His eyes were wet and stinging. Damn smoke. It curled up from the hissing flames and crept along the ceiling, spreading like morning fog over a boggy battlefield. But as the Greyskin vanguard gathered on the other side, screaming and tearing at their skin in frustration, he was glad for it.

“Stay tight!” he bellowed, sparing a glance to the side where the guard lady had fit herself into their shield wall. “We break, we’re dead!”

She didn’t even spare him a sideways glance, that Column-marked saber out and shining in the dirty light. His eyes trailed along its blade for the briefest of moments, taking in the old inlaid markings meant to bless it in battle for the gods. Always for the gods with those types.

His attention snapped back to the creatures ahead as a Greyskin leaped across the fire and landed before them, its dead skin bubbling and red from the heat. Before it could readjust its weight and attack, his men struck. Spears were impossible to carry up the chain, so they wielded axes, ridged maces, and blades, sacrificing reach for portability. Regardless, the Dead shit had its head caved in before it could so much as howl. Body punctured and limbs sliced. Dead once again.

“Just like that now,” he shouted out, hacking off its head just to be sure.

But their victory was short-lived, for most of the slower Dead had now reached the flames, and unlike the Greyskins, they didn’t care about the threat to their nonexistent lives. One by one, the shambling corpses stumbled through the fire, some of them succumbing, but more of them trailing through, flesh ablaze, empty eyes rolling about, dully focusing on their own. A steady, pained, gasping moan filled the antechamber as they pushed in, Greyskins watching from the other side like cautious boyars readying a cavalry charge upon the flanks of engaged infantry.

“Force them back!” Oskar struck one across the shoulder, staggering it into another. He slammed his shield into the pair and knocked them back, sending them collapsing into the flames. A third almost closed in on him, its face a scorched mess of bone and exposed muscle, but was thrust through by another’s short sword, cutting deep enough to make it falter. The second blow took off its outstretched arm, so Oskar cut into its skull, and it finally collapsed.

He spared a glance to the side and found Nifont withdrawing his blade, narrowed eyes flicking between the approaching corpses. A few had arrows in them, but every good warrior knew arrows didn’t do much to the Dead.

“Good time for a shield, eh?” Oskar asked, stepping in to bash one of the Dead back.

“Didn’t expect the need for a shield wall.”

“The beauty of mercenary life.”

The fire was burning lower, the initial flare-up settling down so the top of the flames only met their knees. Greyskins were edging closer as more dead shambled through. Black smoke still poured up, obscuring his vision and making everything swim in a stinging haze. His shield companions were breathing heavy now, each stroke taking more out of their already-taxed arms from the hard climb.

Oskar blinked away the burning tears and threw a glance over his shoulder. The priestess was working away at the stone door, tracing lines and such as Feia was doing some sort of magic business. “Whatever it is you’re doing, hurry it up now!” He had to refocus ahead and hack at a shambler with gnashing teeth.

“This Sorcery is old, Oskar!” Feia shouted back, something hesitant, almost fearful in that iron voice of hers. “It hasn’t been touched in centuries.”

“Do what you do, Feia. Fucking beat it!” A large Greyskin shifted through the smoke and blaze, inching close. “Fire’s almost out! You have a minute, no more!” It cocked its head and stepped a hesitant foot over the line of fire, its clawed, deformed talons clicking against the floor as its face broke in something akin to a smile. “Agh! Back a step now!”

As one, their line shifted back a pace within the confines of the antechamber, eventually bowing in as the dead poured through the waning blaze. The large Greyskin let out a skull-splitting scream then launched itself forward. At him.

“By the dead gods…” Oskar hissed out, then braced.

It slammed into his shield, nearly lying him flat out. But by some rare miracle, he held his ground, boots sliding across dusty stone, bones aching something terrible. The Greyskin reared back, claws raised high, and he lifted his shield and thrust a blade right into its gut. Nifont cut into its lead leg at the same time, withdrawing quickly before it could retaliate. The thing staggered, doing whatever Dead did instead of catching its breath, then attacked again. Oskar took a half-step forward and took the full anger of the fucker, its talons nearly tearing the shield from his hand, scoring a screeching blow over his helmet. The impact made his vision burst fuzzy, neck twisting, head ringing. He shook himself straight and threw up his shield just in time to block its massive jaw from ripping open his throat.

