Reaper Of Sorrows

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Guttering torches clutched in crude iron claws flared at Lord Sanouk’s arrival, but did little to brighten the small circular chamber spread beneath a vaulted ceiling. Before the flames grew steady and true in their burning, misty figures detached themselves from undying shadows. They danced near, coiled between his legs, their spectral gray fingers caressing him and the bound girl slung over his shoulder. The whisperings of Gathul’s fleshless servants filled his ears, vile utterings to wither a man’s soul. Sanouk steeled his mind and will against those jeering blasphemies. They were nothing in the face of what was to come.

In time silence fell, and the vaporous fiends departed for realms mortal flesh never ventured, seeking livelier sport. Unease stayed with Sanouk, quickening his pulse. Treating with a god was no small matter.

He took a calming breath and grounded the torch that had led him through the twisting warren beneath his fortress, then stepped fully into the sanctum of Gathul. Riding the vault’s walls, the ensconced torches burned brighter still at his advance. Save for the shimmering greenstone altar and the wizened mystic entombed behind a translucent wall of flowing blood, the subterranean room might have been a crypt built for an ancient ruler during the Age of Glory, when gods had shared truths that men had long since forgotten. Whatever the chamber’s original maker intended, by chance or design it had become the gateway to Gathul’s realm.

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