Chapter One – Strangling the Undead

  Every good idea starts with a bad one over ale.” — Old saying in Fethrin

  The town of Fethrin had seen better days. Dust hung in the streets like a second skin, the early summer sun baking the cobblestones in waves of shimmering heat. Farmers moved listlessly between stalls at the morning market, their eyes occasionally drifting to the western road with unease.

  What didn’t help was the fact that the Duke’s recruiters were coming.

  …………………………………………..

  In the corner of the Bristle Thorn tavern, five unlikely companions nursed cheap ales, fending off the heat and the looming threat of conscription with sarcasm, pipe smoke, and long-suffering camaraderie.

  The Bristle Thorn was a tavern that smelled permanently of spilled ale, damp wood, and regret. Its furniture was sturdy in the way things were when they were too heavy to bother stealing, and the windows hadn’t opened in twenty years. The innkeeper was dozing behind the bar while a moth fluttered listlessly in the rafters.

  “I’m telling you,” Steban said, leaning across the scarred wooden table, “the recruiters will be here within the week. And you, Grusk, are exactly the kind of ‘strong back, dull mind’ they’re looking for.”

  The half-orc barbarian grunted, gnawing on a smoked haunch of lamb. “They’d have to catch me first.”

  “They won’t have to,” Jerrix, a broad-shouldered man with a sorcerous gleam in his eye and a blade strapped across his back, chimed in. “They’ll offer silver, and you’ll go skipping off like a lovesick cow.”

  Robin, the group’s quieter sorcerer, flicked a small blue flame into existence above his ale. “What Jerrix means is: we need coin but not coin that comes with a uniform and orders. Hence...”

  “Alternate employment,” Steban finished, spreading his arms dramatically. “Enter our friend Profelgate, purveyor of fine leaf and finer nonsense.”

  “Four coppers a day?” Samuel said, voice flat. “Three for Grusk?”

  “He eats more,” Steban defended. “And he agreed to it.”

  “I agreed to the food,” Grusk said. “And the silver if there’s a fight.”

  “There will be,” Robin muttered.

  “I still don’t trust gnomes,” Samuel added, stretching with a groan. “They talk too fast. And Profelgate blinks too much.”

  “That’s just how his face works,” Jerrix said. “Besides, you trusted the guy who sold you that ‘cursed-resistant’ belt.”

  “That was a good belt.”

  “It turned your skin blue,” Steban pointed out.

  “It faded,” Samuel muttered.

  Grusk snorted. “Next time, let’s not take jobs from someone who stands on his own merchandise to look you in the eye.”

  “Profelgate has charm,” Steban insisted. “And the gold to match it.”

  Robin leaned forward. “It’s tobacco. That’s all. Leaf and powder. He needs it moved. We’re moving it.”

  “Two hundred miles west to Calgaith” Samuel added. “Through goblin-infested hills.”

  “Details” Steban waved. “Besides, we’ve got two days to kill before we even start.”

  Robin raised his tankard. “To killing time.”

  “To dodging conscription,” Jerrix added, clinking his cup.

  “To whatever’s in the Alastair Homestead,” Samuel finished, grinning. “May it be worth looting.”

  Grusk raised his meat bone like a toast. “Wait a minute, where did that come from?”

  “Where did what come from”

  “The Alastair Homestead, where did that even come from”

  “Well, we’ve talked about checking out the abandoned manor for a while and we do have two days to kill and maybe there is something there worth while.” Samuel suggested “Besides, what else are we going to do.”

  “How about not get hurt or lost or, I don’t know, die!” stated Grusk

  Samuel practiced his look of mock indignation on the half-orc.

  “Fine.” grumbled Grusk “but I’m not going in first”.

  The fighter winked, the group drank and Grusk just knew that he would be in front of whatever trouble came their way.

  …………………………………………..

  With little to lose, they packed light and set off to check out the Alastair Homestead—a name spoken in Fethrin like a warning passed between bartenders and grave diggers.

  “Why are we even going to this place?” Robin asked. “Didn’t the last group come back empty handed?”

  “We’re not the last group,” Samuel said with a shrug. “We’re smarter.”

  “That’s debatable,” Steban muttered.

  “You agreed to it,” Samuel shot back.

  “I agreed to follow, not to approve,” Steban said. “There’s a difference. You know, like between ‘scouting’ and ‘charging blindly into a bar fight that you started.”

  “Is that a reference?” Jerrix grinned.

  Steban jabbed a finger at him. “Yes. And if either of you get hurt, I want it noted for the record that I told you so.”

  Samuel rumbled with a chuckle. “Still better than being stuck back at the tavern with no coin.”

  “Speaking of coin,” Steban said, turning to Grusk, “remember the tobacco incident?”

  Grusk narrowed his eyes. “You mean your tobacco incident.”

  “Oh come on, that was years ago,” Steban said. “You can't still be mad.”

  “You stole it. I got blamed.”

  “I borrowed it.”

  “You said it was mine.”

  “I may have... implied that.”

  “They made me clean stalls for a month,” Grusk growled.

  “And look at those arms now!” Steban said, grinning. “It was character-building!”

  “Character-building is what you say to people you want to punch,” Grusk muttered.

  “Let’s not forget,” Robin said, “that you’re still working off that bad deal you made with the spice merchant in Calgaith.”

  “Entirely unrelated,” Steban replied quickly. “Also, unprovable.”

  “Unforgettable,” Jerrix added.

  The homestead appeared ahead, crumbling and crooked in the morning light.

  The plantation-style manor stood in disrepair, its walls spotted with lichen, windows cracked or boarded, the fields a graveyard of withered corn and creeping vines. The door groaned on rusted hinges as they entered.

  Inside, they split up—Robin and Grusk took the upstairs, Steban, Jerrix, and Samuel checked the ground floor.

  Grusk’s heavy boots creaked ominously on each step as they explored broken bedrooms, finding only bird droppings, moth-eaten curtains, and a truly revolting wasp nest in an old wardrobe.

