and Wilheim were able to move with relative ease. The warriors kept stumbling. Lokheart pressed Wilheim to cast more light, but he never answered.
They walked and walked as rain slapped their faces. It was cold and hard, but the continuous movement kept them warm. Even though water soaked through their boots, the squish of wet leather was drowned away by the heavy rain. The men had to yell when speaking.
“Are we goin’ the right way,” Lokheart asked.
“You think me a fool?” Samja chastised him.
He had nothing to say. He was scared. The darkness before him lit up on several occasions from the bright streaks of lightning, though its sudden appearance and retreat never allowed the eyes to adjust. When they felt their legs strain from wear, a strange sound iced their veins. A high-pitched whistling echoed from over the hills; first one direction then another. Nothing was ever seen. They moved all night.
No Escape
Night never let up. The camp was difficult to locate as the rains made fires impossible. Worst of all, once they finally arrived, several bolts of lightning struck their ship. The wooden frame burst with a loud crack. The planks caught fire before the waters snuffed them out. None of them were going back to Ilteriel.
Lokheart lost it. He dropped to his knees in the middle of camp and screamed with all his might. He started raving lunacies about being cursed by the Gods. After minutes, he was too tired to continue. He sobbed. He had lost Sotha, after all. The others were sympathetic.
“What’s happened,” someone asked.
“Where are the others,” another wondered.
Jorunhaal had no answer and no plan. He simply shook his head in dismay as he looked out at the beach. Several planks from the ship had washed ashore, charred.
“Eidon has led us to our demise,” Wilheim claimed.
“We may yet survive,” Samja interjected.
“But how,” one asked.
“What will we do,” yet another pleaded.
Jorunhaal raised his face into the rain. It had let off a little, but there was no sun in sight.
“Durro?”
“Aye?”
“Should not the morning sun have risen?”
Durro did not answer. Truly, what have Hell have we found? Jorunhaal wondered.
“Warrior!” Wilheim demanded. “We must pack what we have and find an area of fresh water. The ones before us have left. We might, too…one day.” The old man’s voice trailed away as he turned and left.
“He’s right. There’s no use in staying here. Men, women, surround me,” Jorunhaal ordered. “Our king has sent us here…to this strange island. So far, we have found only death and abandoned hills. Wilheim says there have been others before us, and that they have left. We will go in search of a safe place, so that we may eventually build a new ship and sail home. Let us make haste.”
So they gathered what little was left and trekked back into the hills. There were a handful of soldiers beside Durro and Lokheart. While Samja and Wilheim led, the soldiers remained on the group’s flanks. Jorunhaal took the rear. In that manner, they walked without end into the raining night all the way to the fallen tower. Though an attack from walking wolves was feared, it was reasoned that the known terrain was a safer bet. Furthermore, they planned to keep safe in the tower until morning.
Day never came, but the clouds passed, and a pale moonlight shone down. The group was thoroughly frightened. Too much time and travel had forced them to rest. Wilheim was no help in rallying the men. Instead of sleep, he simply walked around, back and forth, back and forth, all the while muttering to himself. Finally, he decided to wake Samja, whose tent was just outside the tower. She is the only other smart one after all, Wilheim thought.
“What,” she asked when he poked his head beyond the flap.
He crawled closer, saying, “We must move below the tower. A foreign power radiates from the deep. I sense no way off this death trap,” he confided to her.
She sat up and brought her knees to her chest, carefully considering the old man’s words. Before letting out a sigh of resignation she shook her raven hair behind her shoulders.
“I don’t know,” she looked away.
“Don’t be a fool. You know it. We must resolve this, this,” he gave a sigh of his own before continuing. “Samja, I am certain.”
She nodded. Together, they woke the others then met again to discuss. Some were against the idea. Jorunhaal wanted to be convinced it was the only course of action.
“What do you expect to find down there,” the warrior asked.
“An object of great power. A man of even greater power? A God…daemons,” Wilheim replied changing his tone several times.
Lokheart sighed. He was sick of both the cursed island and the crazed codger. He rubbed his yellow beard.
“More death,” the soldier said under breath.
