GRAVEHOOK

Chapter 5: The Road to Blackwater

By midday, the storm had swallowed the mountains whole.

Snow hammered against the horses hard enough to blur the trail ahead while dead pine branches scraped across stone cliffs beside the narrow pass. The road climbing toward Blackwater Monastery looked less traveled the farther they went. Half-buried carts rested frozen beneath drifts, and old warning totems carved with church scripture leaned crookedly from the snow like grave markers.

Draeven rode in silence at the front. The village behind them still clung to him. Not the bodies. The children. Fresh blood.

The church was gathering them for something alive inside the monastery.

That changed everything.

Oric struggled to keep pace through the snow beside Malgraves’ horse. The boy refused help every time the priest offered it, though exhaustion dragged heavily across his face now.

“You should ride before your legs freeze off,” Malgraves muttered.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re limping.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Draeven glanced back briefly. Pain sharpened people sometimes. Other times it hollowed them out completely.

He still hadn’t decided which one Oric would become.

The mountains narrowed ahead into a rocky corridor where old statues lined the path. Saints once stood there centuries ago. Most had been defaced now. Faces shattered. Hands broken away.

One statue had its throat carved open. Fresh blood stained the stone beneath it. Draeven immediately pulled the horse to a stop.

The others halted behind him. Malgraves looked around uneasily.

“You hear that?”

At first there was only wind. Then faint singing drifted through the snowfall.

Children.

Oric’s face tightened instantly. The voices echoed somewhere beyond the cliffs to their left.

Draeven dismounted and wrapped the reins around a dead tree branch.

“Stay with the horses.”

Malgraves frowned.

“You think that’s a trap?”

“I think children don’t sing in storms beside blood-covered statues.”

The priest sighed.

“A fair point.”

Draeven moved carefully through the snow with Mournhook still wrapped across his back. The singing grew clearer as he climbed higher between the rocks.

A hymn. Church prayers. But slower. Wrong somehow. He reached the overlook after several minutes.

And stopped.

Below him sat a frozen clearing surrounded by pine trees. Children knelt in the snow in perfect rows.

At least twenty of them. Barefoot. Motionless.

All facing a single figure dressed in black robes near the center of the clearing.

Church soldiers stood nearby holding lanterns and rifles. Execution teams. Draeven crouched lower against the rocks.

The robed figure spoke calmly while the children continued singing.

“Purity requires sacrifice,” the man said. “Fear is natural. Pain is temporary. Salvation is eternal.”

One child suddenly collapsed sideways into the snow.

Too weak to stay upright.

A soldier immediately stepped forward and struck him across the face with a rifle stock.

The singing continued. Draeven’s jaw tightened.

The robed man turned slightly. Silver armor beneath the cloak.

Executioner.

Severin Thorne.

Even from this distance the man carried himself like a weapon sharpened too carefully over too many years. Tall. Broad-shouldered. His dark hair hung wet against pale skin while a silver execution brand marked one side of his throat.

The soldiers began moving the children again. Toward a narrow staircase carved directly into the mountainside.

Blackwater Monastery.

Draeven studied the terrain carefully. Eight soldiers visible. Possibly more hidden. Narrow approach. High ground advantage.

Bad odds for frontal combat. The whisper inside Mournhook stirred. You could still kill them. Not without cost.

The curse already burned through his veins from the stable fight and the holy fire earlier that morning. Another prolonged battle soon would worsen it again.

Still…

One of the soldiers grabbed a little girl by the hair when she stumbled.

That decided it. Draeven unwrapped Mournhook slowly. The blade pulsed dark red beneath the falling snow. Hungry already. He moved. The first soldier never saw him.

Mournhook hooked across the man’s throat from behind and dragged him silently backward into the rocks before the body even hit the ground. Draeven caught the rifle before it clattered.

The children kept singing. Conditioned. Drugged maybe.

The second guard turned too late.

Draeven slammed the rifle butt into his jaw hard enough to crack teeth before driving the scythe clean through his ribs.

Blood sprayed across the snow. Now the others reacted.

“Contact!”

Gunfire exploded through the clearing. Draeven rolled behind stone as bullets shattered rock overhead.

The children screamed finally, breaking formation.

Severin Thorne didn’t move. He simply watched. Two soldiers rushed the flank. Draeven met them halfway.

Mournhook swept low through one man’s knees before the gauntlet crushed the second soldier’s throat against a pine tree. Bone collapsed beneath the impact.

Another rifle fired. Pain tore across Draeven’s side.

The bullet punched through leather and flesh near his ribs. Hot blood spread instantly beneath his coat.

The curse reacted immediately. Black veins surged higher across his chest.

Mournhook’s glow deepened. More, the weapon whispered.

Draeven ignored the pain and threw the hooked blade forward.

The scythe wrapped around a soldier’s leg and yanked him violently into the snow. Before the man could rise, Draeven closed the distance and shattered his face beneath the stone gauntlet.

The remaining guards broke formation. Not retreating. Afraid. Not of him. Of Severin.

The executioner finally stepped forward calmly through the snowfall while the surviving soldiers backed away.

“You’ve become difficult to contain, Mordryn.”

Draeven’s breathing slowed.

“You knew about Blackwater.”

“I know about many things.”

Severin’s voice remained almost gentle despite the corpses around him. The children stared silently now from the monastery stairs.

Watching.

“You’re taking children into a monastery filled with experiments,” Draeven said.

“Experiments?” Severin tilted his head slightly. “No. Preparation.”

Draeven felt something cold settle in his stomach.

“For what?”

The executioner smiled faintly.

“For you.”

The mountain suddenly trembled beneath their feet. Snow fell heavily from the cliffs overhead. Then came the sound.

Deep. Ancient. Alive.

Not from outside the monastery. From beneath it.

Several children began crying immediately. Even the church soldiers looked terrified now. Severin glanced toward the staircase behind him.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

Draeven tightened his grip on Mournhook.

“What is down there?”

The executioner looked back at him. For the first time since the fight started, genuine curiosity appeared in his pale eyes.

“They never told you?” he asked softly.

The mountain shook again. This time louder.

Cracks spread across the frozen clearing beneath their boots while distant screams echoed upward from somewhere deep underground.

Then one of the children pointed toward Draeven. Not frightened. Smiling.

The little girl’s lips moved slowly through the falling snow.

“He knows your blood.”

Draeven’s pulse stopped for half a second. The child’s eyes had turned completely black.

Then every child in the clearing spoke together in the same voice.

“The door remembers you, Gravehook.”