The small man felt the cold cobblestones through the thin leather soles of his boots, felt the hard, chill surface of the stone wall he pressed his back against to conserve warmth. He saw his breath mist with each release, and each intake was agony in his nostrils. He crouched in the shadows of the alley, his eyes never leaving the front of the tavern across the cobbled street. The tavern's windows released a flickering yellow light which reflected ever so slightly from the mist-moistened paving, the fogged panes belying the warmth within. Each time the door opened, a patch of yellow light stretched across the street to the alley, but always the luminous rectangle stopped short of the small man and his shadows.
Each time the door opened, the small man stiffened, and his hands, barely clothed in worn leather gloves, would momentarily leave the warm sanctuary of his armpits and push him slightly away from the wall. Each time, however, he sank back, hands returning to their tropical haven, as he saw that whoever had opened the door was not alone, but accompanied by others; whether male friends or female, whether they made a pair or more than a pair, the small man would curse softly and continue his vigilant survey of the tavern's emigrating patrons.
What the small man desired this night was to be warm. A chair by a fire, a cup of hot cider and perhaps a bowl of soup to stop the incessant ache in his stomach; this the man could have at any tavern, although perhaps not at this one; perhaps at one not quite as warm and hospitable, but at the very least warm. But soup and cider cost money, and a chair by the fire could not be got without the purchase of the house's goods. And of money the small man had none. So the small man hunted, not as a wolf, but as a spider in its web or the frog in his pond, waiting, perhaps not as patiently, but waiting nonetheless.
Once more the yellow light of the tavern spilt on to the street, outlining the doorway and the one who stood in it. The small man leaned forward, peering beyond the silhouette in the doorway to glimpse the patron's companions. But this time the door closed with the passage of only one; this time, only one head was outlined against the window of the tavern as the patron made his way past the front of the tavern. The small man felt a flutter in his chest, heard a hissing in his ears and felt a knotting in his stomach as he realized this man was alone. He pushed himself to his feet, trembling not entirely from the cold, and left the alley as quietly and as quickly as he could.
For two blocks the small man followed the other, who appeared as a darker shape against the dimly illuminated street. The small man followed more by sound than sight, for the other man wore hard-soled shoes which clicked against the cobblestones. Several clicks, a scrape, and a muffled curse. The small man heard the sounds and his stomach untwisted a little, and his frantic heartbeat slowed a little. So the other was drunk. It made the small man's task a little easier. He quickened his pace as his quarry turned a corner. He stopped against the wall and peered carefully around the edge, hand straying to the leather sap thrust into his belt. The other man had stopped on the street a few paces from the corner, beneath a faint band of light flowing from a shutter in the house before him. The small man could see that he wore travel garments, but they seemed fine-cut and in good repair. He seemed unarmed. He stood there in the light, looking from side to side, as if he did not know where he was. The small man readied his sap and prepared to step behind his prey. As he took a half step around the corner, he heard a footstep behind him. He saw the tavern patron turn in surprise; he felt a rush of air brush by his head, heard the whir of an object spinning in flight. Steel glinted, and the tavern patron fell heavily to the street without a sound, the pommel of a dagger protruding from his chest.
The small man pressed himself flat against the wall, listening for the sound of approaching boots, trembling from fear and frustration; but he heard only the sound of footsteps running in the opposite direction.
The small man waited, his muscles taut from fear, his ears making every sound a threat to his continued existence. His stomach burned with fear, his bowels felt loose, and he felt dizzy and faint. It was all he could do to keep his knees locked, keeping himself upright against the wall where his own silhouette was smaller. He glanced at his intended victim, who lay unmoving on the cobbles, a shining puddle forming between his torso and the crook of his arm. No shadows appeared to rifle the dead man's pockets nor to threaten the would-be thief; no hands reached around the corner to grasp his throat in vise-like grip. At last, after minutes of struggling against his impulse to flee and his knees' desire to collapse, he took a small step away from the wall.
