nside the crypt, with the door pulled closed behind her, Vena stood in in the darkness, listening intently.  Opening and closing the vault door had been very quiet, with just a tiny squeak from the massive iron hinges, but she was afraid that the sound of her prying off the lock might have been audible.  If someone were coming to investigate the sound, she wanted to hear their footsteps in time to react.  So she waited, the heavy pry bar at the ready in her right hand, her dagger clenched in her left fist, while the chill of the tomb seeped through her thin-soled boots and her breath puffed faintly before her eyes.

Vena heard nothing, and could see little more.  All was blackness deeper in the tomb, but enough light filtered around the door to let her see her breath, and just barely see the hand in front of her face, when she raised it to check. The smell wasn't bad at all, and she was glad the door had been opened before she got there, in a way.  Thoughts of smothering in the stench of foul reeking decay had been in the back of her mind all day, and she was glad to have been wrong about that. She'd burgled a lot of places, but never a tomb, and quite a few of the houses and cellars she'd crept through had smelled worse than this.

Rumor of this Tomb of the Fallen Prince told of a long, wide stairway leading down to a low room with the actual coffins resting on marble stands.  This tomb was never a dream for thieves, since by tradition any heir who died before coming into his title was buried in fine clothing, but with no jewels or weapons or expensive armor.  No thief would risk the Royal Cemetery for a reward they could pilfer from the cloak room of an inn.

After a moment Vena was sure no one inside was coming to investigate, if there was actually anyone inside.  She could see nothing ahead of her, and dared not light the length of wick she had tucked in behind her belt, for it would give her away as surely as a shout, to anyone here before her.  However as her eyes adjusted completely to the darkness inside the crypt, she began to think she saw a faint flickering light down a long stairway before her.

Rumors of this tomb told of such a stairway, leading straight down into the earth, one paved with long marble slabs, and Vena's lightly-searching foot soon found a step down.  There was no railing along the wall, but she pressed her right shoulder against the cool, smooth marble as she descended, slowly taking the steps one at time.

After a dozen steps she was sure that a light flickered before her.  Faintly it painted blue and green flashes on the wall to her left, and Vena began to fancy she heard faint voices as well.  Thieves with an enchanted flame?  Enchantment and magic was nothing she cared for, but she'd come too far to give up without a better reason than oddly-colored lights, so she continued on.

After thirty steps she reached a wide landing.  The stairway took a sharp right turn here, and leaning to her left Vena could see a marble floor down another 5 steps.  The tomb proper must be to her right, on the other side of the wall she was leaning against.  The light shone through from the tomb, falling on the wall to the left of the landing.  It was indeed a faint blueish-green, and Vena felt no heat in the air from a flame.  In fact she felt quite the opposite, and though at first she had resisted the notion, she now had to accept that the chill was much deeper the further she descended into the tomb.  The open air outside had been chilly, but down here it was frigid; a taste of the winter that should still have been at least a couple of months in the future.

Vena had to make an effort to keep her teeth from chattering, and she stood with her legs pressed tightly together, shifting from foot to foot on the bitterly-cold marble steps. The warmth she'd built up running through the Cemetery was long gone, and the thin skirt she'd been forced to wear to pass as a tavern wench was damp from sliding in the dew-wet grass, and felt like ice as it rubbed against her bare legs. Her blouse was thin with a mile of cleavage, also part of her disguise, and did little to warm her upper body, though at least it wasn't wet. Her toes were dry, but felt like blocks of wood in the thin calf-high boots she wore, and she feared that much longer in this chill would rob her of the strength to fight.

The voices, which she could now hear clearly, did nothing to add to her confidence.  One was definitely a man's voice, but that was all she could discern.  He spoke in a deep, low mutter, and Vena wasn't even sure what language he was using, from the few sounds she caught.

The other voice was even worse. It sounded male as well, but was very unnatural, urgent, high-pitched and shrill, but with a raspy hollow sound. She had never heard a human sound anything like that.  Even as she tried to classify the voice, it rose in volume and pitch, almost to a shriek.

"I will not say!" echoed through the crypt, and at the same time the flickering light on the wall to Vena's left grew much brighter.

