Well, here is another of my offerings. Maybe it's a tale of not poking your nose where it doesn't belong, or perhaps its don't bite off more than you can chew. Or perhaps it's just a reminder to do some research before say yes to a quest..
The Smothering Darkness
The darkness was like a physical thing. It surrounded and smothered him. Contracting his world to the surface of his skin and to what little he could hear and smell.
The sudden snuffing out of his torch turned him, at least in the dark recesses of his mind that he was trying really hard to ignore, from the hunter into the hunted.
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It had sounded so simple when the grey and white robed druid had explained the task. Go to the tor in the heart of the Gaelen forest and return with the hilt of the sword once wielded by the knight who was buried in a stone tomb within the barrow. Some may have baulked at the thought of defiling a grave, but long years of plying his services as a Sellsword had enabled him to step over what some may think of as lines of taboo.
The journey to the forest was uneventful. Long miles passed beneath the plodding hooves of his horse. Dark birds circled overhead and he eyed them wearily. “You can all go and follow someone else, ‘cos I ain’t dead, yet!”, he spat into the dust, and focused on the road ahead.
Aware of the passing time, he ate a sparse meal of sundried meat and fruits that he had stored in his saddle packs before setting off. It was cheerless fare but it was adequate. It was late in the day when he reached the edge of the forest. He had been told that it was one of the “Old places in the world” and sensible travellers went around it, rather that disturb what may or may not call it home. But he had a job and that job lay ahead, within the forest so, it wasn’t an option, he urged his horse onwards and passed over the boundary of the forest. The woods were not untravelled, however. A narrow path, worn by the passage of men and horses, wound its way deeper into the ever-denser growth. Trees, twisted with age grew tall and stretched out their boughs blocking the light, turning the late afternoon into a gloomy, dappled dusk.
The day was almost over when he arrived at the location of his quest. He had tied the reins of his horse to a dried and twisted sapling at the entrance to the barrow. The animal seemed uneasy, snorting and pawing at the ground. Perhaps the darkness revealed by the opening carved into the mound upset his horse, or perhaps it was a scent that his human senses could not detect. Either way, it mattered little. If he wanted payment, he had to go in.
Pulling from the saddle pack an unlit torch, he began checking his equipment and weapons, his fathers sword, old but honed to a razors edge was in a scabbard at his hip and a pair of knives were strapped, one to each thigh. He eschewed heavy armour, instead preferring a lighter hardened boiled leather chest armour. Over the years, the benefit of speed and agility had paid off many times.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the passage. Within twenty paces, the fading daylight from outside no longer penetrated the oppressive gloom. A few moments later and a shower of sparks burst from the flint strapped to the inside of one wrist as it was dragged sharply across the back edge of the axe haft. Light flared in the dark as the hot sparks lit the pitch coating of the torch.
The orange light of the torch created a flickering circle of visibility, that only seemed to highlight the shadows and imbue them with a life of their own as they appeared to move and shudder as the flame flickered.
The tunnel became choked with twisted roots as he went deeper into the earth, long vegetative fingers that seemingly plucked at his clothing and tried to ensnare his ankles. It was almost as if the barrow resented the intrusion of this being who bringing light and sound into the grave dark stillness, but that was just the animal part of his mind trying to decide if fight or flight was necessary. Long years of experience enabled him to ignore the creeping sensation across his scalp, but he remained aware of...something.
A change in reflected sounds and the feeling in the air, signalled those long minutes of forcing his way through the increasingly choked passageways had ended as the way widened into cavern. As he approached the centre of the chamber, he became aware of sounds. Some he could identify, the drip of water as it collected in pools, unseen in the oppressive dark. There was also the soft scuttling footfalls of vermin, running from light to find safety in the dark. But then there was that soft susurration of air, it could have been the natural passing of air from the outside, but it ebbed and flowed, rose and fell in volume, always at the edge of awareness.
The torchlight fell onto a rectangular stone set into the ground in the middle of the chamber, the stone slab was roughly his height and six spread hand-spans wide. As he got closer, it was obvious this was of a great age. The stone was pitted and chipped and was surrounded by a choked dirty rivulet of water. A shallow depression went around three sides of the stone and was the destination of the drips of water he had heard. The water was dark and oily looking under the torch light and strange half glimpsed shapes at the edge of vision flickered in and out of existence on the surface of the water at the edge of the torchlight. With a quick motion, the butt of the torch was planted in the ground, leaving both hands free. Kneeling beside the slab his fingers cleared away the soil and debris, attempting to find a purchase for his fingers so the slab could be removed. Just as his fingers uncovered what felt like a crack that could be where the slab rested on another piece of stone, He heard, or thought he heard a cold voice in his mind. It was a single word, drawn into a breathy hiss "No......"
Darkness, thick and tangible suddenly enveloped him. The torch that only seconds ago had been burning brightly, had gone out. It gave no warning, no guttering flame and dimming of light as would have been normal, just sudden, suffocating, oppressive darkness. He almost cried out in shock, but his long years of training and hard-earned experience stilled the involuntary cry before it left his throat.
