Chapter 332: Malum Antiquum |
Malum Antiquum
Emma
Saint Candidate Emma limped up the stairs, leaning heavily on the squire while the bailiff kept close behind. They had pulled her away from the horrific fight below.
“Anna...” she sobbed as they hurried on, thinking her friend had been killed.
The staircase was wide and straight, yet crowded, with old cabinets, drawers, and tables lining both sides. Their surfaces were dull and dusty beneath the dim lanternlight, all worn with age. The clutter narrowed the way, so the three could only move in a tight file.
As they pressed upward in haste, one of them brushed too hard against a cabinet. It lurched, struck another, and set off a chain of collisions.
“Watch out!” the official at the back yelled.
Emma gasped and quickly threw her hands over her head just before old furniture toppled around them with a violent crash. Damp old wood slammed against stone, drawers burst loose, and the noise roared through the stairwell. The three nearly lost their footing in the chaos.
“Sister, are you hurt?” the squire asked, bracing a falling chair with one arm while stopping a tilting cabinet with his back.
“Excuse me,” the official at the back said as he moved beside her and helped the squire push the cabinet back into place.
Meanwhile, Emma brushed debris from her clothes.
Then came voices from farther up the stairs.
“What a mess. The old cabinets came down again,” a man said.
“Oh, great. More work,” a younger voice complained.
“Call the others. Come on, we cannot leave our men and the Bannerets trapped like this,” a more senior voice said with calm authority. Then he caught the shifting noise below. “Is there anyone there?”
“Yes!” the official shouted back from behind the collapsed furniture. “There are three of us down here. Can you help us clear this?”
“We’re on it,” came the reply as the men above started down the stairs to clear the mess.
After the squire and the official managed to keep everything around them from collapsing, the latter turned his gaze toward the stairs below and suddenly noticed the absence of fighting sounds.
“Listen,” he called to the other. “The fight has stopped.”
The other two turned in the same direction.
“Anna,” Emma muttered again through the pain, then looked up at the two men and pleaded, “If the fighting has stopped, then help me go back. I need to see her.”
“You’re injured, Sister. It would be better if you headed upstairs to get treatment—”
“I’m a healer. Just give me a chance to deal with this.” Sitting on the stone steps, Emma examined her right ankle while the official held his lantern above her. Sweat beaded on her brow as she carefully felt along the joint and quickly judged it to be a sprain. “Don’t be alarmed,” she told the two men.
Emma inhaled deeply and channeled strength and healing through her body and limbs. Then, in one swift and deliberate motion, she set the injured ankle back into place with a sharp crack.
The sound made both men squirm.
Emma stiffened at the burst of pain, her breath catching in her throat. But it passed quickly, and almost at once she felt the joint settle far better than before. “This way it won’t swell too much,” she said with visible relief.
Emma slowly rose and tried her leg. The other two quickly caught her by the arms, and she was glad for the help. She tested her right leg and, despite the weakness and throbbing pain, she knew she could walk. “I think I can walk again. Just not run.”
The other two nodded, impressed by the healing.
With the stairs still blocked and the Saint Candidate insisting on returning downstairs, the men were not sure what to do. The official adjusted the lantern in his hand and, to buy time, asked with genuine curiosity, “Why are there so many wooden furnishings down here?”
Emma followed his gaze and explained, “They were brought here so the old wood could be reused for caskets, which we always need.”
Seeing more questions in their eyes, she added, “The Monastery is a popular place for healing. Our hot springs help weary bodies, but not even they and the best healing magic can cure old age or those who are too gravely ill. So we still deal with many deaths.”
“I see,” the official mumbled.
The squire had a question. “Forgive me for asking, but wouldn’t it be better to buy caskets from a nearby village? Why go to the trouble of making them here? It must require a great many carpenters.”
Emma smiled faintly, remembering her student days. “Yes, I asked the same question many years ago. It turns out it is bad for business.”
The two men exchanged glances.
Emma gave a short snort and explained, “Imagine this. The Monastery promises healing, but on the road here, you keep seeing a steady stream of fresh caskets being carried up the hill. What do you think that would imply?”
The official nodded in understanding. Normally, he might have laughed, but he was wary of offending her.
Sighing, Emma felt a pang of guilt. She had enjoyed the conversation, yet her friend had just died, and here she was talking about such trivial things.
Just as she was about to descend the stairs, she caught a familiar scent. Sniffing softly, Emma recognized it at once. It was one of the high-quality embalming materials. But why was it coming from inside a cloth cabinet? Curiosity drew her toward it.
