The bones slide and spin and skitter across the stone floor to construct a pile; they pull themselves up, end over end, one upon another, balancing and wavering and finally knitting together into the terrible shape of a man.
“You were Robasch.”
The skull’s expression is unchanged, and unchangeable. It nods, once, slowly, with a sickening scrape.
“You swore an oath.”
Again a nod, deeper, almost a bow.
“Below us, deep within this cursed warren, lies my ring. Remember? You will retrieve it.”
The skeleton turned, but hesitated.
“Take heart. They have already killed you; they can’t do it again.”