The fluid surged from the jug in a yellow-hued glob, filling the mul’s mouth with the sour taste of vinegar. Rikus reflexively sat up to spit out the gummy fluid, banging his forehead into cold stone. The lid budged open enough for him to glimpse a pale flicker of yellow light, then the foul liquid in his mouth slipped down the mul’s throat. He dropped back into the box and smashed his head against the bottom of the stone prison. The lid returned to its place with a sharp bang.
Where he had banged it into the stone, the mul’s skull ached terribly, and the foul water he had swallowed was already making him nauseous. Nevertheless, Rikus had to restrain himself from crying out in joy. He placed a hand on the lid and shoved with all his might. The stone slab slipped off the box and crashed to the floor with a loud boom that echoed off walls not too far distant.
Returning his good hand to the hilt of his sword, the mul sat up. He found himself in a small chamber with a low ceiling. It was dimly lit in a dozen different colors, each cast by a magnificent glowing gem set into the lid of a stone sarcophagus. Carved into the top of the twelve coffins was the bas-relief figure of a sleeping warrior. On the box next to Rikus’s, a huge citrine cast an eerie glow over the figure of a broaded-shouldered woman with close-cropped hair.
“A tomb!” Rikus gasped, a cold knot of fear forming in his chest. He did not voice the question that consumed all his thoughts: who had brought him here, and why?
The mul struggled out of his sarcophagus, his injured shoulder and leg aching terribly as he stepped over the coffin’s cracked cover. The carving on it represented a bald human with features so rugged and blocky that he might have been a dwarf, if not for his round ears and long bushy beard. His eyes were sunken and wild, with a heavy brow covered by a thick line of hair. Though the dark orbs were made of stone, they seemed almost live with ire and hatred.
In his hands, the man held a long bastard sword identical to the Scourge of Rkard. His body was covered by a full suit of plate armor, save that the visored helmet hung a little above the warrior’s shaven head. In the forehead of this basinet was set an orange opal. Unlike the gems of the other sarcophagi, this one remained dark.
Though the opal was clearly worth a hundred silver coins, Rikus did not even consider prying it from its setting. With Neeva and the rest of the thirsty legion waiting outside, he had no time for grave-robbing. Besides, the tomb filled his heart with such gloom and apprehension that he had no wish to tarry in it a moment longer than necessary.
When he scanned the murky room for an exit, he found none. The walls were lined with panels of bas-relief sculpture, but there was no visible opening in any of them. The mul stepped over to the closest and inspected it more carefully, hoping to find the seam of a concealed door.
The stone carvings depicted the same bearded warrior shown on the lid of the mul’s sarcophagus. The man was leading the assault on a warren of bearded dwarves resembling those pictured in the murals of the Tower of Buryn. The visor of the warrior’s helm was raised to reveal a broad, demented grin, and behind him lay the mutilated bodies of dozens of dwarves. Ahead of the armored figure fled many more, all looking over their shoulders at the gore-dripping sword that would soon cut them down.
Other sections of the panel depicted acts even more horrid. In one, the warrior had skewered the bodies of three dwarven children on his sword. In another he was drawing the blade across the abdomens of six women, leaving a trail of entrails and blood spilling from the wounds he had opened. Always, the warrior’s victims were dwarves and, always, they were depicted as frightened and dying.
Sickened by the scene and unsuccessful in finding any cracks or seams that could have been a door, Rikus moved along to inspect the rest of the panels. Like the first, the others portrayed hateful warriors leading attacks on defenseless dwarves. In one, the broad-shouldered woman depicted on the coffin with the citrine was filling a large cavern with dwarven bodies. Another showed a tall, gaunt warrior attacking a group of sleeping dwarven women.
When he came to the last panel, still without finding an exit, the mul closed his eyes for a moment. He took several deep breaths, trying to fight back the despair welling in his breast. In his mind flashed images of his dry and desiccated corpse sitting in the corner of the gloomy chamber, the jug of foul liquid from his sarcophagus sitting half full at his side.
“I won’t die like that,” Rikus said. “If someone carried me in here, there must be a way out.”
His spirits somewhat restored by the sound of his own voice, the mul opened his eyes and inspected the last panel. It portrayed a fully armored warrior leading a legion tbrough a forest. They were slaughtering a tribe of dwarves fleeing with all their possessions on their backs.
No matter how closely he looked, Rikus found no seams anywhere in the carving.
“Let me out!” the mul yelled.
He whirled around and pushed the closest sarcophagus to the floor. The glowing amethyst embedded in its lid went skittering across the cold stones, and the coffin itself shattered into a dozen shards. A withered corpse, held intact only by the suit of steel armor it wore, tumbled out of the shattered box.
The mul stared down at the body, awed by the sight of its corroding weapons and armor. He had never before seen a suit of man-sized steel plate, not even in the armories of King Kalak.
As the mul studied the armor, a gray shadow left the glowing amethyst and slipped across the floor to the corpse. It slithered into the armor, then the dead man’s head turned to look up at Rikus. A thin layer of gray, papery skin still covered the man’s face. The corpse’s leathery lips pulled back in a nasty sneer, and in the empty eye sockets twinkled eerie purple lights.
Rikus cried out in fear, then stepped back and drew his sword. Although he held the Scourge of Rkard in his hand, the tomb remained silent to his ears. The mul heard nothing but his own blood rushing through his body, his breath stirring the still crypt air, and the rapid pounding of his terrified heart.
When the corpse did not rise, Rikus dared to hope that it would leave him alone. He slowly backed away, moving as carefully and quietly as he could.
A woman’s throaty voice demanded, “What are you doing?” Put it back!”
Rikus stopped moving, barely finding the courage to look toward the voice. When he did, he saw the gray silhouette of a broad-shouldered woman. Although the rest of her body appeared as no more than a shadow, the woman’s face remained well-defined in the form of a translucent, wavering a mask with citrine yellow eyes. If the spirit was anything to judge by, the woman had been strikingly beautiful, though there was no longer anything in her features that gave an impression of tenderness-if there every had been.
“Put what back?” Rikus asked, trying to control his mounting fear. “The coffin?”
“That is for you to decide,” the wraith answered, floating across the room to Rikus’s side.
She grasped the mul’s injured arm and raised it into the air. Rikus’s jaw fell open, for her clammy grip seemed as substantial and solid as that of any living being who had ever touched him.
“This is what you must return.”
The wraith opened her grip and Rikus’s sore arm dropped like a stone. A bolt of anguish shot through his shoulder.
“My arm?” Rikus gasped, groaning in pain.
The wraith pointed at the sarcophagus from which the mul had escaped earlier. “Your body. Put it back,” she insisted, pushing him toward the coffin. “The sooner your spirit departs your body, the sooner Rajaat will come.”
The mul allowed himself to be herded through the dimly lit room, unsure of whether he should swing his sword at the wraith or not. So far, she had done him no harm, and the prospect of starting a fight with anything undead frightened even him.