Nothing happened. Cautiously he moved toward the fallen figure and crouched beside it. No daggers hit his exposed back; no shadows precipitated from the walls to garrote him. He turned his attentions to the fallen patron, moving his hands slowly towards the leather pouch at the man's belt. With shaking hands he untied the leather thongs holding the pouch to the belt and started to stand up when a hand grasped his wrist.
The small man stifled a scream and tried to break free, but his knees, still weak from the agonising tension of the previous moments, collapsed upon the damp pavement. He dropped the sap and caught himself before he sprawled face-first across the body. Supporting his weight with the hand that still clutched the stolen purse, he turned and saw that the patron was still alive. One of the dying man's hands grasped the small man's wrist, while the other plucked vainly at the dagger in his chest.
"Help...pull..." The man coughed, a liquid cough that made blood seep from his nose and mouth. "Vengeance...must..." His eyes closed, and his grip momentarily weakened. The small man broke free of the dying man's grasp, but the effort made him sit back on the cold cobbles. Still he did not flee, not from lack of fear but rather from a morbid fascination with the dying man. The shaft of light from the shutter shone full in the man's face, and for the first time the small man saw that he was old. His hair and beard were the color of sand flecked with marble white, his eyebrows were great shaggy bushes that lined the canyons of his eyes. The eyes themselves, open now, were as blue as a summer sky. The man coughed again, and looked the small man in the eyes.
"Thief." His voice was hoarse, but stronger. "Pull this blade out of me." The small man found himself leaning forward, found himself grasping the handle of the dagger. Eyes still locked with those of the dying man, the small man pulled the blade from the old man's chest. The dying man grimaced and gritted his teeth but made no sound until the blade was out. Then he sighed loudly and closed his eyes.
Like a spell had been broken the thief dropped the blade and stood, ready to flee. But the old man opened his eyes again, and again the thief stood in morbid fascination. The old man whispered "Kneel," and the thief knelt.
The old man's hand found the blade that had killed him. He held it by the blade, his hand dripping in his own blood, and pressed the pommel against the thief's chest. "Your name, thief," the man said.
The thief's throat felt dry and constricted, but he choked out his appelation. "Cathartes."
The old man smiled, then coughed again. He looked suddenly whiter and older, but his eyes never left the thief's. "Apt," he gasped. "It means 'purifier' in the Greek, does it not?" He shuddered. "The worm has done his work, and yet still there may be a purification of sorts." His gaze glazed slightly, then cleared. "Listen, thief. I became over-bold, protected as I was from their charms. From their charms, yes, but not from steel." His hand raised the dagger slightly. "You are a coward, Purifier. And this may be to our advantage. So you shall be the instrument of my vengeance. Take this blade." The thief grasped the hilt of the dagger, but the old man did not release it. Instead he said, "This blade will seek its owners, and it will kill them." Then he began to chant, softly and in a dry whisper so the thief could not hear what it was he said. The old man's eyes closed and the thief again felt himself free of the spell of the old man's eyes, but now a new charm held him there, a power flowing from the dying man through the dagger to him that seemed to bind him to this spot until the old man completed his task. And the thief knew that the old man was chanting his death curse, and that the thief was part of it. But the power held him there as well as if he were chained to the spot.
The chanting stopped. The cold night air was very still, and the thief saw that light no longer shone through the shutter. He felt the old man's hand slide from the blade, and heard the old man whisper, "I die unshriven, and so the worm has triumphed. Deus vermes, moriturus te saluto..." And the old man died.
