He rubbed his eyes and squinted. Martin's flickering torch did little to pierce the gloom as they made their way through the wending stone passageway. The priest's robes were already black with the silt that hung heavy in the air. Dust undisturbed for decades swirled in their wake. The light struggling in vain to penetrate the murky air left Gallus feeling disoriented, as if he were watching the scene unfold from afar.

"If spirits indeed linger here, no doubt they simply cry out for the maid." Gallus muttered dryly, a poor stab at shirking the unsettled feeling that gripped him. His words echoed against the stone, turning the humor garish, unwelcome. He winced, but Martin only shrugged.

"Unlikely. It's not uncommon for the citizen's of Knife's Edge to complain of unsettling noises coming from within the catacombs. Moans, scratching, and the like: the voice of trapped air and settling limestone."

As if to illustrate his point, a dry groan burgeoned, faintly at first but then louder as it seemed to belch forth through the tunnel walls, before passing them by and fading into silence somewhere behind. In spite of himself the young islander felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen.

He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. "Then why order an investigation at all?"

Another shrug. "The Church likes to make a show of taking the common folks' concerns seriously, though I doubt the arch bishops would approve of my saying so. The noise and other phenomena have been explained to them time and again, but they've convinced themselves something nefarious lurks within these tunnels." Martin laughed as they rounded another corner, wending their way deeper yet. "I'm sure you've noticed by now, but Salvar isn't exactly a bastion of logic or reason."

"So you spend good coin on a hired sword and trek through this foul place just to placate them?" The Coronian shook his head, baffled. "Why dignify their superstition with a response?"

"Ah, well, we tried ignoring them at first. But the Church's indifference had a...negative effect on the tithe. I-"

The priest stopped short so suddenly that they collided, Gallus' hauberk jangling as he caught the back of Martin's cassock to keep the smaller man on his feet.

"What is it?" He asked, squinting through the dust. Beyond Martin's torch he could see only roughly hewn stone and filth, the same view he'd been afforded since stepping into the crypts.

"I'm not sure. I…I don't recognize this. We must have missed a turn."

Gallus shrugged and flattened himself against the wall to make room as Martin sidled past, back the way they came. "If you say so. These tunnels all look the same to me." He fell in line behind the priest once more, fighting to ignore the edge of doubt he'd heard in Martin's voice. The thought of wandering the catacombs lost and helpless wasn't exactly a comforting one, but he pushed his concern down, squashing it, and instead focused on his footing, placing his boots carefully on the cracked and jagged stone floor.

They retraced their steps in silence, both men fearing that speaking would give proof of the sudden hysterical edge their thoughts had taken, both men unaware that the other was thinking the same thing.

In Gallus' mind, the shadows cast by their passing seemed to take on a sinister life of their own, leering from their perches of stone and mortar. 'Not that way,' they hissed gleefully. 'Come closer: you're not getting out anyway.'

He swallowed a mouthful of dry grit and returned his gaze to Martin's back, one hand finding the pommel of his sword, gripping it tightly until leather creaked.

Minutes crawled by, filled only with shuffling footsteps and the occasional click and shiver of settling granite until, finally, the priest breathed a sigh of relief as they reached an intersection. Panic evaporated at the sound as suddenly as it had descended, leaving Gallus feeling foolish.

"The final burial chamber we need to inspect should be just ahead."

Gallus hesitated, peering into the adjacent tunnel. Martin's torch lit only a few paces down its length before it took an abrupt turn to the left. From what little he could see it was identical to all the rest, and yet something about it made the Coronian's hackles rise. "You're certain this is the way?" A pause, just long enough for him to feel another wave of cold dread. "Martin?"

"Of course!" The priest snapped, and strode forth. "Fear not, sellsword. Another hour and you'll feel the sun on your face- and gold in your purse."

"Not soon enough," he sighed, following.

Impossibly, the path they now walked was even darker than the one before, still thick with dust but lacking the detritus- cobwebs, dead insects, crushed pottery- that had littered the catacomb's upper levels.

It was colder, too, and the combination felt oppressive. Gallus found himself quickening his pace, hunching in Martin's wake until he was nearly treading on the priest's robes.

Their journey ended abruptly, blocked by a wooden door. Barely large enough for a man to fit through, its crumbling frame was nonetheless jammed tight against the stone walls. Dark lines crossed its face in a myriad of intersecting angles, somehow pristine despite the rotted surface beneath. Both men stopped short, studying it.

