Possessing the Grimstone - By John Grover Page 0,52

teeth. A shiver shot through him, and movement, again, caught his attention.

A figure crossed to his left: he’d spotted it in his peripheral vision. He turned with his sword in both hands, and watched an undead warrior shuffle to the back of the room to what looked like a massive altar.

The warrior bowed to the altar, and then walked into an ornate circle on the floor. The circle glinted faintly in the shallow candlelight. Pim was just barely able to see some runes inside the circle. The warrior got onto his knees and bowed his head again.

Pim thought he heard weeping, but he wasn’t quite sure. There were many of these circles around the altar, and more undead found their way to them.

Pim felt something else stirring around him. The air changed, growing thick and colder. He felt eyes on him. He turned again, but nothing was there.

A shift; something close, almost touching him. Pim swung around, his sword trembling in his hands. Nothing.

Something cut the air. Something gliding, effortless, weightless. Its eyes on him, again.

“Are you the snake in my garden?”

The voice came from behind him. Pim turned, keeping the blade of his sword in front of him.

He swallowed rancid air. “Garden?”

“You think only flowers and perfumed bright beauties constitute a garden?” The voice was to his right, now, rasping and hollow. “The nightshade, the hemlock, thorny trees, bristle patches, and mushrooms. Fungus, lichen, and serpents. This is my garden.”

“I mean no disrespect. I have come…”

“I know why you have come, Wivering.” The voice rasped to Pim’s left.

Pim turned, his eyes fixed on a window. A cluster of shadows wriggled before it, squirming, taking shape. A crooked form rose out of the shadows, taller and taller, still, gaunt, writhing. A black, tattered cloak, stretching and fluttering like a flock of crows, appeared. Elongated arms the color of ash slid from beneath the cloak; spindly, bony fingers twitched. Pim’s gaze scaled the frightful visage, stopping at a blotched cowl. Inside the cowl, two points of white winked at him, the Lich’s eyes.

“You seek knowledge,” the Lich whispered. “You seek to know what I have seen through the ages. You seek something very powerful.”

The blood drained from Pim’s face. He felt weak in the knees. His legs actually quivered, threatening to give out on him, but he stood strong. “There is much that depends on me being here. I need to ask for your help.”

“The living come to ask for the help of the dead? When have the living ever helped the dead?”

“I… I… do not…”

“You do not,” the Lich cut him off as two snakes slithered from beneath its robes. “Of course you do not. You do not even know where you stand. This is the Church of the Dead. Those lost souls, and those slain by violent means hear the call of Mort A’ghas. They make their pilgrimage to my lands to worship, and beg Thet for ascension. They are confused and angry—they do not know why they still walk. They wish for Thet’s forgiveness, and sometimes he grants it.” He lifted his bony arm and pointed to one of the circles. The undead inside of it shook before a dim red light engulfed it, reducing it to ashes. A small white orb hovered where the undead had been. It floated up and vanished through the ceiling. Pim noticed that the mosaic glowed with red light, as well.

“Sometimes he does not,” the Lich continued. “Those who remain are bound to the swamplands to wander and return to my church day after day, night after night. The circle continues.”

A strange thought crossed Pim’s mind. Something wasn’t right with the undead that came for forgiveness. Pim gathered his strength, forced his resolve, and stared down the Lich Lord. “Please, my lord. I come on behalf of all of Athora.”

“Do you, now? In all of my ages, I have seen much. I have heard more, and I know that which cannot be found.”

“You speak in riddles. I do not have time for this. People are dying.”

“I would welcome them here. All here are dead.”

“Will you help me, or not?” Pim raised his voice and took a step forward.

The Lich’s cloak squirmed. The darkness rolled over it like rushing storm clouds. “I ask again: when have the living helped the dead? Why should I give you your answers?” He asked in a low rasp.

“Because all of Athora will fall, and you with it. There will be no more living, thus, there will be