Light stabbed the thief's eyes. "Hey, you there!" he heard. The thief stood up and ran. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him a guardsman with a lantern leaning over the dead figure. The guardsman stood up and shouted "Stop, thief! Murder!" The thief ran, head down, turning corners, slipping on the slick cobbles but never falling. He ran past buildings of stone and houses of wood, under street lamps and past lighted windows, down dark alleys where beggars slept in the warmth of middens and down streets where carriages carried the well-to-do home for the evening. He ran until his breath came in aching sobs and the sweat from his exertions made him shiver with cold. He stopped running on a deserted street near a tenement where the streets were unpaved and muddy, and he collapsed on a wooden porch whose railings had long ago submitted to termites. He sat shaking and gasping, his head between his knees and his hands clasped around the items he had procured.
His breathing slower, the ache in his chest less acute, the small man raised his head and looked about him. The moon had risen, and its half-lit face cast a clear, white light upon the crumbling tenements. Across the muddy, puddled road lay the stark timbers of a burned out tenement, its naked beams rising from the misty ground like the masts of some fabled ghost-galleon. The thief looked down at the objects in his hands, holding them as if his hands were scales ascertaining their relative weights. He examined the pouch first. He pulled the drawstrings and poured its contents into his hands. Silver glinted in the moonlight, at least 30 pieces. It had been a long time, perhaps never, that he had known such wealth. The thief ran a finger over one of the coins. Some seemed of curious mint, but it was difficult to see the design in the moonlight. Replacing the coins, he examined the dagger. Though still covered in the blood of the old man it seemed a fine blade, wavy at its edges, it blade nearly as long as his forearm. Its pommel was curiously carved to resemble the head of a serpent or worm, the handle engraved like the scales or segments of its body. He did not like the blade, mostly for what had happened before but more now that he saw its design. He considered throwing it away, but then thought better of it. A knife was a knife, and at the moment he was weaponless. Tomorrow he would buy himself a new weapon, and then he would throw the cursed blade from the longest pier of the water front, but for now he thought it best to be armed.
The thief's thoughts turned to the business at hand; a warm fire and perhaps even a room at an inn. Already the events of the past hour were losing the edge of their horror. Actually, he had been quite lucky, for whoever had thrown the dagger had saved the thief much trouble, and then had never contested the spoils. The thief stood then and, placing the pouch in his belt, he washed the dagger and his hands in a puddle. Carefully securing the blade to his belt he strode towards the water front.
Near the waterfront the air was perhaps damper, and perhaps the breeze blowing out onto the bay made it chillier than elsewhere in the city, but where the wind did not reach it was warmer than the rest of the city. Besides, near the wharfs, with sailors from distant lands and the ships coming in and out of port with the tides (which had no regard for the clocks of men), the inns were open all night, and their proprietors were less likely to question the means by which a man, though ragged and of uncertain character, had obtained the wealth with which he bought his drink. Cathartes walked along the narrow streets and alleys of the waterfront, along cobbled paths lit not only by the white moon but also by the yellow lights of lanterns hung before the signs of the taverns which lined the way. In the distance he heard the great clock strike the last stroke of twelve, and heard a crier call out the same for the benefit of those who may have miscounted the gongs (or perhaps could not count at all). Despite the lateness of the hour, he passed a motely assemblage of people still out upon the streets. Here were three foreign seamen, dark of skin and beard, staggering from drink, hitching their bright red pantaloons out of the mire of the gutters as they helped each other along. Here were prostitutes, gaily clad in red and green, standing under every lantern to attract the notice of men long at sea. Cathartes was forced several times to skirt into the gutter because of drunken sailors lying sprawled in their own filth on the street, their companions, not far from the same state themselves, vainly attemtping to assist their fallen comrades.
At last the thief found a tavern not quite as crowded as the rest, its weather-beaten sign, illuminated by a dim lantern, bearing a towering waterspout. Cathartes slipped inside the door, and at once felt relieved to find a large fire burning in the fireplace. Here sat most of the patrons on long wooden benches, mugs in hand and feet stretched to the fore, their damp boots steaming from the heat of the flames. The thief went to an unoccupied section of the bar and waited to be served.