Vena shuddered, and not entirely from the cold.  It was the voice of a wasp, or a demon.  The tomb door far up the stairs seemed to beckon her.  She turned away though, the thought of the priceless riches Galliard had been buried in strong enough to overcome her fears. She had to get out of the city, she had become too well known in Balain, but she had not the money to pay for a journey elsewhere, much less to live on without turning immediately to theft again.  She was a victim of her own success, and since female thieves were rare, she was noted and remembered while male thieves passed in anonymity.  Anything that turned up missing was blamed on her, even if she knew nothing about it, and only some well-placed kicks and skillful use of her dagger had kept her from the hands of some furious merchant's bodyguards on more than one occasion.  This was her best chance, possibly her last chance, and she would suffer anything short of death to succeed in this venture.  Eerie voices from the tomb before her were not going to scare her away, not this close to the treasure.

Edging to her left, Vena pressed against the wall and tried to peer around the corner.  She could see more of the tomb, and several coffins, but the light source was too far to the right, neither of them men were in sight.  If she leaned out far enough to see them, they would surely see her if they were looking in this direction, with the greenish-blue light on her face.  She could fight, but armed with just a crow bar and a dagger, wearing no armor, and chilled to the bone, she would be no match for any man with a sword if he were even moderately-skilled.  Much less two men. Much less ones who might have some sort of mystical flame at their disposal.  Vena's heart sank at that last thought.

Still, if she could take them by surprise, from behind, that could be enough to give her an edge.  No man would take a shot to the head from her prybar and trouble her again, and while she didn't want to kill them, she was skilled enough with her dagger to make that an option.

But first she had to see where they were, and what they were doing.  Especially since one could walk around the corner into her at any moment, with no more warning than a footstep, or possibly his shadow on the wall, if he stepped in front of the blue flame.

Rubbing her dagger blade against the sleeve of her blouse, Vena held it out, just at the edge of the light.  She could see a blurry reflection in it, but the blade was not flat or polished well enough to be of any use to her here.  Cursing under her breath, Vena tucked the blade into her belt sheath, held the crowbar between her knees for a moment, and twisted her long hair up into a ball at the back of her neck.  It would dangle down when she leaned over to peer out, and make a larger target for the enemy eyes in the crypt.

The voices were back to their low muttering, as they had been since the one brief outburst.  They sounded like they were at least several yards away, and Vena just had to hope neither of them was looking this way for a moment. Taking a deep breath and opening her eyes wide, Vena popped her head out just far enough to get a glimpse of the room, then pulled back quickly, amazed at the sight.

Leaning against the wall, she analyzed the image furiously. The room was long, low and open, with deep shadows in every corner. In front, about ten feet directly behind her, was one huge coffin sitting right on the stone floor.  Obviously Galliard's, since the other stone coffins to the sides were much smaller.  The lid of Galliard's coffin had been lying on the floor, broken in half, and there was no sign of the fabled gold bands.  Sitting on a coffin to the left of Galliard's, leaning forwards, was a large man in a black robe, looking to the right.  Vena had only been able to see the side of his cowl, and she was sure he could not have seen her past it.  Only his pale white hands had been visible where they extended from the sleeves of his robe, one holding a long silver spoon, the other a small leather pouch.

But he was not the amazing sight that had so filled Vena's mind.

Extending up out of Galliard's open coffin was a spectral creature. It was shaped like a human from the waist up, but was just a swirling vapor below.  The ghost was male, and boasted huge arms, a barrel chest, and narrow waist. The spirit had long wispy hair, and was wearing what looked like hard leather armor, with a giant crown perched atop his head.  The creature appeared to be solid, but was wreathed entirely in greenish-blue flames, from which clouds of flickering vapor swirled upwards.

He was like a man formed from, or wreathed in fire, but fire of no color Vena had ever seen burn.  She had seen several ghosts and spirits in her life, but never one so well-formed as this.  And never one burning with a greenish flame, a flame that was so icy cold that she had been able to feel it on her face as she took her quick look.  Fortunately, the specter was facing the man on the coffin, and didn't appear to have seen her.

Their voices continued in a low mutter the whole time Vena thought over what she'd seen, proving that she was still unnoticed, and her mind raced with the possibilities. She had to risk another look, and quickly ducked down and leaned to her side, just far enough for her left eye to see around the corner.

The spirit was still facing the seated man, and the seated man was still facing the spirit, his face hidden in his robe. While Vena watched, the man spoke, his voice low and intense, and Vena thought he sounded frustrated.  The spirit answered a moment later, at last using a word Vena could understand.