  “Ghosts?” Robin asked.

  “No,” Grusk said. “Just bugs.”

  Downstairs, Jerrix pushed open the parlor door to find it completely empty save for a broken table and several smashed bottles. “This place has been stripped” he muttered.

  “Not everything,” Steban said, pointing toward the pantry.

  Inside, the air was cool, somehow still clinging to a faint scent of dried herbs. Shelves were mostly bare, but Steban rifled through the corner and came up with a small, sealed sack.

  He opened it. “Salt.”

  Samuel frowned. “So?”

  Jerrix took a pinch, rubbed it between his fingers, sniffed it. “That’s not just table salt. That’s refining salt.”

  Robin raised an eyebrow. “For preserving?”

  “For ritual work, mostly,” Jerrix said. “Or high-grade preservation—arcane, alchemical. Could be expensive, depending on where it came from.”

  “So this place was used for more than farming,” Steban pondered.

  “That or someone had expensive tastes in jerky,” Samuel said.

  Behind a set of rotting barrels, Robin’s foot struck something hollow. “Here.”

  They cleared the space. A trapdoor lay beneath a collapsed shelf. It was wooden, barely hidden but warped shut from years of water damage.

  Grusk, with a grunt of effort, brought his axe down and smashed it open.

  A narrow stone stairway led downward—steep, winding, and far deeper than a root cellar had any right to be.

  The party descended slowly, their boots echoing down the stone steps.

  At the bottom, a narrow corridor of rough-hewn stone stretched ahead, carved directly into the earth and slowly descending deeper. The air was colder now, and drier, almost lifeless.

  As they walked, the passage widened slowly until it opened into a broad cavern. The chamber’s ceiling arched far above them in jagged shadows, and the glow of their torches flickered across natural stone columns and patches of moss.

  At the center lay an abandoned campsite.

  Torn canvas, a half-buried kettle, cracked lanterns, and three scattered bedrolls lay about, covered in dust and cobwebs. A rusted blade leaned against a cold firepit.

  “Looks recent,” Robin murmured sarcastically.

  Jerrix surveyed the desolate campsite “Whatever happened, happened fast.”

  They fanned out, slowly investigating the bedding. Steban crouched to examine a small satchel.

  Samuel nudged one of the bedrolls with his boot—then yelped as the bedding moved.

  A cold, rotting hand lashed out, gripping his leg.

  The zombie burst from beneath the canvas, teeth bared, and lunged. Samuel managed to swing his arm up, but not fast enough.

  It bit deep into his shoulder, tearing through leather and flesh.

  “Gahh—! Get it off!”

  Robin shouted an incantation, a bolt of energy striking the zombie square in the chest. Jerrix followed with a slash of steel, and Grusk came barrelling in with a roar, burying his axe in the creature’s spine.

  The thing crumpled, twitching.

  Samuel dropped to one knee, bleeding heavily.

  “Did you just let it bite you?” Steban snapped.

  “I thought it was a blanket!” Samuel groaned.

  “You grapple blankets?!”

  “I wasn’t grappling!”

  “You’re always grappling!”

  Robin pressed a hand to Samuel’s shoulder, beginning to apply pressure and looking for a bandage. “You're lucky it didn’t rip your throat out.”

  Samuel winced. “Still... counts as a win.”

  “You’re an idiot,” Steban said.

  “But a victorious idiot,” Jerrix added.

  Robin knelt beside the fallen zombie, examining the desiccated remains with a frown. “This thing's dry. Like... powdery.”

  “Like it’s been sitting in a sealed tomb,” Steban muttered, glancing around the cavern. “You’d think the air would be musty, but... it’s just dry. Bone dry.”

  Grusk sniffed the air. “Dead air. No draft. Nothing moving.”

  Samuel groaned, clutching his shoulder. Blood oozed between his fingers, and he slumped against the cavern wall with a grimace. “That thing bit me. I think it took a chunk out.”

  Robin turned toward him. “I can’t do anything for that,” he said. “I’ve got fire and force. I’m no cleric.”

  “Yeah, well, next time lead with the fire,” Samuel muttered through clenched teeth.

  “Hold still,” said Jerrix, pulling a clean scrap of cloth from his pack. “Let’s at least stop the bleeding.”

  He knelt beside Samuel and pressed the cloth against the wound, tying it off with a length of leather cord.

  “It’s not deep,” Jerrix said, examining his handiwork. “Ugly, but not deep.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Samuel grunted. “That was definitely deep. I swear I saw my shoulder bone.”

  “It’s fine,” Steban said, frowning. “Just don’t get bitten again. We’ve no way to cure whatever grows on dead things.”

  “I don’t plan to,” Samuel said, pushing himself back up with a hiss of pain.

  Jerrix stood and adjusted his blade at his hip. “Let’s keep moving. Quietly. If one of those was hiding here, there could be more.”

  Robin nodded, already moving forward into the shadowy passage ahead. “Stay alert. And keep an eye out for anything that looks valuable.”

  Jerrix sheathed his sword and stepped further into the cavern, his boots crunching softly over grit and bone fragments. “Whatever this place is, it was meant to stay shut.”

  “I can’t see the ceiling anymore,” Robin said, looking up into the vast dark above. “I didn’t realise we had descended so far.”

  “Then let’s stay together” Steban offered. “Less risk of getting lost.”

  “Speaking of getting lost,” Samuel said, flexing his wounded arm with a wince. “There’s a drop here.”

  They gathered where the stone floor abruptly ended. A deep black chasm yawned before them, splitting the cavern in two. It stretched out at least fifteen feet wide and disappeared into darkness on either side.

  Jerrix crouched, picking up a small rock and tossing it over the edge.

  No sound returned.

  “That’s not encouraging,” Robin said.

  “Could be bottomless,” Samuel offered, trying to sound useful. “Or cushioned with dead things.”

  “Only one way to find out,” said Steban, lighting a torch and holding it out. “Jerrix?”

  Jerrix took the torch and dropped it.

