. He drew his attention back to the hole in the canvas. What could have done this, and might more of it stop the maniac in the painting? It was if it had been sprayed with some kind of acid

A wave of nausea hit him as he heard the man’s screaming anew, and he was back upon the floor, scrambling for the other healing potion. He grabbed it and tore over to the portrait. The figure inside scowled at him, the laughter gone now. He uncorked the bottle and threw a splash onto the canvas.

The Revivalist screamed as Jeran had. Where the potion had hit the canvas, it had burned away. Yannick needed no further encouragement, and doused the rest of it with the remainder of the potion. The sheet of canvas burned away, the Revivalist’s screams ringing in his ears as they faded away.

In an instant, the skeleton thralls turned back to dust, leaving Virgil and Audie frozen in ready battle poses, confused and breathing heavily. He knelt down beside Jeran. The man had stopped screaming now. Instead he whimpered softly, eyes closed, his pale flesh sodden with sweat.

His hand, or what remained of it, was an atrocity. It no longer smoked or burned, but instead a blackened stump stood where the hand once had.

“Oh Father.”

The priest sobbed. “You fucking bastard. I told you, I told you, I fucking told you…”

Yannick felt the words worse than any blade. It was true, wasn’t it? He’d bullied the poor man into it, and now… Jeran was deformed. He’d seen similar damage before. It didn’t take a priest to work that hand was never coming back. priests could heal, but even a talented one like Jeran couldn’t regrow lost limbs.

He fell back, shaking as the adrenalin burned out of him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“Are you okay?” asked Audie.

Yannick found himself again and nodded. Virgil was tending to the priest for now. She helped him to his feet with surprising gentleness, but there was little else she could do.

Jeran stared at his charred stump with a blank expression, as if he had no expression left to express. He then turned to the party.

“Does anyone require any healing?” he asked simply.

Audie coughed. “I… I got nicked by one of the blades back there,” she said, twisting her arm to reveal an inconsequential gash below the shoulder. “And my palm.” She held out her hand where the cut had been made.

Jeran walked over to her, his expression now serene, and lifted both arms. Audie flinched as the stump approached her.

“Sorry,” he said. “Force of habit. Something I’ll have to get used to.” The words came out thickly, as if he was choking back tears. He began the low murmur of a chant, concentrating the healing aura into his remaining hand. After he was done, he nodded and smiled at Audie. “Thank you.”

The Dusken Knight stepped forward too, holding out her palm. The cut had drawn little blood, and the skin had already begun to close. He healed it anyway, wiping out any trace of the cut.

“Master?” said Jeran, turning to Yannick.

Saying nothing - what was there left to say? - he turned over his palm, revealing the wound he’d sustained. The blood was beginning to clot now, and it had mixed with the dust and dirt, leaving a foul-coloured stain on his hand.

Jeran smiled at him, his composure recovered again. He whispered a chant and the cut closed. Yannick felt a gentle headrush and flexed his fingers. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… I-I should have listened to you.”

Jeran shook his head sadly. “It is the will of the Father,” he said. His eye twitched as he tried to smile again. “Please forgive my words.”

He turned then to his own hand, or what remained of it. The charred surface had begun to crack, revealing raw, weeping flesh beneath. He muttered a low chant and the blue aura began to form around his remaining hand. He brought it to the stump, but nothing happened.

Shocked, he tried again.

The cracked flesh didn’t stir. The blackened outer layers of his skin remained.

Yannick took a step forward. He’d only seen magical damage that couldn’t be healed once before.

The priest’s began to sob anew. They stood around him, uncertain and awkward. Nothing they could say would ease his torment.

“Door,” said Virgil, her hoarse voice cutting through the uncomfortable conversation. She pointed to the small sliver of wall. Yannick must have missed it in the commotion. When the painting had been destroyed, the door would have revealed itself.

“We must continue,” said Yannick, his voice sturdier than he felt.

He approached the door first and turned the handle. Were there to be a trap, he would take it upon himself. He’d had enough of sacrificing others. He felt the pangs of fear as he turned the handle, but nothing happened. Inside, a passageway led off into the distance. He gagged as the wave of subterranean air hit him. It was heavy with damp and decay. Torches burned weakly on the walls, giving a sickly glow to the passage.