The two men noticed, but did not interrupt.
She studied the cabinet and saw that it had been sealed much like a coffin. It was dry, old, and had broken open in the fall. She was curious. Why would an ordinary wardrobe cabinet be sealed like a coffin? Yet she hesitated, fearful of what might be inside.
Seeing her hesitate, the official handed her the lantern and, without saying a word, stepped forward and tried the cabinet door. It resisted at first, but at last it swung open, sending dust into the air.
What was inside startled all three of them.
“A corpse?” the official blurted out.
Emma gasped and covered her mouth with both hands.
“By the Ageless,” the squire muttered as he stared inside. A corpse had been crammed into the cabinet, hunched in a twisted crouch.
The bailiff official raised the lantern and brought the light closer for a better look. To him, it wasn't horror so much as a baffling discovery.
He then asked, “Sister, is this a common practice here?”
“Of course not.” Emma shook her head, sweat running down her face. “We treat the dead with respect. I never knew anyone would—” She gagged, one hand clamping over her nose as she fought the urge to vomit.
The official, speaking with the bluntness of a man used to such things, commented, “I’m surprised there isn’t a stronger smell.”
Emma moved a few steps away before replying, “Our embalming agent is the best. It has to be, to prepare deceased patients for their long journey home. Still, we would never use a common cabinet.”
“So this is a case. It could be murder.”
“There is no murder—” she said before stopping abruptly. Carefully, Emma turned toward the body again and noticed the clothing. The formal outer robe was missing, but the inner garment was unique.
Her stomach lurched, her last meal threatening to come up as dread settled over her. “I-I know her.”
The two men looked at her.
“The clothing... t-that’s the old abbess.” Her voice was strained.
“Abbess?” the squire said in surprise. “The one before the Saint?”
“We... we were told she fell ill and retired when Saint Nay took power. But there have always been rumors that the Saint killed her.” Emma was in shock. The day had been brutal for her.
As they spoke, more light shone from upstairs. The men above had cleared the last of the fallen furniture.
“Oi, it’s clear now,” one of them shouted from above.
“Walk carefully. It should be safe,” another said in a calm, authoritative voice before asking, “How’s the situation downstairs?”
“We’re not sure,” the squire began. “There’s been some fighting, and we were tasked to bring Sister Emma upstairs for treatment.”
They had barely taken that in when a blast of light flared from downstairs.
Emma could hardly believe her senses. Even from there, she could sense that it was something powerful.
“What is that?” the squire exclaimed.
“Stay with her,” the official said. He snatched up the lantern and ran downstairs.
Driven by the urge to help their comrades, the other two men from upstairs rushed down after him.
Emma could do nothing but wait. She did not have to wait long. Soon, a man came up from below looking for her.
“Sister Emma, Sir Morton requests your presence at once. There are medical emergencies,” said the man in a black-and-gray cloak, whose bearing made it clear he outranked everyone else.
At word of a medical emergency, Emma wasted no time. She did not even ask about Anna. She was quickly escorted downstairs.
...
“Anna,” Emma cried in her heart the moment she saw her friend lying on the floor, wounded and covered with a cloak as a makeshift blanket, while two men stood watch over her. Ignoring the crowd’s gaze, Emma limped to her side with the squire’s help and checked her condition.
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A towering man in black armor with long curly hair walked toward her. “Healer,” he called. “I have a man who urgently needs your care. As for her, let me continue treating her.”
Emma looked at the Mage Knight, and nodded. She knew he was not lying. She could feel the traces of his healing magic within Anna.
“Gratitude, Sir,” Emma said, then quickly moved to the SAR Captain with the squire’s help and began to examine him.
The man’s face was pale, and his heart had stopped. Only magic was keeping him from dying, but it was futile.
She was taken aback by his condition. Nothing had prepared her for this. Yet she had once heard her master speak of such a thing.
“Stand back,” Emma warned the armed men around them. “And don't react. Give me your full trust.”
Drawing magic from her vessel, she leaned over the man and poured it into his chest before suddenly striking his breastbone with the heel of her hand, startling everyone. The Vice, who was there, readily barred anyone from trying to interfere. Emma then placed both hands, one over the other, at the center of his chest and pressed down in hard, steady thrusts.
But that was not all. To the men’s disbelief, she bent low, sealed her mouth over his, and blew air into him. Then she drew back and returned to pressing his chest. Again and again, she repeated the strange procedure while chanting indistinct words and supporting his head whenever she gave him air.
