Drowning at Dusk Ch. 06

The light of the dawning sun gleamed against the murky gray sea. Oars sliced into the water as the fishing boat closed in on Pyrewatch.

The hired fishermen, fully aware of the dangerous nature of our mission, had offered a prayer to a sea god before disembarking, and had not uttered a sound since. The Tombflayers, after a bit of banter on the shore, fell into silence during the journey, and focused on tending to their weapons and adjusting their armor.

Dazyar tuned his fiddle, while I spent the time distracting myself adjusting the straps of my scabbard. Xelari stood near the prow of the boat, glaring out at Pyrewatch.

Ideally, we'd have hit the island under the cover of darkness, but we couldn't risk any delays. Not only could Synrik have slipped away if we lingered too long, every minute he spent on that island was a minute he could spend raising more undead.

Of course, our timing would make it damned near impossible to actually arrive on Pyrewatch unseen. It was a very real possibility that we'd land and find ourselves swarmed by undead and whatever mortal warriors Synrik had under his command.

As we closed to within a few hundred yards, Varanthir pulled up his sleeve to reveal his runic tattoos. The other Tombflayers reached for their weapons, ready to unleash them at a moment's notice. The fishermen cast nervous glances at the mercenaries and the island.

"Our deal stands," the boat's captain muttered. "We get you to shore, sail off to a quarter mile away, wait until dusk, and no longer. We're not getting chewed up by undead on your account."

In response, Xelari gave a simple nod.

My heart pounded, and I swept my gaze over the island as we closed in. Hundreds of grave markers dotted the shore. Scores of crypts, tombs, and mausoleums occupied the rest of the island, with a few on raised hills looming large over the others. There were dozens of raised stone towers used for cremation; none of them were lit. Given the island's distance from shore and the presence of cemeteries closer to the city, we weren't expecting anyone else to be there, especially since Synrik had likely used his influence to prohibit public travel to the island to mask his activities there.

With one hand on the hilt of my curved elven blade and the other on my fury-rune, I took a deep breath. The rowers halted the ship a short distance offshore. Lescorik moved first, hopping down and splashing through the knee-high water.

The other mercenaries drew their weapons and advanced alongside the blonde warrior, with the archers lingering behind and preparing their bows to cover their comrades. Xelari, runestone in hand, jumped in at Kivessen's side; Dazyar and I quickly followed.

Nothing moved upon the shore or between the grave markers. We advanced in a loose column up the beach, with Varanthir and Xelari in the lead. To keep us safe from a potential flanking attack, I lingered near the back and activated my sight-rune, my watchful eyes sweeping over the cemetery isle. I tensed at a sudden flicker of movement to the east, until I realized it was just a gull pecking at a fish that had washed ashore.

Just after we started to push forward, Kivessen raised a hand, bringing us to a halt. He sniffed the air; the rest of us followed suit, but I caught nothing but the sent of salt from the sea.

"Death," he muttered. "Coming from that northern wind."

"Of course you smell 'death,'" Lescorik grumbled under his breath. "We're on a damned crypt isle."

"Fresh corpses, or newly unburied ones," the meadow elf said.

After a moment I caught the same stench: rot, death, decay, just barely detectable upon the salty breeze.

My enhanced vision continued to sweep for danger, honing in on the larger crypts and the gaps between them. I blinked, catching sight of something darting in between two of the larger tombs. I whistled and pointed it out, and a heartbeat later I caught another flicker. I gritted my teeth, hoping it had just been some scavenging beast, rather than a cryptwolf or a ghoul.

Most of the Tombflayers turned to face the potential new threat, but they did not leave their flanks exposed. Several of them moved to take up protective positions on the flanks in case it turned out to be a feint. Archers nocked arrows, and Varanthir brushed his fingers over his runes.

"Shit," I growled as shadowy shapes burst from behind one of the hilltop crypts.

Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Maybe more.

Not cryptwolves or ghouls, thank the gods, but simple risen dead: animated corpses that moved in shambling little bursts, powered by foul magic. The small horde writhed, crawled, and lurched between the crypts and grave markers.

I remembered the frenzied reaction of the bandits when the ghouls had assailed us in the elven temple; the contrast between the cutthroats and the Tombflayers was stunning. Though there were a few curses, nobody cried out or turned to run, even though a swim into the sea would have meant safety from the onrushing dead.