  The flame tumbled, the red-orange light spinning in dizzying arcs before it vanished into shadow. They waited.

  Nothing.

  No clatter. No splash. No puff of flame on the bottom.

  “Well that’s horrifying,” Steban muttered.

  “Means we can’t fall in,” Grusk said.

  “Obviously” said Robin.

  Grusk pointed across. “There’s a stone walkway. Narrow. But it spans the chasm.”

  Indeed, a slim stone bridge—weathered but intact—stretched across the abyss, wide enough for one person at a time. The air here was colder, unmoving. The chasm before them yawned wide—a black, bottomless gulf that drank in the torchlight like a dying star. A bridge spanned it: narrow, maybe four feet across, and made of mottled grey stone, its surface slick with fine dust. It lacked rails or rope, just an unbroken spine stretching from one lip of the void to the other, vanishing into the shadows on the far side.

  Robin stepped forward and leaned over, peering into the drop while Jerrix tossed another torch into the abyss. It spiraled downward, flame flickering faintly. They all leaned in and watched—waiting.

  “So, do we keep wasting torches or do something?” said Samuel.

  Grusk squinted at the bridge, jaw tightening. “Well,” he said with a heavy sigh, “I guess that means I’m going first.”

  Samuel gave a thumbs-up. “You’re the heaviest. If it holds you, it’ll hold all of us.”

  Grusk shot him a look. “That’s not reassuring, Samuel.”

  Jerrix smirked. “He’s right, though.”

  Grusk grunted and stepped toward the bridge, eyeing it like one might a snake pretending to be a rope. He placed a heavy boot on the edge, pressed down, tested the weight. The stone didn’t shift. Didn’t creak. Just waited.

  “Of course it’s me,” Grusk muttered to himself. “Send the half-orc first. Let him plummet into the bottomless death-hole. Perfectly reasonable.”

  He took another step, then another. The bridge felt solid, but narrow. He walked with deliberate care, balancing his bulk with surprising grace for someone his size. His axe was slung across his back, and his arms stretched slightly for balance.

  “Don’t look down,” he growled to himself, even as his eyes flicked to the sides. “Of course you looked down. Idiot.”

  The chasm beneath him was impossibly deep. The faint flicker of the fallen torch had long since vanished, swallowed whole. No smell of water. No breeze. Just the dry darkness of an open wound in the earth.

  Grusk paused halfway, looking ahead to the other side. “Who would even build things like this?” he grumbled. “What sort of lunatic says, ‘Let’s put a bridge here, but make it thin enough to make your toes curl and long enough to question every life choice you’ve ever made.’”

  He took a few more careful steps. “And I could fall,” he continued, muttering. “And if I do fall, I bet Robin would be like, ‘Well, good thing it wasn’t me.’ And Steban would say, ‘I told you not to send him first.’”

  Back on the ledge, Steban called out, “You alright, Grusk?”

  “Oh yeah,” Grusk shouted back. “Living the dream.”

  He crossed the final few steps and reached the other side, letting out a long breath. He turned and planted his fists on his hips. “Alright. It’s stable.”

  Robin nodded. “Guess we’re all crossing, then.”

  “Now you all get to experience the thrill of ancient architecture,” Grusk added. “Try not to die dramatically.”

  The rest of the group began their careful crossing—one at a time—while Grusk kept his eyes on the tunnel ahead, his fingers never straying far from the haft of his axe.

  On the other side, the terrain changed.

  The stone floor gave way to carved paving stones, some cracked, some worn smooth by time. The walls began to show the work of ancient masons—chiselled bricks, faded reliefs of symbols no one could identify, and alcoves housing broken urns and withered offerings.

  Then the cavern widened again.

  And they saw it.

  A necropolis beneath the earth—dozens of crypts and mausoleums arranged in a maze of stone and silence. Some stood proud, angular and adorned with statues of long-forgotten heroes; others had collapsed in on themselves, piles of debris scattered like bones. There were greenish glow of will-o-wisps danced faintly between the buildings, casting spectral light over the tombs.

  “Gods above,” whispered Robin. “This isn’t just a burial chamber. It’s a whole city of the dead.”

  “Built underground,” Jerrix said, awe in his voice. “Intentionally hidden.”

  Steban pulled his cloak tighter. “I don’t like it. Too many places for more of those things to be lying in wait.”

  Samuel shifted uncomfortably, his bandaged shoulder still bleeding faintly through the cloth. “Let them come. I owe them one.”

  “You owe them blood, and I’d rather not pay the price,” Steban snapped.

  Robin nodded toward the lights drifting among the tombs. “The will-o-wisps are moving. Almost... slowly. Like they’re waiting for something.”

  “Let’s not find out what,” Jerrix said. “Let’s look for an exit. I love coin like the next man, but this is getting ridiculous.”

  “No way back over the chasm,” Samuel added. “Even if we turned around, I don’t trust that bridge again.”

  Steban sighed. “Onward, then. Into the city of crypts.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  …………………………………………..

  They moved cautiously through the necropolis, the sheer scale of it slowly revealing itself. This was no small family burial site—it was a vast resting place for generations, stretching into the gloom like a forgotten city of the dead. Dozens of crypts, tombs, and mausoleums loomed around them, arranged like buildings along crooked, gravel-choked avenues. Statues of long-dead nobles and faceless guardians watched from plinths, their features worn smooth by time.

  The dry air clung to their skin, and the silence was total—save for the creak of leather, the rasp of boots on stone, and the occasional clink of shifting gear.

  “This place goes on forever,” Steban muttered, peering into a gated tomb where time had collapsed the far wall inward. “Dozens of mausoleums. Maybe hundreds.”

  Robin knelt by an iron fence, running a finger along a series of glyphs etched in the stone. “Containment wards. Some of these crypts were sealed magically.”

  “Sealed and now broken,” Jerrix observed, gesturing to one tomb where the door had been forced outward. Claw marks scarred the stone like something had tried to escape—successfully.

  Grusk grunted. “Bad place. Smells like dust and bone. But not rot. That means nothing fresh has died here recently.”

