Richard Baker - Swordmage

As she’d said, the passage ran straight for a short distance, took a sharp right turn, and ended in a rough wall of stones piled high across the narrow corridor. Geran studied it for a moment, thinking. Something was odd here, he was sure of it. Many barrows were sealed by similar walls across the entrance-way; the people who’d interred their chiefs and heroes in such places simply walled them up when the burial rites were over, and then buried the passage they’d used to carry the dead man and his belongings into the burial chamber. He knelt and felt at the floor by the base of the wall. Rock chips and discarded stones littered the ground atop a thin layer of damp dirt.

“Hamil, have a look at this,” Geran said. “I think this wall’s been taken down and put up again.”

The halfling leaned close, studying the loosely piled field-stone. “You’re right. All the dirt and mold from between the stones is knocked out.”

Kara leaned over his shoulder. “Yes, I noticed that before. It didn’t make sense to me. Why would tomb-breakers put the wall back behind them?”

“Why, indeed,” Geran murmured. Because they wanted to keep people out? Or had they wanted to seal something inside? He found a deep, dirt-filled crevice between stones in the wall beside him and wedged the illuminated coin into it to free his hands. “All right, be ready. I’m going to move a few stones and have a look at what’s on the other side.”

“Geran, that might be dangerous,” Kara warned. “You know the harmach’s law.”

“I know it. But someone knocked this wall down and rebuilt it not too long ago, so it’s hardly like we’re the first people to open this barrow.” Geran found a loose stone near the top and began to pry it out. “Besides, if someone wanted to keep something dangerous inside, I doubt they would have taken the time to pile up rocks here. They’d have run for their horses and ridden off across the Highfells. I think that this wall was piled up here to keep us out, possibly by the men who killed Jarad. I want to know why.”

Kara gave him an unhappy look, but she came forward and helped him pry stones away from the wall. Hamil stayed back out of the way, moving the rocks they dislodged back down the passage to keep the way clear. In a few minutes Geran managed to open a sizable hole near the top of the wall. A cold breath of air with the distinct smell of stale meat sighed through the opening.

“I can smell something dead in there,” Kara said, grimacing. “Maybe we shouldn’t take out any more stones.”

Geran paused and listened carefully. It felt cold and the air was tainted… but he could not feel anything unnatural waiting in the darkness beyond. He and Hamil had plenty of experience with old crypts and tombs, including some that were haunted by the restless dead. He thought he knew the feel of such creatures close at hand. But to reassure himself, he retrieved his shining coin from the crack where he’d wedged it and held it close to the opening they’d made to peer through to the other side. He couldn’t see much yet, just the hint of more passage beyond. “Just a few more,” he decided.

“If a wight lunges out and claws off your face, it won’t be my fault,” Kara muttered. But she returned to the work, worrying free another stone.

Geran did the same, and then he was able to put his shoulder to the remaining mass and shove over most of what was left with a terrible crash and a great cloud of dust and dirt. Coughing, he backed up to let the dust settle.

In the dim yellow light of the spell, they found that the passage ran a bit farther to a burial chamber. Once it might have hidden the funereal wealth of an important chieftain, but it was clear that it had been emptied long ago-likely by the same men who’d originally excavated the mound’s doorway, Geran figured. The grave itself was a simple depression in the loose flagstone floor, covered by a chipped slab of roughly cut stone. The three companions spread out through the chamber, silently taking in the scene.

I don’t like this, Geran, Hamil whispered in his mind. You say that the dead in this land don’t rest well. We shouldn’t be here.

Something isn’t right here, Geran answered him. He’d been in a few barrows long ago, mostly ones long since opened and home to nothing but mice and dust. The harmach’s prohibition did not apply to tombs that someone else had already opened, after all. But something in this burial mound was out of place… the air was cold, and the smell of death lingered more strongly there. Why does it still smell that way? he wondered. It was hundreds of years old.

“Someone has been in here recently,” Kara said. She knelt, her fingers spread over the rough stones of the floor. Black earth and mold filled the crevices between the stones. “The same men who were outside when Jarad was here. I can tell by the bootprints. And there’s a lot of old blood here.”

The tomb slab, Geran realized. He moved over and crouched beside the heavy stone that covered the grave. “So some old party of tomb-breakers dug out the barrow and removed everything from this chamber,” he mused aloud, “but either they didn’t take anything from the body under this slab, or they put the slab back when they were finished. Neither seems very likely to me.”

Kara glanced over from where she knelt, and she frowned. “No, it’s not,” she agreed. She moved beside him and looked for herself. “This slab was dragged over and set here not long ago.”

“I thought so,” Geran answered. He glanced up at Kara and Hamil. “Be ready in case I’m wrong.” Then he shifted to get his fingers under the edge of the slab, tested its weight briefly, and breathed, “Sanhaer astelie!” Magical strength flooded into his limbs, and with one great heave he rose from his crouch, lifting with the power of his long legs, and threw the heavy slab away from the dank hole beneath. A sickening stench of foul air rose around him.

“Damnation!” Hamil hissed. Only a handful of despoiled bones remained of whatever chieftain had been buried there. But atop the ancient skeleton lay two additional bodies-the corpses of a young woman in a tattered dress of red wool and a short, broad-shouldered man in a shirt of mail. The woman’s skin was darkened and tight, and her sightless eyes stared up at the ceiling. Her throat had been cut. The soldier’s coat was dyed red from a wound just under his ribs that had left a long scarlet trail down his coat.

The smell was strong and unpleasant, and Geran quickly backed away, covering his mouth and nose. Kara and Hamil did likewise. “Two of Jarad’s killers, I suppose,” he managed from under his hand.

Kara held her hand over her nose. “I think she’s the woman who was with the riders. Her shoes match the marks I found outside. I was wondering why someone up in the Highfells would wear shoes better suited for a dance hall. As for the warrior, he could very well be one of the men injured in the fight in front of the barrow door. Perhaps Jarad managed to mortally wound one of his attackers before they cut him down.”

“Do you know the woman?” Geran asked.

Kara shook her head. “No, she could be anybody.” She knelt and looked closely at the body. “She’s dressed like a townswoman. And her wrists are tied behind her back.”

“What of the armsman, Kara?” Hamil asked.

“Look at the mail,” Geran answered for her. “It’s barred horizontally, Mulman-style.” That meant little in and of itself, but it was an unusual style. None of the armorers in Melvaunt or Thentia made their armor in that fashion; it was favored in the city of Mulmaster. He realized that he’d noticed mercenaries wearing Mulman-style mail recently and simply hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Thousands of armsmen wore Mulman armor, after all.