Bartelemi's Prize

 




The trap was sprung the instant Bartelemi took the mace from the corpse's skeletal hand. He heard distant thunder, and the shaft of dusty light entering a hole in the roof faded.

Bartelemi scraped the tomb lid shut and ran, the dead king's weapon heavy as a sack of grain. He had dawning admiration for anyone who could wield this monstrosity in battle.

They said it was forged by an ancient Dwarven smith and given as a gift back when relations were closer. Bartelemi could believe that. He had seen only a few of the Dwarven folk in his life, but they all had seemed stout enough to have forged this daunting weapon.

Outside, the lone tomb sat under a brooding sky like the last tree after a forest fire. The empty moor stretched endlessly in all directions with no cover from the sky's wrath.

Bartelemi took a deep breath and began to trot, the first drops already falling, thunder landing deep in his chest. It would take two hourglasses, maybe more, to reach the nearest village.

Lightning struck the ground no more than a dozen strides in front of him. He stopped and threw his empty hand up in defense. Lightning hit again. Closer. Small hail pellets stung his skin.

As a sick feeling grew in his belly, he turned and ran back to the tomb, lightning chasing him all the way.

Panting in the tomb's stone interior, he heard hail pounding the roof and thunder booming loud enough to shake a century of dust from the ceiling.

"I'd like that back, please," a cruel voice said behind him. "Then we can discuss your reparations."




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