  “Comforting,” Steban said drily. “Now, if we could not be the first?”

  As they pressed deeper into the necropolis, their pace slowed. The glow of the green will-o-wisps became more prominent, drifting like lazy sentinels between the tombs. They followed the lights until the path widened again—and then opened into a grand courtyard.

  At the centre stood a towering structure, far larger than the others. A broad stairway led to an ornate arched entrance; half collapsed. The stones here were white once but now stained with age. Statues of cloaked figures flanked the doorway, their faces hidden beneath hoods of stone.

  “I think we’ve found the main tomb,” Jerrix said.

  Robin squinted toward the entrance. “I see something... floating.”

  Green light shimmered faintly within. As they entered the shadowed mausoleum, the full sight struck them.

  A high, vaulted chamber stretched before them, and at the far end stood a stone throne—cracked, but still upright. Around it, green lights swirled and bobbed in lazy arcs. The will-o-wisps danced in slow circles like insects drawn to a flame. Carvings ran up the throne’s back in spirals, and dark stains marked the floor in front of it.

  Steban stepped lightly, circling the edge of the chamber. “Well, this doesn’t look dangerous at all.” Rolling his eyes slightly.

  Samuel tilted his head. “That a throne? In a tomb?”

  “It’s more than that,” Robin said, voice low. He stepped forward, eyes locked on the swirling wisps. “It’s a focus point. These aren’t just stray spirits. They’re tethered to it.”

  “Tethered?” Jerrix echoed.

  “Like bees to a queen. Something about that seat draws them in… or maybe holds them here.”

  Samuel squinted. “So... should I sit on it?”

  “Don’t you dare,” Steban snapped.

  Samuel shrugged. “Just saying. Sometimes you gotta try things.”

  “No. You don’t.” Steban looked to the others. “Can someone keep him busy with a puzzle box or something?”

  Robin approached the throne cautiously, studying the swirling wisps. “They aren’t reacting aggressively. That’s... unusual.”

  “They’re watching,” Jerrix said. “I can feel it.”

  Grusk frowned, his brow creased. “I don’t know what this place is. It doesn’t feel like a grave. Or a temple. Or a lair. It’s... wrong.”

  “Could be all of those,” Steban muttered. “Or none.”

  Robin didn’t answer. He extended a hand slowly toward the swirling wisps. Briefly and so very faintly, his hand brushed the arm of the throne. The green lights trembled, and for a moment, the entire chamber seemed to pulse. Then, as quickly as it began, the motion stopped. The wisps flickered once—and vanished, as though sucked into the throne itself.

  A beat of silence.

  Then, a distant boom echoed through the necropolis. Stone trembled underfoot.

  The adventurers exchanged alarmed looks.

  “That wasn’t from in here,” Jerrix said, turning toward the tomb entrance.

  They rushed out into the courtyard—and saw it. Through the tunnel they’d originally entered into, a thick slab of stone had fallen or been moved into place, blocking their escape route.

  “We’re sealed in,” Robin muttered.

  “Not just this building,” Steban added. “The whole damn necropolis. Look.”

  Another boom shook the air. From near the tunnel they came in, shadowed by half-collapsed walls and crumbled statuary, a flicker of green flame burst skyward.

  Then they saw it—a crude catapult, ramshackle but functional, assembled from rotting timber and bone, manned by four staggering figures with sunken eyes and flayed flesh. Zombies.

  One pulled the lever. A glowing projectile—some kind of enchanted bone, alight with necrotic fire—hurled through the air toward them.

  “Down!” Jerrix shouted.

  The group scattered. The projectile crashed into the upper face of the main tomb, showering stone and dust. Another boom echoed through the crypt city.

  “Zombies with a catapult!?” Steban shouted from behind a fallen statue. “That’s new!”

  “They’re guarding the way out,” Robin guessed. “Or trying to drive us deeper in.”

  “Well, it’s working!” Samuel growled, flinging a javelin toward them—though it fell far short.

  “I say we charge them,” Grusk said, rolling his shoulders.

  “Of course you do,” Steban muttered. “But you can’t be serious, right?”

  Samuel’s eyes lit up. “Not serious? That’s the most serious thing I’ve heard all day!” Without waiting for a response, he gripped his sword and sprinted toward the catapult.

  “Samuel! Wait!” Steban shouted.

  But it was too late. Samuel had already reached the zombies, roaring as he crashed into their ragged line. His sword tore through the first of them, and he shoulder-checked another aside, charging directly into the fray.

  Grusk let out a war cry and barrelled after him, axe raised.

  “Idiots,” Steban muttered, then followed suit, daggers flashing.

  Robin raised both hands, summoning threads of arcane force that shimmered in the air and lashed out, striking the enemies with explosive bursts of power.

  The battle around the catapult had turned into a storm of chaos and blood.

  The towering structure itself loomed like some monstrous idol, its crude wooden frame bound together with sinew and rusted iron nails, glowing faintly from the unearthly green wisps still drifting around it. The scent of old rot and scorched stone filled the necropolis air. The zombies—four of them, no, five, six! of them, gaunt and filthy with grave-soil—moved with unnerving coordination, their arms working in clumsy unison to reload the catapult. One still had half a jaw; another was missing an eye, but their grotesque focus was unwavering.

  Samuel, sword drawn and grinning with adrenaline-fueled abandon, continued his attack, “I got the next one!” he yelled over his shoulder, clearly still bleeding from his previous wound.

  The fighter was already in motion, his boots hammering the ground as he closed the distance and smashed into another one of the zombies. He grappled it, trying to restrain it, pin its arms back—but the thing snarled, a death rattle more than a voice, and sank its yellowed teeth into the side of his neck.

  Samuel gave a strangled cry, more from surprise than pain, and went limp mid-struggle, collapsing onto his back. The zombie clung to him, jaws working like a starving dog.

  “Damn it!” Steban cursed, daggers drawn.

  From the side, Grusk roared like a bull charging downhill. “Off him, you rotted bastard!”

