A Call to Fate

Chapter 13 - History

The architecture hadn't changed at all, but this area was noticeably cleaner. There was not dust, as if this place was somehow kept clean. Maybe there was just nothing to become dust. None of them were at their best, but there was a mental reinvigoration that came with knowing they had made progress. They didn't need to speak, lining up in a similar order to when they had first entered the barrow, and starting the march down.

As they entered, magical torches flickered to life, casting a steady, somewhat red light over the area. The corridor here was steeper, but they could see the end. There was a new smell though; not just the faint, musty air and dust that had permeated the previous rooms. It was delicate, almost heady, and faintly spiced. The smell of incense of some kind; burning herbs. Thoughts of enchantment crossed their minds, magic that could beguile you without you ever being any the wiser to it. It was unlikely, but not impossible.

The smell was more real though, and those with better eyesight could pick out the faint wisps of smoke and haze that was carrying the scent. The source quickly became apparent. Reaching the end of the corridor, it opened out once again in a familiar way, presenting a room that was similar to the last, but still with notable differences.

This room was much smaller, though well-proportioned, with four pillars supporting the roof. Where the pillars in the last chamber had been solely functional, these ones were decorated, carved stone which were each subtly different. One appeared to have a gigantic snake wound around it from floor to ceiling, with its fanged mouth reaching towards the middle of the room. Another was carved like a tree trunk, with 'branches' that spread out across the ceiling. A third was made to look like it was a weapon rack of sorts, with rows of outsized spears lined up around it, and the occasional shield. The last one seemed like it was made out of large scales, until the eyes were drawn to the top of it, where the gaping maw of a dragon could be seen.

On either side of the room there were two of those same slots, each with the body of a warrior. These seemed to be in a state of arrested decay though, looking for all the world as if they had been placed there yesterday. Each of them were wearing armour, functional but clearly of sublime craftsmanship, as Gialli's trained eye could attest. They wore their helmets still, with ornately decorated shields laid across their chests, and their weapons resting by their sides, as if they were ready to grab them and leap into battle at any moment. Given their experience of the last room, this didn't seem like much of a leap.

At the far end of the room from where they had entered, there was a door, looking perfectly ordinary for all the world. On either side of it were two plinths, with carvings on the wall behind each one, though they could not make out what they were from this distances. Between them and it though, was the last feature of this room, and the most impressive.

A large stone tomb, carved out of dark stone, sat proudly in the middle. It had a charred look to it, and this was reinforced by the faint wisps of smoke coming from it, the source of the smell. Juniper and cedar, they thought. The rectangular box itself was fairly simple in design, but a statue lay on top of it, looking like the other warriors. They gathered around it, in a semi-reverential silence. Whoever this was, they had clearly earned a lot of respect in life and death.

The man's face was set in a stern expression, and his scars had been carved on as well – clearly he had earned whatever respect he had through some kind of battle. One looked like it had come from a spear or the like, a 'puncture' that had narrowly missed his left eye. The other was more dramatic, a long scar that ran diagonally from cheek to chin, splitting his lips across the middle.

They ran their eyes across him. Everything below his face was covered by some sort of armour. It had once been ornate, and the chain links and other fastenings that overlaid the leather hinted at the wealth of the owner and the skill of the craftsman, but they could see that it was damaged practically beyond repair. Tears and slashes, holes and all other kinds of damage was evident on it. Some bits even looked as if they had been set alight. Both of his hands were clasped on the hilt of a sword over his chest, pointing down. Again, the pommel and the cross-guard looked exquisite, and the carver had taken pains to include the swirling metal designs, the inlaid gems, and the other elements that had made this sword a fine weapon and a work of art.

Once more though, it was shattered. The blade of a sword that had could be wielded in two hands now ended only about a foot from the hilt, before it cut off in a jagged line. The remaining 'shards' of it were scattered across his torso, a haphazard placement on an otherwise flawless carving.

Their eyes trailed back up to his head, where the last distinguishing feature was. A simple crown, but one that carried no less weight for the lack of decoration. They could see faint flecks of gold, like it had once been covered in gold leaf, but that had now faded, or been rubbed off. It was some evidence at least that time did pass in here, even if it felt timeless somehow.

There was no writing on the tomb, or statue or whatever it was, and they eventually gravitated over towards the plinths on each side of the door. There was a carving above each one, and an item rested in a bracket mounted on the plinths. To the right of the door was a depiction of a bare-chested, muscular man, coated across his body in tattoos. The carving was in profile, but it was enough to tell that it was the same man as was lying in the middle of the room. There was a faint aura around him in the carving, but it was hard to tell in the stone what it was trying to show. On the plinth, resting on decayed scraps of cloth, there was a perfectly-preserved wooden stick, with a hollow needle pressed through the end, and an attached pot for ink. A tattoo needle then ̶ the same one that had given the man in the carving his tattoos?

The other was more dramatic. The same man, this time wearing armour, and locked in battle. He was battling a giant, and the carvings suggested a fire giant – one of Surtr's children perhaps. In the carving he had won, and the giant's own sword was plunged into his chest. The result of that seemed to be resting on the plinth, where a melted sword lay. It would be outsized for any human, and too big even for Talani. Most of the blade was slag, but what remained near the hilt was beautiful, swirling patterns of artfully-forged metal of near-unparalleled craftsmanship. For all the faults of many of the giants, they were damn good smiths, among other things.

When they had looked at the carvings, the plinths, and the tomb for long enough, a sense of terrible realisation began to come over some of them, those who were better-studied in history. It was a sense of crippling unworthiness, incomparable trespass, as if their very presence in this place was besmirching it.

"Is this..." began Teclis.
"The tomb of Beowulf" Reg finished, in a stilted whisper. Even though most of them had worked it out, there was still a widening of the eyes,, a chorus of muffled gasps as Reg confirmed what they had begun to suspect. The tableau of reverence was broken by Talani, however. "Who?" he asked. Gialli made a noise like he had just been strangled. "Are you joking?" he sputtered. Talani just shrugged in response. Clearly not.