"No!" the specter said with a booming voice, and sunk back into the coffin, seeming to dissipate somewhat.  The light it radiated grew fainter.

The man was motionless for a moment, before suddenly sticking his long spoon into the bag he held.  Vena's eye widened as she saw the spoon emerge, with a heaping of what looked like reddish powder.  With a flick of his wrist, the man sent a shower of shimmering dust into the coffin and over the spirit.  This had an immediate result, and the specter gave a roar of pain, the powder burning with an orangish light where it touched and seemed to sink into his spectral flesh. Immediately the cloaked man returned to his questioning, his voice now loud enough that Vena could hear him clearly. 

"And ye whot 'a thy mortal foe, Lasgaard?  Tis told he carried a great ruby ring to his 'tarnyl rest."

The man's voice was compelling, and Vena could feel the power of enchantment in his words.  The glowing, burning spirit in the coffin remained silent, but flared up more brightly.  Vena was suddenly sure that the glowing spirit was resisting, fighting with all his might to remain silent.  It did not want to answer the unknown man's questions.  After a moment the man bowed his head and began a rhythmic chanting, and threw another spoonful of the shimmering dust into the coffin. The spirit's howl nearly forced Vena to clamp hands to ears, and she did duck back for an instant before leaning out again, just in time to see a great flare of purple flame burst from the spirit, filling the room with oddly-colored light.  The flames hit the roof overhead and spread out to all sides, as the specter raged, hurling itself side to side. It seemed to be bound by invisible walls though, walls that extended up from the sides of the coffin.

Through this display the man in the cloak sat motionless, and the moment the specter settled down, he held for another spoon of powder, and began speaking again.

Vena felt a sort of sympathy for the spirit, and sorrow that it was being tortured by such unknown means.  She was not there to aid a ghost, though, and the flare of light had given her a good look around the tomb.  Directly behind the seated interrogator stood a large stone statue of a man, rather crudely-carved, and Vena was sure she could reach it unseen.  The specter was dim now, sunken down into the coffin, looking at the floor, and emitting hardly a flicker of light. The light in the tomb was the dimmest it had been since she'd come down the stairs, and Vena dared to take her opportunity.

Keeping against the wall, she slipped across the opening at the bottom of the stairs and dashed to the left, intending to vanish into the shadows behind the statue.  Her plan almost went awry when she stepped into a gaping hole in the flor and stumbled.  If she'd fallen, her pry bar would have gone clanging along the floor, ruining all hope of surprise, and it was just luck that she banged into the statue and kept on her feet, though the bruise to her left shoulder would be painful.

What was a hole doing in the floor down here anyway? The pit was wide enough to lie down in, and practically knee-deep. The Tomb of Fallen Kings wasn't quite as pristine as she'd expected. Vena resisted the urge to spit into it in disgust.

Pushing it from her mind, the throbbing ankle almost welcome as a break from the frozen numbness of her feet, Vena used her new vantage point to get a better look at things.  The spirit was still slumped down in the coffin, and obviously hadn't glimpsed her during her mad dash.  The hooded man had not moved, and still sat with a spoonful of powder at the ready.  He was questioning the spirit again, using a low voice that Vena could not understand.

After a minute the hooded man sat up straight, and the spirit flared up more brightly while speaking in its echoing voice. Vena could hear the spirit well enough, but understanding him was still difficult with no more than every other word understandable. The man was easier, even though he spoke in the same archaic dialect.  He kept asking questions, mostly about items said to be buried in one place or another, and there were names from history that Vena vaguely remembered from her childhood lessons.

As incredible as it seemed, she had to conclude that the man was a summoner of some kind, and that he had broken in here and called forth a spirit.  And what spirit would be in Galliard's coffin but Galliard himself?  What man would dare summon forth the God King himself, dare to interrogate him about ancient secrets?

Summoners were unheard of, nearly extinct, a forbidden discipline of magery that concerned itself with unholy arts.  Some called them Necromancers, but that was a black word, banned by Holy Law, and anyway, Vena didn't believe such men existed.  They were legends of children's tales, said to be able to cast debilitating Curses and use unknown poisons to kill without detection.  They were alchemists, and held traffic with spirits. Some said they had power even over the dead, and could even call corpses forth from the grave for their dark ends.

