Glory (Flash Fiction draft)

Cold air filled the hollow entrance of the tomb. Drip, Drip, Drip. Pools of icy water channeled toward the liberating heat of a smoldering campfire fruitlessly fighting against the whipping mountain wind. Winter evening was the wrong time to be chased to such a hallowed place.
Darik’s eyes fixed on the flame, hoping its immolating dance could distract him from an otherwise unyielding pain. His leg was slung over a ruined column, elevating it and giving him a fighting chance. Once, that leg had toes... and a shinbone to match. Gluing his eyes to the dying flame, he refused to realize his true fear and that every warrior; being lamed. Life could no longer end in glory, he thought. Best he could do now is die fat and slovenly. Die like his father, flayed by those he’d terrorized.
That creature, his punishment, would track him all the way up here. Up to the sepulcher of his ancestors. Looking about the cavern, Darik confirmed his family's mortuary had now become more of an ossuary; bones of humans, greys, bears, nearly every species he could imagine littered the broken floor. That beast would come back and find him here. It would finish the job. But perhaps, glory was still possible.
The knot tightening his tourniquet loosened as he rose. Drip, Drip, Drip. His ponderous body ached of blood loss and felt distant. He would not last like this. Gnawing wind finally strangled the helpless fire, snuffing the only light or heat. The only thing left was embering timber and Darik had buy himself time to fight.
HOWL.
Darik heard it. The creature’s call roared over his own screams from cauterizing his dripping wound. His pain became so grievous, he simply affixed the extinguished log to his knee. Distant echoes rang through the hills. A weapon. Anything. Maybe his great-uncle’s sword still remained in his grave. It was customary for Hellsong knights to be buried in full regalia. Surely, his sword still remained. Staff in hand, Darik limped into the crypt.
His energy was waning. Hobbling quickly past relatives long dead, perhaps an offering still lay frozen for him to eat. He was starving; nothing substantial consumed in almost a month. But not as hungry as that monster, he thought.
Darik faltered at the sight of his father’s monument. He too recently died from this beast, dying a glorious death. He would not receive the same treatment. Not unless he could avenge his old man.
There! His hope lay enshrined in grey marble. Abrem. Hellsung paladin buried with his last chance at glory. The lid was heavy-- too heavy. Perhaps there were hinges or an opening mechanism fighting against his strength. Deep into the tomb, no light remained save a crack in the wall, now spilling dense moonlight onto the marble sarcophagus.
HOWL.
The shriek of the creature thundered through the cavern, rattling down his sole limb. He stepped into the light acknowledging the marks that had damaged this tomb would soon finish him. He had to push. With all his might, the lid slowly slid and slammed onto the ground. Without hesitation, he reached past his plate-armored relative and pulled forth the gilded weapon from the grave. Tarnished, the blade would have to do for the beast was now upon him. Bathed in full moonlight, he defended himself without hesitation.
HOWL.
He plunged the blade deep within the beast's chest.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Not a moment too soon. Looking down at his clawed hand, the silver weapon found its mark. Darik fell to his bulging knees leaning back until the sword's tip exiting his back rested on the ground. Blood soaked fur lined his exposed chest. He rose lifting his only padded foot from its exploded leather boot. Hulking over his walking stick, Darik staggered out of the moonlight and onto the monument of his dear father. Exiting the light, his body screamed in brutal agony. But the beast was silent. He fell to the memorial’s steps, freeing the tarnished silver sword of his lycanthrope hunting uncle. The bloody blade clamored to the ground with his tourniquet and wooden prosthesis.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Torchlight inevitably entered the tomb. Its warm presence felt as sunlight against his cooling body. Townsfolk. Hunters. His kin tracked through the snowy mountains and now surrounded his father’s monument. His forsaken sister tossed a leg, severed and human onto his corpse. Its intact boot matched his own. With a final wolfish grin, he looked upon his wake and muttered.
“Glory.”