The Intruders

The living do not understand the dead. They think that because we have shuffled off our mortal coils that we no longer care. But I care. I care about my treasures. They are mine! I worked hard for them. I earned every one. My armor was a badge of honor in my life. My sword, enchanted by one of the mightiest wizards in the land, was a monument of my power and glory. And the living would come to my tomb and take them, and all my other possessions. That is why I cannot move on. I must remain here to guard all that I gained.

And the thieves come, again and again. It does not seem to matter how many I consume, more come to take what is rightfully mine. I cannot say that it is every day, for I have not seen the sun since my burial. I have even lost count of those whose lives have enriched my own. I suppose I could count the skulls that litter the floor, but that would really not accomplish much. I have no real interest in keeping count of the fools I kill and devour. My only concern is keeping what belongs to me.

And now, yet more arrive. A group of tomb robbers come to take away my treasures. They have heard tales of the General of old that lies here. No doubt they have also heard how none who came to rob this tomb have ever returned. Such stories give them hope that they will succeed where the others failed. If none have returned they will think to themselves, then the treasure must still be there, ours for the taking. But they are not here for their taking; they are here for my keeping.

Ah, I can hear the scraping of stone on stone as the fools remove the marker from the entrance of my home. The peasants of the village keep the stone there thinking it keeps me in. How quaint. I could remove it with all the effort of a man swatting a fly if I so desired. But I do not. The villagers have never come to take what is mine, so I see no reason to feast on their souls. These thieves, however, they are a different story. They will slake my thirst well, I am sure.

My tomb is ornate, as befits a man who held my rank in life. I was a great General, who claimed many lands in the name of my Emperor. I understand the Empire collapsed centuries ago. This does not surprise me. After all, without men of my ability to hold it together, the Empire was simply a clay pot, waiting to fall from the shelf and shatter.

I slip along one of the side passages leading off from my chamber of rest into the antechamber and purification chamber. I want to see my adversaries before I rush to the attack, although I doubt they have the skill or wit to bring me harm. There are four of them. One wears the robes and bears the staff that marks him as a magus. He might be a danger to me. Two others carry themselves as befit warriors, although I doubt they have the abilities the men of valor did in my day. They have become too reliant on their steel shells and prods. They think themselves indestructible in their casings. My armor and weapons are forged in gleaming bronze, while theirs are steel. Steel is definitely the superior metal, but I care not for such things now. My hands and the chill of the grave are my weapons, my deathless state my armor.

The fourth man concerns me. He does not wear the steel of a warrior or the robes of a wizard. He is definitely an unknown quantity. The question is, do I separate him from his companions and drink his soul first, or do I destroy his companions and then finish him when he is alone? The question is answered for me when the warriors move to the chamber of purification, and take the unknown with them. The wizard remains in the antechamber, studying the runes on the wall. They are written in the language of my people, but he seems to have some knowledge of civilized script, unlike most of the barbarians that live today. I am impressed. Not impressed enough to allow him to live after defiling my resting place, but impressed.

He reads what is written on the walls. His voice is soft like silk. I suspect his flesh is equally soft. Soon I will know for certain. “…and in the third winter of the age of the White Wolf, was the great warlord buried here,” he reads. “And let all who enter this place know, that which belongs to the dead must remain with the dead…Hmm, what is this rune…”

I choose to finish the sentence for him. My voice is not soft. In the centuries since my death, my voice has taken on a tone much like that of the marker stone scraping against the lintel outside. “For the dead have a terrible thirst for vengeance and the souls of the living. And you have awakened both thirsts in me.” I grab his throat from behind, not only to feel the pulse of his life flowing through his fragile flesh into my hands, but also to keep him silent. A mage that can speak is never a helpless foe. One that is silenced is at the mercy of the silencer.

I feel his life flooding from his fragile form into my own withered flesh. The taste is sweeter than the sweetest wine I consumed in life. His terror adds a tang that no spice from the islands could ever match. His power as a wizard gives his life a bold flavor that I have seldom sampled. As always, once I begin, I find I cannot stop until every drop is drained from the flesh. His flesh dries and withers, even more than my own, and I release the empty husk, ready to feast on the next course.

I find them admiring the treasures of my tomb. They have not even bothered to undergo the proper purification rituals. They would not have saved the robbers, but had they done so, I might have allowed them to escape with a simple snapping of their necks and foregone the pleasure of dining on their very lives. Oh well, what can one expect from barbarians.