The men could only watch. A few looked ready to voice their doubts, but the Vice fixed them with a hard stare that stopped them at once.
After the sixth or seventh repetition, the motionless body suddenly drew in a sharp breath, as though waking from death itself. His body and limbs jerked, and he broke into violent coughing, choking like a drowning man.
“Captain!” his men cried as they rushed toward him.
A few whispered about the kiss of life they had just witnessed.
Emma simply sank to the floor, sweating and breathing hard. She was not skilled enough in strengthening magic, and forcing it together with healing had drained her badly. “Do not let him sit,” she said between breaths. “Keep him lying down for a while. Let his heart find its rhythm again.”
The Vice knelt beside her and offered her a drink. She accepted it gladly. It had been some time since she had last had anything to drink.
Watching this, someone asked, “How about a drink? Can he drink?”
“In a few moments,” Emma answered. “Let him gather his thoughts first.” Then, realizing what she had just said, she looked at the man and asked, “Meister, do you remember where you are?”
The older man gazed at her, still dragging air into his lungs. “I remember... the lowest level of the Monastery.” He coughed and winced, one hand twitching weakly at his side. “I was fighting...” His brow tightened as he tried to force the memory back. “That is all I remember. Did we win?” He asked the last part to his men.
“Yes, Sir Morton was able to bring the girl down,” one of them answered.
“She,” he said, still gasping, “she’s innocent. Something possessed her.”
“Possessed?” Emma blurted out, realizing they were talking about Anna.
“That is correct.” The one who answered was the Mage Knight, having just finished another healing treatment on Anna. “I was forced to perform a rites on her. Her vessel is unfortunately broken.”
“No... my poor Anna.” Emma rose and limped back to her, the squire dutifully supporting her.
The Mage Knight and the Vice followed behind with steady steps. Once they stopped near her, Sir Morton said, “Fear not. She still has the gift. She can still learn to heal through her own source.”
Emma wept, but mastered herself enough to ask calmly, “So the light from before, that was you, Sir?”
“Yes.”
She pulled back the cloak that had been covering Anna and examined her wounds. As she did, the Mage Knight said, “Sister, please do not resist. Let my magic flow through you.”
Guarded, she turned to him. “Why?”
“So whatever possessed her will not get you.”
Emma tightened her brows. “Even as Healers, we are not wholly unguarded against fell beasts or corrupted arts.”
At that, the Vice interjected, “Your friend showed nothing suspicious before she suddenly slit my man’s throat.”
“No...” Emma muttered in disbelief. “Anna would never do such a thing. She is incapable of it.”
“But it is true,” Sir Morton said firmly. “She begged me to kill her, but I severed her vessel, and it seemed to work against the possession.”
“What do you mean?”
“It seems whatever corrupted her came from within,” the Mage Knight said somberly.
Emma could not believe it. If that were true, the implications would be immense.
The Mage Knight continued, “Past this wall of caskets, I found a scene of mass suicide, and the dead had been arranged in more than a circle.”
“A summoning circle?” Emma asked, distraught. She knew it as a method to summon corrupted beings, though the art itself was no longer known.
Taking her silence as acceptance, the Mage Knight let his magic flow toward Emma without touching her. She accepted it, though she felt faintly violated as a rush of air passed through her throat and entered her lungs.
Without waiting for her to grow used to it, the Mage Knight was already reciting from the grimoire of fell beasts. “Gobelin, the first corruption. Fairies and imps. Ghul and ghulah, the beguilers. The accursed cauldron-born. Djinn, the shapeshifter—”
“I’m aware. We studied it in the Monastery,” Emma said. “But none of them can possess a person. A ghul can lure men by taking the form of a lost relative or some harmless old woman. If no one sees through the trick, she devours them. But she cannot simply take hold of a man’s will.”
The corner of Sir Morton’s lips lifted slightly. “But a Nesuferit might.”
At that word, Emma stiffened. Shaken, she asked, “You are telling me my people tried to summon a Nesuferit?”
“I am saying your people were misled into summoning such a creature.”
A heavy silence fell between them.
At last, Sir Morton said, “Let me take you there.”
The Vice quickly reassured her. “Trust us to evacuate the wounded. She will be taken care of. Our men know how to carry the wounded on stretchers.”
Before anyone could move, a sudden crash burst out from beyond the wall of caskets, followed by the sound of splintering wood and wood overturning. Every head turned at once.
“Evacuate the wounded,” Sir Morton ordered as he removed the gauntlet from his left hand and took Emma’s hand as gently as he could.
