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Malleus Maleficarum; Summer Short Stories: Perseverance
Topic Started: Fri Aug 17, 2012 1:32 pm (415 Views)
Sanctus Ignis
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Years of research had led him to this place. Hours spent hunched over ancient, crumbling texts and dusty scrolls in castle libraries and ancient vaults across the land. All of them had hinted at its existence, slowly building a picture of an almost mythical weapon; Malleus Maleficarum- The Hammer of Wytches. Reports of the weapon had cropped up in many different texts, each with their own legend as to the Hammer’s exact powers and origin. But each time it appeared, wielded by some great hero of a bygone age, the forces of Evil broke before it. In every account it claimed the soul of yet another Deamon or Hellswpawn, Heretic or Mutant. And that was exactly why Azrael had to have it. The weapon was a quiet legend, always reappearing when the times were most dire, wielded by some unknown hero, only to quietly slip away, back into history. Slowly building a history of the weapon, the Inquisitor had been able to trace its passage through the land, its appearances and eventual loss, its inevitable resurgence. And now it was about to be his.

Azrael stood outside the crumbling entrance to an unknown crypt, exquisite scrollwork and masonry long ago eroded to deny all knowledge of the entombed to the living. Tumbled stone and twisting root had half blocked the entrance, the elements seeking to reclaim all back to mother terra. From the stunted shape of the tomb Azrael could tell that it swiftly led underground, for the walls ended abruptly only a few meters from the entrance, the building too short and narrow for the sarcophagus it would undoubtedly hold. Peering beyond the obstruction Azrael lifted his torch high, the gently roaring flames piercing the darkness only to a depth of a few feet. Beyond, all was unknown, lost in the gloom. With a prayer on his lips, the Inquisitor strode into the black.

Yellow flames flickered in the gloom, casting dancing shadows on the dusty stone of the ancient crypt. Dry leaves crunched underfoot and the air was deathly still, heavy with the slow passing of many, many years. Azrael’s suspicions about the construction of the tomb soon proved correct, the torch illuminating a stone staircase leaded deep underground. Each step was thick with dust, that which was ensconced within having clearly lain undisturbed for centuries. With each descending boot step Azrael kicked up a little cloud of dust, the close confines quickly filling with the stuff, lowering visibility to mere feet. The swirling motes twinkled and sparkled in the torchlight, giving the place an eerie atmosphere. And still Azrael descended, striding confidently deeper and deeper into the darkness. A hundred steps, a thousand, Azrael did not know when eventually he reached the bottom. Pausing a moment to catch his breath in the close, cloying air of the tunnel in which he now found himself, Azrael noted the strange glyphs and symbols etched into the ancient stone. The runes covered every available inch of the walls and low ceiling, scratched shallowly and seemingly at random, by a tool clearly very narrow and very sharp. As Azrael paced slowly along the tunnel examining the runes as he went, his sense of foreboding began to grow. It was obvious these markings were not of the original design, their making out of place with the clean, sharp lines of the mason’s chisel. Something was amiss.

Azrael now found himself advancing with mounting caution, his interest piqued and his paranoia running wild. There was something about those markings he didn’t like, a malevolence to the scrip that hinted at some dark design. The hairs on his neck stood on end as the Inquisitor realised the source of his disquiet; the runes were watching at him. He could not say how he knew, but he knew for certain he was being watched, and that the runes were doing the watching. There was a malign intelligence to each etching, a deeper, darker secret behind the dead script. Eyes narrowing, Azrael tore his gaze from the walls and strode purposefully down the tunnel. He had gone no more than a hundred yards, however, when a change in the air made his stop. Cocking his head and closing his eyes to better feel, Azrael decided he was not imagining it. A slight breeze played about the hem of his tattered cloak, the worn fabric moving almost imperceptibly. The air was warmer now, but brought with it the slightest hint of decay, of mould and rot and… corruption. Azrael knew at once what he was dealing with.

