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Undertaker 9: Relics

This is the ninth chapter of the series about The Undertaker from Mokvas. If you haven’t done it yet, read the previous chapters first:

    It was somewhere around sunrise when the demon finally stopped. He stretched his limbs and went out deeper into the moor, probably looking for something or someone to devour. But not before he once again relieved himself into the Undertaker’s face. Surprisingly this helped the gravedigger wake up, to shake off the resigned delirium he had fallen into.

    The tall man began to grope for a branch he saw was in his reach. He managed to tear it off, however it slipped through his still numb fingers.

    “By all the herpes-riddled harlots of hell!”

    Powerless, he gazed at his leather bag lying on the ground below. He had to get it. He had to retrieve the small casket and its contents. Now more precious than ever. And all before the satyr returned.

    “By the steaming bowels of butchered bitches…,” the Undertaker groaned. He spotted Loktibrada the demon swaggering at an easy pace, contentedly chewing on something.

    More by chance, the gravedigger’s fingers touched his belt. This could work. Hastily he opened it and pulled it out. With the iron buckle on the ground he now hastily attempted to snag the bag.

    Loktibrada soon realized something was going on. The demon halted, scratched his back, leant his head to one side and scrutinized everything in his victim’s direction. Then he started to run.

    The Undertaker tried to ignore the fast approaching satyr and concentrated vehemently on the bag. Finally the buckle anchored the strap and his steady grip lifted the bag to his hands. Time was still of the essence. Now he had to fish out the casket, open it and grab the silver coated dry looking plums.

    Loktibrada rammed him with his full strength. The Gravedigger’s was winded, his head painfully banging against the trunk of the tree.

    “What was that!?” the demon yelled. “What were you doing?! What were you thinking?!”

    Loktibrada picked up the gravedigger’s belt and used it to beat his captive with ferocious will. The Undertaker swallowed the pain with an amused grin and allowed his torturer to land two or three more hits. Suddenly the demon yowled, the belt fell from his palm. The satyr’s face was instantly twisted by unspeakable suffering. Loktibrada dropped to his knees, his eyes turning white, crisscrossed with swollen red fibers.

    “Now you’ll listen, you worthless piece of shit.”

    The Undertaker’s grim voice cut across demon’s sobbing.

    “First, you’ll let me down. Then you’ll obey my every command as if it were be last word you’ll ever hear.”

    “First, you’ll let me down. Then you’ll obey my every command as if it were be last word you’ll ever hear.”

    Loktibrada timidly obeyed. In seconds the gravedigger stood back on his feet and stretched himself. His left palm was clenched into a steady fist. He moved it slowly right in front of the demon’s eyes.

    “You’ll never open it, nor anybody of your kin. So don’t you ever try. Understood?”

    The demon hastily nodded, trembling with terror. Whereby the Undertaker attained a rare decision to deliver a speech.

    “When your awful whore of a mother barfed you and your kind into this world, she decided to make you invulnerable. So she submerged her male bastards into the Styx, the River of the Dead. However she had to hold you somehow. So she held you by your putrescent balls. Which became your only weak spot. That’s the reason why your kind grows them so tiny. To make your weak spot even smaller. But you forgot this.”

    The gravedigger pressed his fist to the forehead of the shaken sweating demon.

    “The balls of your Allfather. Which I once severed from his mummified body. All I need to do is to squeeze them and your entire vomitous kind weeps, crawls beneath my feet and begs for mercy, just like you right now.”

    Loktibrada whimpered, his lips trembled.

    “Please, master…, please… I’ll serve you, I swear… Just tell me what you want?”

    “Lead me to Kerbera. Now!”

    “Of course, master… as you command, master…”

    Together they strode through the empty bog where only insects, worms, snakes, ravens and certain lizards dared to dwell. The demon was jumping with his crooked legs ahead of the Undertaker, occasionally catching a dragonfly or gecko which he obediently threw to his new master. The tall man was already fighting with a rumbling stomach and gladly swallowed even a jagged reptile.

    At last they arrived at the colossal head of a statue sunken in the mires of the moor. The satyr rubbed his palms and laid them on the cold withered stone adorned with greenish mossy isles. Then he started to recite the incantation:

    “Oh, the all-seeing eye of Puma-Punku! I, the son of the nine united clans call upon you to open! In the name of the people of Denyen, Ekwesh, Lukka, Peleset, Shekelesh, Sherden, Teresh, Tjekker and Weshwesh – open to me!”

    Listening all the while, the Undertaker couldn’t resist the temptation to clench his fist slightly more so that Loktibrada’s voice fired during the incantation into a high pitched tone for a second. The result was a sopranic “Shelekesh!” and it conjured a malevolent smirk on the tall man’s face.

    The massive stone eyelid of the colossal head opened with an eerie grating sound. A hole of darkness blinked at them.

    “Are you sure Kerbera is there?” the Undertaker demanded to know. “For if not, this fist will be the last thing you’ll ever see in your puny life.”

    “Yes, yes, master!” the demon nodded promptly. “The mistress is there, I swear on Allfathers holy balls! She’ll be happy to see you, for sure!”

    “Go ahead,” the gravedigger commanded. “And don’t try anything stupid.”

    They entered. Soon they reached a winding staircase leading down into a seemingly infinite depth. The greedy darkness swallowed them.

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