Vena was skeptical.  Ghosts and spirits abounded, and many a village witch could force them to answer riddles and issue prophecies, though there was much debate as to whether such fortune telling was of any real use. After all, if your grandfather hadn't known the future when he died, why would he five years later?  Even if you could get him to talk.

Summoners were said to have powers beyond the belief of simple witches and wisewomen, though Vena had never heard of them calling forth spirits for information.  However she could see no other explanation for what this man was doing with the spirit of Galliard.  Vena was no friend of the monarchy and not one to respect tradition.  She had come here to pry open his coffin and pilfer Galliard's burial raiment.  But even at that, the thought of the founder of this land, the Godking, being broken for information, like a captured spy, was sickening.

Pushing that from her mind, Vena prepared for action.  She was here for riches, and needed to get them and leave as soon as possible, before the guards she had killed were discovered.  There shouldn't be any discovery before dawn, when the shift change occurred, but she wasn't prepared to trust her life to the male desire for perpetual drunken debauchery.

The spirit was obviously contained in its coffin, so it was the man she had to worry about.  She needed him alive also, since he might have been here for some time and already removed or hidden the treasures she sought.  And, Vena supposed, he might actually have heard something interesting from Galliard.  The location of a buried treasure, untouched for a thousand years?  That would be worth knowing about.  The heavy crowbar would leave him in no condition to answer questions, but most men became very talkative with a blade tight at their throat.  Tight enough to send a trickle of blood down their collars.

Carefully setting her crowbar on the lid of a coffin, Vena drew her knife and and took a tip toe step towards the man.  She was going to take him directly from behind, grabbing his head and putting the knife to his throat before he had any idea he was not the only living soul in this crypt. As Vena took a second light step, a heavy hand came down on her shoulder from behind.  There was no way someone had gotten behind her, but before thinking Vena reacted with all the speed and skill she could muster.  She instantly dropped lower, bending almost to a squat as she spun around, driving her blade up into the belly of her attacker.  As it hit she prepared to rip it upwards, planning to eviscerate the man before he realized she had slipped his grasp.

Her reaction was lightning, her aim was true, but all was for naught as her blade hit hard stone and was painfully dashed from her grip.  Vena's thrusting fist crashed painfully into the stone the dagger had been turned by, and the injury was compounded as her fingers slid over the blade, cutting the first three to the bone, just above the second knuckle.

Vena was shocked, and before she could try to duck away the hand came down again, grasping her entire shoulder this time and lifting her up like a doll.  Hurting hand or not, she drove her fist into the face of her attacker, and gave out a yowl of pain at the impact.  It was as if she'd punched a wall!

The hand on her shoulder gripped even tighter, and another came down on the side of her neck, the grip pulling her to her feet. Vena's last attempt was a kick, delivered with perfect accuracy to the man's groin. Surely this would slow him at last.

The result of the kick was the same as her punch, and Vena felt like she'd been been trod on by a cart horse. How could such numb toes burst into such a flaming display of agony?  Her hand bleeding from the dagger and throbbing from the punch, her foot feeling crushed, Lena was too shaken to run when her assailant threw her down backwards. She hit hard on her rear and just managed to turn and start to crawl to her feet when the hands came down on her again.  This time the grip was like an iron clamp, so tight that she couldn't hope to break free.  Her fist and foot kept her from throwing an elbow backwards, as she knew the result would just be more pain.  And a second later she wouldn't have dared try it, for the grip tightened on her shoulders to the point that she could hear her bones squeaking.  The strength in the hands was incredible, and Vena knew she was a hair from being snapped like a dry twig.

What could have taken hold of her?  What felt like stone, and had the strength of a mountain? Old legends filled her head.  What was the first essential creature that a summoner learned to raise? A golem.  A creature made from the very earth, an animated man of stone and rock and dirt.  There was no dirt in here, but there was stone, and Vena thought of the large jagged hole she'd stumbled into earlier.  This creature had been raised from that, and it had been standing there all along. She had hidden behind it, thinking it was a statue.  Vena felt sick, and only grew more upset when she looked up into the face of the summoner himself, a tall man who studied her from within his cowl while his minion held her for his pleasure.

The man lowered his hood, and gazed down at Vena, stepping to the side to let the light from Galliard's flaming spirit fall on his captive's face.