  He swung his greataxe with both hands, the blade singing through the air. The zombie didn’t even have time to look up. The blow split it nearly in two, spraying fetid ichor across the stone. The remains collapsed in a heap beside Samuel’s still form.

  Grusk didn’t pause. The half-orc pivoted fluidly and buried his axe into another undead abomination still fumbling with the catapult’s crank. It tried to raise its arm to block the blow. Grusk’s strike sheared through it and into the chest with a sickening crunch, sending the creature staggering backward before crumpling into a pile of dry limbs.

  “Get your lazy arse up, Sam!” Grusk shouted, breathing hard as he knelt beside the downed fighter.

  Samuel didn’t stir.

  Grusk pressed his hand to Samuel’s chest, feeling the faint rise and fall. “Still breathing…” he muttered, but the wound on Samuel’s neck looked bad.

  A flash of blue-white light cracked the shadows behind them—Jerrix loosing a surge of arcane energy, followed by the sharp hiss of steel as his sword slashed into another zombie that had gotten too close. Robin flanked him, his palm alight with raw, flickering magic that rippled through the air like heat waves.

  One more zombie fell, half its head melted from Robin’s spell, and Jerrix buried his blade in the last one’s spine, driving it to the ground with a thud.

  The catapult crew lay in ruins, and the crypt was quiet once more—except for the rasping breath of the wounded fighter.

  Grusk stood slowly, blood spattered across his chest and face. “Someone check if he’s got more brains than teeth left. Can’t tell sometimes.”

  Robin rushed forward, his hands glowing faintly, looking around for any more threats—before catching himself. “I don’t have potions or anything!” he snapped. “He’s still breathing—but just barely!”

  Steban dropped to one knee beside Samuel, pressing a cloth against the torn flesh. “Damn it, why did you grapple a corpse!?”

  “He always has to do it the stupid way,” Jerrix said through clenched teeth.

  The battlefield fell quiet again.

  The catapult sat damaged—somehow toppled during the chaos. Its operators were now scattered around it in unmoving, mangled heaps.

  Grusk hoisted Samuel carefully over one shoulder. “He will live.”

  Robin looked toward the distant tunnels ahead. “We need to find the way out. Before something worse finds us.”

  Jerrix nodded. “Let’s move. We’re running out of time.”

  Steban gave Samuel one last glare, then turned to follow the others.

  …………………………………………..

  The group moved carefully away from the shattered ruins of the catapult, shaken but still upright. Samuel, unconscious but breathing, was slumped over Grusk’s shoulder. The necropolis stretched on, deeper and more elaborate with every step—an endless field of stone mausoleums, broken statues, and cracked memorial slabs.

  Their torchlight flickered over time-worn engravings and watchful gargoyles as they followed a winding path between two towering tombs. Then, just ahead, Robin halted, raising a hand.

  “There,” he said quietly. “Firelight.”

  They approached cautiously, weapons drawn but lowered. As they rounded a crumbled arch, the flicker of flame grew clearer, until they came upon a narrow courtyard nestled within the ruins. A campfire crackled in a shallow pit, and beside it sat a stocky dwarf in battered mail, quietly strapping what looked like a well-used war axe to his side.

  The dwarf looked up, eyes narrowing in the torchlight. His beard was dark, streaked with grey, and a wooden holy symbol—an oak leaf over a plough—hung around his neck.

  “Evening,” he said gruffly whilst his hand went to his axe . “If you’ve come to add to my problems, I’ll warn you now—I’ve had a long few days.”

  Steban held up both hands. “Relax, friend. We’re not here to rob you. Though if you’ve got a way out of this gods-cursed maze, I might hug you.”

  Robin stepped forward. “We’re just as stuck down here as you, trust me. You didn’t happen to hear a battle a few minutes ago, did you?”

  The dwarf grunted. “Aye. Sounded like a war broke out. Undead howling, something mechanical snapping—catapult, if I’m any judge. I was just preparing myself to investigate when you lot stumbled in.”

  “We fought it,” Jerrix said. “And it fought back.”

  Grusk gently lowered Samuel onto a worn slab of stone. The fighter let out a low groan, his pale face slick with sweat.

  “Looks like one of yours got the worst of it,” the dwarf said, standing slowly. “I can help with that. The Earth Father gives strength to mend wounds and steady the soul.”

  He knelt beside Samuel, placing one calloused hand on the fighter’s brow and murmuring a low prayer in Dwarvish. The holy symbol at his chest glowed faintly as a warm light passed into Samuel. Within moments, the young man’s colour improved, his breathing steadied, and he blinked awake, bleary-eyed.

  “Did we win?” he croaked.

  “Define ‘win,’” Steban said dryly. “You were using a zombie as a wrestling partner.”

  “And losing,” Robin added.

  The dwarf chuckled. “Name’s Torrek. Cleric of the Earth Father. And you lot look like the strangest rescue party I’ve ever seen.”

  “I’m Steban, and these fools are Robin, Jerrix, Grusk, and the half-conscious one is Samuel. We’re...explorers.”

  “Grave robbers,” Jerrix corrected.

  “Adventurers,” Robin said at the same time.

  Grusk just shrugged.

  “Well, adventurers or not, you’re not the first living things I’ve seen down here,” Torrek said, settling back onto the stone. “But you’re the first ones to talk instead of moan and try to bite.”

  Robin sat down across from him. “You mentioned hearing us. But how did you get here?”

  Torrek took a long pull from his waterskin before answering. “I came through the Mud Cairn. Folks up in Fehtrin think it’s just a sinkhole or an old barrow, but there’s more to it. A tunnel system winds beneath it—twisting old crawlspaces, half-collapsed mines, and fault-line passages. I was following reports of the dead walking. Thought I’d poke around.”

  “You came alone?” Jerrix asked.

  Torrek nodded. “Didn’t intend to stay. But the path behind me caved in. I’ve been down here three days now. I’ve seen crypts that stretch on for miles and more death than any one place should hold.”

