The tomb of Ulthunc the Slayer was the culmination of the trip down the catacombs. Usually, Konstans could rely on a few moments of quiet wonder from the groups he took down there. Then a few whispered comments would start, visitors expressing their awe through a few astonished words. He liked this bit. He could stand back, let his charges roam around with little worry for their well-being, and take bets with himself at what they would ask about first.

  The chamber itself was surprisingly small in its width and depth, especially when considering the elaborate sarcophagus which stood on a raised plinth in the room’s centre. It was an octagonal room, each wall about ten feet in length and depicting a scene from Ulthunc’s life carved into a pale pink granite. There was Ulthunc wrestling with a wolf cub as an infant, him luring the ogre to its death in the hidden firepit as an adolescent, hunting the Incandescent Boar through the burning woods, and being guided to his enchanted blade, Petrosk, by the forest sylphs.

  That image was Konstans’ favourite, although he’d never yet admitted it to anybody that he’d brought into the tomb. It showed the sword, carved into a block of crystal in a woodland glade, waiting for the hero who had been shown favour by the forest spirits to plunge his hand through the stone and pluck Petrosk out. To one side of the carving, a pair of child-like, yet ageless, sylphs, adorned with leafy garments beckoned Ulthunc forwards, one leading him by the hand whilst the other points towards the blade. Behind Ulthunc, the devastated forest can be seen slowly regenerating itself.

  If forced to say why the image was his favourite, Konstans might choose one of a number of explanations, all of which were true, although he was never quite sure which was the main reason. The first reason he might have admitted to was its positioning. That scene was directly opposite the doors to the tomb, and so was hidden by the raised sarcophagus when the tomb was first entered. If he wanted to impress somebody, Konstans might instead have explained how the carving showed Ulthunc stepping from an exceptionally skilled and lucky hunter to the status of a legend. Magic swords tended to have that effect on people. But if he was being honest with himself, Konstans suspected it was the contrast with the other scenes. Each one showed Ulthunc doing what he was renowned for: slaying by power, guile or luck. This was the only peaceful scene, the only one where Ulthunc’s jaw was not heroically set on the demise of another creature. The only one where new life was building up, albeit in the background.

  And, if he was being very honest, the weary stoop to Ulthunc’s shoulders, the tiredness captured in his eyes, echoed something within Konstans. Especially with some groups. The ones who practically worshipped Ulthunc for the blood he had spilled, who had envied him his prowess at battle without pitying or understanding the life that had forced him to develop that prowess. The ones who passed over that scene with no comment, except maybe the baseless assertion that they’d definitely have been able to summon the sword from the crystal.

  This group was not like that. But it had become tiring in its own, very unique, way.

  Alberic’s enthusiasm had a new target. He’d barely spared a glance at the wall carvings, nor at the tomb itself, but had begun to prod at the open doors through which he had just been guided.

  “Please, Alberic, don’t do that. If the doors close we don’t know if we can open them from the inside. I don’t want Agnie to pull us out in two days when she brings the next group down.” Normally, Konstans didn’t explain all of that, but just noted to anybody trying to look at the image carved on the inside of the double doors that they had already seen it on their way in. It was the same carving on both sides of the door, except that the interior design was of pink granite. From experience, the guides had learned decades ago that once the doors started to close there was no way to stop them.

  “Oh, yes, yes, sorry, I know... but do you know why they close? I mean, they close at irregular intervals: it’s not a time thing, they just start to close and everybody has to get out in two minutes. Or, at least one person who knows how to open them, I suppose. But do you know if there’s something to set them off, like somebody touches something, or the moon passes directly overhead, or somebody says the word ‘pancake’...”

  They both stopped and stared at the doors. Nothing moved. Professor Astridottar gave a small cough, which might have been a laugh.

  “...Okay, not pancake, but maybe some other word, or perhaps...”

  “No, we don’t know. We want to know, yes. It would make our life much easier. But we don’t know, so we have to just keep an eye on the doors. And not push them, yes?”

  Alberic nodded, but remained staring up at the doors. He remained nodding for long enough that Konstans believed the younger man had grown distracted and so his body had simply continued with its last action until it received some further instruction. It was the professor that broke into his thoughts.

  “Alberic...”

  “Oh, um... sorry professor. I’ll start setting up the ritual to talk to Ulthunc...”

  “There’s no rush. Take some time to look around. It’s a spectacular tomb: many people pay Konstans and his fellow guides good money to come and look at this chamber. Don’t get so caught up with your plans that you lose sight of what’s here.”

  Alberic looked around at the rest of the burial chamber as if he'd forgotten he was there. While he did so, Konstans began refilling the two oil-lamps kept on either side of the door. Apart from the lumping of Konstans and the other guides together (he and Agnie were not like Guntrum and his outfit), Konstans considered Professor Astridottar to have given excellent advice. Alberic certainly seemed to be listening to her, as he nodded once more, produced another notebook from yet another pocket, and dutifully set out to admire the carvings. Professor Astridottar gave a small sigh.