As I stalk behind them, their attention shifts to my bier, although the plain-dressed man seems distracted by something. He keeps shifting his gaze so that I must duck behind the pillars that support the roof, to avoid being seen until I so desire. Finally he joins his two companions. I think I must kill him first. I have a bad feeling when I look at him.

One of the steel-cloaked men speaks up. “Where is the body? There’s supposed to be an enchanted weapon with it. Maybe bronze, but magic’s magic.”

The second warrior speaks. “Someone must have gotten here before us. Although you have to wonder why they didn’t take the gold or the jewels…”

The oddity speaks up. His voice is reminiscent of my own when I lived, hard as bronze and cold as the hearth after a month’s campaign. “Someone has been here before us, indeed. Many many years before we came. And he remains still, to see to it that the gold and jewels and even the sword never leave this place. My ancient ancestor, the mad warlord Alkemesh apparently did not know when it was his time to die.”

How did he know my name? Ancestor? Could this whelp be one of the sons of my sons of my sons, how many times removed? Why would my descendant be helping these barbarians rob my resting place?

I decide that this will end now. These invaders have defiled my tomb long enough. I step out from behind the pillar. “Who dares speak my name in this my place of eternal rest?”

One of the warriors turns and stiffens. I can feel his fear where I stand. His paralysis lasts but a fraction of a second, then he charges. His blade comes free of its scabbard as he moves toward me. My descendant, if that is what he truly is, calls for his companion to stop, but it is too late. His blade passes into my chest, and out the other side, just missing my spine. I feel it like I would feel a gentle breeze and it does as much damage. I walk up the blade and grab the man’s wrists. He screams as he feels my touch through his valued steel. His life is more like stout ale, filling but no subtlety. Still, the fear adds something delectable to it. When his grip becomes dust on his blade, I allow him to collapse to the floor.

“Why does a descendant of mine help barbarians rob my tomb?” I rasp.

“Your service to the Empire was unjust Alkemesh. All that lies here save your corpse, armor and sword was taken by force from your victims. It must be redeemed. You may keep your weapons and armor, as they truly belonged to you. All else must leave this accursed place.”

“I think not, stripling. Descendant or not, your soul will quench my thirst for this indignity.” I began to walk to him, ignoring his companion. He spoke to the iron-plated idiot as I drew the other warrior’s sword from my body and tossed it aside. “Stay back Selmeth. Your sword arm has brought us this far, but this is my fight.”

The warrior answered, in a voice like a cool stream, “Do as you must, Alkar, but return to me.” A woman? The warrior was a woman? How times changed. Now it seemed she would lose her betrothed or become a widow. I charged.

Alkar ran towards me, but just as he came within my reach, he leapt over my head and came down behind me. I felt a burning agony I had long forgotten. I turned and saw he held a bronze dagger, burning runes running along both sides of its surface.

The whelp spoke to me in my native language, not this modern day corruption. “This is the dagger you gave your son, warlord. It has been specially enchanted to bring true death to your kind. Your Son saw the error of your ways and redeemed your family name. Now it is my time to bring final absolution to us all.”

His insult would not go unpunished. I lunged at him, trying to wrap my hands around him, but he danced backwards out of my reach. Since he seemed intent on keeping his distance, I drew forth my own blade. Its length would give me the advantage, and when I struck him down, I could drink of him at my leisure.

He proved to be a worthy recipient of my heritage. He was skilled, I had to admit that. He blocked my thrusts with his tiny blade, but it took effort. He tried to move in under my guard, but each time I drove him back. But I could not land a telling blow on him without leaving myself open to another searing cut from his accursed dagger. It seemed a stalemate, except that as the battle dragged on he was tiring, and I was not.

Finally, I feinted low, then brought my blade up and cut across his chest. He screamed something out in a language I did not understand, but knew to be older than my native tongue. My blade bit into him, but as it did, lightning danced from his body and into my hands. I was thrown back by the force of the blast, and dropped my blade.

His life’s blood staining the floor, Alkar ran forward and drove the dagger into my chest, cutting deep into my unbeating heart. I could feel my life and all the lives I had consumed flooding out of me. I knew that I had failed, they would take what was mine, and I would go to the lands beyond life empty handed. It was not fair. My last vision, before the great void overtook my eyes was Alkar being tended by the female warrior. All I felt was regret that I would not taste her soul. What a singular experience that would be.

To my surprise, I awoke. My body lay on the bier, armor covering it, and bronze sword in hand. The rest of my treasure was gone, but I was not. My will was too strong for even death to claim. Though I am now just a shadow of my former existence that will suffice to take my revenge on Alkar and his woman. It seems I will have the opportunity to taste her soul after all…