  “And now,” Robin said with a grimace, “we’re all sealed in.”

  “We came through a manor,” Steban explained. “Old farmstead above. Got down here through a hidden tunnel. But after that catapult fired... well, the only way back slammed shut. Sounded like the tomb we were in got sealed.”

  Torrek rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “That explains the thunderclap I heard. Something shifted in the stones. Probably wasn’t meant to be opened once it closed.”

  “So our only way out,” Robin said slowly, “is forward.”

  “Or down,” Torrek added. “The Mud Cairn may have more to show us. The deeper I went, the older and stranger things got.”

  Samuel pushed himself up with a groan, wincing as he tested his weight. “Well... that’s just great. Trapped underground with zombies, mystery tunnels, and now a divine dwarf. At least we’re not bored.”

  “Glad to see your optimism’s unshaken,” Steban said. “Maybe this time you’ll think before grabbing a corpse.”

  Samuel grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  …………………………………………..

  The fire was little more than embers now, casting faint orange light against the lifeless stone. The group huddled close to its warmth, fatigue setting in after the chaos of the earlier battle.

  Torrek sat on a stone slab, checking the edge of his axe with practiced care. Samuel sat nearby with his back against a crumbling wall, his shoulder, and now his neck, freshly bandaged. Jerrix leaned on his sword like a cane, while Steban picked at a strip of dried meat with exaggerated boredom. Robin absently watched the green flickers of arcane residue still floating faintly in the air.

  “So,” Robin said, glancing at Torrek, “you said you came from Stonesholme. That’s deep in the Bithrin Mountains, isn’t it?”

  “Aye,” Torrek replied, not looking up. “Southwest of Sedgevon. Oldest stone city in that part of the Bithrin Mountains. Cut straight into the cliffs.”

  Jerrix raised an eyebrow. “That’s nearly four hundred miles away from here.”

  “Four hundred and twelve,” Torrek said, as if the number was carved into his bones. “Left Stonesholme two months ago, maybe a little more. Took the western pass down to Sedgevon, then crossed the Dragon Teeth River to reach Calgaith. Not even twenty miles between the two.”

  Steban gave a low whistle. “Sounds like a charming detour.”

  “Charming if you like wet boots and smug toll keepers,” Torrek muttered. “Stayed in Calgaith for a week. Heard whispers of graves disturbed, dead going missing—same tale you hear in a dozen towns these days. But this one felt... anchored. Like it pointed somewhere deeper.”

  “And so you came northeast to Fethrin,” Jerrix finished, nodding. “Another two hundred miles.”

  “Aye,” Torrek confirmed. “And not easy miles. The old roads are cracked and half-swallowed, really only travelled by traders with farm stuffs. Goblin tribes have been a lot more active recently, another thing that’s strange, considering they usually don’t leave their marshes.”

  Samuel grunted. “You walked all that way for the possibility of undead?”

  Torrek finally looked up, his eyes calm but steady. “I follow the will of the Earth Father. He doesn’t speak with words, but with signs—in the way the stone groans, or where it breaks. This land is restless. You don’t need prophecy to feel it.”

  Robin leaned forward. “What was Stonesholme like, then? I’ve only read about it. Never seen a dwarven hold.”

  Torrek allowed a faint smile. “Stonesholme is old. Not just in years, but in spirit. Every hall has been walked by generations of kin. We etch names into the walls—not in memory of the dead, but in honour of where they stood. We don’t forget.”

  “Sounds... quiet,” Steban said, with a smirk.

  Robin snorted. “You wouldn’t last a day, I think. Too many rules. Too little tobacco.”

  Grusk gave a gravelly laugh. “Don’t tempt him. He’ll start digging his own tunnels out of spite.”

  Steban grinned and flicked a pebble toward the fire. “I prefer my ceilings higher than my head and my halls less likely to collapse.”

  Jerrix stood and stretched. “Still. It’s good that you came, Torrek. Without your knowledge, or that Mud Cairn route, we might still be looking for a way out of this dead maze, let alone what might have happened to Samuel.”

  At that, Steban leaned forward, frowning. “We’ve all heard of the Mud Cairn. Everyone in Fethrin has. Just thought it was a pauper’s burial site—where folk who couldn’t afford a crypt were dumped under dirt and rock.”

  Robin nodded. “Yeah. No one ever said anything about it going deeper than a mound.”

  Torrek’s expression darkened. “That’s what I thought too. When I came across it, I saw the same—shallow graves, simple markers. But as I followed the path inward, the graves stopped. Or worse... they were there, but emptied. Some dug up, others broken open from inside.”

  There was a heavy pause.

  “Further in,” Torrek continued, “it stops feeling like a graveyard and more like something else. I don’t know what. The tunnels twist, the stone changes. It's not natural.”

  Robin scratched his chin. “Maybe it was something else. A mine? A hideout?”

  Torrek shook his head. “No workings. No tools. No sign of life. Just silence. The kind that settles in your bones.”

  Robin shifted uncomfortably. “Cheery.”

  “Still,” Torrek said, his voice firm again, “it’s a path. It’s how I got here, and it might be your way out. If we’re to survive this place, we’ll need to understand it.”

  The group fell quiet, letting that truth settle. The crypt around them offered no comfort, only the brittle stillness of a place long dead.

  “Well,” Robin said, “I’ve had enough of grave mysteries for one night.”

  “Too bad,” Steban said, stretching out with a dramatic sigh. “We’re neck-deep in them.”

  As they paused for a moment to catch their breath, the group gathered near a stone alcove where Torrek had stashed some of his belongings—an old satchel, a stained waterskin, and a few short pieces of firewood neatly bundled with twine.

  Steban eyed the bundle and raised an eyebrow. “Alright, I’ve been meaning to ask. Where in the Shield forgotten lands did you find firewood down here?”

  Torrek glanced at the bundle and gave a short grunt. “Didn’t. Brought it with me.”

  Steban snorted. “You carried firewood down into a crypt?”