"Archers," Varanthir said coldly. "Go for the legs of the front ranks. Trip them up, slow them down."

With a clenched fist, Varanthir gave the command to fire. The handful of Tombflayer archers unleashed a small volley, and the battlemage twisted his hand, sending a surge of crackling wind into the arrows, granting them greater speed and infusing a few with flickers of lightning. The arrows sliced into the dusty legs of the foremost undead, sending several of them pitching to the ground, slowing down those behind them.

"At will," he commanded to the archers, who fired arrow after arrow into the teeming mass.

"Javelins," he said, his voice still low and calm. Most of the other Tombflayers readied their weapons, and as the faltering mass of undead shambled over the fallen and twitching corpses, he gave the command. A half dozen spears flew through the air, likewise aided by another burst of wind magic. The weapons cleaved through dusty, rotted flesh: splitting apart chests, skulls, and limbs. The undead pinned by the javelins soon fell to subsequent arrows.

Only a half dozen of the undead made it through that storm of missiles, and charged right down the hill towards us. The Tombflayers with spears and glaives stepped forward, forming a neat, disciplined little wall of steel.

The dead closed in, and the fight ended in seconds. Precise, disciplined jabs and thrusts from the polearms skewered the necks of the undead, and soon they were reduced to a twitching, dusty heaps beneath the black boots of the Tombflayers.

"Bloody Voids," Dazyar muttered. "Starting to wonder why I even tagged along. You all do damned fine work."

"That was probably just a test. Nothing more than sentries," Xelari said.

The Tombflayers, maintaining formation, stalked ahead to finish off the writhing undead and collect their javelins and arrows.

We pushed deeper into the island, finding no sign of the living. Nearly every crypt and tomb we passed had been sundered or breached.

Within minutes, another small horde rushed from a larger mausoleum, and we made quick work of the undead in the same fashion as the first batch. Cold discipline easily won against ravenous undeath.

The process repeated three more times: we marched further into the island, a large pack of dead would awaken, and the tight formation and skill of the Tombflayers would put them all down again. I only had to fire my crossbow twice, and Xelari never even needed to use her runestone. The only wound suffered in those precise engagements was a deep scratch to Lescorik's hand when he'd lost his footing on a loose cobblestone and tripped.

"Bastards could at least give us a challenge," the tattooed warrior grunted as he wiped the thin stream of blood from his hand.

"We only have so many arrows and javelins," said Varanthir, scowling at a broken javelin. "And I only have limited energy in these runes. Given the number of corpses on this damned island, they could do this all day." He thrust his spear down into the back of a writhing corpse.

"We need to find the source," I said, glancing at the nearest mausoleum: a dusty, cracked marble structure covered with etchings of wildlife. Without further delay, I scrambled up the side of the structure.

Kivessen followed; I didn't rebuff his aid, figuring that the keen eyes of a meadow elf would be useful in scouting the rest of the island.

Once atop the cracked and dusty roof, I reached down to help him up the last few feet. As he surveilled the south, I refreshed my sight-rune and looked north. I spotted a small wandering herd of undead moving slowly towards the northern shore, in the complete opposite direction of our advance.

I focused in on the northern shore, trying to see where the large pack was going.

A galley ambled towards the northern pier, sails fluttering in the wind. I had no idea if the ship contained hirelings of Synrik, hapless travelers who had come to make a pilgrimage to the island, or if the boat was part of the renegade captain's escape route.

Whatever the case, we had to move.

Before we could deal with that crisis, however, a new one emerged.

Lescorik shouted out a warning. Something rumbled underneath our feet; one of the cracked pieces of marble gave way, tumbling down into darkness. A ragged roar boomed through the decrepit structure.

Something had been lurking in the crypt beneath our feet the entire damned time.

Another piece of marble fell; Kivessen yelped, lost his footing, and slipped. I reached out, grasping his outstretched hand. A few arrows tumbled from his quiver, spiraling down into darkness. I very nearly fell in after him, but steadied my boots against the roof just in time. With a growl of effort, I swung him up enough that he could grasp hold of an intact piece of the roof. After yanking him to his feet, I glanced down.

Two huge skeletal constructs akin to the one I'd encountered at the mill had been lurking in the crypt below. Around them were countless ruptured coffins and urns. Bones, dust, and ash littered the floor. One of the brutes was already rushing towards the doorway, and the other slammed its fist against the wall, likely intending to collapse more of the ceiling to bring us down to within its reach.

