GNO Chapter Excerpts Page ~ B1C5 Quick-Browse

Chapter Quick-Browse For Graven's Grotesque: A Gothic Epic

Chapter 5 Excerpt Teaser
Description: Lazarus Finds Naramsin's Crypt with the Gatestone Translations ~ 7 Paragraphs

“Bang!” Instantly, the door exploded, showering shards of plank against the opposite wall. Arch stones above the door collapsed as the keystone surrendered all support. Higher still, a large section of wall and adjoining roof gave way to an avalanche that cascaded about him. In the midst of a roaring chaos, he dived into the far corner of the terminal wall as some of its masonry crashed onto the floor.

Silence returned, save the sound of streams of water gurgling against flagstones. And when the dust and debris settled, Lazarus eased to his feet, dirty yet unharmed. He perked a pair of dog-like ears beneath his hood and searched for sounds. Falling water was as a pulsing roar—the slip of settling pebbles were as boulders crashing into some deep ravine—the soft scampering of rats’ feet were like thundering hooves. However, Lazarus’ attention remained fixed on the entrance of the Benion Tunnel. He heard no creaking of a catacomb door—no clapping of monkish sandals on a stony stair—merely the sound of the distant prisoner in the passage of cells as he shuffled about in straw.

Lazarus examined the wreckage about him. The terminal wall of the tunnel stood mostly unscathed, save a small hollow where the stones had since crashed beside him—the damaged section of the wall now offered what seemed, a bottomless hole. Already, a musty breeze, three centuries stale, poured out of the opening. Then, he realized that, what had appeared to be the supposed end of the dead Benion Tunnel was but a crumbling false wall—visibly, the passageway extended onward.

Lazarus peered through the opening, his hood fluttering before the wind-moaning hole. In every way save one, the continuing tunnel mirrored the unsealed section. It might have appeared as though the passage had been abandoned even before it was fully completed since, although crypts lined the tunnel walls, none of the hollows had been finished out with doors. He pushed betwixt the loosened stones and stepped within. Apparent to him, the crypts had never housed remains. The first did not, nor the second—and corpses always tainted underlying stones with a rust-coloured patina that even centuries cannot remove. He continued down the tunnel, striding past the numerous unoccupied and unfinished crypts.

Whilst the air in the crypts remained clean, as he ventured still further down the corridor, the air confessed of death—intensifying with the tainting of ancient remains. Lazarus delved deeper. At the end of the tunnel, he found the entrance of the last crypt to be different from the others as it held a short and ragged door, but sealed over by the remnants of a crumbling stone wall—as though a latter, newer wall of stones was constructed to conceal all evidence of the now-exposed door. From beyond the cracked door boards seeped the smell of decay. He pulled away loose stones, tore through curtains of cobwebs, pushed away pitted and worm-worn splintered planks, and slipped within. Not a speck of light shone, yet in that unspoiled and deathly silent blackness beyond the scattered remains of the short ragged door, Lazarus’ hungry pupils swelled abnormally wide. Like orbs of a perfect nocturnal predator, they peeled away the scales of darkness, and saw all.

The crypt appeared as though it had once been used as living quarters, yet its odour was distinctly that of a tomb. Broken pottery, rotted cloth and dusty artifacts lay strewn about. Lazarus searched the wall recesses, discovering no monk-wrapped remains. Rather, the open tombs had served as storage shelves, holding debris of a strange miscellany. And another smell hung in the air—the faint pungency of ink. Lazarus crossed the room and stood over a narrow table and bench, once used as a desk. Its top lay marred with scratches, wax, and ink stains. On it, an inkwell sat crusted and empty. Something peculiar about the table aroused his attention as he examined its surface more closely, tilting his head in careful study. Neither the inkwell, nor the stains confessed distinction; however, whatever commanded his attention lay obscure yet certain in its existence. He lowered his nose merely inches from the table and smelled it. Still, nothing surfaced.

Then he backed away, centring himself over the desk—and there it lay. Lazarus wiped away a layer of dust. Whatever curiosity that plagued his senses, did so only through his eyes. Dust and debris removed, the remaining desk scratches took shape and he found no random carvings, but orderly symbols. They were not hieroglyphic pictures—they presented themselves more distinctly as continued rows of geometric figures. The position and spacing of them drove the pronunciation—and the meaning into Lazarus’ eye. In the recognizable pattern, circles and lines formed letters—words—sentences—finally gathering into clear and comprehensible streams of meaning. However, the inscriptions were neither French nor Latin, yet of a queer language since unknown to the world of quill and parchment. In truth, no man could have scribed the message on the desk, since its tongue was never born on earth. With some difficulty, Lazarus pronounced the words and discerned their meaning...

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