System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 190
The Verrieres family crypt lay to the northeast of the village, with a full mile of empty ground around it, no birds, no beasts, only a deathly silence.
The two Witchers, walking shoulder to shoulder, pushed open the rusted gate of the graveyard. Scattered across the ground stood a dozen or so weathered headstones. In their midst rose a crooked gray-brown tree, its bark badly split, its roots and branches dry and yellowed, every leaf long since fallen.
Beneath the tree, half-hidden, a slanting flight of stone steps descended into a pitch-black burial chamber. The two Witchers did not hurry down at once. Instead, they opened their senses and first examined the soil around the gravestones.
“The earth is dry. No sign it’s been disturbed...” Roy let out a breath. “We’re lucky. No grave hags or ghouls have been digging up corpses nearby. And there’s no blood in the cemetery, no trace of struggle. If there were a fleder below, it would have come out hunting and left fresher signs.”
“Don’t get careless.” Letho swept a sharp gaze around and tossed him a torch wrapped in oilcloth. “I crossed blades with Kolgrim many times in the past. He was about as good as I am. The fact that he died down there is enough to tell you how dangerous it is.”
“Even if there are only Wraiths in that crypt, they’ll still make us pay.”
“I know.” Roy nodded. Wraiths were not ordinary monsters. They were beings of emptiness. Under normal circumstances they took no harm from fire, poison, or bleeding weapons, and brute force alone was useless against them.
And this was not a game. They had to be cautious, no matter how many ways he had to save his own skin.
The two began checking their gear, swords evenly coated with Specter Oil, potions close at hand in the leather pouches on their chests, bombs tucked into the little cloth bags at their waists.
Last of all, with perfect unspoken agreement, each of them downed a bottle of Thunderbolt. Black veins rose on their faces, and one after the other they descended into the crypt.
...
Black, cold, damp. Those were the first impressions the underground crypt gave them.
Letho led with the torch. Roy followed close behind. Standing half-turned, his eyes glimmering in the potion’s eerie light, he scanned the surroundings warily.
This was the entry passage to the crypt, so narrow that only two men could walk abreast. The walls on either side were smooth and level. Not far from the stairs, a diagram of the crypt’s internal layout had been painted on the wall, old with age, its lines and lettering slightly blurred.
Looking at the dense web of chambers marked there, Roy could not help sighing inwardly. “White Orchard may be small, but the noble house had no shortage of members ... and gods, it’s cold...”
He drew a sharp breath. Compared to the spring warmth outside, the temperature underground had dropped by a good ten degrees, as though they had stepped straight into winter. Even the white vapor of their breath hung plain before their faces.
And this cold was not ordinary cold, but a clammy, sinister chill, as though an endless current of air were blowing out from within the crypt itself, needling into bone and bringing a deep, wordless discomfort.
The two reached the end of the passage and turned left, and suddenly the space opened wide.
It was a square burial chamber. In the corners rested four pale stone sarcophagi. Fifteen or sixteen niches had been cut into the surrounding walls, each one holding another coffin.
Roy used the torch to light the braziers in every corner. The fire flared up at once, and the chamber blazed bright. That clammy chill vanished completely.
By the burial customs of Temerian nobility, only direct members of the family had the right to lie in the center of the crypt, while collateral lines were laid in the niches carved into the walls.
So Roy went to one of the central coffins.
“Patrice Verrieres ... year 1150, died of dysentery.” Roy read the inscription carved into the side of the sarcophagus. “Dead more than a hundred years. No telling which generation of the current lord’s ancestors this one belonged to...” His hand moved slowly over the rough surface of the coffin lid. He found something blackened and rotten clinging there, brought it to his nose, and sniffed. Flower petals, at least ten years old.
“So this crypt hasn’t been visited in a long while,” he mused. “It’s a noble crypt, and because of the Wraiths no one dares come inside. There may still be burial jewels and costly objects left untouched in the coffins.”
“Kid, come look at this...”
“You found something?” Roy crouched beside Letho in a gap between the coffins and examined the smear of green powder on his finger. Each grain shone faintly, beautiful in a strange way, as though enchanted.
Roy’s heart stirred. “Wraith Dust?”
Wraith Dust, as the name suggested, was the ash left behind when a Wraith died. Many Witcher alchemical products needed it as a base, Petri’s Philter among them. But the yield was low. One Wraith produced perhaps half a portion.
“Without a doubt, Kolgrim fought a Wraith in this chamber.” Letho, unwilling to waste anything, carefully gathered up the little heap of Wraith Dust on his hand. Soon after, he found a second pile along the left wall, and beside it, a deep sword scar cut into the stone.
“The bastard was still strong then. He was in good shape when he came through here. Two Wraiths total. Not easy work, but nothing that should have wounded him.”
Letho called Roy on and made ready to move deeper in, but Roy lingered, his eyes shifting toward one of the coffins in the wall niche.
Beyond a half-burned white candle, several dull gray coins lay quietly on the lid. Roy walked over, picked them up, and wiped them clean. On the face of each coin was the hawk-nosed likeness of King Foltest.
“Five orens. Not much use these days, but Vivaldi Bank would still change them into crowns.”
After a moment’s thought, Roy set them back down. He was no grave robber. It was not worth stooping for such petty gain.
...
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