Shadows & Sorcery #27
Welcome to the twenty-seventh edition of Shadows & Sorcery! This is a paid subscriber post, but free readers can avail of a 7-day trial of the full archives (that’s over 100 stories!), and either stay free, or grab one of the last free paid subs, which have all but run out. All you need to do message me here on Substack, or shoot me a DM on Twitter about it.
Today’s tales tell of treasure hunters in a city of the dead, darkness held at bay within the mists of a graveyard, forests deeper than the deepest oceans, frightful apostasies, and the faithful guardians of a strange church who can no longer stop their god from showing itself…
Today’s stories are:
Catacombs Outskirts
Shrouded Graveyard
Depths of the Forest
Sinners Submerged
Untended Cathedral
Catacombs Outskirts
Perhaps a mile or two into the desert, when civilization has been left behind, does it suddenly appear with no warning in a place no life ought to dwell.
Massive columns and domes emerge from the heat haze, bleached from the sun's scouring heat a dusty white. It's quite clearly a graveyard from the first glance, a necropolis, full of arched mausoleums, winding rows of thick circle headstones and ground slabs, countless round-topped shrines and conical monuments. But about and around all this are wooden structures, walkways, scaffolding and small bridges, talk of all kinds buzzes from within, fires burn and steel clangs. A veritable town is nestled upon the very outer edge of this silent desert corpse-city.
Low, makeshfit longhalls are filled with knights and mercenaries training and planning for expeditions into the necropolis interior, clerics hold services for these warriors and their own orders who pile on the benedictions before taking up staff and hammer in preparation for holy duty. Sorcerers unfurl ancient maps and scrolls as they scour out particular graves. Furtive cowled figures lurk in the corners and slender alleyways eyeing up newcomers. Scholars direct their bodyguards as they transcribe antique carvings. Glory-seekers and treasure-hunters alike make pacts and bargains over cheap ale in shoddy taverns set up by travelling caravans.
The necropolis interior is a maze-like tangle of stone and dust not meant for living feet. Awkward tramples and leaps over the arched tombs are met with curses and laughter. Many mausoleums have been plundered and much time is wasted trying to figure out what hasn't been touched. But the true goal for the ambitious adventurer is not the multitude of ransacked outer structures, but the leagues upon leagues of catacomb far beneath the surface.
They say the tunnels below reach deeper into the earth than the highest monuments of man reach into the heavens. The treasures found here come in the form of both catacomb artefact, and loot from the bodies of doomed treasure hunters slain by trap, serpent, scorpion, or perhaps felled by one of the many other horrors rumored to lurk within the lower levels. It's certain that the dead here sleep, and have in many times past been disturbed. Bones drag themselves across the cold stone, shades slither through the dusky air, and ancient warriors' bronze maille clanks, sending out a cloak of dust when the foolish approach.
How deep it goes, none can actually say, but scholars in the outskirts fill their purses readily with copies of their custom maps, and a secret war is fought for the latest discoveries. The catacombs haven't given up even half their treasures yet, and some enterprising sorts ponder the possibility of setting up shop in the depths.
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