A week has passed since I entered the forests. It is time to rest. I could stay awake if I forced my consciousness a little more, but it is not good to have a dulled brain—especially if I accept that within all this dark place, there are things the few imprudent mages who sought ancient knowledge could not face.
I have reached a cemetery—improvised. Some of the many mercenary groups perished without pain or glory. I lean the coffin against some trees and tie the chain to the crudely made crosses of local wood. I rest my head against the only gravestone with a very faded inscription. I eat some meat and travel bread—brought from the isle, so I do not yet need to hunt. Though I would prefer to taste some meat, I dare not defile a potentially toxic beast from the surroundings. I prepare to sleep, hoping another resting point is not far away, longing for the blue skies of the isle as I succumb to exhaustion.
I know I am dreaming from the moment I see shiny black hair pressing against my face. It is one of my most recurring dreams. The thing inside the coffin seeks to undermine my resolve. Whenever I have a beautiful dream, it is because I will see something horrible—something that allows it to take control of me, of the magical field, that gives it strength to break free. I have had this dream several times and once in real life. It was when I met her outside the dwarf king's temple—pretentious, finally, the only dwarf mage filled himself with titles as soon as they landed on the isle. He had earth summoning class. My golems were simple compared to his dragons. And now, he did not lose his magic thanks to my incipient field, so he could use all his power. It was an impressive dragon—all scales and fury. Instead of flames, boiling magma was used to attack me. I only raised stone blocks, each more useless than the last. They only had the rune "Rise" and a mixed one only I know how to make—"Harden." In the middle of the fight, she crossed as if we were not there, as if the whole world was a backdrop for her walk. In that situation, it was the first time desperation to save her made me create pillars—similar to golems but with structures that resisted lava. Thus, I diverted the attack against the king. It was certainly impressive. But now I could do nothing. Not a single power word came out. There is no strength in my arms. The lava pours over her. I cannot stop it. As it splashes, I see a figure shrinking before my eyes while flayed lips tell me, "Is this all your ability?" My howl must have echoed for many kilometers. Cold sweat runs down my neck. My eyes still cannot see anything. How horrible to sleep only to see everything beautiful I lived turned into a trap by what I must destroy.
As always, when something like this happens, I can feel its rejoicing. It knows it did not win, but if it could not free itself, at least it hurt me. She is in no hurry to be free. She knows sooner or later I will lose control. I am the one with time against me... but such a vivid dream must not be only the work of "that." It does not have so many emotions—the grotesque, yes, but no properly human emotions, as it is not human.
Finally, I can regain composure. It seems my magical field expanded while I slept. A group of silhouettes surround me. They are restless souls. I imagine from there it took the feelings of desperation with which it attacked me. I signal them to disperse. Trying to obey my power, I see a thread binding them to their graves. Despite exhaustion, I ask why they do not leave. A silhouette stronger than the rest tells me they belonged to a merchant caravan. They had a few warriors but were mostly simple men and women—that and a damned priest. That is strange—not the priest, as it is common to see such people accompany any caravan traveling through these places. Their sacred and healing powers make them vital agents. But this seemed not to be the case. To the woman's voice, a chorus joins, lamenting without end:
"Hear our story, traveler,
Accompany us for a moment in our pain.
Travelers we were, adventurers through known kingdoms.
Skilled merchants, talented mercenaries.
We lived by gathering magical materials on the borders.
But woe to us! We were betrayed!
Among the travelers came the leader's wife,
Expecting a child she was.
But she was beautiful in the priest's eyes.
He cast a blindness spell during an attack.
In these lands, we were killed by thieves.
The leader's wife was the price the bandits paid.
But not content, he buried us here,
Bound our spirits to each grave,
Forced the woman to lose the child.
She died of pain and also lies here.
Please help us!"
Somewhat impressed by such a terrible story, I began to look for those bindings. Indeed, the reverend seemed somewhat skilled, and there were those enchantments. All had one end tied to the bodies and the rest to that gravestone where I rested a couple of hours ago.
Upon inspection, I can see that their "souls" have been weakening. It is strange—they should not lose strength so quickly. Their bodies are decomposed, just bones, even the grave nearest him. Checking the subsoil, I see clearly that the priest's body is only flayed, not yet fully destroyed by bacteria. Yet he continues to suck the un-life from these villagers. He bound them to his soul, using them as a shield for him to remain uncorrupted by the land. I imagine he raped that woman. Perhaps once dead, he continued defiling the corpse, and that generated the infection that killed him. Fearful of going anywhere, he prepared his grave and a curse by which he would be comfortable here while the rest suffer and rot in these lands.
Again, fury corrodes me. But this time, it is more than just a desire for them to defend themselves. This is more a vendetta—to harm him, and only through his suffering will the other men and women find peace. I cannot break the seal just like that. I am not a priest, but I also risk damaging their spirits. So I reverse the enchantment—at least in purpose. I mark the bones in their graves, then infuse energy into the new seals. These will give enough power for the souls to return to their bodies, including the priest's, who emerges with a lament from his grave.
With a slight effort, I make a wooden fence emerge surrounding the graves. I speak to them all. I tell them they must attack whoever comes, for every damage the attacker suffers, the priest will suffer. I indicate they should not fear death, for they will not be destroyed. Each time their bodies succumb to an attack, they will be restored using that corrupt man's life force. When—and I am specific here—when he is destroyed, you will all be free. You can continue on your way wherever it takes you, while that priest's existence will be denied, and nothing of him will remain in this world.
They want to thank me by leaving their graves. Many try to pay me with small objects they hid among the bushes. I ask them to keep them, as they are important to them. The old man contemplates me from one of his eye sockets. He cannot attack me because I am too strong, but he also cannot attack these skeletons—it is written as an extra precaution. I take the descent to level five. I still have much to see, and little will be pleasant. But at least here, I left things as they should be. That priest will suffer unspeakably. If they are hurt, he suffers. If they hurt, he suffers. If he dies, they will be free. That is more than fair punishment.