Santil's Doom

SANTIL'S DOOM

  by

  Tom Morris

  Copyright 2011 Tom Morris

  It was a most unpleasant burial. A thin autumn drizzle misted the air, dripping from the ancient oak trees surrounding the small glade onto the sweat soaked backs of the two troopers. Stripped to the waist, they dug slowly and with great effort into the sticky, grey clay. Grunting as each spade full was laboriously extracted, pausing often to draw great gulps of air into their straining lungs; they were now so daubed with earth that they would easily have been mistaken for forest trolls. Santil stirred restlessly in his saddle, seeking relief for his aching back and stiff legs, then hunched deeper into his thick, woollen cloak. The rain trickled down the curve of his bassinet and dripped onto his shoulders, saturating his cloak and seeking his already cold flesh through the gaps in the old leather jerkin which he wore beneath his chain mail. The corpse of the sorcerer, partly covered by a canvas sheet, lay beside him in the bottom of the cart. An unhappy accident of rigor mortis had crooked the empurpled fingers so that the hand beckoned to Santil, urging him to join its owner. Although less than a day old the body was apparently decaying rapidly and a charnel house stench fouled the air. Santil shivered, not just with the cold. Under his breath he cursed his ill luck. As a newcomer to the Imperial guard, despised by his fellow serjeants as a boorish northern barbarian it had been inevitable that he should have been charged with the execution and disposal of the warlock. He had accepted the task phlegmatically. In his travels he had encountered many enchanters, necromancers and self-confessed witches. However this one had certainly seemed more confident of his powers, more insolent in his heresies than the others. He had appeared from the direction of the high plateau of Scarril the year after Santil himself had arrived at the city of Chacum. Within weeks the wizard had gained a growing notoriety. It was claimed that for a fee he would conjure demons from the air to answer questions regarding the past or the future or summon basilisks and harpies to do his client’s bidding. The tales grew. Graves were found opened and bare of their contents. Two young children vanished without trace. Yutha Gregod the Presbyter challenged the warlock in the street, calling him foul witch, spawn of Ashpiaal the Evildoer and struck him a heavy blow with his staff of office. The necromancer made no reply but grinning malevolently, blood spilling from his mouth, made a strange and secretive gesture. In the morning Gregod's corpse, disgustingly mutilated was found head down in a cess pit.

  The insolence and caprice of the sorcerer grew daily. He mocked at the Temple Gate; instructed his hangers-on in strange lores and aimed jocular blasphemies at the worshipers at the temple. At last his infamy reached the ears of Erzal Trevern, Justiciar of Chacum, the Grand Elector and the warlock was arrested and arraigned before him. He stood insolently before the Throne of Judgement, his vermin-infested tatters draped around his skinny frame, his unwashed stench an affront to the nostrils of the nobles and priests who packed the audience chamber. It was charged that he had consorted with evil wraiths, blasphemed against the law of Eidolon and the Holy Vehm and to the great mischief and grievance of the people he had uttered treasons against the Emperor. The sorcerer mocked his accusers with scandalous riddles, made small capering movements with his feet, broke wind and sucked his fingers. Finally shaking his fist at the Elector and the judges, he screamed his hatred and shouted abuse. His imprecations reached a crescendo only to cease abruptly as he dropped to the floor where he lay writhing, pink froth bubbling from his mouth, flecking the marble mosaics on which he lay. As he lay in stupor he was seized, gagged and bound. then quickly dragged with ropes to the public square where he was stripped and his clothes quickly burnt. Several of the pouches heaved convulsively as they were consumed and gave forth small mewling cries. A necklace of charms, decorated with occult sigils was grasped with tongs and consigned to the flames where it burnt brightly, producing green, acrid fumes. A large black slug adhering to the left armpit was also incinerated. By this time the witch had recovered his senses. Instead of fighting his bonds he lay quietly, glaring at his tormenters with mad, red eyes. There was a short conference amongst the temple Elect. They were confident in their wisdom, despising any who recommended burning at the stake. The ash from the wizard's body would cause murrains and blight crops, toads and bats would arise from the charred bones, eager to suck the blood of babies. Santil was directed to douse the body with sanctified water from the holy well of Aedil and then administer justice at the public strangling post. It was soon over. A brief drumming of the heels, a protrusion of the eye balls, a soft muffled crack as the neck vertebrae parted, all signified the end. A red hot knife blade applied to the sole of the foot evoked no response. The gag was cautiously removed. A mirror held to the lips showed no misting. Without delay the corpse was hastily thrown onto the back of a refuse cart. Santil was given two sullen troopers, his instructions were terse and concise, to carry the out the burial in Dirkling woods, as far from the city as possible, at an unmarked spot.