Presently the proprietor, a small, beardless man with a scarred face and shining blue eyes, noticed the thief and made his way over to him. His eyes flicked quickly over the thief's figure, and he scowled. "No loiterin' on the premises. To stay you must buy. You've coin?"
Cathartes nodded, took a silver piece from the purse, and laid it on the counter. The barkeep glanced at the coin, nodded, and said "Right then. What'll it be?" Cathartes ordered cider, and added "Soup, too, if you've any."
"Soup indeed, if fish chowder suits your fancy." He picked up the coin, then hesitated and held it up to the lamp above the bar. "'Struth, never I've seen such a mint as this. Where's it from?" He looked at Cathartes, his features showing surprise and curiosity rather than suspicion. The thief mumbled about dice and a foreign sailor, and the bartender shrugged and said, "'Tis gruesome enough. I'd not like to visit the land it comes from. Still, silver is silver, and what's to be expected o' bloody heathens, eh?" He put the coin in his apron, and handed the thief several copper coins as change. "You're order'll be ready shortly. Be seated and we'll have it out to you."
Cathartes went to one of the unfinished oak tables, as close to the fire but as far from the other customers as could be. As he sat he noticed the bartender showing the strange coin to a group of men at the end of the bar. One of them was turning it over in his hands and shaking his head while the others leaned in for a closer look--all except one man, a bald, round-faced man with a black beard streaked with white who turned his head and looked Cathartes straight in the eyes. Cathartes squirmed in his chair and looked at the table, cursing himself for a fool. He should have remembered that some of the coins were of strange design and used the others lest he draw attention to himself. Still, the damage was done, and when he looked up again the men seemed as uninterested in him as before.
Cathartes' food and drink were brought to him, and while eating he glanced at the men at the bar from time to time. None of them seemed to be paying him any more heed, and he relaxed and savored the welcome warmth of the fire and the food. Yet after he had finished the soup, as he nursed the hot cider, he wondered at the interest the coin had inspired at the men. Below the surface of the table he took one of the coins from the purse and examined it.
Engraved on one side of the coin was the head of a man in profile, not strange in itself except that the workmanship was exquisite, and the writing around the circumference of the coin was in an alphabet unrecognizable to him. Yet when he turned the coin over, he nearly dropped it in surprise as he saw why the bartender had been so startled. Engraved upon the reverse, in excruciating detail, was the image of a worm-eaten human skull, the worms themselves plainly visible in each of the skull's gaping apertures. Carved around the circumference of the coin was the phrase, "In Morte, Vermes."
"I see you were unaware of the peculiar nature of your silver."
The coin slipped through Cathartes' fingers and rolled under the table. He snapped his head up and met the gaze at the bald man from the bar. The coin, still rolling along its edge, stopped against the bald man's boot. The man bent, retrieved the coin, and sat down in the chair next to the thief's. He place the coin on the table in front of Cathartes and leaned back in the chair, his eyes on Cathartes' face. The thief stared only at the grinning skull chuckling up at him from the table top.
The bald man sat with hands folded across his ample stomach. Quietly he said, "Be at ease. I care not how you came by the coins; I only wish to warn you that care should be exercised in who you display them to. The unusual lingers in a man's memory, and those who minted these coins are not ones I would like to have tracing my whereabouts."
The thief looked up at the bald man, his belly knotting in fear. "Are the coins cursed then?"
The bald man glanced at the coin, then at the thief. He leaned forward and rested his arms upon the table. "Perhaps not directly, but their use will be noticed, and then, who can say what may happen to a man?"