  “Aye,” Torrek said matter-of-factly. “You lot ever try camping underground with no dry tinder? Not fun. I packed light and smart. Couple of dry branches, some shavings, bit of pine resin. Enough for a few small fires if I needed 'em.”

  Robin gave a nod of approval. “Practical. Most wouldn’t think to bring any.”

  Torrek grunted again, this time with a smirk. “Most end up freezing or trying to burn rotted coffin wood and wondering why they get sick.”

  Grusk muttered, “Firewood. In a necropolis. Next he’ll tell us he brought ale.”

  Torrek dug into his satchel and pulled out a small wrapped bottle. “Actually…”

  The group burst into laughter.

  …………………………………………..

  Steban tossed a twig into the fire, watching the embers flare. “So, no signs of life in the Cairn—but you still found your way here. Nothing blocked your path?”

  Torrek scratched at his beard, his brow furrowing. “Not exactly. No people. No tracks. No sound of digging or movement. But the way wasn’t clear either.”

  Grusk glanced over, intrigued. “You said the graves stopped—what came after?”

  “Cobwebs,” Torrek said, flatly.

  Steban sat up straighter. “Cobwebs? Like, abandoned corner-of-the-room cobwebs or something worse?”

  “Worse,” Torrek confirmed. “The kind that cling to your face and pull at your beard. Hanging thick like curtains. Walls of it. I had to cut through just to breathe.”

  “Spiders?” Robin asked.

  “Didn’t see any, but I heard something moving, high up, out of sight.” Torrek’s tone didn’t waver, but the memory clearly lingered. “Didn’t stop to investigate. I stayed low and moved quick. Whatever lived there didn’t follow.”

  “I hate spiders,” Steban muttered. “All legs and spite.”

  “Did the webs block the way entirely?” Jerrix asked.

  “They were strung across a narrow corridor near the heart of the Cairn,” Torrek replied. “After pushing through, I found what looked like a fracture in the rock wall. Natural, but sharp. I squeezed through. That crack spilled out into the edge of this necropolis.”

  “And no turning back after that,” Robin murmured.

  Torrek nodded. “Once I saw the crypts, I knew I was too deep to climb out. And besides…” He gestured vaguely to the group, the battlefield, and the remains of their earlier skirmish. “Sound carries down here. I heard your fight before I saw it. Figured if I waited much longer, I’d be finding corpses, not companions.”

  “You found both,” Jerrix said, gesturing to the now-silent piles of the animated dead in the distance.

  Steban leaned back, folding his arms. “So to recap: we’ve got a pauper’s mound that’s secretly a tunnel, a crack in the earth that leads to an underground city of tombs, a zombie artillery crew, and a spider-infested passage that makes my skin crawl just hearing about it.”

  “Sounds about right,” Robin said.

  Grusk stretched, his heavy shoulders cracking. “It’s like something out of a campfire tale.”

  “No,” Jerrix said quietly, looking around at the necropolis. “Campfire tales end.”

  They all fell silent again, the weight of that truth pressing down like the ceiling above them.

  The silence stretched as the fire crackled. Grusk stared off toward the darkness beyond their resting place, absently rubbing his bandaged shoulder. Then he spoke, breaking the quiet with a puzzled grunt.

  “Still doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “A catapult. Underground. Who puts siege artillery in a tomb?”

  Steban, seated on a broken slab, lifted an eyebrow. “Right? I’ve been trying to ignore how ridiculous that was, but I can’t. A catapult. In a crypt.”

  Grusk nodded slowly, brow furrowed. “That thing wasn’t dragged in here recently. It looked like it belonged. Like it had dust and moss worked into it, like the rest of this place.”

  Robin leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “It wasn’t just some half-rotted war machine, either. That thing fired. The frame was stable, the mechanism worked… even if it was manned by zombies.”

  “Which is also not normal,” Steban added, gesturing broadly. “I’ve heard of zombies before. Slow, clumsy. But these ones had coordination. Discipline.”

  “Artillery crews are trained,” Jerrix said, thoughtfully. “They’re specialists. You don’t just throw bodies at a catapult and expect it to work.”

  Torrek rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Even if they were raised by powerful magic, why arm them with siege equipment? What’s there to siege down here?”

  Robin glanced around the wide crypt. “Unless… this whole necropolis wasn’t a final resting place. Maybe it was once a fortress.”

  “Or a battlefield,” Grusk said, voice low.

  Steban frowned. “But why underground? Who fights wars inside a mountain of corpses?”

  Jerrix shook his head. “That’s what gets me. You don’t build a catapult unless you’re planning on breaking walls or doors—or defending something that can be broken. But nothing we’ve seen so far looks like it was meant to keep people out. It’s all... hollow. Empty. Like a stage set after the actors have gone.”

  Robin’s voice dropped. “Or like something waiting for the actors to arrive.”

  They all glanced at one another. The still air pressed in again, heavy with the dust of centuries and something less tangible—an unease that none of them wanted to name aloud.

  Torrek finally spoke, his voice steady but grim. “This place was built for more than burial. If the Earth Father’s whispers are true, we’re walking through something ancient. Something half-remembered and half-buried for good reason.”

  “Then we should be careful what we wake,” Robin said.

  Robin nodded slowly, finally serious. “No more touching weird thrones, then?”

  Steban rolled his eyes. “Thank you. Someone finally says it.”

  Samuel gave a gravelly chuckle. “No promises.”

  The fire burned low, embers pulsing dimly in the dark. After a long moment of silence, Jerrix stood, brushing dust from his trousers and adjusting the strap of his sword.

  “We should move,” he said. “If we sit too long, whatever else is down here might come looking.”

  Grusk grunted and rose to his feet, hauling his axe over his shoulder with practiced ease. “Aye. Let’s not wait for the next catapult crew.”

  Torrek began tightening the straps on his pack. “I’ll grab my waterskin and get ready. The air’s dry down here—too dry.”

