In the belfry of the nameless cathedral—crown of the Unholy One’s snowbound home—the sands run out; the chosen ones fall; nine ropes snap taut, and the midnight bell tolls.

  Bong…Bong…

  This towering fortress, no grace does it flourish—a hideous blight upon pinnacle sublime. To Riven Peak it clings, straddling the great fissure, like a hulking rock-climber, frozen in time.

  Bong…Bong…

  Above, on the summit, ice groans and shudders. Shards break free with a grating sigh. They slip and they tumble, dislodging snow. Down it all rumbles, blotting stars from the sky.

  Bong…Bong…

  The avalanche strikes. Sharp rooftops it batters. Each steeple and gable does it briefly embrace. Yet finding no purchase, from the ramparts it scatters. Glimmering, into the void does it race.

  Bong…Bong…Ding-Bong…

  Myriad bells, housed within lesser spires, chime as they join in the midnight song. Clang follows jangle. Their knells do entangle; a chorus so vile—a discordant throng!

  Bong…Bong…Ding-Bong…

  Bong…Ding-Bong…Ting-Bong…

  Torches ignite with the flame of unlife. Like a lime-coloured venom it spreads. From citadel on high, to each tier below, spitting fumes to awaken the dead.

  Bong…Bong…Ding-Bong…

  Bong…Ding-Bong…Ting-Bong…

  In alcoves and hollows, crypts groan ajar. Shallow graves collapse into earth. Abominations slither from shadowy tombs. Withered hands claw up from the dirt. And deep in the heart of his accursed domain, the Unholy One stirs.

  Bong…Bong…Ding-Bong…

  The midnight song plays on.

  Bong…Ding-Bong…Ting-Bong…

  Bong…Bong…Ding-Bong…

  The wind snatches the tune as it shrieks from on high, bearing it down through the rift in the mountain. Along river it rushes, from the high lake it gushes. Out over the mist-cloaked foothills it flows. Westward it sails, over ridges and barrows. Like a gale, over the great forest it blows.

  Bong…Bong…Ding-Bong…

  Bong…Ding-Bong…Ting-Bong…

  Bong…Bong…Ding-Bong…

  On the song carries, over field, over fallow. Over crossroad and hamlet, over shrine does it travel, to an abandoned chapel in a quiet, wooded dale, silent but for the murmur of a babbling brook.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Bong…Bong…Ding-Bong…

  Bong…Ding-Bong…Ting-Bong…

  In time, to a lonely farmstead it howls, to a fenced in yard, and a pen of mixed fowl. Iron gate does it rattle, but here does it stumble; by forces unseen, it is quashed; it is humbled. What fragments yet linger of the song drift apart, wheezing over the yard like a dwindling fart.

  Ding… Ting-Bong…

  Upon porch of this dwelling sits a black-bearded fellow. Did I mention the tip of his thumb has turned yellow? His booted heels rest on an upturned pail beside a shaggy black dog which gnaws at its tail. In the crook of his arm the man nurses a pipe, its embers aglow, its fragrance yet ripe. His great frame is swaddled in a thick fur coat—a woodsman’s attire (it’s probably stoat).

  The hound raises its hackles, lets out a low growl—there’s no trace of worry or fear. It stretches and tenses its muscular paws—a sure sign that danger is near. It’s closer to midnight than first light of day. The man leans forward, strokes the dogs mane. “Steady, Doru. Steady,” he murmurs.