The thief swallowed, and his stomach twisted tighter. He looked again at the bald man, imagining the threat in the words just spoken and seeing the bald man as the agent of their fulfillment. His mouth was very dry. He swallowed the last of his cider. The bald man continued to study the thief's face. "You are afraid, and this is good. You may have reason to be, and then again you may not. Be not afraid of me, though. I offer only advice, not harm." The bald man stabbed a finger at the coin on the table. "Those were not minted by any nation, but rather by a religious sect so members may identify one another. The only way for an outsider to obtain such a coin is to kill the one who carries it, for they are not parted with willingly. So you see," he leaned back and spread his hands, "to be in possession of one is dangerous; to be in possession of more than one invites speculation on the manner in which they were obtained. To spend one is foolhardy." He leaned forward again. "It is an insult as great as spitting on a man's grave."
The thief began to tremble. He clutched his arms around his stomach as if cold. The bald man shook his head slightly and said, "I know not how you came by the coins, but my advice is this; take this coin and any others like it and throw them into the sea. Then go far away, and pray to the Blessed Virgin that they never find you."
The thief looked up at the bald man with watery eyes. "But who are they?"
"They are the Cult of the Worm. They worship Death in all its guises. They are to be greatly feared."
Realization of his peril made Cathartes dizzy and weak. He saw in his mind's eye the eyes of the old man, those clear blue eyes brimming with obscene knowledge. How had the old man obtained so many of these coins? Who or what had hurled that strange dagger, to strike down the old man in cold blood?
Cathartes shivered as he remembered the pommel of the strange dagger against his chest, and the old man's last words..."God of Worms, I salute you as I die." Cathartes took the dagger from his belt and brought it on to the table for the bald man to see. "Is this their make?"
The bald man's face paled, and he pushed the thief's hand down so the dagger was out of sight to all but the two of them. "Fool! Never dare to show that in public! It will mark you instantly; best it be thrown in the sea with the coins!"
The door of the tavern opened, letting in a blast of cold air and a noisy pair of revelers. As the revelers moved towards the bar, Cathartes felt the blade twist in his hands, pulling them upward. He looked at the blade and saw that it had come alive, was writhing as a serpent moves, pulling with great force toward the two men who had just entered the tavern. He tried to loose his hands from the blade's hilt but could not. "Mother of God!" The bald man stood, his chair scraping on the floor. He crossed himself and stepped back from the thief. The thief was pulled to his feet, his hips against the table's edge. The customers of the inn stared at him. He heard the bartender say "Here, now, let's not have any trouble," but the words seemed to come to him across a great distance. His vision focused on the two men who had just entered the tavern. They stood against the bar, a tall man in a gray cloak and a shorter man in leather traveling garb. They looked at him with puzzlement, then with alarm, as he took hesitant, shuffling steps around the table towards them. The taller man threw back his cloak and reached to his belt, and with a start the thief saw that his knife sheath was empty. The shorter man chanted something in a strange tongue and the thief felt a tingle across his skin, felt his limbs begin to stiffen and his eyesight falter; but the dagger shot forward of its own accord, dragging the thief's arm with it. There was a splash of bright red and the shorter man fell to the floor clutching his throat.
Feeling returned to the thief's limbs, and his vision was once again clear. He saw the other customers pressing themselves against the walls, fear in their faces. He heard the bald man behind him, praying aloud. He saw the tall man look down at his companion, then at the dagger. The tall man's eyes widened and he said, "Brother, what is the meaning of this? We are brethren..."
The thief's arm slashed outward, and he could not stop it. He could no longer control the writhing dagger in his hands; rather, it seemed to control him. The blade of the knife seemed to shorten and widen, then, as it reached the tall man, it leapt out to its full length, reaching for the man's throat. The tall man raised his arm across his body, and the blade cut across his forearm. The momentum of the strike carried Cathartes to the side, where he stumbled, and the tall man used the opportunity to run out of the tavern door.
Cathartes regained his balance and followed, not entirely against his volition, for several of the tavern's patrons were shouting for the guard. He ran out the door and saw the tall man to his right, passing under the light of a lamp. He tried to turn to his left, but when he did his legs would not respond. Ahead he heard shouts and saw a lantern approaching, and with a sob he turned and ran after the tall man.
