Chapter 12 – Burning the Bridge...
Gareth and his force of handlers and dogs descended deeper into the barrow's heart. The green glow of lines and symbols etched onto the walls intensified as they followed the stone steps. Handlers held their breaths. The dogs did not whine or snarl. The instincts of the living whispered that something wicked waited for them at the barrow's bottom. Skin and fur felt the ripples from that dark magic pulsating through the symbols etched upon the walls.
The final step opened into the crypt chamber, the barrow's heart protected so deep beneath the earth. Stone sarcophagi crowded the space. Likely looters had pried upon several of the sarcophagi and cracked their lids upon the ground in search of artifacts, treasure and power. Gareth wondered what breed of ancient king, or monster, rested beneath so much earth. He wondered what sarcophagus lid Markus might have slid open to discover his awful magics. Had the old kings believed earth, and not stone, could protect what they had spent lifetimes to build? He wondered if the Stonebooks were as foolish to believe in stone as those ancient kings had believed in dirt.
The symbols upon the walls wildly pulsated. Gareth winked as his eyes stammered between such short bursts of darkness and light. The flashing symbols disturbed the dogs, who hesitated to follow their handlers' commands to continue through the crypt.
Gareth failed to see the slumped figure upon a bone throne until he tripped upon the first step climbing the chair's platform. He had expected to confront the form of Markus that had come to him during the night – expected to face the oversized, contorted version of his brother created by the dark magics.
The man slumped upon that throne of skulls and femurs was not that vision Gareth expected to confront. The man on that throne had not grown to an oversized monster. His arms and legs did not extend so terribly beyond proper proportions.
“Welcome to my throne, brother. Welcome to my home, sister.”
The man upon that bone throne raised his head, and a pair of glowing, golden eyes gazed upon the barrow's interlopers. They were the basilisk's eyes, eyes filled the serpent's crescent pupils, Markus's eyes.
“Save your pity for someone in need of it,” Markus's voice whispered. “My throne is no less comfortable than the stone you sit upon. I lack the strength to raise more bone against you. I am at the mercy of your terms. But I suspect that too much of the Stonebrook blood still flows in you to offer me conditions. I see it in your gray eyes.”
“Stay, Asguard.”
The war dog stood still while his master mounted the steps leading to the bone throne. The pack remained as silent as Asguard.
Markus's golden eyes regarded the canines and handlers who crowded his crypt.
“I underestimated your mongrel dogs, Gareth. They are incredible creatures. They are filled with such simple life – such loyalty, ferocity. I should have learned the language of dogs with you, brother. Old Ebon trained his pupils too well. I could raise his corpse to fill you with fear, but I could not make the dogs despair.”
“He was a great man,” Gareth nodded.
Markus's eyes closed. “I am between the living and the dead. I have become that bridge I wanted to be, but that bridge will be burned before I can watch the ancient ones walk back upon the ground. You will destroy this bridge, but the ancient ones still toss in their sleep. Nothing can be done to prevent their awakening. The fog and mist will return, Gareth. There will come another who will hope to be the bridge that brings those ancients ones back.”
The three fingers remaining on Gareth's good hand itched as he clutched his ax at his side.
Markus's golden orbs reopened and gazed upon Gareth's twitching fingers. “Even now, Gareth, you will show me a kindness. You owe me no mercy, but you will not give me to your dogs. I'm grateful, brother.”
Gareth thought of Casandra swaying from that high beam in the keep. He thought of Casandra's family. Markus had given Casandra no mercy. Markus had sent monsters of filed teeth and sewn limbs against them. Markus had choked the living with fear delivered by the dead. Markus deserved scant mercy.
Gareth wasted no more words as he raised the ancient ax he had taken from a keep wall the night Markus sent the dead against Wren. The remaining three fingers of Gareth's strong, right hand proved strong. The ax cleaved through the frail head of that lost brother. The blade's momentum smashed and destroyed those glowing, golden orbs that had many years ago stared into the ancient basilisk's soul.
The glowing, green symbols etched upon the walls extinguished when the blade fell. Darkness returned to that realm of the dead.
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