A long and uneventful descent followed the macabre welcoming troupe. Old memories flooded both Nawfal and Albrion as they navigated across the winding system of the temple-tomb. The perpetual darkness bushwhacked by their hovering globe of white sphere, recalled the two weeks they spent in the Catacombs of Khons. Like then, both praetors walked brisk, announced their presence to the grafted undead hiding in the dark. Though no wind guided them in those dreadful vestibules and corridors built from the bones of ten thousand enslaved nomads.

  A fact which both detested, spending two accursed weeks navigating whilst assailed by the malodorous stench of rot and decay, strengthened by the humid and hot air. This time, both muttered silent prayers for the crisp, cold wafts caressing their faces, their napes whilst abstaining from the dreadful whispers carried by the winds of the Graemupus Woodland. Whispers of childish fae, riling their senses, depriving them of sleep. Every attempt they took to close their lids, both shot upright, with convinced either they heard the crunching of leaves, steps on the growth laden soil, their senses crying right like when they gawp at the sharp tip of a savage’s arrow.

  The worst three weeks they spent hunting those protected by nature. Despite, both hated the uneventfulness of their descent. Felt a strange relief when they finally spotted light other than theirs, of sputtering torches emanating a warm amber and violet, revealing the rugged walls empty of ivory decorations. And shifting into polished walls, black yet as smooth as the walls of high edifices in Luth-Astaril.

  “Quite homely.” Albrion said, looking around, noticing a few murals of vague silhouettes bowing an amorphous mass of darkness.

  “Just missing a few things.” Nawfal said, his eyes focused on the arch. “May have reached the deepest point.” He said, noticing the road stretching without a wild or subtle angle.

  A strange coldness permeated the air, recalling distant memories into Albrion’s mind, when he ambled in the Veinways, led by despair. Lingering remnants of nekromantic rituals, dusk sorcery thickened in the small section, carried by the shambling undead. No words needed, their blades shrieked out from their sheaths, and a sourness permeated Albrion, transmitted by his blade knowing well, its thirst shall remain unquenched for the time being.

  Though unlike the first batch coming to greet them, these undead took measured, careful steps. A wasted effort, as the unequivocally malodorous stench of rotten flesh proclaimed their coming, evoking a wicked queasiness in both of them. A tactic well and often used by adept nekromancers, often lowering the moral of otherwise brave legionaries, auxiliaries. Both smiled bitterly, knowing the first strike was taken from them.

  Ahead, seven or more undead crawled awkwardly forward, naked except for a few ragged rags, chewed by either their killers, or by the nekrotic materia flowing out from their macabre bodies. “Do you think they hold no respect for us?” Nawfal asked, the same thought manifested in Albrion. He stood mildly bewildered at the implied disrespect of the nekromancers, sending naught but the weakest of their shambling servants, who at best contained rudimentary knowledge and skill in the martial matters. Maybe joined in drunken brawls, wrestled with wild beasts no bigger than a fox or an adolescent wolf.

  But upon calming his searing nerves and taking a second look, a new thought flashed in his mind. “That or they attempt to tire us sufficient enough, so their better undead have a less hard time challenging us.”

  Nawfal grunted in agreement, after he himself calmed. This time, Albrion himself leapt into their ranks first, flames coming forth betwixt his pointed teeth, scorching the front line. Then his blade sliced through burning, rotten flesh and bone blackened by his flames.

  Nawfal followed, stepping into the fray on his right, his blade in design and appearance a fusion of a long, one-handed sword and a saber of the nomads easily deprived two of the dead from their heads, whilst from its runes carved masterfully upon its smooth, slick curving surface poured a cleansing spell of dawn, a holy blight vanishing the last remnants of the souls animating the gangrenous corpses of the aevhe and a djinn.

  “Still could have sent more.” Nawfal complained whilst pulling his blade out from the bosom of a sturdier, half-ogre undead.

  “Agreed brother. With this much, not even soothing perspiration shall grace our skins.” Albrion said, turning his attention as another group approached from the turn.

  Black and golden sparks traversed across his long, right arm. Passed from his hand and clawed finger onto the vampiric blade. He swung it, then compelled it into perfect stillness pointed at the new, smaller group. From the vampiric blade’s tip, came forth a swirling sphere. It flew betwixt two of the undead, then came the baying of storm, thunder striking within a cave. Lashing and whipping streaks of black rimmed gold streaks struck down at each. Their distorted shrieks faded into silence, as their smoldering bodies crumbled onto the dim, cold floor draped in dancing shadows and amber.

  “Next time, forget not a warning.” Nawfal said as he foregone wiping the dark blood of his blade. Instead followed the same motions as Albrion; stuck his pinkies into his ears one by one, twisted them until the twinging ceased.

