"Why did you build the temple to your god — here — in this dark place?" I asked.
"I didn't build it. I discovered it." Erasmoth's voice rang with triumph. "It was placed here for me! I was a simple stone mason before I discovered my true calling. I was exploring, seeking materials for my trade, when I came across what was then only ruins. Now they are the magnificent gardens you have seen outside. I followed it to its heart… and learned of the glories of the gods!" Light flamed in his eyes, and his tone vibrated with intensity.
Sudden movement in the shadowy corridor seized my attention. Ghostlike shapes advanced all around me, and I gasped in terror.
Then a torch flared, and the forms were revealed as Erasmoth's acolytes, in their robes and flat masks. I heaved a sigh of relief and began to follow the priest and priestess down the long corridor, accompanied by the silent apprentices.
"How much farther do we have to go?" I asked the priestess. I found the darkness and the heat oppressive.
"Be patient, Historian!" said Kassandry softly. "We must display no unworthiness before we participate in the glories of the gods!"
"The role of the historian is not to participate — merely to observe and to report," I corrected mildly.
She regarded me strangely, her eyes flashing. Her oncepallid cheeks grew quite flushed, and her lips parted. She licked them, invitingly, I thought, but said nothing further.
I grew more uncomfortable. "Why did the gods choose you?" I asked the priest.
But Erasmoth did not seem to hear. "Await me here while I complete the preparations," he said abruptly, stopping and pointing to one side of the trail.
I noticed, for the first time, that what I took for an alcove between the arches of the tunnel wall was, in actuality, the entrance to a doorway. The priest chanted a word and waved his hand. This portal swung silently open to reveal a chamber of surprisingly comfortable appointments. A snap of his fingers brought a clear yellow flame to the wick of a glass lamp.
"I will return for you when all is ready," he announced, refusing my entreaties to watch his preparations.
I entered the room. The door closed behind Erasmoth. I was alone. The priestess Kassandry had already gone on ahead, striding toward the heart of the mountain.
Now I sit writing at a table of darkened wood, its surface polished and smooth. Lush carpets of fur and wool line the floor; soft chairs offer me comfort. The oil lantern burns without smoke, its light steady and bright.
But, now, Excellency, I bid farewell. I hear footsteps approaching down the hall, and hasten to complete the enchantment that will send this missive over magical pathways to your desk.
I pray that my next missive will contain the proof we both desire! Your ever-devoted servant:
Foryth Teel
Most Learned Master:
You probably are wondering at the delay. It has taken me time to regain my composure, so dramatic and terrible have been the experiences of the last few hours. Indeed, the palpitations of my heart bring tremors to my hand — I beg Your Excellency's pardon for my awkward script.
Immediately after I sent my last report, Erasmoth entered my chamber. He was a man transformed. The flush of rapture tinged his cheeks, and a supernatural glow burned in his eyes. His appearance alone was almost enough to convince me that some divine force was at work here.
The priest gestured to me, and I fell into step behind him. I noticed as I emerged from the room that two ranks of acolytes stood, waiting silently, their expressions concealed behind those featureless masks.
We followed the black-walled, torch-lit passage for a distance I estimated as more than a mile. Finally, the narrow passage led us into a much larger chamber. The yellow glow of torches was lost in the vastness of the space. For a moment, I thought all was blackness, but as my eyes adjusted, I realized that a sullen crimson glow emanated from all around me — pools of molten rock, bubbling and flaming.
"My temple!" proclaimed Erasmoth.
The first thing that struck me was the size of this cavelike expanse. Judging from the distant echoes of our footsteps and the dim glow of the pits of lava and deep wells of burning coals, I could guess that we stood in a vast room.
The floor was smooth beneath my feet — as if hundreds of hours of labor had been expended to polish the natural rock to an unnatural perfection.
My next observation, as we stepped away from the tunnel that had led us here, was an unpleasant — almost nauseating — odor. I was reminded of the thick, close air of a charnel house. I gagged convulsively. For a moment, Excellency, I was quite overcome, and would have fallen, if not for the supportive grip of the priest upon my arm. Remembering the dignity of my station, I recovered my composure. Politely declining Erasmoth's assistance, I once again walked forward under my own power.
I could see by the irregular shape that the shrine was a natural cavern, not an eccentric excavation. Nevertheless, it showed signs of centuries of use — such as the smoothness of the floor. Great, fluted columns, obviously wrought by hand, extended from floor to ceiling around the periphery.
I became aware of someone approaching out of the darkness. It was the priestess Kassandry. Her arrival sent a wave of relief through my body. I had become uneasy, due to the heavy stench and the unusual surroundings, no doubt.
A holy fire glowed within her, shining as a flaming light in her eyes. Her lips were moist; her tongue flicked back and forth across them. She wore no mask, and I feel certain she had not painted her skin in any way, yet the excessive pallor of her complexion was as white as if she had coated herself with chalk.
Her eyes passed over me, and I saw none of the warmth, the friendship, or affection that she had displayed in the vale beyond this temple. In fact, the priestess appeared to take little note of me. She drew near Erasmoth and seemed to meld her body to his. Her voice was a throaty whisper.
"All is readied," she told the priest.
My heart pounded with excitement. The ceremony, which would provide the most valuable find of my career, was, I believed, about to start.
"What do you do now?" I inquired, prepared to make mental notes.
"First, my acolytes take their proper stations." The priest gestured to his dark-robed, masked assistants, who had gathered in an arc around us. I noted that there were more than two dozen of them in all.
Erasmoth gestured imperiously to one of his masked apprentices, who shambled forward, stopping before Erasmoth. The acolyte waited for another command.
"Remove your mask!"
The acolyte did so. Forgive me once again, Excellency. The memory of what I saw causes a weakness in the very fiber of my being — a sensation like a stream of icy water infusing my limbs and paralyzing my heart.
The face was recognizable, barely, as having once been human, but now! Horrible! One cheek had rotted away, displaying a patchwork of grisly muscle and dank, decaying gum. Yellow teeth jutted like tusks from the slack-jawed mouth. The nose was a useless lump of cartilage and gore. Withered eyes rolled sightlessly in sockets.
The creature before me was unquestionably one of the walking dead — a zombie. It stood, pathetic and unknowing, awaiting the command of its master.
"Bear witness!" cried Erasmoth. "See the miracle of the gods!"
Kassandry watched him with rapture gleaming in her eyes. Her slender hands clasped before her, she paid no heed to myself, nor to the ghastly acolyte.
"You killed your own apprentice?" I gasped.
Your Excellency can imagine my shock.
"All of them!" he cried. "They know bliss now! Joy! An eternal freedom from want and desire!"
The other masked acolytes gathered close, removed their masks to reveal a gallery of horror. Each face was marred by decay, with peeling flaps of flesh and loosely hanging skin. Hair sprouted from the scalps of many; the pates of others gleamed as pure white bone.