Fallen by Northern Pike

Aachen’s charred ruins lay shrouded in mist. Skeletal remains of churches and chapels jutted out like jagged teeth against the winter skies. Light snow swirled, mingling with ash from distant smouldering fires.

Dietrich Eisenhardt paused, catching the slightly sweet scent of burned wood. Somewhere, someone was burning scraps to keep their family warm. His face tightened with an expression of pity, tinged with anger—at the world for shattering itself so thoroughly, and at the people for trying to piece it back together.

Ahead towered another crumbling archway. Softly, he walked onto the snow-covered rubble. Leather straps criss-crossing his chest creaked faintly. The twin knives nestled there glinted in the dim evening light. At his hips, a pair of FN Model 1922 pistols sat with familiar weight— relics of his time in Liège, back when he was a soldier of the occupation force. For a fleeting moment, he hesitated, scanning the fog-draped landscape for movement.

The American moved like a cat through and around the destroyed houses. Sam Harrison had been tailing Eisenhardt for some time. Winchester Model 1866 Yellowboy rested steady in his hands. In careful calculation, he squinted over the sights. The perfect distance stretched between them. He could do it.

Supplying rumours and convincing made-up reports on Mediterranean-Region to Nazi-Germany from the war-torn streets of Oran, Harrison stumbled upon Eisenhardt leading a desperate retreat with a dwindling Vichy-French squad. Barely escaping with his life, he had made a daring leap from a second-story window—but not before Eisenhardt’s knife had slashed through his left shoulder.

Those were the days of simple decisions, Harrison thought to himself, his finger brushing against the trigger guard.

With Aachen’s secrets beckoning, beneath its ashes, their paths had crossed again.

One shot—and it could be all over in an instant. A beat of silence. A heartbeat. Another. Slowly, Harrison released his breath. The December’s cold gnawed at him. His finger eased of the trigger, as he watched the mist close in behind his enemy, instead.

Slipping into the church´s entrance, Eisenhardt stopped—noticing footsteps—not his—against stone and rubble. With hands flying instinctively to his pistols, he spun around.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Dietrich Eisenhardt.” Atop a pile of rubble stood Harrison, his battered fedora perched at a rakish angle, a Winchester rifle slung over his shoulder. S&W M1917 revolver on his belt completing the image of a man at ease in chaos. A cocky grin plastered across his face.

Eisenhardt would love to slap it. “Harrison,” he said, his voice cold and clipped. “Why are you here.”

“Nice place. Always wanted to visit.” Harrison’s smile widened, as he was descending the pile with an easy confidence, as if he had all the time in the world. “What brings you to this lovely little slice of hell? Let me guess—something shiny?”

Before either could react, the earth shook beneath their feet. From the depths of the decrepit church echoed a low, croaking moan, ancient and primal, and full of menace. 

Harrison’s cocky veneer cracked just slightly. A flicker of unease flashed in his eyes. “Well, I’ll be damned. Sounds like an invitation,” he quipped, a nervous laugh slipping out.

Despite Eisenhardt’s grip tightening on his pistol, his lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. It never reached his grey eyes. Whatever lay beneath the ruins was not going to let them take its secrets without a fight.

The two men shared a glance, and an unspoken understanding passed between them. Two pairs of boots crunched against the broken stone floor, their echoes filling the unlit nave.

As they moved deeper, the air grew colder, seeping through the bullet- and shell-riddled walls. It carried the sharp scent of sulfur and the metallic tang of spent gunpowder. Eisenhardt flicked on his chest lamp, its beam slicing through the darkness. Carvings on the walls—images of suns, clouds, and angels—danced in the bright light.

Harrison’s heavy breathing grated against Eisenhardt’s nerves. Subconsciously, his fingers brushed the scar on his cheek—a bullet from Harrison’s Winchester rifle, a souvenir from Oran. Moreover, a lifelong reminder of how close he had come to death. That night, he had watched Harrison disappear into the narrow streets, stealing vital correspondence. Harrison’s laugh echoed in his ears long after the American had been gone, slipping through his fingers like smoke.

“Keep it quiet,” Eisenhardt growled, his German accent lending the words a razor-like edge.

Harrison smirked, his Winchester rifle rattling against his shoulder. “Pardon me, Eisenhardt. I kind of need that precious oxygen, you know—for living.”