“Smelly asshole!” He bashed it in the face with his shield’s boss, then thrust his blade in its chest, earning a howl for his efforts. This time, before it could recover and launch another attack, Oskar stuck it through the guts again, tearing out its stinking innards with a twisting of the wrist and a wrenching heave. Like the first one to cross the line, he put his blade into its skull just to be sure. It caught and about wrenched the grip from his hand as the body fell lifeless once again. “Voiya!” he screamed, voice cracking in fear and roiling anger. “Death to ‘em all!”

A few calls echoed out, following his own, as the warriors called for the Final Battle. The Death Slaying. The war against the Dead in the afterlife. A glorious thing to get a warrior’s blood pumping hot. Oskar hacked and cut and stabbed and shoved the incoming tide of Shamblers. Slowly, his battle rage cooled as grim experience won out, as it often did, and he spared a glance for the others. It was hard fighting for everyone. Shouts and steel rang, meeting flesh and deathly howls in the horrific discord of battle. The shield wall was still intact, and no one was dead yet. A few spots of blood, but nothing fatal. His eyes returned to the antechamber’s entrance, now even further away as they kept retreating. If we keep getting pushed like this, we’ll not hold ten seconds longer. Oskar licked his lips and eyed the exit past the Dead. Lots of enemies in the way, to be sure. But it was an exit. He cut into Dead flesh and did the familiar considerations. They’d still be in dire straights upon returning to the hard ground. And poor chance of getting Feia out alive, that far back and distracted. Others would die. How many’s too many?

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

A wave of shamblers stumbled in, most half-crumpled and dusty, thin and ragged. They had broken teeth and lidless, shrunken eyes. Outstretched hands searching for meat to claw into their maws.

That old friend called fear began sliding up his spine cold and unignorable. Up his throat, drying his mouth and clattering teeth. I’m not dying here. He blinked, acid in the air from the alchemy searing his eyes. I’m not fucking dying here!

He took in a deep breath and about shouted for their lot to run when a great scraping sound echoed out from behind. Fear stuck in his throat, burning eyes stretched wide; he kicked a walking corpse back and turned. The door was opening. Feia knelt, coughing up blood, the young priestess just beside her, standing frozen, fingers splayed as if she were still tracing carved icons of old.

Oskar swung back around and hacked off the shambler’s head. “Push on three, then retreat to the door! One!” Another cut to sever a Dead one’s jaw from face. “Two!” Someone screamed. He looked to the side and saw one of his men, Pamil, pulled down, a Greyskin ripping flesh off his arm with savage glee, blood spitting out. Oskar bared his teeth and looked away. “Three!” He shoved out with his shield, knocking a shambler back, then ran to the opened stone door. Nifont grabbed Feia and shoved her inside as the Column guardswoman hauled in the priestess. As soon as they made it through, he turned, the lump in his throat massive, choking.

The Dead were coming.

“Feia!” Nifont said, shaking her. “The door!”

She spit out a mouthful of blood and scowled up with vessel-burst eyes. “Back.”

Oskar grabbed Nifont and drew him away as she reached out, fingers curled and twitching. “Obey me!” The door didn’t move. The Dead were almost at it now. “You guard this passage for a righteous purpose, but the Dead are sacking your temple. Obey me!”

With the grind of stone on stone, the massive door shook, then just as the first Greyskin reached the open way, it slammed shut, splattering its insides across the wall. Immediately, the light of abandoned torches and a flickering line of oil-lit fire vanished, thrusting them into darkness.

Though the panic still flitted about in his gut like a mad stallion bucking against its handler’s grip, Oskar raised his voice, “I want two torches out! Priestess, you or your guard bring any more?”

They didn’t respond; instead, he could hear the murmuring of careful whisperings from the two of them. So he cleared his throat and addressed his own men. “Make it three, understand?”

A series of grunts answered him, for they knew well enough that he had no patience for anything more formal. And soon enough, a flash of sparks cut through the chamber, briefly revealing hard faces with clenched jaws and wide, seeking eyes. He blinked, realizing his own were stretched open as if that might help him see anything. He rubbed at his eyes. They still hurt from the oil. Be the last time we use that in an enclosed space. Oskar was about to bark out for them to hurry when a spurt of sparks caught, and a torch rushed to life.