Cursing, I fired a crossbow at its malformed chest, and then I turned and ran, leaping from the crypt's roof over to the next structure. I deftly rolled, righted myself, and reloaded just in time to see another horde of undead burst from a crypt about a hundred feet away.

"East!" I shouted down to Varanthir, then turned and sent my next bolt into the horde.

Kivessen leaped as well, escaping the roof just before another chunk of marble collapsed. Down below, a forest of Tombflayer spears held the undead brute back, keeping it penned within the doorway. Its massive fists swung back and forth, batting aside spears and shattering others. A Tombflayer's spear pinned its fist to the doorway, allowing Lescorik to close in with his mace, which he used to crack its leg in half.

It toppled, and Xelari sent a lance of magma directly into its chest, turning bone into embers and ash.

There was still at least one more of the damned things inside the crypt, and the Tombflayers would have a devil of a time keeping it bay with another pack of undead on their flanks. Two of the archers turned, peppering the incoming creatures with arrows, but it wouldn't be enough.

"With me?" I asked Kivessen, stowing my crossbow and switching to my fury-rune and my curved elven blade.

His eyes followed mine, noting the onrushing horde and the threat to his comrades. After a nod, he drew two long, thin curved daggers from his belt.

As the undead rushed down the path beneath us, I flicked my fingers over the fury-rune, snarled as its fiery magic took hold of my muscles, and leaped down.

I made two wild swings as I landed, cutting down multiple hissing corpses before Kivessen joined me. His blades blurred, slicing at limbs and faces, sending foe after foe sprawling to the ground. My longer, stronger sweeps with the blade carved through the creatures who survived the meadow elf's onslaught. An arrow hissed over my shoulder, punching through the rotted eye socket of an undead rushing towards me. I finished it off with a slash to the chest, and pivoted to carve off the head of another.

We'd stalled their charge, though I couldn't spare a single moment to look over to see how the Tombflayers and Xelari were faring against the larger undead beasts. Judging by the shouts, a wail of pain, and a thud of bone against marble, the clash was still ongoing.

The sooner we dealt with these weaker undead, the sooner we could help. My arms, enflamed by the fury-rune, swung the blade so hard that I split open an undead skull, sending bone fragments spraying. The momentum of the swing carried the blade into the chest of another foe, and Kivessen rolled at my side, his knives lashing and stabbing, claiming eye sockets and exposed limbs.

The last undead fell: two knives in its thighs, and my blade in its neck. Tearing my blade free, I whirled to see three Tombflayers in bloody heaps in front of the half-ruined crypt. One construct remained intact, flailing against a beam of fire unleashed by Xelari's runes. Lightning crackled from Varanthir's fingers, and a gust of wind from his runes sent the construct slamming back against the wall. In rushed two Tombflayers, their axes swinging and hewing, chopping it to pieces within moments.

"There's a ship!" I howled. "To the north!"

"Bloody Voids," Lescorik snarled, shaking off his spiked mace to remove the layer of undead flesh that clung to the weapon. "Did they know we were coming?"

"Could be pilgrims or mourners," said another Tombflayer.

"Doesn't matter who is sailing the ship. Whoever it is, we can't let Synrik get aboard," said Xelari.

I glanced down at the fallen Tombflayers: two were already dead, their bones and bodies sundered by the fierce fists of those massive constructs. Another rose to her feet with the help of Lescorik and Dazyar, with a deep gash in her thigh that could be easily healed. Xelari stepped forward, and saw to the woman's wounds with a pulse of healing magic from her runestone.

"North," the dusk elf snarled. "Now."

As we moved, the entire island came alive around us. Howls and roars echoed from other crypts. The ground beneath grave markers rumbled and cracked, birthing skeletons and dusty corpses.

I shuddered to think how much larger and emboldened the undead horde would have been had we delayed until later in the day.

The undead did not attack in the same partially organized fashion as they had before, and did not group up into large bands to rush us. Instead, they came at us individually, or in groups of two or three. They fell easily, hacked down by blades or spears. With my limbs still ignited by the fury-rune, I cut down a dozen of the things before we'd even made it a hundred yards.

Which I realized was exactly the point: Synrik was sending them at us in a haphazard string of attacks just to bog us down, to buy himself time to escape or to unleash something even nastier.