He ran again through the cold night air, sobbing in fear, occasionally glimpsing the tall man's gray cloak under the dim light of a lantern. Without will he let the dagger guide him, around corners and down alleys, always with the tall man just ahead. They ran, pursued and unwilling pursuer, into the dark streets of the town's center. Shadowed facades of old stone buildings, illumined with a hoary light by the pallid half-moon, flitted past the thief's eyes. The tall man, with a quick backward glance, stumbled to a halt at a shadowed doorway and pounded on the wooden portal. The thief, resigned to his fate, gathered his breath and pushed his legs to greater speed, hoping to reach the tall man before he summoned assistance. Just as he reached the tall man, the door opened, throwing a yellow glow out onto the cobbles. Inside the portal stood a heavy set man in a white robe, his face invisible under a hood. The tall man stumbled inside and tried to close the door, but the robed man stood in his way. With a snarl the thief threw himself against the door, forcing both men backwards. The dagger struck once, twice, and both men lay on the floor in their own blood.
The thief leaned his back against the door, which shut behind him. He stood panting, the bloody dagger held in front of him. He had entered a hallway, lit by torches in brackets on the walls. Wooden doors lay to his left and right and at the end of the hall. He listened for approaching footsteps, for cries of alarm, but heard only a low humming, almost a droning sound at the threshold of his hearing. Seconds passed before he realized he was once again in control of his own actions.
But not entirely, for when he attempted to open the door leading to the street his arm would not obey him. With a whine he tried to throw the cursed dagger to the floor, but his hand would not let go of the hilt. "By all the saints in heaven, what do you wish of me?" he whispered. "Have you not slain the old man's killer?" The dagger shifted its weight in his hand, and at the back of his mind the thief heard a voice not his own speak one word. Onward.
With a curse the thief one again resigned himself to his role as the old man's revenant. He moved cautiously to the door to his left and put his ear to the wooden timbers. He could hear nothing except the odd droning sound, which now seemed to pulse at irregular intervals. With a shaking hand he reached for the latch and, as he grasped it, once again his arm refused to obey his will. "Damn you!" he whispered. He moved towards the other door, and again his arm halted on the latch.
His knees shaking more from anger than from fear, the thief turned down the hall. He stepped over the bodies sprawled upon the floor and moved towards the door at the end of the hall. He placed his ear to the portal and heard again the pulsing, droning hum. Now, however, he could hear a sharply-pitched voice in between the pulses of sound; what he heard sounded very much like the a caricature of a mass, with some unholy priest reciting a homily and a satanic congregation responding. His hand moved to the latch of this door, and this time the dagger did not halt him.
The thief drew in his breath, held it for a moment, then pulled the door open. Beyond he saw a dark vestibule and a wavering light at its terminus. The humming sound, now plainly the periodic recital of a single passage, emanated from the end of the corridor. Stepping slowly, quietly, the thief moved through the doorway. He put his back to the left hand wall and began inching his way towards the light. He felt the dagger shifting in his hand, writhing slowly and sinuously as he moved ever closer to the lighted end of the hallway. He could distinguish the words chanted by the unknown worshippers, words in bastard Latin made all the more horrible at his recognition of the litany; "Deus vermes, sancte vermes, sancte morte. In morte vermes. Morte est vermes, morte est vermes."
The thief reached the end of the vestibule and peered into a gaping chamber, its unholy interior lit by gigantic tapers lining a red carpeted aisle. On either side of the aisle were wooden pews, their lacquered surfaces reflecting the flickering light. Kneeling at the pews were white-robed worshippers, and in the light of the writhing flames the white figures took on the appearance of wriggling maggots. At the end of the aisle lay an altar, draped in white silks, and suspended from the ceiling so that it almost touched the floor was a great disk of silver metal, its shining surface carved in the likeness of a worm-eaten skull, the worms protruding from its mouth and eyes. Before the disk, facing the loathsome congregation with raised arms, stood a white robed figure about whose neck was hung a glittering silver pendant. And the thief knew what must be carved upon that pendant.