  “This is almost certainly my last time down here,” she remarked to Konstans in a near-whisper. “It’s a strange feeling, to know you’re doing something for the very last time. It makes you look at things with fresh eyes in a way.” She sighed again, still as quiet as before, but indescribably heavier. “He’s got this new experiences ahead of him, and I want to wrestle his attention and thoughts in a direction and say, ‘look at this, see this, feel this!’ But then it wouldn’t really be his experience any more: it would be me trying to redo my own first experiences, but with the benefit of decades of accumulated insight. You know, I think really I just regret doing the same things he’s doing now when I was his age.”

  Konstans nodded. He sort of understood, but he also knew that sometimes people really just wanted somebody to listen and nod along.

  By this time he had refilled and lit both the lamps. Often, these would be left burning by a group forced to quickly leave the central tomb by its closing doors, so it was necessary to always bring fresh lamp-oil. The light reflected beautifully off the central sarcophagus. Its sides were cased in blocks of crystal, said to have been taken from the woodland glade where Petrosk had been encased, although Konstans had his doubts. Nevertheless, they glimmered spectacularly, as did the smaller crystals within the granite wall carvings.

  Professor Astridottar stood at the penultimate carving, gazing up at it as the lamplight revealed its details. It showed the Battle of The Golden River, Ulthunc wading single-handedly through a horde of his enemies. The flickering lamplight reflected of terror in the eyes of those in his path. On Ulthunc’s face the expression seemed to shift from bloodlust, to desperation, to an equal horror as the shadows cast by the lamps shifted minutely.

  “This one,” she snorted, “this one is all wrong. Ulthunc hates it: you’ve probably noticed he won’t look at it when he is summoned.”

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  Had he noticed? Konstans wasn’t sure. He had seen the hero reanimated perhaps two dozen times. Mostly by academics, whom Ulthunc seemed to tolerate, but once by a self-professed “successor” to him. That man, and his companions (or “Brotherhood” as they insisted on calling each other), had been the most obnoxious group which Konstans had ever brought through the catacombs, boasting and scheming of past and future deeds. Ulthunc had regarded them with unconcealed (but apparently unnoticed by the Brotherhood) disgust as they praised him, and Konstans had been sure the corpse would have vomited had it eaten any food over the past couple of centuries. Konstans himself had been filled with a deep sense of shame, and vowed to himself that he would only take resurrection parties with university accreditation from then on.

  Professional pride had meant that he had managed to get the Brotherhood unscathed back out of the catacombs. At that point, though, he washed his hands of them, and was pleased to hear that two of them had been severely beaten up in a bar brawl with a group of miners that evening. The local constable had imprisoned the lot of them overnight, stuck them in the stocks the next day and heavily fined them for starting a fight with a group of people who broke rocks for a living. Or “idiocy” as the constable called it, saying it took less effort to write on the notices.

  Professor Astridottar had been lost in her own train of thought, and started talking. Konstans assumed he was the one being spoken to, Alberic being on the far side of the sarcophagus.

  “The fear in the eyes seems to transmit itself deep into my heart. It’s in all of them. The Gorlanni, of course: they’re the ones Petrosk has been unleashed on. But it’s there in these soldiers, too, and they’re supposed to be the ones Ulthunc’s defending. And it’s in Ulthunc’s eyes, too.”

  A shiver ran along Konstans’ spine. He glanced over his shoulder to check the sarcophagus remained unopened.

  “There’s a theory that Petrosk wasn’t an enchanted sword, but a cursed one. Ulthunc’s been asked about it, of course, but he’s always been very tight-lipped about the sword. I suppose we’ll never know. I won’t anyway. But it makes sense. After this battle, Ulthunc goes after more and more dangerous monsters: he’s either under a compulsion, or trying to get himself killed. I always thought the second one. Why else fight a lava spirit in the middle of a volcano? None of it works, of course: it’s the white plague that kills him in the end. But there’s no reason for him to have ever gone to Lower Arronea when it was well known that an epidemic was in full swing. And then to go into the city infirmary and stay working there until he himself gets ill.”

  Konstans nodded along. He had always felt that Ulthunc’s death felt strange, a bit of an anti-climax. Agnie had once claimed that he was trying to fight the disease itself, but her view of Ulthunc as a self-absorbed egotist never fit with what Konstans had seen of him during his resurrections. Yet, if anything was to change a person’s character, it would be death.

  Professor Astridottar didn’t linger too long over the tomb. As she had said, regretfully, she knew it well by that point. She was simply refreshing her memory.

  Alberic, too, seemed impatient to get along. He had diligently drawn, examined and measured the interior of the tomb, filling up many pages of his notebook with cramped spidery writing and delicately exact pictures. But his actions never seemed more than dutiful. Indeed, towards the end, Konstans believed that it was busy-work, intended to keep his hands and mind occupied.

  He tried to offer reassurance to the young man.

  “Don’t worry about Ulthunc. He might be called ‘The Slayer,’ but I’ve never seen him raise his voice in anger with anybody. Not even touch his sword. He’s a little grumpy, but he’s perfectly harmless.”

  “Ulthunc? ...yes, I’ve heard that as big historical figures go, he’s a good one. It’s just... well, what if I get it wrong?”

