Small crates of wine, along with dozens of Black Monk, Spiritual Oppressor, and Bleeding Anna fit snuggly in the wagon that was starting to creak from the weight.
A hellish moan came up from somewhere behind us.
Werlyle screamed and flapped, pelting me with congealed blood and dropping a crate of Grest.
“I don’t know,” I said to Werlyle as if he’d asked me what made such an awful noise. And I didn’t know, not completely. But I wasn’t in complete denial either. The final result of my grim induction was that something stirred, and had stirred a long time, amid the tombstones. There wasn’t even the luxury for conjecture; this time the noise continued.
Many may condescend from their comfortable parlors the actions we then took. No bother, there is no way to make rational what was occurring, nor make rational our response. Without a word, we walked side by side. We walked toward the noise. I unsheathed my dagger as Werlyle wiggled the bloody sword out from his belt. I knew the source far faster than my mind would officially admit. Our walk toward what was now a series of grunts and thuds ended at the foot of Rinlot’s sarcophagus.
The wind had picked up to a near approaching storm. Thunder rolled in the distance. Lightning lit up the west. Maybe the weather was trying to mask our discovery. For the faintest of moments, I thought I saw a pale face between two obelisks, but before my eyes could strain further, Werlyle pulled me away.
“Snier, this is Ordrid work.”
“Maybe, maybe—but maybe some animal burrowed in from the bottom,” I said, trying to believe it.
“I have to open it.”
“What!? Whatever’s in there is better left in there. Remember why we’re here. Grave robbing is not an interest, or important.” My free hand clasped the keys in my pocket.
Werlyle placed his ear to the stone. “It ain’t about robbin’ it. They have a curse on him, don’t you hear him,” rolling his gaze up to my own, “in there?”
No! I didn’t! I heard some terrible moan, but it didn’t have to be from where we stood. It was an awakened guard, not properly run through, clamoring out into the night while regaining his wits. I tried to convince Werlyle of this, but it was no use. Thuds burst up from within, and when they did even I finally conceded the most terrible of realities.
Sentiment comes at the oddest times, and certainly nothing odder than the moment before us. Despite all my current dilemmas, I began to wonder if maybe some form of white magic was available to help the thing that now pounded up against the inner stone. For a king’s treasury the Chapwyn priests would maybe put down their incense-swingers and emasculation tools to evoke some assistance. I listened for words, something to discern that the pounder was in the realms relatable to the human experience. I strained, but nothing.