Vena looked at him, keeping her face still.  Now as not the time for threats or aggression, not when the Summoner's golem could rip her arms off as casually as she could breath. The Summoner, the first one she had ever seen, was old.  Very old, maybe even ancient.  Deep wrinkles entirely covered his pale face, but he did not look feeble.  On the contrary, the man looked like an aged but still virile king; worn down physically, but burning with intensity and power beneath his skin.  The man held her dagger before Vena's face, a small smile on his lips.

"Did you really mean this for me, my dear?"  His voice was no less deep now, but he spoke in modern language, albeit with a strange accent, and Vena could understand him perfectly.  Her tongue leaped into action.

"Not to kill!" she gasped.   "I am merely a thief, and I was going to hold you prisoner, until I had the treasure of the Godking that I came for."  She knew it was a weak response, but the pain in her arms and her surprise at being taken prisoner by a living statue had loosened her tongue and stirred her wits.

"Of course, I'm sure you sneaked in here just by asking nicely.  Never spilled a drop of any man's blood in your life, right?"

Vena could hear the dark amusement in the man's voice, but also great weariness.  She wondered how he'd gotten in here, with the tomb door yet unopened, and how he'd gotten past the guards and into the cemetery in the first place.  The golem holding her was certainly strong enough to have caused the damage to the door, but why not open it all the way?

These thoughts left her the instant the summoner looked away from her face.  He raised his eyes, gave a small nod to the golem, and turned away, sitting back down on the edge of the coffin he'd been perched on when Vena first entered the tomb.  His nod had been a command, for once he was sitting the golem lifted Vena up so her feet dangled helplessly, agony shooting up her neck at the crushing grip the golem kept on her.  She was carried around two coffins, towards the stairs, before the golem changed direction and brought her towards Galliard's coffin, stopping with her less than a yard from the burning apparition. The summoner was beside Vena, but behind her too much for her to see him, since she could not turn her tortured neck at all. The golem's unyielding grip did not loosen a bit, but Vena gasped with relief as it lowered her a few inches, enough to let her stand on tip toe.

Vena could not see the Summoner to her side, but she could certainly see the God King in front of her.  Galliard, for that was who the spirit must be, was burning far more brightly now, and looking quite alert.  He was standing up to his full height in the coffin, eye to eye with the dangling Vena.  The spirit was clearly very interested in her, and the twinkle in his eyes filled Vena with dread.  She'd seen that look from far too many soldiers once they got a few mugs in them and spotted a pretty girl walking alone.

Vena couldn't help but stare at the spirit so close to her, and how often was she going to meet a king who had been dead for more than 800 years? So she stared back, trying to keep her face impassive despite the throbbing ache in her foot, and ache and feeling of heavy bleeding in her hand, and the crushing weight on her shoulders and neck. Galliard had a noble face indeed, lines of care and worry etched deeply into his ancient visage.  He had ruled for over fifty years, remaining in power until his death, which came from wounds he suffered after leading his armies in one last victorious battle against invading brigands.  Or so the legends told.

Noble face or not, there was nothing but greed and lust in his expression, and the mouth opened, revealing a burning maw.  Vena was fascinated and appalled at once, for Galliard had no teeth or proper mouth at all.  His exterior looked human enough, but inside he was hollow, just a gaping pit with a slavering tongue.  She turned her head as far as she could, repulsed.

"A fair maiden fore thy sore eyes, great lord." said the man behind her, and with a sudden motion, he stepped up next to Vena and sliced from her neck to waist, severing the thin string that held her bodice together, and nicking her belly in the process.

Vena tried to raise her hands to cover her breasts, but the creature holding her gave a squeeze, and all the strength left her limbs.  Hands dangling limply at her sides, she could only gape in wonder as the summoner parted her blouse with a flourish, completely baring her breasts to the spirit. Galliard's glowing eyes sparked all the brighter at this sight, and a deep groan emerged from his gaping mouth.

Vena was shocked beyond speech, and in the crushing grip of the golem she could only stare in horror, dreading the feel of Galliard's burning flesh. Would his touch burn or chill?  His hands were stretching towards her now, his fingers were well-formed, long and thin, but they wavered and looked insubstantial, as if the ghostly fire he was made from was dissipating at the extremities.

Horrified and helpless, Vena screamed, hating herself for her fear as much as she hated the sight of Galliard's eyes burning even brighter at her terror. The hands stretched towards her, aiming for her bared breasts, but as they reached the edge of his coffin the fiery digits vanished, and the spirit jerked backwards with a howl of pain.