  “They reached the inner sanctum! Waken the Guard….!” Along the way, rushing past the charred remains, they found the first living who quickly–and foolishly–turned his back to yell his warning to his fellow nekromancers.

  A moment more than enough for Nawfal. He leapt forward, handle grasped by both hands, arm lifted above his head. With a clean strike, he cleaved diagonally from shoulder to waist, cutting fair flesh, white bone and black robe with ease all together. Blood sprinkled forth, darkening the black robe, the deathly symbols sewn along its trims and sleeves. Not long after he hit the floor, steps echoed across the long chamber, as more of the undead approached.

  “Are we counting only the living this time as well?” Nawfal asked as they stopped, cutting down two armored dead moving against them clad in dark brownish plates, carrying long spears.

  “Have you forgotten my friend? Ever since we fought the lemures conjured by that Sylvan-Kin, we are counting both living and reanimated.” Albrion reminded him. His blade grumbly blocked a strike, then cut off the head of the axe by the shaft’s end. It came around, severed the withered muscle of a neck. The undead’s hideous head which face lacked in both skin and muscle, yet still grayish beard tumbled from its dislocated and purely mended jaw. Another came from Albrion’s back. He turned quick with his massive form, sliced vertically down, with the blade entering right where its once lush and oak brown hair naturally parted.

  Then he proceeded onwards with his own vicious smile. “That means I am already ahead by five my friend.”

  “Awaken the Guardian!” A raspy yell echoed across, as the two proceeded with their annihilation of pouring undead. Mummified guardians crawled out from apertures, carved aloft, near the ceiling and from the side chambers, burst forth crypts numbering in the dozens. Yet neither Albrion nor Nawfal slackened, their blades cleaved triumvirates and pairs, their few spells of greater cantrips burned those in the rear to cinders and ash, heated old plates and armaments.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Gritting their teeth, feeling more and more of their toys, servants and guardians fell, the nekromancers, disciples of the Night hurled and discharged spells, animated what conjured flames left untouched or barely hurt. Crawling hands latched onto their honed calves; earth joined in an attempt to shackle them in place. Whilst the darkness overpowered the light of torches and their white sphere. Shadows took the shape of elevated-kindred, breathed maladies upon the two, who resisted and swiped back into their prior shapeless state, pulled their legs with force, shattering earth, whilst the bony hands released their grip once their plates emanated the heat of small, frugal volcanoes.

  Spells of more offensive nature, the two reflected back upon their senders, marching onwards now that only rotten corpses impeded their way for the most part. Once the nekromancers reached their limits, began their retreat, with a few remaining behind to buy some time for their brothers and sisters. A wave of exhilaration, soothe of a moistened dry throat rippled across Albrion, when his vampiric blade thrusted into the throat of a fair aevhen nekromancer. Blood cascaded forth upon hitting the jugular vein, painted the pale silvery blade red. Its hidden runes revealed themselves, drained the blood out from the aevhe until his mummified corpse fell.

  Nawfal himself held back a little, a vain attempt as three corpses rested around his feet. He clicked his tongue, watched as Albrion cut down another, quenching the thirst of his blade. He reasoned, no need to ask for guidance, as the place seemed less labyrinthian then most dens of cultists and nekromancers of wicked beings.

  “Hope this guardian proves more a challenge than these fools.” Albrion agreed with the conjecturing, still he tampered his expectations whilst stepping back after cutting through a corpulent undead, whose blackened entrails dove onto the stone, its blackened blood splashing loudly and its second death empowering the putrescence filling the long corridor.

  “Wai…” A young pale maiden held up her hands–she regretted in the next second as they flew off. Her shrieking faded, once Albrion stabbed deep his blade into her bosom.

  “Shit.” He cursed. Blood sprayed forth, right into his eyes. Quick, he wiped and continued his cursing in a lower tone.

  “What?” Nawfal nearly missed his cursing from the shriek of a little undead, a fetus he stepped upon. Lifting his feet, he grimaced seeing viscera and bone sticking to his greave’s soles.

  “Nothing. Could have captured this one for interrogation.” Albrion pointed down at the pale and withered nekromancer before his feet. A little lake of red formed under her from the little blood escaping the thirsting blade, matting her dark robes. He lowered the tip into it, at once the blood billowed towards the tip, crawled up upon its silvery surface, into the runes where it vanished.

  Nawfal walked over, wiping the foul blood from his blade, gilded panoply and his face. “No point crying over spilled milk. Not as if we are in need of guidance.”

  “Right.” Both stared forward.

