“There’s no way for you to understand,” said Boris, and he sounded sad. “You see, Velixar was a cruel one, and he was clever. Very clever. He knew what it’d be like to be down here alone, to crave company. I’d give so much for you to remain with me, Haern. I’d love to hear you speak of the outer world, of nations, your family, your friends. I yearn for stories like a drowning man craves land, but it never matters. Velixar did not just leave me imprisoned here. He filled me with a need.”
Boris took a step closer.
“A need to feed,” he said. “To taste blood upon my tongue. To tear flesh apart with my bare hands. I’ve fought it, Haern, but you are one of many, and I have long learned how useless it is to try.”
Another step.
“The paladins send me company,” he said. “Send me men and women who hate Karak as much as I do, who could ease my burden even if only for a few days, yet all I can do … what I must do … is kill any hope I have of escaping my solitude.”
“Stay back,” Haern warned, “unless you wish to test your claim at being unable to find death.”
Boris smiled so wide, it stretched ear to rotten ear.
“I will feed,” he said, and he licked his lips, his tongue like a dry sponge, and it left no moisture upon his cracked skin. “Many have tried, Haern. They always die, and as I feed, I cry their names so they may be remembered among the bones.”
His mouth dropped open, thin lips pulling back to reveal chipped teeth stained by the blood of the dead. From his throat came a screech, animalistic in its sound and intelligence, and Haern felt his skin crawl. Weapons ready, he braced himself as Boris charged, sword still sheathed. Against a normal foe, Haern would have thought it an easy victory, but the bones all around him provided ample warning. The man raced toward him like a bull eager to ram its target, the popping of his bones and clanking of his feet on the stone only heightening the horror of his mindless shriek.
Just before reaching him, Boris spread his arms as if to embrace him in a hug, and Haern leaped to one side, twisting his body in the air so he could lash out with his left hand. The sword sliced along the side of Boris’s neck, severing what should have been his jugular vein. But when Haern landed and he looked, he saw no blood, just a dry tear in the side of gray flesh. Boris turned, and the only visible life in him was the amused twinkle in his eyes.
“I don’t bleed,” Boris screamed, flinging himself at Haern again. Haern jumped back, slashing Boris’s throat and face. More cuts, doing nothing.
“I don’t sleep.”
Haern found himself running out of room, the gray man faster than he had any right to be. There was no hesitation to his moves, nor the slightest fear of harm coming to himself. Nearly trapped against the wall, he waited for another lunge from Boris, then dropped to a roll, slicing out in hopes of taking out the tendons in Boris’s legs. Instead of leaving him hampered, though, Haern’s swords caught on the thick banded plates protecting him, unable to penetrate further.
In mid-roll, Haern could only try to kick out fast enough to avoid Boris as he dropped atop him.
“I don’t breathe.”
Haern felt Boris’s hand catch his ankle, putting an end to his roll. He slammed onto his stomach, one of his swords slipping from his grip as his face struck the stone floor. Meanwhile, Boris tugged and tugged, his mouth open, his tongue hanging down like a dead gray worm as he pulled Haern’s leg closer.
“All I know to do,” he said, “is eat.”
With nothing else to do, nothing else to try, Haern took his sword, twisting to a sitting position, and plunged it straight into that gaping maw. It punched through the back of his throat and out the other side, lodging in tight. Haern released it when it was sunk all the way in, leaving Boris snapping his teeth down on the metal of the hilt. As the ancient man hacked and coughed, his head shaking violently as he tried to expel the blade, Haern repeatedly kicked the hand holding him. Fingers snapped one by one, and the moment he was loose, he rolled away before Boris could attempt to grab again.
Now free, he reached for his other sword and stalked back toward Boris.
“I’m sorry, Boris,” he said. “But I have a priest to find.”
He slammed the blade with all his strength against the man’s throat until it hit bone. The power of it knocked him to his back, and Haern struck again and again, as if he were a lumberjack trying to fell a tree. At last he heard a crack, and at that, he reached down, pinned Boris with his knees, and then twisted the head until there was a second, far louder crack.
“Gods damn it,” Haern said as he stood, holding Boris’s head in his hands. “Let go of my sword already.”
Sheathing one blade, he pulled the other from the head’s mouth, the blade sliding out through the hole it’d punched in the back of the head. Inspecting the weapon in the blue light, he saw no gore, no blood or goop or anything. Just dust. Shaking his head, he rolled the head toward the other side of the room, where it came to a thumping halt.
“Enjoy your rest,” he said, eyes scanning the darkness above him. “But it’s time for me to get out of here.”
Boris had said no one ever escaped, but with him there to attack and kill presumably unarmed and perhaps even bound men and women, he doubted anyone had been given sufficient time to try. Scooping up another handful of bones, he returned toward the middle and began tossing. On the fifth try, he heard a different sound, one that gave him pause.
Metal?
He threw a few more, some ringing of metal, yet a few falling silently back down.
A grate, he realized. He didn’t remember one upon falling down into the chamber. Perhaps it had been already open, or loose enough he hadn’t noticed during his fall? For all he knew, it shut by magic. What did matter, though, was that he had found his exit. Clearing a spot beneath so he could easily relocate it if need be, he stood there, arms crossed, mind racing. He needed some way to reach it, preferably a rope. It was only a few feet above his head, and he didn’t need much to try to grab ahold and test its resilience.
Glancing over at Boris’s body, he had a thought, one so absurd he laughed aloud.
“Surely you won’t mind,” he said as he knelt down beside the headless body. He lifted the man’s left arm, analyzing it. The fingers had curled in upon death, and testing them, he found them rigid. Flipping it over, he found the buckles to the banded armor and quickly removed them. The shirt beneath had long ago faded into nothing, and Boris’s skin beneath was sickeningly pale and cold to the touch. Tugging on the arm, he found the joints even stiffer than they should have been so recently after death.
No blood, he told himself. The body was far from normal, so just maybe …
He removed the chest piece as well as the shoulder pads, wanting a clear view of the dead man’s shoulder. With that done, he began hacking into it with a sword. Each cut made a sickening cracking noise, and after several swings, he grabbed the arm and began to wrench it violently side to side until at last he heard a pop. A few more swings and he cut the thing loose, not surprised to find that the connection between the arm and shoulder was much stronger than a normal corpse.
“I’m counting on you,” Haern said, carrying the arm back to the grate. “Just … hold together, all right?”
There was no swivel at the elbow, no movement whatsoever. Wielding it as he would a club, he held it by the far end of the arm, a bizarre extension with curled fingers reaching up into the black void unlit by the blue torchlight. Praying for a miracle, he swung the club, ramming the fingers into the grate. He heard a scraping sound coupled with a crack he could only assume was one of the bones in the fingers breaking. Trying not to get his hopes up, he closed his eyes and pulled.
The fingers held, and the grate swung down with ease. The torchlight just barely shone upon it, and Haern could tell it was thoroughly rusted over.