  Santil blew the rain from his moustache and eyed the encircling gloom of the forest apprehensively. He shivered again. The two troopers wearily hauled themselves out of the grave and throwing down their spades huddled miserably under a spreading oak, glowering in Santil's direction. It was evident that they had had enough. Muttering profanities Santil swung down from his horse. He staggered slightly, his legs stiff with cold. Gesturing to the corpse he ordered the soldiers to throw it into the hole. Grumbling, they pulled at the canvas but succeeded only in tumbling the body across the wet grass, where it lay on its back, naked under the rain, lips drawn back in a ghastly rictus, glazed eyes staring sightlessly at the sky. In a spasm of rage Santil pushed them aside and strode forward, determined to put a speedy end to the episode. In his haste he misjudged his step and slipping on an unseen clod of greasy clay, pitched forward. To his dismay he was unable to avoid falling on top of the corpse. He felt a sharp pain in his right arm and realised that it had landed across the warlock's mouth. In utter revulsion he tried to rise but to his intense horror he found that the teeth were tightly clenched into his flesh. With a hoarse scream he wrenched himself free, blood streaming down his arm from the deep teeth marks. In his anguish it seemed as though he glimpsed a slight movement of the dead tongue within the red-rimmed mouth. Acting purely from instinct, his mind quivering with revulsion and shock, Santil thrust the body into the pit and threw the canvas sheet after it. Galvanised into action by his panic the troopers joined him in frenziedly shovelling back the heavy clay. Their grisly work finally completed they tugged on their shirts and scrambling back into the cart whipped the horse into a gallop. Santil, his arm throbbing with pain, climbed as best he could onto his bucking mount and joined them in their headlong flight, forgetting in his haste the stern injunction from the Elders that without fail the head of the wizard should be cut off and placed between the corpse's legs..

  That night Santil was morose, unapproachable. He drank deeply seeking the oblivion of drunkenness but to no avail. Finally his head swimming, he staggered to his quarters and collapsed onto the straw filled mattress where he lay, his mind in turmoil. The grotesque happenings of the day tormented him with a nameless dread until at last he fell into an uneasy sleep only to find himself in the grip of a nightmare in which the sorcerer's hand again beckoned him. He imagined himself once more in the clearing beside the grave. He dug feverishly into the gluey clay with his bare hands, ripping at the earth until his fingernails were torn and bleeding. Insensitive to the pain he persisted until at last he pulled aside the stained canvas sheet and stared down into the face of the sorcerer beneath. To his intense horror the eyes moved and stared back malevolently into his own and an insane cackling laughter issued f
rom the mouth. His senses reeled and he once again pitched forward across the wizard as blackness engulfed him..At first light, when he failed to appear for duty an. alarm was raised and a search made. The guard at the southern gate confirmed that he had left the city during the night and had taken the road into Darkling Wood.

  Santil slowly struggled back to consciousness, roused by the murmur of faint voices. As daylight clawed between his gummed lids the agonising cramps of night-chilled muscles knifed through legs and arms. He was laying face down on an uncomfortable, lumpy surface, the smell of dirt heavy in his nostrils, his head cradled in his arms. He opened his eyes, wincing against the harsh light and slowly focussed on his hands which were hurting intolerably. He puzzled at them. They were covered in a stiff coating of dried blood and mud. The memory of the nightmare rose to swamp him with a nameless dread. There was movement at the edge of his vision. A blow and a sharp pain in his side snapped his mind into shocked clarity. He was lying on a pile of dirt at the side of an opened grave, the grave in the clearing, the grave where the sorcerer had been so unceremoniously dumped, which now gaped open, devoid of its former occupant. He made an effort to get up but could only rise to his knees. Around him stood a circle of the Temple troopers, their eyes cold, faces hard with fear and loathing. At his side, small pig-eyes button bright, jowls aquiver, his own guard captain drew back his boot and kicked Santil again, this time in the pit of his stomach. Santil collapsed, straining to recapture the breath that had ripped from his lungs. As he gasped for air rough hands seized him, his arms were pinioned and cruelly bound behind him, his legs lashed tightly together. He was lifted and dropped into the grave. There he lay on his back, stunned, unable to cry out, staring up at the ring of unpitying faces. There was movement. A clod of earth struck his chest, dirt showered down, covering his legs and body. They were burying him alive! He screamed briefly, then clay filled his mouth, choking him. The weight of earth on his chest was intolerable, he couldn't breath. The pounding of blood in his brain reached deafening proportions. Dirt seared his eyes and nose. His mind exploded and the blackness of death swallowed him up.

  Small threads of consciousness penetrated Santil's brain. A pervading sense of numbness permeated his being. His mind cringed. Was he still dreaming? The nightmare seemed unending. He yearned to awaken, to regain the reality of his normal life. The realisation that he was not breathing, that his heart was not beating, jerked open his eyes. It was night. He was lying on his back, still in the glade, still beside the grave, which was again open to the sky. On either side black corpse candles flickered with dark, blue flames. The scent of burning asafoetida grass filled the air. A knotted string curled in intricate loops was tied around his neck Over him crouched the warlock. The wizard rose to his feet, humming softly to himself, made a curious gesture, fist clenched, two fingers extended, beckoning. Santil's arms and legs responded of their own volition. He climbed slowly, awkwardly upright and lurching from step to step, followed the sorcerer from the clearing, a terrible, voiceless screaming in his brain, the cold, silent tears washing the grave dirt from his face.

  ..oo000oo..

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