"Ha, thou forgets thy boundaries, Galliard!" The man gloated.  "Tell me what I wish to know, and I shall deliver her to you, in your coffin."

The spirit tore his eyes from Vena and locked stares with the Summoner, but soon flicked back to Vena, where they rested for a long moment. The undead creature seemed to reach a decision then, and began to speak rapidly.  Vena tried to listen, but she was shivering uncontrollably, more from cold than horror.  Galliard was the source of the chill in this tomb; it radiated from him, icy temperatures from the burning cold flames that formed his spectral body.  She'd been cold before, but now her entire chest and stomach were open to the air, and with the radiating glacier that was Galliard just a foot away, she felt she might faint as her breath puffed up in the air and steam rose from the trickle of blood just above her navel. Would he be cold enough to kill her at a touch, before she suffered any more at his hands?

As the conversation went on, Vena wanted to interrupt to plead her case, but her tongue was as frozen as the rest of her.  What could she say anyway?  She'd been caught coming up from behind with a ready knife; if she had caught someone else doing that to her, she certainly wouldn't have had any mercy. Still, mercy she craved as the Godking talked, his eyes never leaving her body as he answered the summoner's questions.

At last the discussion came to an end, though the man in black didn't look satisfied.  He stood up and paced around the coffin, while the spirit within it ignored him and stared incessantly at the prize he had earned.  His burning skull-like face was pressed up to the very edge of his coffin, and the mouth was open wider than a human could ever gape.  Vena wanted to drive her arm down his throat and yank his intestines out, but she knew it was an empty dream.  He was hollow inside, a spirit, and she couldn't move her arms anyway, crushed as they were by the golem's tireless grip. Her teeth were chattering so loudly she could barely speak, and every inch of her body was textured in goosebumps, but she managed to coordinate her mouth for one last try.

"Please sir, you can't give me to this spirit.  We are thieves of a kind, I meant you no harm.  I merely wanted the treasure of the Godking.  You can have it all, but don't leave me to this creature!"

Silence.  The man continued pacing, his long cloak swirling around him.  Vena stared at him, trying to catch his eye.  Anything to look away from the ravenous spirit that was clutching at the air, just inches from her flesh, held back only by the invisible barrier that rose up from the edges of its coffin.

Another minute and the dark figure ceased pacing and vanished out of sight behind Vena. She heard a rustling sound, as if he were pulling out books or papers, and a moment later a yellow flame glowed into life. Vena swore she could actually feel the warmth from a single candle flame, she was so cold.

Vena could not see what he was doing, and could not turn to either side, but after a moment she realized that the golem was holding her left shoulder up so high that she could bend her head forwards a bit and see under her arm.  The Summoner was seated on a coffin behind her, a large book open on his lap.  The man was writing furiously into the book, and for several minutes the only sound in the crypt was the scratching of his quill as it flew over the pages.

Vena began to despair of even living long enough to die at the icy hands of Galliard, as the cold of the man baked into her from just a few feet away.  Only the blood flowing down her hand from her cut fingers, and the light trickle of it on her belly felt warm.  Everything else was like ice, and even her tongue and brain felt frozen, too heavy and slow to think, or to speak.

The Summoner's voice was a shock, pulling Vena out of her trance with just a few simple words. "A thief, am I?"

Vena shuddered and then felt colder still, fearing that she had offended him in some way.  Before she could speak he continued.

"Ha, better than what most would call me.  And I steal only from the dead, taking information that only I can use.   And an occasional shiny bauble, I admit."

Vena stayed silent.  The man continued writing, and after another moment he said, "So, how many guards will be waiting for me when I try to leave, after your no-doubt bloody and noisy entrance to this burial ground?"

Hope springing in her, Vena replied quickly. "None, if we are quick! The two I killed won't be discovered for hours yet.  Release me and I can surely guide you to safety, in exchange for my life!" The thought of escape warmed Vena's soul, but she was now so cold and cramped she didn't think she could stand if the golem released her.  Much less lead him on a running escape from the Royal Cemetery.

The man gave no reply to her words, and instead closed and fastened the clasp on his book, before tucking it into a stained leather pouch, along with the few other items he had out.  He'd put the pouch of dust and spoon away at some point when Vena had been staring in horror at Galliard, for she saw no sign of them now.