Unease gripped the youngest Dre son as his gaze traced the raised symbols. They seemed...familiar, in a fleeting way. Like spotting a friend in the crowd just as they pass you by. He grasped at the faint recognition, too late. Whatever had burgeoned in his subconscious slipped back beneath the surface, lost.

Abruptly he realized they were alien, indecipherable. He shook his head. Strange, thinking he'd seen them before. "Are those...glyphs?"

"A ward of some kind. A seal to restrain the dead, perhaps." Martin replied, unconcerned. He stepped closer, raising his torch as he inspected it. "It's likely harmless."

Gallus didn't move. "Likely?"

"Mm. I imagine some old caretaker learned a few symbols from his nursemaid- along with a slew of dread tales designed to frighten children into minding. Look: there are channels cut into the door's surface, filled with naught but wax. A pellar's trick; see how it melts at a mere kiss from the torch?"

The priest was right. Wax ran in rivulets, now, dripping from the channels and hissing as it spattered against the stone floor. The smell of cooking fat wafted outward to fill the tunnel. Absurdly, Gallus felt a pang of hunger. How long had he been down here? Hours, at least, but the constant darkness and endless stone made everything run together, turning the passing of time liquid.

'Like melting tallow,' he thought suddenly.

Rusted hinges gave a single groan of protest at Martin's touch, and then the door swung inward. Warm, fetid air blasted out immediately, filling the passageway with the humid stench of decay. Wrinkling his nose, Gallus followed in Martin's wake, stepping through the doorway and into the burial chamber.

It was huge, especially after the claustrophobic confines of the tunnels, and yet the wrapped bodies were stacked from the floor to the vaulted ceiling on all sides, secreted within crudely carved depressions just deep enough for the corpses to lay flat.

"Gods, there must be a hundred in this chamber alone."

"At least," Martin agreed cheerily as he strode to the far wall, where a corpse three rows from the bottom had lost some of its wrapping. A mummified arm dangled from the rip in the gauze, fingertips brushing the ground. "Strange," he murmured, leaning close.

Reluctantly, Gallus moved to join him. "What is it?"

Martin gestured to the hanging limb with his free hand. "The gauze is in remarkably good condition. No sign of rot or loose threads...almost as if the wrapping was cut, or ripped open."

The Coronian made a show of leaning in to see for himself, fighting the urge to sprint from the burial chamber, away from Martin, away from the catacombs and whispering walls. The flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows across the dessicated hand, making it almost seem to flex and writhe. He nearly expected the fingers to scramble across the stone. As if-

The hand moved with blinding speed, one minute hanging prone and the next snapping out to seize the front of his jerkin with withered fingers. "Fuck-" Gallus sputtered, before he was yanked forward, against the stone wall. Instinctively he gripped the cadaver's forearm with both hands and braced a booted foot against the wrapped mass.

All in vain: the pressure was relentless, dragging him forward. Over the noise of his panicked exertion, Gallus could hear the horrible sound of fabric stretching, ripping, falling away as something unthinkable tore itself free. One of the islander's hands fell away, clutching frantically for the hilt of his sword.

Martin reached it first, yanking it from his belt with one fluid motion. From the corner of his eye Gallus watched the priest hold the shining blade up, inspecting its length in the light.

Then, he plunged it into the Coronian's side. The tip slid effortlessly through the gap in his hauberk just beneath his armpit, and Gallus opened his mouth to scream. A second dead hand clamped it shut, muffling the noise and lowering him gently to the stone when he sagged.

"Be at peace, my friend." Martin murmured. The blade made a sucking, squelching noise when he withdrew it, blood fountaining from the gaping wound. "The pain will only last a moment, I promise. And fear not: I need only your flesh. Your spirit will be free to wander...within the confines of these catacombs, at least."

Gallus spasmed within the iron grip that held him, coughing blood that sprayed between dessicated fingers. As darkness began creeping around the edges of his vision, pain gave way to a strange, mortal cold that sapped his strength and numbed his senses.

When he was finally still, Martin dug one finger into his wound, and fished loose a clot. With his tongue between his teeth in an almost comical display of concentration, the priest began tracing a symbol on the dying Coronian's forehead. He stopped for a moment as Gallus gave one last, shuddering gasp, then resumed.

The darkness was absolute for a time, impenetrable, all encompassing, impossibly heavy.

Then, abruptly, he rubbed his eyes and squinted. Martin's flickering torch did little to pierce the gloom as they made their way through the wending stone passageway.