Eisenhardt did not dignify that with a reply. They moved past the southern transept, where the underground entrance to the crypt lay half-buried in rubble, choked with overgrown, withered ivy. Inside the burial chamber, three ornate sarcophagi dominated the space. Scattered around them, rose petals lay desiccated and crumbled into brittle fragments, their scent long since faded. At the heart of the chamber stood an altar, draped in rotting fabric and framed by a human ribcage. From one jagged rib hung a dagger, black as onyx, etched with faded runes that seemed to drink the light. The air carried an earthy scent. An occasional drip of water echoed through the cavernous chamber.

At the base of the altar stood a small barn owl, chiselled from stone. Its round, carved orbs were filled with amber. Eisenhardt’s hands hovered over his holsters, unpinning them with practiced fluidity. As he stepped closer to the owl, his chest lamp flickered. The uneven light danced across the crypt’s walls and ceiling, casting fleeting shadows over the depictions of burning seas, fish writhing in flames, and men screaming aboard a sloop, their sails alight. However, the faint lattice of interconnected lines on the floor remained unnoticed by him, hidden in the shifting darkness.

Harrison’s sharp eyes caught the pattern—pressure plates. “Wait! Stop!” He barked, grabbing Eisenhardt’s arm. A slight click echoed. Both men froze. Suddenly, they had heard a slow grinding groan, stone scraping against stone. Scenes of grotesque sacrifice adorned the lid of the middle sarcophagus—and it was moving.

The stench of decay permeated the air. It clung to their clothes. It seeped into their very skin, sour and putrid. Eisenhardt coughed, his throat raw. The fetid air coiled in his lungs. Its acrid bite making his eyeballs water. Harrison pressed a sleeve to his nose. It did little to keep out the sickly sweetness of decomposing flesh that mingled with the damp, earthy musk of the chamber.

Something quivered in the depths of the sarcophagus. A shifting, shapeless form emerged. A liquid shadow made solid. It bubbled and churned. It burned from the inside. Its surface reflected glimpses of the two men staring at it. It turned towards Eisenhardt, featureless yet undeniably aware of their presence.

Eisenhardt’s breath hitched. His chest tightened. The creature’s surface rippled before him grotesquely. Muscle and sinew cracked and twisted into place. Bones snapped together. Flesh without skin grew over them, raw and glistening. Blood oozed in sluggish rivers, as the creature moulded itself into a humanoid figure. It loomed over Eisenhardt—a skinless, misshapen, parody of him, down to the scar on his cheek.

Harrison’s eyes widened. “What the hell is that?”

The sight of his doppelgänger rooted Eisenhardt to the spot. He said nothing—he could not. Memories crashed over him. The scent of burned blood and gunpowder choked him up. The screams of comrades filled his ears. The horrors he had buried clawed their way back. War, it would seem, had followed him here. The creature’s ugly mug twisted in disgust, mirroring him, with a nose and mouth not fully formed yet.

“Move!” Harrison bellowed.

Eisenhardt’s instinct took over. In one smooth motion, he drew his pistols and fired. The beast shrieked—a high, almost human wail—as bullets tore into its flesh. The gunfire rang out through the chamber, each sharp report ringed in his ears. The creature flinched. Its grotesque limbs twisted and jerked, mocking Eisenhardt’s aim.

Dropping to one knee, Harrison worked the lever-action smoothly, sending shot after shot into its thrashing arms. One limb nearly tore free, hanging limply by sinewy strands. The creature staggered, thrown off balance.

“It’s mimicking you!” Harrison shouted, his voice strained with urgency. “It knows what you’re going to do next!”

The realization hit Eisenhardt like a hammer blow. Sweat glistened on his forehead. Every move he made, the creature countered. His aim wavered as it contorted, slipping past his line of fire. With eyes locked on the beast, he reloaded. A controlled burst of bullets forced the creature back behind the altar.

Harrison’s mind raced. This thing—it mirrored them—not just their movements but their mistakes, their weaknesses. The sense of inadequacy gnawed at him. As his eyes roamed around the burial chamber, he nearly bit his fingernail off. Eisenhardt’s scream—raw with pain—ripped through his scattered thoughts.

The creature snarled and slashed at Eisenhardt, and this time, he was too slow to dodge. It grabbed him by the wrist, its unyielding grip cold as death on his skin. The ground beneath his feet disappeared. He could feel its bones, dry and brittle, cutting into his wind rose tattoo. Under the crashing pressure, he let out a desperate scream, the pistol slipping from his hand.

Harrison’s panicked gaze locked with Eisenhardt.

He was not going to survive this.

They were not going to survive this.

No matter how much damage they inflicted, the thing kept coming at them. That dagger in the ribcage—that goddamned dagger. Ignited with an eerie black light. Symbols on its blade blazed and pulsed in strange harmony with the ancient depictions etched into the sarcophagus.

