Stop killing the dead.
Shout no more, shout no longer,
If you still want to hear them,
If you hope not to perish.
The Seventh Seal
Prologue –
Spellbound
The island was deserted.
Had there been someone, they might have seen the rowboat emerge from the dense fog, inch by inch, as if working its way against something thicker than air. The prow finally reached the pebbly shore with a scratching sound of wood against stone and the lone sailor dismounted, dragged the small vessel ashore and set off up the steep path, leaning onto a staff that looked like it may have been a broomstick once.
It was not a leisure trek and the man had to stop midway, sitting on a flat boulder, clutching at the stitch in his side through his travelling cloak. From under the raised hood came a wheezy puffing. Finally, with a heavy sigh and a look at the darkening sky, he stepped up and and hurried on.
It had been a clear winter day, a rarity in this part of the world, and he might have enjoyed the sight if he hadn't been so concerned with reaching his destination before nightfall.
The old rock fortress was more than half demolished, but the blackened remnants still managed to convey an impression of unyielding harshness. The islands nearby were nestling places for seabirds, and the air resounded with their cries, but no creature of this world would chose to dwell here of its own accord. Even the seeds brought by the harsh west wind knew better than to take root on Azkaban.
The man could feel his pulse slow down, in spite of the exercise and the mounting anxiety, as the walls grew closer with each step – and taller, and darker. A greeting from the place, no doubt. He left the narrow trail winding among the boulders and went past the rows of graves lined along the formidable bastions.
He heard paws and talons scurrying hastily away from sight as he walked past the smashed gate. Invisible creatures that fed on despair had made their burrows beneath the crumpled walls and inside the empty cells where wicked men once slept, or rather tried to, under the sightless watch of even crueller wardens.
Rustling and shuffling from the darkest spots followed him along the drafty corridors as the creatures, some sporting red tufty manes, made for their burrows only to crawl out again as soon as he had passed. Only after he turned and whispered a spell that left two of them motionless on the floor, bleeding profusely, they desisted.
The finely sculpted feathers of the marble phoenix were darkening with soot, but not as much as the scales of the basilisk beneath its talons; a lengthy inscription recalled the battle that the monument celebrated. Like there was any need for it; as if one could possibly stumble onto the island by chance, unaware of its purpose and history.
The man did not need to read anything; he was versed in the legend. The core of the fortress had been the theatre for the last resistance for the defenders during the fight for Azkaban. During the last, frantic moments, the inmates, knowing the fate that awaited them if the fortress should fall, had fought alongside their keepers, with wands taken from the dead and the wounded. The bodies of the Aurors had been long consigned to their families, and only the cenotaph marked the place of their final sacrifice.
But the prisoners had been buried in the yard where they had fallen, in unmarked graves; only shallow heaps of rocks and bricks marked the place of their final rest. The Aurors had been driven by sense of duty, and when they were given a chance to surrender the fortress, their answer would have pleased the old Cambronne. The inmates died as they had lived, following their instincts; survival, sadism, spite.
The man wandered briefly around the court, then stopped before one of the barrows.
He donned gloves, flexing his fingers a couple times to assess their agility, then opened the battered musette bag hanging from his shoulder. With cautious movements, he pulled out from it a large old book, dirty and slashed, and bound with a strong iron lock. The leather-bound covers trembled like they were strugling to pry open.
The man's right hand dug deep into the sleeve of his cloak and extracted a tarnished wand, which he slid into the lock. Immediately the book soared in mid-air, opened with a cracking sound, its pages flipping so fast that they blew the hair away from the man's pale face. Finally they came to a halt and spread open, revealing depictions of skeletons marching. The parchment was glowing just enough that it was possible to make out the spidery writing.
Unfazed, the man bent forward and read in a low voice:
"Flatus ex halitu …"
He breathed onto the tome, his breath a blue cloud in the cold, his mouth forming the spell in wheezing whispers. As if the pages had suddenly frozen, a bluish mist formed on the parchment, then fell from the hovering book and onto the barrow in a grey cascade.
The man held out his left arm and pointed the wand at his wrist. With a ripping sound, the skin slashed open and blood trickled down the pages and onto the barrow.
"…pulsus ex sanguine…"
The wand suddenly went ablaze in the man's hand, from ember red against his soiled leather gloves to blinding white at the tip, bathing the whole courtyard in an erratic orangey light.
"…VITA EX IGNE! "
The man's taut features were now glistening with sweat. At the edge of his perception, the inhabitants of the fortress held their breath – those who needed to breathe – as the light grew in intensity, roaring like a wild flame.
A name was finally uttered loudly, echoing against the far wall, and the man suddenly bent double and stabbed the ground at its feet with the blazing wand.
Silence swallowed the last echoes. The book slammed shut, its radiance extinguished, and fell to the ground. The darkness took over the walls of Azkaban again.
The man felt for the book, which covers were still twitching feebly, and put it back into his bag. Meanwhile, the stunted, parched grass on the barrow quivered; the earth underneath shook and a few pebbles rolled down the sides.
The shaking resumed and the ground cracked open, pulled apart like a heavy curtain by a pair of white, bony, mutilated hands. Slowly, painstakingly, a heap of flesh in human shape, covered with rot, rose and stood in front of the cloaked figure.
"What are you playing at… make it stop… now" the dead man spoke. His face was nothing but a ravaged mess with a gaping hole for a mouth, but the raspy voice that came out of him was loaded with hatred. "Filthy… unworthy… traitor…"
"Silencio."
A last pained groan was ended abruptly as it was leaving the ravaged mouth. The corpse turned halfway, towards the silent expanse of the courtyard and the cluttered barrows, and beckoned .
"Don't worry, they will get their share" the wizard promised, in a voice that sounded anything but reassuring. "After all, I don't expect to get it right the first time."
He turned and left without looking back. As if pulled by invisible chains, the dead jerked and staggered after him along the path to the shore.