Everything packed, the Summoner walked around to stand in front of Vena and gazed down into her face.  Not at her exposed flesh, fortunately.  After a moment under his merciless gaze, Vena began to wish he would show some of the lust that Galliard was so clearly burning with.  She was unused to dealing with any man she couldn't use her body to manipulate.

Vena opened her mouth to speak, then shut it quickly when the Summoner raised one finger.  She dared not offend him with further pleading, and could only watch in horror as the man slung his satchel over his head, got it situated comfortably, and drew a small glass vial from an inner pocket. Vena watched dumbly, wondering if this was some poison to kill her cleanly.  She would prefer that to Galliard's freezing rape.

Confounding her expectations, the Summoner hurled the vial across the crypt, towards the shadowy opening to the stairs.  Vena looked on longingly, remembering that she had been crouching there, still warm, still safe, just moments before.  With a sharp crack and a flash of light, the glass potion shattered against the stone wall, and Vena was blinded for an instant by a roar of white flame. Squinting her eyes, Vena watched the thick burning liquid run down the wall with a sensation akin to ecstasy, her skin drinking in the fire's heat, even at this distance.  It did nothing to warm her, but even a drop of water is bliss to a dying man.

In a distant corner of her dazed mind, she enjoyed the sight of Galliard shrinking back from the fire.  Could a spirit fear flame?  She tucked that thought away for the future.

With the flaming liquid still flowing down the wall and adding blazing light to the crypt, the Summoner looked at Vena, then at his golem, and though he made no move or sound, some sort of order was transmitted, for the stone creature took a step forwards, living Vena several feet up into the air and moving towards Galliard's coffin. Vena kicked in a panic, but she was completely helpless, like a kitten held by the scruff of the neck.

There was certainly nothing kittenish in Galliard's expression, and pure lust filled his glittering eyes as his fists clenched in anticipation. The spirit actually moved as the golem carried Vena over the edge of the coffin. Only once she was fully inside his domain did the ancient king's spirit surge forwards, sliding up Vena's kicking legs like a frigid mist, and at that moment she truly knew terror.

She had thought she was cold before, but this was like being plunged into ice water.  Worse than ice water, as Galliard's burning hands slid over her flesh, and then through it, lancing the inside of her body like a thousand frozen needles.  Vena's legs were instantly numb, frozen and paralyzed, and in her terror she could think of nothing but pulling away. The pain in her shoulders forgotten, she raised her arms and clenched at the golem's stone hands, trying to pull herself up, back, away from the consuming demon.

Her struggles made not a bit of difference to Galliard, and he continued to grope his way up her body as she screamed in pain and horror.  Her dress was pressed against her legs, molded to her form, and as Galliard's numbing touch moved up her thighs and to her crotch, the cold became agonizing.  Higher still he came, running his freezing hands over her belly, squeezing at her breasts, while his torso pressed at her and engulfed her lower body. Galliard's grinning face was inches from hers, his icy hands pawing at her breasts, and as he leaned in to kiss her, his yawning maw licked by blue flames, Vena began to fear she would lose her mind before the chill stopped her heart.

Unable to stare her doom in the face, Vena turned her head, tears freezing on her cheeks from the frozen breath of Galliard's spirit. She was just in time to see the Summoner finish a complicated series of gestures, and as Galliard's mouth moved to touch hers, the Summoner shouted a word of power and brought his arms down.  At once a howl torn into Vena's ear from just an inch away, and with a huge flash of cold, Galliard's spirit vanished, still screaming, the blue-green flames he was formed from puffing out in a thousand tiny points of light.

The golem dropped Vena a second later, and she fell awkwardly into the coffin, bones and pieces of rusted armor poking her legs painfully, despite their numbed state.

Vena was stunned, resigned to horrible death just seconds before, now seemingly saved by her executioner. She looked down into the coffin, able to see the contents now that Galliard's burning mist wasn't obscuring it, and with clumsy fingers that felt as thick as bricks, she pawed through the bits of junk, picking up a few broken ends of bone and some rusty bits of armor that looked like old scrap metal.

"This is it?  This is the great coffin of the God-King?" Vena was so shocked by the detritus in the coffin that her near death was almost forgotten. 

The summoner answered her, standing in the archway to the stairs as his golem stomped past him and up towards the door.

"Well, it was under the sea for eight-hundred years.  Nothing, no matter how fine the workmanship and enchantments, could withstand that treatment."

"What of the gold plating, and the precious gems?" Vena asked.  She felt like crying anew, this time in despair.