“Oh yes, much, much more death and more than death…but we must. Behind my eyes, I have seen the path. Great…deep…dark, and down we must go. Then…there is light, warm, firm. Many of us will not return home,” Wilheim spoke in the tones of lunatics.
“Then, we will go. His sight has not failed yet,” Jorunhaal stated.
There was no option even for those who did not agree. Staying at the beach meant no water, and staying in the hills meant death by small wolf-men. At least below the ground, they were many.
Sealed
They had all traveled beyond the door in the small room under the watchtower. A series of tunnels led deeper below the ground. While the walls and arched ceiling were gray brick, the floors were natural, musty dirt. The first few hours consisted of little more than following Wilheim and Samja. The wizard’s light spell provided ample radiance. Some of the men grew weary; others grew ill.
“A heavy curse is upon us,” Wilheim said.
“My men are dying. Is there nothing you can do,” Jorunhaal asked.
“Yes, but we must press beyond darkness.”
“By the Gods, they need rest. Can you not see?” Durro pleaded.
Jorunhaal nodded, but Wilheim stared at him. He sighed then shook his head to Durro. It was not long before the situation worsened. The men and women who were ill vomited the same bile as Pasquale. It became evident then; whatever had caused his illness was not the result of the wolf-men’s attack.
“It is the air. It is power. It invades their minds and their spirits. They are monsters now and must be disposed of,” Wilheim ordered, callously.
“I cannot allow it. I have been tasked with keeping them safe,” Jorunhaal argued.
“You have already failed.”
The wizard was right. There was no option. The men were already dead, their bodies had simply yet to realize it. Jorunhaal and the soldiers slew those afflicted and left their carcasses behind.
With a fear for the foulness, the men pressed on. Another day of walking in the tunnels led the group to a stone door. It was a neatly cut rectangle of white stone. Lokheart placed his shaky hand on the door. He turned to Wilheim in dismay.
The old man approached it. After a wave of his hands, some runes were revealed. Their glow was a menacing, red Hellfire.
“What does it say?” Durro’s tone belied fear.
“We have sealed them away. Now, we will leave. It is wise to leave. No one can stay now,” Wilheim said.
“What does it mean,” Lokheart asked.
“It isn’t obvious? The ones who were here have left, but not before sealing others away. This place is cursed, and the only way to break the curse and escape is to end whatever is beyond this door,” Wilheim replied.
“But it is sealed,” Durro said.
Wilheim spat at the ground and gave a look of scorn. He turned back to the door.
“I am Wilheim, son of Wilthur, and he, the son of Wulfbore. An ancient magic courses through these bloods from far beyond time. You will open this door,” Wilheim demanded.
The group stirred. Lokheart looked at Durro. In turn, he looked at Jorunhaal, who glanced at Samja. Th
ey all readied their weapons. The codger continued speaking to the wall.
“Foul creatures, nay, daemons from beyond, you will unseal this obstruction. Blood of the ancients is within stone but they have left, gone, gone away. Bring down this barricade,” Wilheim’s voice grew louder.
“Sir?” Lokheart turned to Jorunhaal.
“Perhaps we should not let out whatever is beyond that door,” Jorunhaal replied.
The wizard was oblivious to the others. His focus and intent so pure, he was going to open the door. The others slowly grew ambivalent. They wanted to turn back, especially Jorunhaal, who cared for his men. But there is nothing behind us…more death in the air to poison our mind and spirit.
“I, Wilheim, son of Wilthur, son of Wulfbore, demand it! By Gaea, and the dragon of the sky, your magic is too weak to stop me,” Wilheim was shouting and shaking his clenched fists at the door.
The runes upon it burned, and red light poured through the seams. The door rumbled then slowly sank into the ground.
“I am Wilheim, son of Wilthur, he was son of Wulfbore…or so I’ve been told,” he said quietly with a smirk at the end.
A gust of acrid air blew over the group’s face as the door worked its way into the ground. The room beyond held an almost angelic glow. A soft, blue radiance shone through the rectangular opening. Beyond it, they saw seamless white walls. They made their way into a new section of the underground. Some exploration revealed it was a series of burial chambers.
Like catacombs, alcoves had been precisely cut into the white walls and mummified remains lay upon them. Moments passed during which the group felt