Teamwork

Sculpted by Bobby Jackson

The narrow crypt stank of damp rot and long-dead things. Cobwebs clung like shrouds to the low, stone ceiling. Flickering lanternlight spilled from the fighter’s raised hand, casting their hunched shadows across the sarcophagus-lined walls.

“I told you this’d be quick,” hissed the rogue, crouched at the iron-bound chest, tools clinking softly. “Just keep the light steady.”

“I’m holding the damned light, aren’t I?” growled the fighter, eyes fixed on the dark tunnel behind them. His sword trembled slightly in his free hand—not from fear, but from the cold. Or so he told himself.

From deeper in the catacombs came a wet, dragging sound. Then, a low moan. Close now.

The fighter’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Make haste, Henner. Something’s moving out there. Something with breath it shouldn’t have.”

Henner didn’t look up. “Locks don’t open faster because you bark at ‘em.”

A grinding sound of stone against stone echoed through the black behind them.

The fighter took a step back, sword up. “We shouldn’t be down here. This place reeks of old curses and worse bargains.”

With a final click, the rogue grinned and pried open the lid. “And now it reeks of coin. Grab what you can—quietly, if you’d rather not meet whatever’s shuffling our way.”

Another moan rose, louder, wet and close.

The fighter didn’t answer. He just tightened his grip on the lantern and stepped toward the dark, muttering a prayer he barely believed in.

“Just hurry. I’ll hold them off... if I can.”

And from the black beyond the lantern’s edge, something scraped the stone floor. Something with claws.