  One by one, they doused what remained of the fire, quietly packing their gear. Samuel sheathed his sword with a tired sigh, while Robin stood near the edge of their impromptu camp, looking out into the gloom with furrowed brows.

  As the group began to fan out, they moved carefully through the surrounding necropolis—tombs and stone chambers half-collapsed, doors ajar or long since shattered. Cracked stone and faded engravings lined every surface. The dead had once been buried with care here, but time had stolen nearly all of it.

  “I’ll check over here,” Steban said, veering into a low, narrow chamber whose stone door had crumbled inward. “Might be something worth taking.”

  “Just be careful what you touch,” Robin muttered from behind him.

  Steban vanished briefly into the crypt, his torch throwing faint light on the walls as he moved. Inside, he found a stone slab, the remains of a skeletal figure draped in tattered black cloth still laid out with surprising formality. The silver coins on its eyes shimmered faintly in the torchlight—still untouched after all this time.

  Steban crouched, eyes narrowing.

  “Hmm.”

  Robin appeared in the doorway a moment later, his voice quiet but firm. “Don’t.”

  Steban looked up, his hand still hovering near the skeleton’s face. “They’ve been down here longer than anyone’s memory. What’s a coin or two to the dead?”

  “Maybe nothing,” Robin said, folding his arms. “Or maybe everything. You want to be followed by a ghost? Or worse? It’s your fingers they’ll come for first.”

  Steban gave a theatrical sigh and stood, brushing imaginary dust from his hands. “You’re no fun. You know that, right?”

  “I’m alive. That’s what I am,” Robin replied flatly.

  Grusk passed behind them, dragging open a rusted chest half-buried in a nearby alcove. It creaked loudly, revealing only rotting scraps of cloth and what looked like a short sword with a badly pitted blade.

  “Nothing but trash,” the half-orc grunted. “This place was looted ages ago.”

  Torrek joined them, picking through a rack of warped spears leaning near a doorway. “Most of this metal’s gone brittle. Ritual blades, maybe. Ceremonial. Not worth swinging now.”

  Samuel, lifting an old helmet with a broken crest, turned it over in his hands and then tossed it aside. “If we were outfitting a museum, we’d be rich.”

  They pressed onward a little farther, cautiously checking side rooms and alcoves. A few more rusted weapons. A chipped shield. A gauntlet frozen in a clenched position on a severed skeletal arm. Nothing enchanted, nothing glowing—no signs of riches or magic, just the slow decay of time.

  “Still,” Steban said, rejoining the group. “At least we know this place had soldiers. Maybe that explains the catapult.”

  “Or maybe the soldiers were buried here with the catapult,” Samuel offered, half-serious.

  Torrek tightened the strap on his pack again. “Either way, this isn’t a tomb anymore. It’s a battlefield. Let’s treat it like one.”

  With a few nods and final glances around, the group turned their attention down the central path of the necropolis. The dry, airless silence pressed in again as they stepped deeper into the long-forgotten dark.

  With their packs heavier by a few odd trinkets—but not the treasures some had hoped for—the adventurers retraced their steps through the shadowed necropolis. The dead city offered no farewells, only silence and dry air that clung to their skin and lungs. The only sounds were the scuff of boots on stone and the occasional rattle of gear.

  No living thing stirred. No plants, no vermin. The necropolis was utterly lifeless.

  Torrek led the way, his waraxe at his hip, eyes sharp and alert even after three days navigating the place. He walked with the confidence of someone who had memorised every cracked flagstone and crumbling arch. When they passed the shattered remnants of the arcane-powered catapult, he only gave it a passing glance, muttering something under his breath about damned undead ingenuity.

  Grusk, however, couldn’t help but mumble under his breath again as he passed by it. “A bloody catapult... underground. Who in their right mind—”

  “Focus, Grusk,” Steban cut in, though with a smirk at the half-orc’s obvious irritation.

  “A bloody catapult,” Grusk repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ll never understand it.”

  Torrek, unbothered by Grusk's complaints, continued leading the way. He brought them to a narrow passage choked with broken masonry and fallen stone—what had once been a small crack in the wall, now completely collapsed.

  Torrek sighed and gestured to the blockage. “That’s where I came through. From the Mud Cairn. Was just a tight fissure in the stone when I squeezed through it… but now it’s caved in.”

  Robin frowned. “Three days, you did say that, but still….”

  “Aye,” the dwarf said with a nod. “Camped out in one of the mausoleums the first night. Spent the rest slowly working my way deeper, avoiding the restless dead. I heard the fighting when you lot showed up and was preparing to check it out when the catapult began hammering the tomb.”

  Steban stepped closer to inspect the rubble, running a hand along the collapsed stone. “So this was the only way in or out?”

  “That I know of,” said Torrek.

  Grusk stepped forward, arms folded, scowling at the cave-in. “We’re stuck again.”

  “Not quite,” Torrek said, placing a hand against the stone. “It’s fresh collapse. Loose in places. If we work together, we can dig through it.”

  “Hours of digging,” Steban muttered.

  Robin nodded slowly. “We could shape some of the rock, weaken it in parts. With some arcane work and muscle, we could open it.”

  Torrek tapped the wall with a heavy knuckle. “I’d say half a day, with luck.”

  Samuel stretched his bruised shoulder. “Sounds better than staying down here forever. Let’s do it.”

  “Besides,” said Steban with a smirk, “maybe we’ll find some more haunted furniture to poke.”

  Grusk grumbled and rolled his eyes. “Of course I’ll be the first one through, too.”

  Torrek raised an eyebrow. “Well, you’ve survived worse, haven’t you?”

  The half-orc grunted. “Yeah. But I didn’t like any of it.”

  Grusk’s muttering continued as he rubbed his sore shoulder. “First a bloody catapult underground... next thing you know, we’ll be digging through cursed ruins just to find more damn undead.”

  Their laughter echoed faintly in the dry stone corridor. As they began setting down their packs and preparing to clear the passage, a shared resolve settled in. They’d made it this far. One more dig wouldn’t stop them.

  Not after everything they’d survived.