Every footstep brought the holy man closer the vile pestilence that now inhabited the tomb of a once noble hero. As he drew closer to the burial room Azrael began to see the first signs that truly alluded to the daemonic presence he now knew to inhabit the tomb. Tendrils of creeping rot invaded the walls and ceiling, corrupting and weakening the stone of the passage. The air was mouldy, damp and foul, the stink of death growing ever more prevalent. With every step, Azrael came closer to a rotting hell. The floor soon turned to mush, a bed of spore and lichen and unknown slimy filth, hidden rock crumbling further under his passing weight. As Azrael came out at last into the burial chamber, the true extent of the corruption was clear. The chamber was large and round, clearly the resting place of a mighty and beloved warrior. Forgotten heroes of old stood twenty foot high stood guard over the central sarcophagus in their own recessed alcoves, bearing aloft the weapons with which they had made their names. The frescoed ceiling depicted long forgotten battles and triumphs, men locked in battle with fantastical beings no longer in existence. Every spare inch of stone bore ornamentation, carved flowers and heraldry adorning polished rock. And all of it corrupted. Slime and filth and muck covered every surface, long ropes of pestilence hanging from the once glorious ceiling. The statues had been defiled, rock shattered and tortured, scream faces carved onto every facet, their own visages now a terrible parody of once noble features. Spiders, beetles and other such creatures crawled over every inch of surface in a writhing, boiling sea. All was grotesque, all was repugnant. All except for the sarcophagus.

In the centre of the chamber it stood; the final resting place of a forgotten hero. Carved from the stone of the floor and unadorned by any ornamentation, the waist high casket was untouched by the filth surrounding it. A pure beacon amongst the corruption, Azrael could not ignore the symbolism. He approached it with reverence, worn fingers stroking the ancient stone almost lovingly. He had expected to encounter some resistance crossing the hall, but had met none, the muck falling from his boots as he stepped into the small circle of pure stone that surrounded the coffin. Without any ceremony, Azrael grasped the old stone lid and heaved. With a shriek of grinding stone and a resounding boom, the lid slipped easily from the casket and crashed to the floor, revealing a sight long ago sealed away. The hero entombed was untouched by the ravages of time. His features stared back up at Azrael, proud and noble, every bit the perfect example of a chivalrous knight. He was armoured in some ancient style, the metal of his plate and mail untouched by ever the slightest speck of rust. And clasped to his chest by mailed fists, stretching the length of his torso, was Malleus. The weapon of so many old stories and reports, yet never seen in modern times, The Hammer of Wytches glinted strangely with some internal light. Abandoning the torch to the floor, Azrael reached into the casket with the utmost reverence. Clearly, here was some hero of untold power, a relic of the old Gods. As he wrapped his fingers around the worn haft and attempted to lift the weapon, Azrael felt a resistance to his pull that was more than simple weight. As his muscles bunched, a voice penetrated his mind, punching straight through all of his mental wards.

Whosoever holds this hammer, if he be worthy, shall possess the power of purity and light, and shall forever more be the torch in the darkness, the fire that keeps out the winter’s chill, the beacon that guides the lost… and the destroyer of the damned.”

As the voice in his head faded, so too did the unnatural resistance and Azrael lifted the weapon free of the casket. He marvelled at the weight, the solidity of the weapon, the strange glow that emanated from the inscribed head… Inscribed with the very words he had just heard. Glancing down, Azrael saw the hero was no more; his body had crumbled to dust, his armour rusted and pitted and collapsing in on itself. And the plague crept slowly and steadily over the stone sides and into the casket. But holding the weapon before him like a talisman, every step Azrael took on his way to the tunnel caused the filth to recede, so that by the time his boot heel touched the ground, it was clean and clear and pure once more. Slowly, irreverently, Azrael made his way into the tunnel. As he crossed the threshold, a massive boom sounded somewhere behind him and Azrael turned to see the chamber start to collapse in on itself, masonry tumbling and dust spilling up in a great cloud. And in the centre of that could, indistinct, stood a figure untouched by the destruction. As great chunks of rock rained down the figure, dressed in armour of old and surrounded by a nimbus of light, raised a hand, as if in farewell, and was lost to the dust and destruction.

Taking his cue, Azrael sprinted the length of the corridor and up the stairs, taking to worn steps two at a time. The destruction was not far behind however, cracks and booms echoing along the length of the crypt as the entire structure collapsed in on itself. Bursting once more into the quiet twilight of the Ancient Ruins, Azrael had little time to gather his breath before he realised his new predicament. The tunnel entrance collapsed fully behind him, spraying forth a plume of dust and mouldy air into the circle of figures in which the Inquisitor now standing. The immobile figures, however, did not seem bothered by it. In fact, as the dust settled on dead flesh and unseeing eyeballs, the massed ranks did not more at all. Azrael smiled a grim smile, turning slowly to see each one of the zombified warriors massed around him. Tonight is going to be a long night, he decided, let’s see what this thing can do. The hammer glinted as he swung it in an overhead arc, starting his work on the first of the undead to greet him.
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