“How can there be a tunnel here?” asked Audie. “We should be basically at the other side of the tower now.”

“Space inside the tower is different. It doesn’t align with what you expect from the outside,” Yannick said.

“It’s not real?”

“I never said that,” Yannick said. “Quickly now, follow me.”

The passage was narrow enough that only two of them could walk side-by-side. Yannick was relieved that Virgil was following with the priest. The man needed any support he could get right now, even if he pretended to accept God’s choice. Beyond that, he was in no state for combat.

“Yannick,” said Audie, her voice a whisper from beside him. “Why doesn’t Jeran heal his hand?”

“I don’t think he can. You can’t heal that kind of magic.” The wild-eyed expression of the cackling Revivalist appeared in his mind. He shuddered.

“Have you seen it before?

“It’s a magic best left alone,” Yannick said.

“The kind that’s real heresy?” said Audie.

“Yes.”

Audie said nothing for a while. “You said you had seen it before.”

“I didn’t.” He sighed. “But yes. Once.”

“How do you know it’s so bad? Other than like, the bad stuff it does.” She sniffed the air. “How do you know it’s different from just… your kind of magic?”

“I can tell. All magics look different to a mage.”

“What does that one look like?” Audie said.

“It doesn’t look like magic, for one. It looks like prayer,” Yannick said.

“Like prayer?” she asked. “Like the kind that Jeran does?”

“More or less. I suspect he cannot heal his hand because the magical signature is too similar,” Yannick said.

“I thought prayer wasn’t magic, not really. A priest told me it was Father’s blessings.”

“It’s one theory,” said Yannick sourly. “But I tell you this: what happened to Jeran is the very same kind of magic - or prayer - that he uses for healing. If his prayer is the blessings of Father, then that… that would be the curse of Father.”

He raised his hand to silence her further questions. How long had they been walking here? He’d lost track of time since they’d entered here. Was that the creeping madness of mana drain, or was it a peculiar attribute of this room?

“What’s that?” Audie said. He followed her gaze to a fork in the path ahead. In the middle of the fork something had been inscribed on the stone wall. She took a step towards it. Before Yannick could warn her, there was an enormous grinding sound from below the passageway.

The ground split open beneath the scout’s feet, revealing a dark chasm. With the wicked reactions of a cat, she managed to support herself between the walls for a moment - then she fell below.

Yannick screamed. Virgil and Jeran came running from behind. They saw the floor below them close, the stone floor meshing back together with no sign of a split.

“Where’s Audie?” asked Virgil. She looked at Yannick with burning eyes, her sword already drawn.

There was a tremendous, thundering crack as the ceiling directly above the fork opened. Yannick braced himself for whatever fresh hell was about to arrive.

There was a scream as a figure fell from the open hole of the ceiling.

Audie fell hard on the stone floor, landing on her side. She groaned slightly, but she stirred. The priest rushed to her, but she raised a hand.

“It’s fine,” said Audie. Her voice was strained and winded, but she sounded fine. “I’m alright.” She pushed herself to her feet and dusted herself off. She looked a little shocked, but none the worse considering what had happened.

“How did I end up back here? Didn’t I fall through… through there?” asked Audie, pointing to the now-closed floor that had swallowed her.

Yannick took a step towards the open ceiling above and peered into it. He cast a small light incantation into his hands and released it into the darkness above.

“It’s a loop,” he said. “You drop something here and it appears from above. But for what purpose?”

“A decent deterrent,” said Jeran. “Were you unlucky enough to fall through his hole and not quite as used to falling as a scout, you’d be in a bad way.”

Yannick nodded. Audie had rolled off the fall as if it were nothing, but it wouldn’t have been the same for him. Even with a priest on hand, breaking one’s pelvis wouldn’t be a pleasant experience. “Perhaps. There’s something written here.”

He pointed to the inscription written by the fork.

“It’s written in Old.” He waved the priest over.

Jeran took a long look. “My Old is mainly liturgical. This is the early kind, a sort of hybrid between cuneiform and an early alphabet. It must be ancient.”

“Can you translate it?”

“I can try.”