The Crypt

The dead knights lay on the cold, stone slabs of the crypt, their hollow corpses metropolises of beetles and other hidden things slithering among their bones. Their king was no better, though a diadem of tarnished gold still remained on his head. With no light down here, the gems of his crown were dark and dead.

There was a simple harp as well, its strings broken and limp. It had been buried here with them. There was no hand down here to strike it, nor was there an ear to hear any melodies, fair or foul, in those echoing chambers of the dead.

The warriors lay sleeping in the dust and spiderwebs, dreamless in their rest. Each by his side took with him to this place whatever weapon had been his favorite in life. A club, a sword, an axe, whatever was his fancy. Useless beside him it lay. A polearm, like a thin lover, stretched out beside one corpse. Like its owner, decay had eaten at it. Its beam which had been hardened in fire, now crumbled as the dank atmosphere worked into its wood and made it soft. Its steel head was red with rust, its edge long lost.

Centered among them was a strong box, and heavy iron chains were laid over it. Whatever was inside, whatever they had brought with them into this darkness, is in darkness, lost and forgotten. No hand moves to stir the chains, nor dares to reach out into that forbidden place.