The thief stood in the shadows of the vestibule as the priest lowered his arms. The worshippers ceased their chanting. The figure raised his arms again and said, "It is time for the sacrifice." From the shadows on either side of the altar stepped two figures clad in red robes, and each grasped the chains that held the great disk and pulled so that the disk was lifted higher. And behind the disk was a gaping black hole, round and smooth, slanting downward into the earth. The priest turned to the hole and blew into a curious set of pipes, producing a high, piercing tune that set the thief's teeth on edge and made his ears hurt. The congregation began their obscene chant again, louder this time, and the hellish piping and the droning hum of the chant made the thief gasp and put his hands to his ears. His vision began to darken at the edges; his eyes focused upon the black, black hole that led to the nethermost depths of hell. He felt the immensity of the universe rush upon him like a frigid wind, felt the will sucked from his body like water in the desert air. The hole in the altar seemed to grow larger before his eyes until it took up the whole of his vision. Within it, now, he saw stars, tiny points of light that did not twinkle but squirmed like maggots, the conquering worms, the tiny, writhing creatures of the earth to whom all men must eventually submit.
Somewhere the thief was aware that the piping had stopped, that the chanting had ceased. Somewhere he heard a voice cry "Behold the sacrifice who comes willingly to his god!" Somewhere within himself a knot of fear, deep inside, gnawed and pushed and expanded as he heard, "Behold the Worm! He has come to claim his due!"
The bubble of fear exploded to the surface, leaping into the thief's mind and muscles and heart; the most basic fear of man; the fear that gnaws and consumes him until the end of his days, the fear that thrusts him to vistas of glory and plunges him to nightmarish depths of depression. The fear of oblivion shattered the cocoon of enchantment woven about the thief. He found himself standing before the altar; to one side stood the hellish priest, his arms high above his head, his face under the cowl a mixture of fanatic ecstasy and lurid triumph. And before the thief gaped the yawning hole, filled no longer with starlight but with a pale, rubbery, crawling abomination that swayed from side to side, its blind, gaping maw seeking the proffered sacrificial morsel.
Fear was an icicle in the thief's heart, a fear so primordial it slashed the bonds of paralysis and released the animal demon of instinct. The thief drew back his arm and hurled the dagger of the worm at the gaping monstrosity. White flesh parted before the blade like jelly; pale, gelid liquid vomited from the wound. The worm shuddered and died.
There was a murmur, then a scream from the gathered worshippers. The thief turned and ran. He sprinted through that horrible assembly unhindered, past acolytes who lay as if stunned, or beat their breasts or tore their hair in agony at the death of their god. He ran through the vestibule, and through the hall, and for a third time that night he ran through the black streets of the city. He ran in a daze, barely aware of what or who he passed. He ran until the sun returned to the sky, and with it some sense of sanity. When the sun was just a finger's breadth above the sea he found himself at the end of a pier, clutching a tar-covered post to his body. To either side lay ships, their crews loading cargo and making ready to cast off with the tide. The thief sat and took the stolen purse in his hands, and one by one he sorted out the strange silver coins and dropped them into the sea. He then went on board the nearest ship, and with the rest of the money purchased passage to a far land.
The first night at sea the thief dreamed of worms, and serpents, and of the horrible dagger that had held him in its spell. In the morning he awoke in a cold sweat, and he trembled, and told himself that the old man's death curse was finished and had no hold on him now. Yet when he opened the door of his stateroom there on the deck lay the strange dagger, upon its wavy edges a coagulated green crust; and then he saw the blade coil and strike...
The sailors upon the ship known as Seaworm never learned why the small man ran overboard, screaming. They spent three hours searching for him, but in the end they gave him up for drowned and sailed on.
Good classic horror feel to the narrative. Well done!
Well done horror story! I could not look away!