The bell's toll echoed through the catacombs like a death knell, each chime shaking the walls and rattling the bones of the dead. Arthur braced himself, sword raised high as the chained saint advanced. The creature's hollow eyes burned with sacred fire, and the sound of dragging chains filled the air like thunder.
The Keeper stood behind it, arms outstretched, his voice a deep, resonant chant that seemed to come from the very stones. Each word twisted the air, warping the torchlight into sickly shades of green and gold.
Arthur's men formed a tight circle, blades drawn, but the ground beneath them pulsed with unholy life. Hands burst from the soil, clutching at their legs, pulling men down screaming into the dark.
"Cut them loose!" Arthur roared, slashing through one skeletal arm. "Don't let them drag you under!"
The chamber had become a storm of death. The chained saint swung its arms wide, the glowing chains snapping through the air like whips. One struck a soldier's shield, shattering it instantly and sending the man flying into the far wall with a sickening crack.
Another chain coiled around a knight's torso and yanked him from his feet, pulling him screaming into the saint's grasp. The creature crushed him effortlessly, bones snapping like dry twigs. His armor fell in twisted pieces to the floor.
Arthur ducked low, the next chain whipping over his head with enough force to shear stone. He rolled and came up behind a fallen pillar, breathing hard, the air thick with ash and rot.
"Rowan!" he shouted.
"I'm here!" Rowan stumbled into view, his armor cracked, blood streaking his cheek. He held a half-broken torch in one hand, sword in the other. His eyes were wide with terror but unyielding. "Sir, we can't win this. We have to fall back!"
Arthur looked around their line was broken, their men scattered. Half were dead or worse. The rest were pressed against the walls, surrounded by the endless tide of the undead.
The saint's chains struck again, tearing through stone and bone alike. The sound was deafening. The green fire from the runes now burned so bright that it painted every surface with the color of sickness.
Arthur clenched his jaw. "Form up! Toward the passage!"
They began to retreat, step by step, cutting through the dead that lunged from the darkness. Rowan stayed close to Arthur, guarding his flank. Their boots slipped on blood-slick stone as they fought their way toward the narrow stairway that led back to the surface.
"Move!" Arthur bellowed. "Don't stop for anything!"
Behind them, the Keeper's voice rose in fury. "Cowards! You would flee the judgment of the sanctified?"
Arthur turned briefly, shouting back over the chaos, "Judgment means nothing when the judge is damned!"
The Keeper's form flared with light. The saint raised both hands, and the chains lashed out once more, tearing through the chamber. One struck the ceiling, sending a rain of stone and bone crashing down.
The catacombs trembled. Dust filled the air, choking, blinding. Arthur threw himself forward, pulling Rowan with him as the roof began to collapse.
A soldier behind them screamed as he was caught beneath falling rubble. Another was seized by the dead, dragged back into the green fire's glow. Their cries were swallowed by the roar of the collapsing tomb.
Arthur and Rowan burst into the stairway, the narrow stone steps slick with moss and blood. The air grew colder as they climbed, the sound of pursuit echoing behind them… chains scraping, claws dragging, the guttural chant of the Keeper growing fainter but no less dreadful.
Rowan glanced back once. "They're following us!"
"Keep climbing!" Arthur shouted, shoving him onward.
They reached the first landing, a collapsed hall lined with rotted banners of the holy order. Candles still burned here, untouched by wind or time, their flames steady despite the chaos below.
Arthur turned, sword ready. The stairway below was shrouded in fog. He could see movement in it, shapes writhing and crawling upward.
He struck one that appeared first a gaunt hand clutching the stone edge. His sword bit deep, severing it cleanly. But more followed, relentless.
Rowan dragged a fallen beam across the passage, wedging it into place. "That'll slow them!" he gasped.
Arthur nodded. "Not for long."
The ground trembled again. From below came the echoing roar of the chained saint, furious and inhuman. The sound shook dust from the ceiling.
"Move!" Arthur barked. "We're not dying here."
They pushed through a cracked doorway into another corridor a burial passage lined with old stone tombs. The air here was colder, and the light dimmer. The green fire had not reached this far… yet.
Arthur's remaining men staggered behind him, barely ten now. Some were bleeding, others limping, but they kept pace. None spoke.
They passed alcoves filled with the remains of priests, long decayed. Stone carvings lined the walls, depicting saints and angels but many had been defaced, their eyes gouged out, their faces smeared with what looked like blood.
Rowan whispered, "Sir… why would holy ground turn against itself?"
Arthur did not answer at first. His eyes lingered on the ruined carvings. "Maybe holiness was the lie," he said quietly. "Maybe the gods never left this place… they just stopped listening."
They reached a fork in the tunnel. One path led upward toward faint moonlight the other deeper, into a faintly glowing chamber.
Arthur paused. "We head for the surface," he decided. "We regroup, then return when we're not walking into the grave unarmed."
But before they could move, a faint clinking echoed from behind them the unmistakable drag of a chain.
The men froze. The air grew heavy, pressing down on their chests.
From the dark stairway, the green fire began to crawl up the walls like veins of poison. The fog thickened again, and within it, the shape of the chained saint emerged its crown of rusted gold glinting in the dim light.
Arthur's stomach twisted. "Run," he whispered.
"Sir?" Rowan asked.
Arthur turned sharply, his face hard. "Run!"
They sprinted toward the upper passage, boots pounding against the stone. Behind them, the saint's chains lashed out, striking the walls, tearing chunks of rock loose. One chain caught a soldier's leg and ripped him backward into the dark. His scream was cut short.
Another chain lashed the ceiling, sending rubble tumbling down. Arthur threw up his arm to shield his face as debris rained around them.
"Go!" he shouted, pushing Rowan ahead.
The air filled with dust and the scent of burning. The Keeper's voice thundered behind them, full of venom and sorrow. "You flee the light! You abandon the blessed dead! There is no dawn for those who run!"
Arthur didn't look back. "Then I'll carve my own dawn!" he growled.
They burst out of the catacombs into the ruins above. The night air hit them like a cold slap thin, sharp, blessedly clean. The green light still pulsed faintly beneath the ground, but the stars above offered a fleeting mercy.
The few survivors stumbled into the open field beyond the Abbey, collapsing onto the frostbitten grass. The wind howled through the trees, carrying faint whispers that might have been voices or just the ghosts of memory.
Rowan coughed, clutching his side. "We… we left them behind…"
Arthur sank to one knee, gripping the hilt of his sword, staring back at the gaping entrance to the tomb. "No," he said softly. "We left ourselves behind."
For a moment, the world was still. The green light flickered beneath the earth, then faded.
But as the survivors caught their breath, a new sound rose from below a faint tolling of that same twisted bell.
It was slower now. Closer.
Arthur looked toward the horizon, where the first faint glow of dawn should have been. But the sky remained black, as if the sun itself feared to rise.
"Gather what remains," he said hoarsely. "We make camp by the ridge. At dusk, we'll plan our return."
Rowan looked at him, eyes wide. "Return? After that?"
Arthur's gaze stayed fixed on the ruins, where faint green mist still bled from the cracks. "Aye," he murmured. "The dead don't stay buried here. If we don't end it, it'll spread."
Behind them, far beneath the ground, the chained saint's voice whispered up through the soil, soft, but clear enough to hear.
"You cannot run from faith, knight…"
The wind answered like a sigh from the grave.