Through the grasping, clawing dead, he hewed a path, and like a swirling storm his blade spun, turning and returning with tireless ferocity upon the rotting flesh. Down they fell as he climbed up the stairs unto the thorny alter, the altar which brittle vines had long ago enmeshed in a matrix of cutting nettles, had long ago overgrown and there died, had long ago left but lifeless thorns there protecting no bloom nor fruit. Dead thorns upon a dead altar. There no fire, no sacrifice, no priests nor people but these revenants, these thorns and these unquiet bones, grasping and clawing without life.
Down went his sword as he cleaved his way unto the top of the ziggurat. They closed in his wake, the tireless corpses, marching after him as he fought up each step. Only now, as he ground the dried nettled beneath his boots, did he turn and see this sepulchral hoard following like a shadow.
Too late, for them or for him. They could not stop what he meant to do, and he, he knew, would not be let down alive. So, quickly he reached under his breastplate, pulled out the vial, and dashed it down upon the altar. Great smoke erupted from the cordial, and the cloud occluded all. Dark and heavy, the billows grew and spread.
The storm came quick. He fought with shadows now, indistinct shapes in the vapor, and with each blow, a corpse fell and did not rise again. With each blow, also, the lightening flashed. His sword was like that heavenly fire, burning through his enemies and leaving their empty husks charred ruins.
He or the storm, he and the storm, they were one now, fell like rain upon the sorry revenants. The skies grew dark, and the winds raged.
Tale Told 