They were in a long room. A hallway, by the looks of it. A whole lot of words carved into the walls, grooves deep-set and almost dancing in the flickering light. Then, both other torches lit up, and the walls stopped dancing. He glanced over his mercenaries. A few spots of injuries, but nothing severe. That was good, considering the scrap they’d just had. Then again, if anyone was to get injured, it’d be by teeth and claws, and if the enemy was that close, it meant a whole lot worse things than a deep cut. We lost Pamil. One’s too many, but it could be worse. He looked down to Feia, crouched on the ground with a hand planted on the stone to provide balance, other over her mouth as if she were holding in her breakfast.

“Feia,” he said, squatting beside her, “how’re you faring?”

“Like—” she began, then gagged and drew her hand back to vomit, whole body straining and flexing with the effort.

He put a hand on her back, then glared up at the priestess. “The fuck did you have her do?”

She turned from her guard, who had her arms crossed over her mail-clad chest, and quickly strode over. The priestess knelt beside them, gathering strands of Feia’s oily and dangling hair that’d slipped from her headwrap. “We had to get through,” she said, words slow and hesitant. “There were… old enchantments on the door. Old Sorcery inscribed there that needed to be activated, or else we’d all die. I don’t have that particular gift…”

“But she did,” he finished, giving her one last glare before looking at his band’s only spell caster and one of their oldest members. One of his oldest friends, if he had to admit it. Well, living friends. “Why come down here? What’s so special about some asshole noble’s dungeon?”

“It’s not,” the guard said.

“Huh?”

“Not a dungeon.” She turned around to face the other end of the tunnel, dark and out of sight. “If anything, it’s a furnace.”

The priestess met his eyes grimly. “Or a prison.”

Oskar’s blade hand twitched, for he’d been delving in ancient places long enough to know when things began stinking of dark secrets and old Sorcery far outside his preferred line of work. “This here isn’t about riches for either of you, is it?”

“Of course not.”

“The gods and all that, I’m guessing?”

“Doubt me if you wish, but they speak to me through visions.”

Shoulda listened to Feia, he thought with a frown.

The woman in question finally sat back up straight, vessel-burst eyes glassy, a thin string of drool wiped away with the back of her hand. “Gods, the Dead, magics almost older than the empire… What are you tower-people plotting here in this sinking city?”

“As far as the Column is concerned…” the priestess trailed off, glancing to her guard, then back to them, “nothing. We’re here on our own, as you suspected.”

Oskar put a hand on Feia’s shoulder, keeping her steady as she swayed. It fucking hurt to see her so damn messed up. “Care to tell us why?”

“You were planning to rob us, weren’t you?”

“No. Just take a piece of whatever riches lie here rather than let a couple of Column agents steal it all for Nova.”

“It was once Nova’s. Would reclaiming it be so wrong if that were our intention?”

“Enough,” he grumbled, spitting to the side. “Plans changed. We saved you from the Dead; now get us out of this damn place, and we’re square.”

“The Dead you brought.” She raised her head, all condescending and imperial-like. Fucking Nova. “But fine.” With the slightest of bows, the young woman said, “I’m Emalia of Nova, born to the Column, and this is Sovina, my Column Sister.” She gestured to her guardian, who was frowning at the two of them with arms still crossed.

He gave her a brief nod. “Oskar. Now, what’s happened to Feia?”

“The door, while not wrought of Sorcery, was certainly imbued with it. A lot of it. The kind that binds Souls, you see.” Emalia grimaced. “Handling that much has consequences… I’m sorry.”

“What kind of consequences?”

Feia patted his arm, standing up on shaky legs, whole body swaying. “Nothing I’ve not encountered before, Oskar. My blood will not burn black yet.”

He let out a sigh, then nodded. It was almost all too close. So much for the quick in and out we had in mind up here, he thought with gritted teeth. “You good to keep going?”

“Whatever comes must be faced, and I am not Corrupted enough to lie here and die like an infirm old sheep for the wolves.”

“Good.” He readjusted his sword belt and wiped the blood off his hands on the stone walls with minimal success. Just got his hands grime-covered too. “Let’s move on then. Better be riches here in this furnace-prison of yours.” And if there’s not, I can always just cut your throats and take whatever you’ve got on you. After all, they were of the Column, and any evil bastard who crawled out of that twisted place was bound to have gold on them.

He’d already lost a man today. This bloody sinking city would be worth it, in the end, he’d see to that well enough.