The Vice at once began arranging his men. Some were to evacuate the wounded, while the rest would follow after them. In the chaos, they had left their commander unguarded, and that might cost them dearly.
***
Sir Harold
A damp breath of air passed through Sir Harold and the SAR with two crossbows. Then they heard it.
A slow drip.
Then, something moved in the shadows among the benches.
At once, the SAR turned his lantern toward it. The wavering light swept across rows of bodies seated stiffly behind rotting desks, their heads bowed as though listening to some silent verdict. The smell of old death suddenly thickened in the air.
The dripping continued.
Sir Harold advanced in long strides to investigate, his lantern burning bright in the dark. Then wood creaked somewhere deeper among the rows of benches. He drew his sword at once, intent on sending even the dead back to their graves.
The SAR narrowed his eyes, his hands tightening on his Xbow as he followed his commander.
Another sound followed.
A shifting scrape.
Sir Harold broke into a run toward it.
Then came a sudden crash. One of the benches toppled in the dark beyond the lantern’s reach. Bodies slid from it and struck the floor with dull, hollow thuds.
“There!” the SAR shouted as he spotted something moving through the rows.
Another bench tipped sideways. A corpse rolled from its seat and struck the stone.
The SAR rushed right, keeping his lantern fixed on the movement.
Sir Harold vaulted a bench without hesitation, and when the old wood cracked under his weight, he paid it no mind. He shoved bodies aside and forced his way over the rows.
In the SAR’s lantern beam, a figure darted behind the seated dead. His trained instincts kicked in. The SAR aimed and unleashed a rhythmic burst of two bolts. The shots snapped through the dark and struck stone with sharp clacks.
The figure flinched and slowed down.
Sir Harold’s lantern swung wildly as he barreled through the rows, brushing past the dead as though they were tall weeds. Then, seeing he had nearly closed the distance, he flung the lantern aside and lunged. With brutal speed and force, he tackled the fleeing figure to the ground. Both crashed into the benches.
With the ease of trained reflex, Sir Harold raised his sword high, ready to drive it down into the figure.
“Stop!” a voice cried from the wreckage. “I give up!” Then, in a more desperate, cracking voice, the figure yelled, “I surrender.”
Sir Harold seized the figure by the collar, hauled him up, and dragged him out into the open.
The SAR quickly took the man from Sir Harold and held him fast by the arm. He was tall and lanky, with a pale face and an odd aroma that carried even through the stench of death. More importantly, he wore a gray robe. “Who are you?”
“Don’t hurt me. I’m just a clerk.” He blinked rapidly, half-blinded by the lantern light.
“You’re not one of those Believers?” the SAR asked.
“No. Never. I was just a clerk,” he repeated, brushing bits of wood from his bruised, bloodied skin.
“Why are you here?” Sir Harold asked, ignoring his lost lantern, which now glowed from a dead body’s lap.
“Hiding. I was trying to save myself. Don’t hurt me—”
The SAR exhaled as he scanned the surroundings. “The fighting is over. Is there anyone else with you?”
“No. They’re dead. Even my stupid brother. I can’t believe it. He took a knife and pressed it to his belly. I tried to stop him, but he was... he was...” He trailed off, then rambled on. “He’s so fat, you know? He couldn’t possibly kill himself with a small knife. But he tried it anyway, like a moron. He ended up slitting his wrist.” The man trembled, then cried, “Why did he do that? What is going on?”
Sir Harold and the SAR exchanged glances, both thinking that either the man had lost his wits or there was more to the mass suicide.
Then, from behind them, came lights and hurried footsteps.
“Commander!” one of the men in front called.
Behind him, Sir Morton arrived, guiding Sister Emma by the hand. She looked distraught at the sight before her.
“We’re here. We found one survivor,” the SAR man called back to them.
The two groups now combined. Besides the two Bannerets, the Vice, a squire, Sister Emma, and a bailiff official, there were another eight men of the SAR and select men-at-arms with them.
“You broke the formation?” Sir Morton asked as they walked toward the center of the hall, where the dead bodies lay.
“Was it wrong?” Sir Harold asked.
“Of course not. Good instinct even,” the Mage Knight said in approval.
Sir Harold gave a snort at that reaction. “So what do you make of all this?”
“I am still trying to figure it out. But most likely they succeeded in summoning a corrupted being.”
Sir Harold sighed sharply. “A fell beast, you say.”
“Could be. I am not sure.” Sir Morton’s reply was brief.
“With due respect,” the Vice chimed in, “whatever it is, the Saint is dead. Sister Anna is free from spirit possession. This is probably all over.”
