Befitting

“Vagrants & dicers speak of a stone,
hidden somewhere up in the north,
that molds its master into a king...”

The hateful scorch of the midday sun seared his bare skin dry, and the arid wind parched his lips and cracked his hide. Loose rocks fell as he fixed his footing on a narrow ledge sticking out of the steep cliffside, just barely enough for a couple of toes. He adjusted his weight to free one hand and as he did the tiny outcrop he held onto just moments ago fell into the depths, caught by the juniper bosk below.

After making sure he would not fall, he took a waterskin from his belt and raised it hastily to his lips. Empty. Not one miserable drop. He reached for another jug, one he had pinched from a cleric on his way to the foothills, a tiny clay flask, white in colour, unassuming. He uncorked it with his teeth and took a swing from what he thought would be a spirit. Salted, stale water filled his mouth and he had to spit it out. He cursed, put the flask away and continued climbing.

His muscles strained and tore as he stretched to reach a bit of stone above his head. First a few fingers, then he grabbed it with his hand. The sharp, jagged edge of the white granite cleaved into his skin and as he scaled he left a bloodied trail of red handprints on the otherwise pale stone. When he reached the summit he dragged himself up onto the plateau and with a heavy gasp rolled over onto his back.

He wheezed for a while before getting up onto two feet but he almost collapsed again when he glimpsed the vile structure. About a good fifty yards from him and the edge of the cliff a dark temple or tomb rose towards the sky, towering over the plateau. It made not a pitiful attempt to seem like it belonged to its environment. Its ebony bricks were so out of place among the peak’s white granite, it looked as if the structure grew right out of the Abyss. The black stone drank the vigorous blaze of the sun and it gorged on all the light that dared touch it. Pale alone were the sun bleached skulls adorning the lintel of the gaping entrance. He drew his axe from his belt, and slowly and warily marched towards the ziggurat. The wind turned colder and a familiar stench of rot and decay vexed his senses. He stopped in his track when he realised he had been watched.

Two tall figures cloaked in dark velvets emerged from the opening. They carried massive cleaver-like blades that glinted sharply in the strong sunlight. He raised his weapon and girded himself for the likely clash. And as they shambled closer he could make out their features. He recoiled a few steps and cringed at the two horrific visages. What he first believed to be cloth was a cloak made of decomposing flesh and skin which wrapped itself tightly around the gaunt figures. It looked as if their once human skin were flayed and then draped over them again, dressed in their own agony! What a mockery of the living! A long slit-like opening in the front revealed the skeletal structure under the decaying skin. Empty sockets watched his every flinch, lips of naked teeth scorned him with unsaid words.