The first thought was to rekindle the torch, "Light is more than being able to see," his father used to say to him on their hunting trips through the local woods and meadows. "Light is your ward against the dark and those that hide within". Reaching out to grasp the torch, his hand closed on nothing. The torch was not just extinguished, it was gone! Dragging his gloved fingers through the muck of the chamber floor he again came up empty handed. Something had closed on him, unseen and unheard, snuffed out the burning brand and taken the torch. All without a sound. His stomach twisted inside. Suddenly he was the prey, hunted by an unknown and unseen thing! Slowly he rose and unconsciously assumed a fighting stance as he drew his sword. the point held steady before him, left foot planted strongly behind him and right foot lightly in front, ready to move at the slightest urging from his now highly alert senses.
With reflexes that had surprised many foes, he threw himself down and forwards, whilst the sword flashed out to the right. rolling smoothly, he came up into a fighting crouch, some half-heard sound had triggered that abrupt action. he didn't know what it was, or really cared, if he was honest. Long fights against both friend and enemy had taught him to trust his instincts. To open his senses to the world and let the unconscious part of his mind drive his body, it was a long series of painful lessons, but it was well learned because of that.
Running his hand across the flat of the blade his calloused and leathery palm felt a cold sticky wetness, he smiled grimly. His hidden foe now knew this prey had teeth of its own! Then a chilling thought stole into his head… The blood, or whatever it was, it was cold. Living creatures bled hot. Didn’t they?
Standing once more, he took another half-step backwards and froze mid motion when the heel of his boot came down on something he didn't recall seeing on his entry to the chamber. Reaching down, he cautiously closed his hand on the still warm but now dark torch. Whatever had dowsed the flame had also cast the torch a good distance from him. Once more, sparks flashed in the dark and for the second time, a yellow orange flame drove away the darkness and revealed....nothing. As far as the torchlight illuminated, there was only the chamber. He was alone. He didn't allow himself to calm, he tried to maintain the sense of heightened alertness as he returned to his task. After all, ale costs money, but reputation is priceless.
The slab was there as he had left it, plunging both hands into depression he had excavated and curling strong fingers under the edge of the stone, he braced his feet and heaved with all the strength he possessed. At first the earth seemed reluctant to yield its hold on the ancient monolith, but little by little, the stone began to move. As one edge rose, a foetid smell seeped out of the tomb making him gasp, choke and stagger back from the grave. The stone fell from his grip and fell back with a resounding noise. It fractured into rubble and pieces were scattered both around and inside the grave.
Covering his mouth and nose, he leant forward and peered into the pit. There it was, clasped in a cadaverous hand, the tarnished hilt of the knights sword. The blade had been removed from the hilt, broken and the shards placed at his feet. What that signified was not clear, was he undefeated and the blade ceremonially broken at his burial? or was he defeated in combat, let down by the sword that shattered in defence of it's wielder? Reaching in to take the hilt, he murmured a hasty apology to the wielder and pulled the sword hilt free, once more in his head he heard the almost voice speak, "No.... Mine....". Shaking his head, as though to clear his thoughts He grasped the hilt only to see that the long dead hand had once more tightened around the grip. Blood ran cold through his veins as the remains of the knight sat up, pushing aside the fallen rubble as though it weighed nothing. The skull, still wearing the corroded helm, turned to look at him and his eyes saw that in those empty sockets, there was a small blue point of light. The grave knight slowly stood and took a step towards the defiler of it's resting place. In his mind, the voice he had heard grew stronger. "You sought to take that which is mine. You defiled my tomb. You disturbed my sleep. This last is unforgivable. You will remember Aelthran the Butcher for the remainder of your short life!" A dry laughing sounded deep inside his mind. He said nothing but stood and once more drew his blade. He took a step back, away from the hazardous ground around the grave. Breathing deeply, he prepared to strike if the undead thing came into range of his sword.
A heavy blow from behind staggered him. A second assailant had chosen this moment to attack. Before he could react, he was enfolded in a wet leathery embrace. Sheets of animate muscle enfolded his body, binding his arms to his torso, his legs to one another. It's strength was overwhelming. The Grave Knight simply watched. He felt an agonizing pain all over his body as hundreds of toothed tendrils sawed through his armour and ripped into his flesh, drawing out his life fluids. Opening his mouth to scream out his agony, even that was denied him. The last thing he saw was razor toothed sheets of flesh, closing across his face. cutting off his breath. His open eyes were punctured by barbs that quested inwards until they found core of his mind and started to steal all the thoughts that made him.
All through this the undead Knight watched on impassive. before once more lying back in his grave. The Skinstole retreated once into the darkness, it's mind now replete with it's new thoughts and stolen memories, leathery flesh suffused with fresh blood. It would be whole again soon. Soon.
