Chapter 7
They gasped and shuddered in the darkness, leaning hard against the heavy stone doors which sheltered them from the pestilential rodents. The noisome smell of rat left their nostrils, to be replaced by the odour of dust, decay, and the slow passage of time. As the sound of the blood pounding in their ears diminished they became aware of a discordant hum resonating throughout the chamber. Gerard spoke a word taught him by Zmrat and a dancing ball of flame appeared on a coin he held. The Hydra started as the flickering light revealed an eerie choir standing a scant dozen yards away. Their once white robes hung in tatters from their shoulders and their hair was long, listless and unkempt. As if cued by the light, the choir mistress raised her baton and signalled for her charges to begin. Eyes cast heavenward, they launched into a hymn, completely oblivious to the new arrivals.
“You can’t do evil from a hole in the ground…” they sang as the adventurers regarded them suspiciously. Despite their pallid faces and gaunt figures, however, the Gerechians appeared to be alive, or at least better preserved than their farming brethren outside.
A little nonplussed by the lack of a reception, the companions glanced at each other in confusion. Taking care not to disturb the singers, they moved about the chamber. They were in a large square room with imposing doors leading to the North and West. It had once been a grand reception hall, but now was slowly crumbling to ruin. The mosaic tiles from once great masterpieces now littered the floor. The gaps they left behind seemed to blaspheme the holy images of Gerech ruling from his stone of light. Judges were now blind, the clergy ignorant of their flock, the temple guards bloodthirsty and brutal. Death and decay stalked what had once been scenes of peace and abundance.
Despite his harsh background and detestation of Gerech, Morgan felt strangely disturbed by this blasphemy. He felt overwhelmed by a sense of wrongness, a great perversion that had gone unchecked. Coupled to this, he couldn’t shake a powerful sense of déjà vu despite having never set foot in a Gerechian place of worship. Without being fully conscious of his actions he returned to his horse and took down the war mask from Sorcerer’s Isle. As his fingers touched the cold metal a flood of alien memories rushed through him. Arms trembling with barely suppressed emotion, he lifted the mask to his face and felt it cleave to his flesh. For a second, nothing further happened, then the stiff metal of the mask appeared to melt and conform to his features. He gave a strangled cry and fell first to his knees and then to the ground, his fingers locked tight in the matted locks of his hair.
The sound attracted the others, who rushed to their fallen friend, then drew back in horror at what they beheld. In some grotesque way the war mask appeared to be alive and its fluid texture appeared to crudely transmit Morgan’s facial expressions. Initially they showed his shock at what was happening to him. Then a second expression appeared. Instead of the pensive cast that was characteristic of Morgan, a powerful arrogant expression appeared. The mask surveyed the ruined grandeur of the room and appeared overwhelmed by what it saw. The features ripped and distorted unpleasantly as a fierce internal battle raged. Eventually, Morgan’s regular features reasserted themselves and he looked at his awed companions. Unnoticed behind them, they choir launched into a new devotional.
“Warm is the hand that touches the stone…”
Argonne hesitantly leaned forward and helped his stricken friend into a sitting position. He tried to pry loose the mask but an arm grasped his shoulder.
“Don’t”, said Morgan. “Its all right, I’ve regained control”.
“Control of what?”, said Mortec, fixing him with a shrewd gaze. As he did so, his hands slowly dropped to where his crossbow was secured.
“The thing in the mask. He says his name is Valentin Seth. Its hard to explain”, Morgan continued. “He claims a disaster befell him a long time ago, and since that time his soul has lived on in this mask. When we entered this place,” Morgan paused as if listening for a second, “…the Yorathian Grand Temple, he was recalled to, to consciousness”. He pressed a hand to his face and nearly swooned. “So many memories”, he whispered. “Let me rest a while and get my bearings again”. For the first time he noticed the wary stance of his companions. “Don’t worry,” he said, attempting a reassign smile. But the mask made even this innocent expression appear warlike and menacing and they were not reassured. Nevertheless, they forced themselves to relax and give their friend time to recover.
The names mentioned by Morgan awakened faint memories in Gerard, as if he had heard or read them somewhere before. He searched his memories but could not pin anything specific down. With a shrug, he decided to try and talk to the choir as they concluded their hymn.
“Excuse me,” he said coming up to stand at the choir mistress’ shoulder. After a long pause, the woman turned around. Her milky blue eyes were filmed over and she only looked approximately in Gerard’s direction.
“The chapel is that way,” she grated, pointing vaguely Northward. “You should hurry, the service is about to begin.” Without waiting for a response she turned back to her choir and raised her baton.
“You don’t go blind in his holy light…” they began to sing dutifully. Gerard shook his head in puzzlement and rejoined his friends.
Morgan had recovered somewhat and was on his feet again. “We’ve come to an understanding now, Valentin and I. You have nothing to fear. He can give us useful information, and in return all we have to do is try and work out what is wrong in this place”.