"Hah, you believe too much of the legends.  He was buried in his armor, since no man could remove it while he still lived.  But it was just armor, forged and beaten steel.  No gold, no gems, no ruby-studded crown.  His killers took those things."

Vena was so disappointed at the vanished treasure that she didn't notice what the summoner had said for a moment.  Finally she asked, "His killers? The brigands?  They were defeated?"

At this the summoner laughed again.  "You've heard the legends you have. How noble Galliard retired to his small island in his dottage, but returned to lead his armies when pirates attacked the coast, finally killing the pirate chief in single combat, on his very own island?  All lies."

Vena was stunned, despite her shaking body.  Sensation was returning to her limbs, but her legs were still numb to her. She pulled herself to the side, holding the edge of the stone coffin, wondering if she'd been crippled while pondering the Summoner's words.

She had never idolized the Godking the way so many seemed to, but that was because she idolized no one. He had conquered the savage tribes.  He had brought light and peace. Hadn't he? All the legends told how the pirate fleet could not be defeated by the kingdom's weak navy.  Sailors were put upon by soldiers to this day with cruel barbs about how the Godking's troops had ended what the sailors could not.  Galliard had donned his gleaming plate mail and unsheathed his mighty blade Carnelash one last time, and cut his way to the pirate king, killing him and his captains, and breaking the will of the invaders.

The Godking had been wounded though, and his strength fading, his work done, he had laid down and died after naming his second son his successor. So Vena had always been told.

It was almost as if the summoner could read her thoughts, for as the legend finished in Vena's head, the man spoke. "Look at that dagger.  The one stuck right into the stone of the coffin, though what used to be Galliard's rib cage."

Vena looked down, and indeed there was a dagger poking up between her outstretched legs, most a human rib cage still stuck by the blade.   She could see that though it was corroded and pitted by rust, there was a royal seal on the pommel.  She took hold of the grip and pulled, but could not budge it, the blade was so deeply-imbedded into the stone coffin.

"That rusted bit of metal is  the legendary Carnelash, my dear.  A short sword, not the mighty blade you were told about.  Galliard fought with speed and guile, and none of that formalized chopping with the shoulder-high two-handers those fool Paladins hold to these days."

Vena looked up, startled by the venom in the Summoner's voice when he spoke of the Paladins.  He did not look at her, and kept his eyes on the flickering flames, speaking in a distant voice, like a bored historian.

"Galliard was murdered, stabbed in the back by his son, just as he had done to his father some fifty years before.  They buried their precious king face down, ignoring his screams as they hammered the blade in so deeply that he could never pull free. He was aged, but his will was strong, and his armor enhanced him. He was strong enough to resist death, but not strong enough to free himself.  Trapped in his coffin, nailed down like a bug on a pin, he waited to die. They sealed him in there, wrapped the coffin with metal so he could never break free, and buried him alive."

While he talked Vena tried to get up, but failed again. Nerve sensation seemed to be returning to them, gradually, but her initial excitement over escaping Galliard was turning to dread. She'd felt warmer when he was dispelled, but only in relative terms, and passing out and dying of cold in this coffin seemed a very real possibility. Was this strange man going to talk all night?  Was he not going to kill her? She didn't think he was the type to leave a witness, certainly not to what he'd done.

The Summoner's expression was unreadable, his face lit in orange by the guttering flames of the potion he'd thrown a moment before. As Vena looked helplessly at the fading light, desperately willing strength to her dead legs, he spoke again.

"Who knows how long it took him to die?  Trapped in the coffin, skewered like a pig on a spit, darkness and dust eating his screams for mercy.  The cataclysm came just a few years later, an earthquake sunk his island, and tidal waves washed over it.  That much of the legend is true. I wonder, could he have lived long enough to drown?"

The man gave a short laugh at his own remark. "And no, he wouldn't tell me.  He swore he could not remember, and I didn't really care to push him on it."

"Many thanks for your timely arrival, my fine-breasted lass.  Galliard was proving exceedingly uncooperative, defying my strongest commands, but when you appeared, I knew he'd be unable to resist the lure of a woman after so many centuries.  Your discomfort at being used as bait is your reward for sneaking up behind me with a knife!"

He laughed at this, brandishing her dagger as he said it, then tucking it away into his robes as he turned and strode across the tomb and out of sight, heading up the stairs towards the entrance.

Part Three -->

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