THE BURIED GOD
Chapter 2: The Rising Dead
The bodies rose from their graves like flowers blooming in reverse.
Arms pushed through loose soil. Heads emerged from shallow holes. Fingers clawed at the earth, pulling, dragging, lifting. The dead did not walk — they crawled, they stumbled, they dragged themselves toward the silver light that bled from the mountain.
Damon stood frozen.
His shovel hung from his hand.
His heart pounded in his chest.
The woman with silver eyes grabbed his arm.
“Run,” she said.
“I can’t.”
“You can. You must.”
“The bodies—”
“Are not your concern. They are his. The Hollow King’s. He is calling them. He is waking.”
The ground trembled again.
The mountain glowed brighter.
The dead screamed.
Not with voices — with something else. A sound that came from nowhere and everywhere, a sound that pressed against Damon’s ears like water pressure, like the deep sea, like the moment before drowning.
He dropped his shovel.
It clattered against the stones.
The woman pulled him.
He ran.
They ran across the field of graves.
The dead reached for them, their fingers cold and grasping, their eyes empty and white. One of them caught Damon’s ankle. He kicked it loose. Another caught his arm. He tore free.
The woman ran ahead of him, her dark hair streaming behind her, her bare feet silent on the black soil.
She did not look back.
She did not stumble.
She did not fall.
They reached the edge of the field.
Corvin was gone.
The cart was gone.
The mules were gone.
The road stretched before them, empty and dark, leading away from the mountain, leading away from the graves, leading away from the dead.
“Where are we going?” Damon asked.
“There is a village. At the foot of the pass. The healer there will help us.”
“What makes you think she’ll help?”
The woman turned.
Her silver eyes were bright.
“Because she knows who I am.”
They walked.
The road was rough, the stones sharp, the darkness deep. The mountain glowed behind them, its silver light casting long shadows that seemed to move of their own accord.
The dead did not follow.
They stayed at the graves, gathered around the bodies of the newly risen, their empty eyes fixed on the mountain, their cold hands raised in supplication.
“They’re praying,” Damon said.
“They’re waiting.”
“For what?”
“For him to speak.”
The woman’s name was Vespera.
She had been dead for a thousand years.
“I was not always dead,” she said. “I was a priestess. In the time before the burial. When the Hollow King walked the earth.”
“What happened?”
She was silent for a long moment.
“He grew hungry. He grew tired. He grew afraid. He began to consume his worshippers. One by one. Village by village. Kingdom by kingdom.”
“So you buried him.”
“We buried him. With the help of the other priestesses. We sealed him beneath the mountain. We gave our lives to keep him asleep.”
“All of you?”
She looked at him.
Her silver eyes were wet.
“All of us.”
They reached the village at dawn.
The houses were small, the streets narrow, the people wary. They stared at Damon with suspicion, at Vespera with fear.
“The healer,” Damon said. “Where is she?”
A woman stepped forward.
She was young — younger than Damon, younger than Vespera looked. Her hair was red, her eyes were green, her face was kind.
“I’m the healer,” she said. “My name is Lyssa. And I know why you’re here.”