“Ah don’t trust no bloody Mask” Argonne muttered darkly. “Tis unnatural.”
“But think of the knowledge he possesses”, said Mortec hungrily. A high priest of Gerech, even one dead for a thousand years would have invaluable knowledge of this place”.
Stravarius seemed indifferent to the situation and no-one bothered asking Moxadder, who was backed against a wall, eyes darting suspiciously in all directions. Gerard took the initiative. “We’ll, keep and eye on it and you. Since we don’t want to go back outside, we might as well explore a little. Something is definitely very wrong in here.”
The companions first saw to their exhausted mounts. Removing saddles and giving them water and feed. Then, checking and rechecking their weapons and supplies they opened the large bronze doors leading North and left the room. Behind them, the choir began a new hymn.
They Hydra found themselves in a narrow corridor lined with a half dozen statues. They were man sized and carved of marble. Their detail was exquisite, and Gerard barely suppressed a shudder, half expecting them to spring to life. As they progressed down the corridor they felt their gazes drawn to the faces of the statues. Some displayed powerful emotions like fear, wrath or despair, while others were curiously blank.
“These are all high priests of Gerech”, Morgan whispered after a brief consultation with the mask. “Or at least they were, a thousand years ago”. The party continued as the corridor bent to the East. They continued to follow it and reached a door a third of the way along its length. Glancing warily at each other, they cautiously opened it. Inside they saw an empty room covered in the dust of ages. A few empty wooden racks seemed to indicate it had once been an armoury. After a cursory inspection of the room they returned to the passageway.
After advancing a little further they encountered another room leading off from the corridor. This one was a good deal more interesting, and disturbing. Ragged red writing covered the walls and floor. Even those unschooled in ancient Gerechian could discern that it was the one word written over and over. “mine, MINE,
MINE” the gnome translated. It was written in blood. Dominating the centre of the room was a fine bronze breastplate on a stand. Footprints circled the armour, marring the writing which had been particularly vigorously applied in its vicinity.
The party stood in awe of these clear manifestations of a deranged mind. They also pondered what had kept it from taking possession of the armour. Morgan coughed. “Valentin suggests I put it on.” Though warped by the mask, the questioning expression on Morgan’s face was clearly his own. Seeing no objection from his companions, the Fastendian removed his chain shirt and began to strap on the breastplate. After hesitating for a second, Gerard stepped forward to assist him. To the relief of all, nothing untoward seemed to happened and Morgan didn’t report the presence of a new spirit.
They returned once again to the corridor and continued Eastward. The flickering illumination of Gerard’s light revealed a small crowd of figures milling around ahead of them. They were similar in appearance to the strange choir they had encountered, perhaps a little more ragged. To the party’s surprised, these seemed to have noticed them.
“Do you know the way to the chapel?” one of them enquired anxiously in a dusty voice.
“The service is about to start” another intoned nervously.”
The Hydra glanced at one another, not sure how to respond. As they got closer to the crowd they noticed that behind it a pit had been dug across the breadth of the corridor. Fastidiously avoiding contact with the Gerechians, Gerard cautiously pushed through them and gazed down into the pit. It was deep and lined with spikes. The bodies of several Gerechians mouldered in the bottom of it and the stench of rot and decay that had been present throughout the temple was much stronger here. The nobleman felt his gorge rise.
“Too wide to jump”, said Stravarius pragmatically. The Black Elf seemed to be the least disturbed of them all, and showed no concern for the milling Gerechians. “Let’s try in the other direction, he suggested” and began retracing their steps. The others followed.
“We don’t know what is happening either”, said Morgan quietly to the Gerechians as the party moved away.
The choir was still singing busily in the entrance chamber as they crossed it and opened the Western door. It revealed a narrow corridor very similar to the one behind the Northern door, complete with statues of Gerechian high priests. Two rooms led off the corridor and they explored both. The first was another armoury. It was empty save for a half dozen spears and pikes scattered across the floor. The second room contained numerous wooden chests that had fallen apart. The ancient bronze coins they contained, dark green with Verdi Gris, had been disgorged onto the floor. Ignoring them for the moment they returned to the corridor. It opened out into a rectangular room with a set of doors in its North wall.
They opened the doors and saw another corridor, this one lined with six fountains. Each was a work of art, with stylised depictions of important events in the Gerechian faith. Instead of water, however, they were filled with a green muck. Curious, Gerard approached the nearest fountain. As he leaned over it, the slime in the fountain reared out and lashed out at him! Acid burned his arm but he managed to wriggle out of its sticky grasp. With a cry of utter revulsion he fled the back into the rectangular room. The others drew their weapons and prepared to drive off the bizarre menace, even as similar creatures reared up from two of the other fountains.
*****