  After a few more turns, a few more chambers, the number of their opposition lessened greatly, only a few more of the undead sprang forth the shadows. In the past, they would have grown bored slaying all the undead, would have hurried their efforts to slay their master. But not at present–more so Albrion–as the arkhaine euphoria fueled their delight in violence, lengthened the moment where obligations sunk into the waters of oblivion. Hither, they could be vicious children, lost in the mirthful process of death-dealing and counting the dead fell by their swords. Hither, they prayed the true master of this cult hid deep in the bowels of Night’s Temple.

  “I guess that is the guardian they mentioned.” Nawfal pointed at the chamber as expansive as the antechamber.

  In its center, upon a slim dais towered a grafted giant of an undead, a horrid puzzle of an infantile being. It stood still in utter silence, on a circle emblazoned with the symbols of Night and its aspect of Death. Symbols including the waning moon of old, withered realms, a phase favored by nekromancers as raising dead proved as simple as conjuring a spark above one’s finger tip or merely swaying water in a bowl with a common cantrip.

  Looking upon its form, it promised them a good enough battle, compared to what came before. A form assembled from many different parts, beings. A broad and lengthy ophidian head of hideous waurms–draconic beasts lacking wings and limbs, serpents who were graced with the essence of greater dragons. At least ten mismatched eyes both counted, each watching them. Its shoulders flared and slanted, additional bones protruded out from the cadaverous skin and flesh, emerged and sunk like a sea-serpent. Its arms deepened down to its knees, hooked in curvature, grafted together by three different giant creatures. One being another dragon of lesser, mortal stature. The other two, neither cared to guess.

  Its five simian legs queerly short and stunted compared to hill giants, ogres and trolls, clearly remolded by a spell which nature lied in the flesh and Dusk. Still, it stood and stepped towards them without a hitch, even proved quite quick contrary to its size–triple that of Albrion’s. Its right fist came quick, betraying its size once again, though the two still proved quick whilst in heavy panoplies. Both realized quick, sensed the preternatural strength was greater than either of them could have blocked.

  Sensing the onset of a powerful gust, Albrion ducked just as the wind howled passed, followed by the large hand ending in talons. An ear-piercing screech echoed across the dim foray, as the undead giant’s claws swept across the jagged walls, leaving five streaks upon the black stone. Then he rolled, held his blade up, stabbing into the soft, rotten flesh of the palm draping him in heavy shadows. He gritted his teeth, choked a shriek as his arm’s muscles burned, faltering the push of the hand, meant to flatten him.

  Its shrieking released noxious gases into the air. His arms started trembling, tears welled in his eyes once felt his cheeks, his skin under the helmet burn. Worst of all, he felt imprudent not rolling away, letting his instincts lead him into his current predicament. Though, Nawfal’s presence and efforts hacking at the giant’s haunches and hind legs lessened the feeling, allowed him to push back at last. Another shriek came from the beast, whilst lifting Albrion up in the air, sword still stuck in his hand.

  Albrion swung himself hip below, until his soles pressed against the palms and pulled the blade, exerting all his muscles. He spun around thrice, before landing on his feet, then hurled himself into a quicker stream of time flowing in the unseen realms, dashed when the hand came down a second time, with greater force and velocity. It left a crater before sweeping around towards Nawfal. Who stood beneath him, his southern-styled blade stuck up in its nether regions protected by a few dark grayish cloths dangling from a curling girdle of blue tinted black.

  Its serpentine cheeks swelled, then as its mouth opened, inky black sphere discharged towards Nawfal. He quickly pulled out, his blade shining with the brilliance of dawn, sliced the sphere in two. Both halves landed on his sides, impotently evanesced on impact. When the hand came, Nawfal dodged not, instead positioned himself, blade ready. With a clean cut, it severed the coming hand from the wrist, leapt onto the forearm, from which he propelled himself towards the grafted giant’s bosom.

  Albrion himself charged up the walls, leaping off from a larger jutting piece towards the other hand closing on towards Nawfal. With a clean blow, severed the whole arm from its putrid junction whilst roaring from joy, feeling sweat grace his skin again. At the same time, Nawfal’s blade penetrated through the cadaverous thick flesh of a lesser dragon grafted onto a giant’s, grafted onto an ogre’s. From its upcurving tip, golden brilliance flooded into the chest, revealed through the layers of skins the sturdy ribcages and the emptiness within the body. Both shut their eyes though at the blinding radiance which burned and torn the undead giant into cinders and smoldering chunks, leaving only its ophidian head behind only.

  “There had to be a better way to do that.” Albrion commented once the deafening buzzing stopped in his ears at last.

  “Definitely.” Nawfal smiled mirthfully. Then heard the heavy thud of the remaining head land behind him, its jaw wide open. A gust of acidic breath came forth before the wicked light of Dusk faded from each eye, eroding half of Nawfal’s helmet and marring his handsome face.