  Konstans looked at him blankly for a second.

  “Well, your Professor knows what she’s doing. She’ll keep an eye on you. Definitely, it would be bad if you raised his form as a malevolent being, but there are enchantments around the tomb to stop that. If you make a mistake, then the spell will just not work. Perfect place for somebody to practice their summoning! Even if you are a first-timer...?” Konstans’ statement trailed off into a question.

  “Oh! No! Thanks, but no. They gave me plenty of training before coming down here. It’s not the summoning that’s the issue. It’s more... what if I ask the wrong questions? I might not get the right information for the research. Maybe he just wouldn’t know the answers? If it goes wrong, I’m going to have to restructure everything!”

  Not for the first time, Konstans thought that he and Alberic were very different people.

  When it was time to open the sarcophagus, Alberic was a wreck. His hands shook, and were constantly being wiped on the long, pocketed vest. He was blinking, constantly. Konstans needed his help in removing the sarcophagus lid from the tomb. There were carefully greased tracks that helped it move easily to one side, and held it in place at the side of the coffin, but it was very heavy and it needed two people just to start it moving. Konstans had done this many times before, but Alberic’s nervousness was infectious.

  Still, the tomb was opened. Ulthunc rested there, wrapped in a red burial robe (still spotless after all these years) and with a bronze diadem around his brow. The actual corpse was partially mummified over time, looking and smelling dry and dusty. The skin was drawn tight around the bones, and he looked nothing like the pictures any more. Petrosk lay gleaming next to, but not touching, the body. As always, it looked sharp enough to cut the eyeballs of anybody who stared at it for too long.

  Alberic looked into the tomb and wiped his hands on his vest. Konstans reached over to give a supportive pat to his shoulder, but the man twitched from head to foot at the touch.

  “I’ll leave you to the magic bit, then.”

  The actual necromantic aspect of academic research (or at least the academic research with which he came into contact) always unnerved Konstans. His pack remained in the open doorway of the tomb, so he retreated to it, pulled it up against one of the doors, and lit his pipe. Meanwhile, his two companions got to their work. Mainly it was Alberic, who chalked runes on the floor, burned sage and incense, lit long tapering candles and muttered incantations that sounded like no language Konstans had heard before. Again, the young man went at his tasks mechanically, referring back to a new, already-filled, notebook at every step.

  It would be wrong to say that Professor Astridottar watched over him like a hawk. No hawk was that subtle. She wandered about the tomb, apparently absorbed over the wall carvings. However, Konstans noticed that she always was close enough to Alberic when he was chanting, always one ear cocked to his voice, always scanning her eyes (as if by accident) over the runes that had just been completed. Konstans caught her gaze once when Alberic’s attention was elsewhere and she smiled ruefully at him.

  As Alberic worked, the room seemed to build up a static charge. Konstans could feel the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck standing up. He tried not to move too much, as even breathing in and out seemed to lead to his skin being pricked by tiny needles. Instead, he puffed furiously on his pipe, as if the tobacco smoke could dispel the magic in the air, and tried not to smooth down his hair which he was sure was upright on his head.

  At last, the spells were done. Alberic stepped down from the dais on which rested the sarcophagus and looked to his left. Professor Astridottar, who had that moment abandoned her pretence of being otherwise engaged, gave him a nod. Alberic raised his hand to his mouth, seeming to speak into his palm, and the entire chamber’s worth of magical charge gathered in his hand. To Konstans, it felt like a sheet of water had washed away all the discomfort that had pervaded his body whilst somehow leaving him dry. He sighed with relief and stood up.

  As he did so, Alberic released the charge. The crystal around the tomb glowed a radiant black for a moment.

  Although he was expecting it, the next few seconds always unnerved Konstans. There were three people in the room. He wasn’t claiming to have supernatural perception, but his subconscious knew that and it knew the sounds which he was making, those made by Alberic, those made by the Professor. And then, all at once, the sounds made by somebody else.

  A pair of bony hands grasped the sides of the sarcophagus and hauled its occupant upright.

  Ulthunc looked as before. Skin taut over bone, mouth pulled back into an unnerving rictus grin. But the eyelids were now open to reveal two orbs of deepest night.

  Professor Astridottar stepped forwards.

  “Greetings, Famed Ulthunc! My student and I have travelled here from afar to ask questions of you so as to expand the bounds of knowledge. I am Professor Getchude Astridottar, and this my student Alberic. Our guide Konstans remains by the doorway...”

  The Professor tailed off. This was the usual form of address to Ulthunc on his resurrection, but both she and Konstans noticed something was off. Ulthunc invariably inclined his head to each in turn, a form of greeting that Konstans felt a secret thrill at. But this time he gawped, open mouthed, at the three of them, before turning his head to look around the tomb. Only Alberic hadn’t noticed anything unusual: his fingers were nervously tapping against the spine of a fresh notebook.

  “Ulthunc?”

  The corpse fixed its gaze on Professor Astridottar, and the voice which came out was not the one which either she or Konstans remembered hearing before.

  “Why, blezz you, marm, I baint not be Ulthunc!”