Dazyar seemed to notice this as well, and finally tapped into his more powerful magic. Wild, off-kilter notes erupted from his fiddle, sending energizing magic through all of us. It was similar to the effects of a fury-rune, though more...pleasant. Rather than being overcome by fiery strength, my limbs seemed todance, allowing me to move at a jaunty sprint without losing my breath. Emboldened and empowered by that arcane song, we charged northward, hacking and slashing through the small clusters of undead that got in our way.

As we crested a hill littered with ruptured graves and shattered tombs, we caught sight of that galley: its crew had cast out ropes to affix it to the pier. I could just barely make out movement along the shore, though I was still unable to tell if the new arrivals were potential victims, or fresh reinforcements for Synrik.

Dazyar's music grew louder and more frantic. Our charge quickened, becoming wild and reckless. We left behind dozens more twitching and ruined undead in our wake as we closed in on the pier.

Howls rippled from the ship, and more than a dozen cryptwolves bounded down the ramp, their rotting paws thundering across the pier. Upon the pier before the beasts stood a man in the dark blue cloak of a city watch officer. He was middle-aged, well-built, with a thin beard and neat, slicked-back blonde hair.

With a smile, he gave a little bow in our direction, then flicked his hand towards the ship. I glanced over, spotting movement on the deck: a dozen sailors, readying crossbows.

I shouted a warning; Varanthir raised a hand as the crossbows let loose, and he conjured a gust of electrified wind that batted most of the incoming missiles aside, or slowed the others so the mercenaries could raise their shields.

Still smiling, Synrik trotted over towards the galley, and hopped over the railing and onto the deck.

Xelari snarled in her native tongue and broke from the formation, sprinting like a hungry wolf across the rocky beach. Dazyar and I both cried out, though I alone took off in pursuit, my boots pounding against the ground, each step light and easy thanks to the fury-rune and Dazyar's lingering magic.

With a howl of rage, she raised her runestone and cast a beam from her eruption-rune. Too far away to hit the galley, it only cast a few embers and sparks upon the prow of the ship. Ropes fell away from the pier as the crew cast off. Oars sliced into the water, turning the galley from the pier.

Howls rose from the cryptwolves, and they charged down the pier towards the Tombflayers. More raspy howls echoed from the necropolis behind the mercenaries, as another twitching horde careened down the dusty path.

I shouted at Xelari to turn back, but she ignored me and sprinted forward. Another beam from her runestone raked over the edge of the galley, setting part of the railing ablaze and hitting two of the archers.

One of the screaming, burning archers leaped off the ship and into the sea, while the other flopped onto the deck, rolling and flailing. The survivors sought vengeance; raising their crossbows, they fired another volley.

Eight bolts leaped towards the dusk elf.

I shouted, darted forward, and collided with her.

Pain blossomed in my hip as a bolt struck true. Both of us cried out together: my tackle hadn't completely spared her from the volley. A bolt sliced open her cheek, another sank deep into her calf. We collapsed as one, our blood leaking onto the gray sands as the other bolts hit the beach around us.

Screams and shouts rose from the Tombflayers, though I hadn't a care in the world for their plight. I grabbed hold of Xelari, struggled to my feet.

She looked over my shoulder, and gave me a fierce shove. With the fire from the fury-rune fading and the agony coursing through my bones, I stumbled and fell to my knees. Xelari growled with pain and raised her runestone.

Another volley rose from the galley. Six bolts sliced towards us, any one of which was fully capable of finishing me off.

Xelari raised her runestone. A column of fire roared from the stone, burning away at the bolts.

A single bolt made it through the firestorm and took Xelari in her throat. She collapsed atop of me, her runestone falling from her grasp.

I screamed: first her name, then Dazyar's. Her hands still possessed enough strength to clutch at the bolt in her throat. I grasped the runestone, pressing fiercely against the healing runes.

Nothing.

In my frenzy and panic I'd neglected the fundamental rules of runic magic, that a soul must be attuned to a rune to utilize it. I howled with frustration and glanced back over to the Tombflayers.

The mercenaries stood within a swirling storm of carnage: more cryptwolves and undead had rushed at them from their flanks. Several of the black-armored mercenaries were down, and many more ruined cryptwolves and undead were scattered around them. I caught a glimpse of Dazyar, his cutlass slashing off the arm of a shambling undead.