Behind them, Sister Emma spoke. “Uncle?”
That drew their attention at once. Emma seemed to recognize the lone survivor.
“Sister Emma...?” He clearly recognized her. Even here, bruised and shaken, she still looked like one of the most noble and beautiful among the Sisters. “Did they capture you too?”
“They liberated the Monastery. We are free.”
“Free? But the Saint?” the man asked, lowering his voice with care.
“The Saint is dead,” said their SAR escort, one crossbow held low in his hand, the other slung across his back.
“What? Where?” the man asked.
The SAR pointed toward the decapitated body clad in a white robe.
The man Emma had called Uncle went wide-eyed, then ran toward it. He stopped short and searched for the head. When he found it, he hesitated, then used the shaft of a lantern he found nearby to nudge it and turn the face into view. The moment he saw it, he blurted, “I knew it!”
He turned to the group. “She’s not the Saint.”
Many frowned at once.
“Then who is that?” the SAR challenged back.
Before Uncle could reply, a low rumble came again. Many glanced around.
The Vice turned to Sister Emma. “Is that common down here?”
“The hill lies in a hot spring area, but I have never known it to be this active,” Emma replied, a trace of tension in her voice.
Then came a loud creak.
Another followed.
Low groans rose through the hall, and at once everyone tensed, unconsciously drawing into a circle.
The rumbling came again, now closer than ever.
Sir Morton jumped over the bodies and strode toward the Great Gemstone, then triggered its light. A bright white flash flooded the whole hall. Eyes accustomed to the dark flared with pain. But what it revealed made every eye widen.
A true macabre of death had unfolded.
The hundreds of bodies seated on the benches were now reanimated.
Lifeless embalmed arms twitched. Their preserved dried muscles were now awash with new vitality. Blood seeped back. Bodily fluids dripped. Heads jerked at broken angles. Shoulders shuddered. Dead hands scraped against the rotting desks as if some last remnant of memory still clung to them.
All across the hall, corpses stirred in dreadful, uneven, restless motions.
“Harold!” Sir Morton shouted.
Many turned toward the Mage Knight.
“This is no ordinary fell creature,” he warned, his voice tight. “This is a lich.”
“How vulgar,” came a sweet voice from the tunnel, soft and refined, yet edged with anger. “I have gone beyond the frail limits of humanity and touched the elven heights of arcane mastery, yet you would mistake me for some abomination? It is always the firefly that thinks itself fit to name the moon.”
Uncle staggered back, his face twisting with terror. “She’s here. She’s here...”
The SAR reached for him, trying to steady him, but the man cried out, “That's the bitch,” he cried. “The living bitch.”
Then she appeared.
Wearing yellowed burial raiment, a youthful woman with long, dull hair emerged from the darkness of the tunnel.
Cold sweat ran down Emma’s back. Her breath caught as she stared, struggling to believe what she was seeing. Saint Nay was leading the dead.
A golden specter perched on the Saint's left hand, and warped men in broken armor, torn robes, and ruined garments flanked her. Two among them stood out at once.
The first was the Caretaker, or what had become of him. Emma recognized the large-framed man beneath the black-and-red robe, though it now barely concealed the unnatural bulk shifting under it. His belly hung exposed where the cloth had fallen open, the skin blackened and swollen. His face was bloated and rotting, stretched around a large, gaping mouth that held no tongue.
The other was a figure trapped inside Midlandian knightly armor that no longer fit him. His swollen body and massive arms bulged through split seams, as though his flesh had outgrown the knight he used to be. His face had swollen beyond recognition, far removed from anything human. Worse, his tongue hung all the way down to his belly.
Behind them stood hundreds, if not a thousand, equally grotesque figures, clad in fraying, worn robes, many of them armed with rusted swords.
For two hundred years, the Monastery had stood, and in that time, thousands of wealthy dead had been buried in its catacombs.
Before they could take in the full horror, the hundred who had died by suicide began to stir. Fingers twitched. Wrists jerked. Limbs dragged and flailed. One corpse lurched halfway to its feet. Another reached for a crossbow lying on the floor.
The men reacted at once. Swords flashed downward. Blades hacked through dead flesh.
“Strike the heart!” the Vice shouted as he drove his own blade into a body’s back.
But it was already clear. The undead had risen. Not tens of them, but an army of thousands. Unless stopped, they could overrun the Monastery and swallow the hill. By tomorrow, the entire surrounding region could be lost.
A fell creature of legend had been born.
A lich mother.
***