tomb-cloves had covered him with a carpet of deadly green blossoms. The whispers began as soon as Fox stepped over his corpse.
‘Who are you?’ The voices came from the burial niches.
Valiant froze, but Jacob pushed him along. ‘Don’t answer!’ he breathed. ‘They are harmless as long as you don’t reply.’
The mummies wore weapons belts and armoured breastplates over their rotting clothes. Most of Guismond’s knights had followed him to his death, though if historic records were to be believed, only few of them had done so voluntarily.
They found five more fresh corpses: the treasure hunters who hadn’t returned. In addition to being covered in tomb-cloves, some of them also showed sword wounds. And the dead whispered all around them. Jacob had never seen so much fear on Valiant’s cunning face. Even Chanute used to grow a little paler in tombs than in other places. Jacob was usually not affected. In his experience, the places of the living were much more dangerous. Yet as he walked past the burial niches, he could feel the moth like a cold hand on his chest. Look at them, Jacob. Soon you’ll look like them. The leather-like skin, teeth exposed, and spiders nesting where your eyes used to be. His breathing grew laboured, and Fox noticed. She silently pushed past him and walked ahead, as though that could draw death’s attention from him. The tunnel took a bend. The scent of the tomb-cloves was now so heavy that it clung to their skins like perfume, and then they came upon the curtain of corpses. Twelve mummified knights hanging from the ceiling, blocking their path, but one of the bodies ended beneath the ribcage. Someone had hacked off the rest with a sabre. Not the most elegant way to get through a corpse curtain, but it did the trick. Maybe the Dwarfs hadn’t hired only amateurs after all.
Valiant cursed disgustedly, though he was the only one who could walk upright under the mutilated corpse. The reward came just beyond the curtain: another door, inlaid with the golden likeness of a man.
The crown identified him as a King, and the cat-fur coat showed him to be a Warlock. On his shoulder sat a Gold-Raven, the symbol of limitless wealth, and his feet stood in seven-league boots to symbolise the vastness of his empire. He was holding the crossbow in his right hand. Supposedly, the Witch Slayer had sold his soul to the Devil to get it. Stories. However, Jacob had already seen too many of them proved true on this side of the mirror to dismiss this one.
The door with Guismond’s portrait stood open a crack. The treasure hunter whose corpse they found just inside had probably thought himself at the goal of his quest, and he had obviously forgotten that traps were usually left invitingly open. His body was uninjured, as far as Jacob could make out, but the horror on the pallid face spoke clearly. Fox peered over Jacob’s shoulder.
‘A shadow-spell?’ she whispered.
Yes, probably. Jacob put his lamp on the floor and drew his knife. The resin he rubbed on the blade brought the smell of tree bark into the stale air. Behind him, Fox was shifting shape. Sometimes the vixen’s senses were more useful than an additional pistol. Forget this is about your life, Jacob. Enjoy the hunt. There it was again, the familiar thrill mixed with fear and the desire to conquer it. Irresistible. He’d never had to explain that to Fox. She slipped through the door ahead of him.
The tomb was enormous.
The frescoes on the walls still glowed in vibrant colour, thanks to the centuries of darkness that had cocooned them since their creation. They were depictions of hell, rendered so masterfully they made one feel the fire on the skin. One of the walls showed Guismond himself riding through the flames in the armour of a knight. The Devil he was riding towards didn’t have much in common with the Devil Jacob knew from the other side of the mirror. Except for the horns, he looked like an ordinary human dressed in the clothes of
‘Who are you?’ The voices came from the burial niches.
Valiant froze, but Jacob pushed him along. ‘Don’t answer!’ he breathed. ‘They are harmless as long as you don’t reply.’
The mummies wore weapons belts and armoured breastplates over their rotting clothes. Most of Guismond’s knights had followed him to his death, though if historic records were to be believed, only few of them had done so voluntarily.
They found five more fresh corpses: the treasure hunters who hadn’t returned. In addition to being covered in tomb-cloves, some of them also showed sword wounds. And the dead whispered all around them. Jacob had never seen so much fear on Valiant’s cunning face. Even Chanute used to grow a little paler in tombs than in other places. Jacob was usually not affected. In his experience, the places of the living were much more dangerous. Yet as he walked past the burial niches, he could feel the moth like a cold hand on his chest. Look at them, Jacob. Soon you’ll look like them. The leather-like skin, teeth exposed, and spiders nesting where your eyes used to be. His breathing grew laboured, and Fox noticed. She silently pushed past him and walked ahead, as though that could draw death’s attention from him. The tunnel took a bend. The scent of the tomb-cloves was now so heavy that it clung to their skins like perfume, and then they came upon the curtain of corpses. Twelve mummified knights hanging from the ceiling, blocking their path, but one of the bodies ended beneath the ribcage. Someone had hacked off the rest with a sabre. Not the most elegant way to get through a corpse curtain, but it did the trick. Maybe the Dwarfs hadn’t hired only amateurs after all.
Valiant cursed disgustedly, though he was the only one who could walk upright under the mutilated corpse. The reward came just beyond the curtain: another door, inlaid with the golden likeness of a man.
The crown identified him as a King, and the cat-fur coat showed him to be a Warlock. On his shoulder sat a Gold-Raven, the symbol of limitless wealth, and his feet stood in seven-league boots to symbolise the vastness of his empire. He was holding the crossbow in his right hand. Supposedly, the Witch Slayer had sold his soul to the Devil to get it. Stories. However, Jacob had already seen too many of them proved true on this side of the mirror to dismiss this one.
The door with Guismond’s portrait stood open a crack. The treasure hunter whose corpse they found just inside had probably thought himself at the goal of his quest, and he had obviously forgotten that traps were usually left invitingly open. His body was uninjured, as far as Jacob could make out, but the horror on the pallid face spoke clearly. Fox peered over Jacob’s shoulder.
‘A shadow-spell?’ she whispered.
Yes, probably. Jacob put his lamp on the floor and drew his knife. The resin he rubbed on the blade brought the smell of tree bark into the stale air. Behind him, Fox was shifting shape. Sometimes the vixen’s senses were more useful than an additional pistol. Forget this is about your life, Jacob. Enjoy the hunt. There it was again, the familiar thrill mixed with fear and the desire to conquer it. Irresistible. He’d never had to explain that to Fox. She slipped through the door ahead of him.
The tomb was enormous.
The frescoes on the walls still glowed in vibrant colour, thanks to the centuries of darkness that had cocooned them since their creation. They were depictions of hell, rendered so masterfully they made one feel the fire on the skin. One of the walls showed Guismond himself riding through the flames in the armour of a knight. The Devil he was riding towards didn’t have much in common with the Devil Jacob knew from the other side of the mirror. Except for the horns, he looked like an ordinary human dressed in the clothes of
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