It stirred something at the edges of his memory. Harrison´s eyes snapped like two sparks. Bolting toward the altar, he yelled out, “Keep it busy!”

“Oh, sure,” Eisenhardt gritted through his teeth. “I’ll just ask it about its hopes and dreams.” Breath ragged, he pressed the barrel of his second pistol between the creature’s eyes—the empty sockets where eyes should have been—and fired. Once. Twice. Rotten blood splattered his face. Click. Empty. Cursing, he flung the handgun aside and whipped out his knife. With all the force he could muster, he slashed into the exposed writhing tendrils. The creature roared. The sound ripped through his skull. It recoiled. Its flesh rearranged. It did not fall—but now, Eisenhardt had its full attention.

Harrison, heart hammering, vaulted onto the altar—and yanked the dagger free. The brittle rib snapped under his grip. Harrison leaped. With a guttural yell, he drove the blade into the creature’s exposed back.

The creature shrieked. Eisenhardt hit the ground with a heavy thud. A resonant hum shook the vast chamber. Black, searing light spilled from the dagger’s runes, curling like living fire across the creature’s writhing form. Dust rained from the vaulted ceiling. Cracks webbed across moss-covered walls, splitting the ancient burning sloop. On the altar, the jagged ribcage quivered, brittle bones rattling in a macabre dance. The creature convulsed violently. Its tendrils flailed madly. It let out a keening wail, a sound of raw agony and unbridled rage. Flesh peeled away, drawn toward the sarcophagus, consumed by its pull. 

Harrison braced against the altar, his breath stolen by the suffocating force. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. The creature lashed out one last time, arms and legs disintegrating, before a final, desperate, frenzied scream. It wrenched backward, violently, as it was sucked back into the sarcophagus. The lid slammed shut with a resonant thud. The dagger clattered to the ground. Its runes dimmed to an almost imperceptible glow. The chamber plunged into silence.

Panting, Harrison collapsed against the altar. “Tell me that did it.”

Reloading his pistols with trembling hands, Eisenhardt staggered to his feet. With guns drawn, aiming at the sarcophagus, he approached Harrison. “It’s gone, I think.” His pupils dilated like an animal´s caught in a trap.

Despite the adrenaline coursing through him, Harrison managed a weak chuckle. “You’re welcome.”

Finally, Eisenhardt lowered and holstered his handguns. The dagger was intact, its surface unmarked. He retrieved it and turned it over in his hand, frowning.

“Well,” Harrison rasped, “I guess we make a good team after all.”

Eisenhardt snorted. “Don’t get used to it, Harrison.” His sharp gaze flicked warily between Harrison, the sarcophagi, and the altar. The sudden quiet in the chamber did little to ease his tension. The grooves in the wall just above the altar—those patterns again—and this time, Eisenhardt had been already calculating purposes, possibilities and probabilities. “Besides,” his stare returned to Harrison, “you scream like a girl.”

Having lost his hat during the battle, Harrison found it, and placed it back on his head. “Fair enough,” he chuckled, tipping his fedora, “—oh,” he gestured toward Eisenhardt. “You´ve got something on your face.”

Eisenhardt wiped his blood-struck forehead. With a perplexed expression on his weathered features, he studied the dagger, the weight of it palpable in his hand. “This is it?” he spat bitterly, letting the chain slip from his fingers for a moment. “All this trouble for a knife?”

Quick as a hawk, Harrison jogged forward. “Careful with that,” he said softly, his tone edged with authority though. His fingers grazed the chain as he caught it mid-swing, cradling the dagger. “This isn’t just a blade,” he traced the intricate carvings. “Look at these symbols—words, ancient Norse, sure, but there’s something older here. Alternatively, even pre-Viking. Komsa, maybe? Do you see this? The Midgard Serpent and—I recognize this! It translates to—Beneath the solemn fowl’s, pale gleam, The coiling serpent haunts your dreams—,” his voice quickening with excitement. “This dagger could date back to the first migrations into Scandinavia. Do you know what that means?” 

“No.” Eisenhardt said flatly, clearly unimpressed.” Spare me the history lesson, Harrison.” He chewed on his lower lip. “No treasures then, just a fucking riddle. Where does it lead?”

Ever so slightly, Harrison leaned back, letting the dagger hang just out of reach. A cunning grin tugged at his lips. “Finnmark, Eisenhardt, Norway. This blade”— he held it, dangling before the German’s face—“could unlock more than a treasure. Secrets older than anything you’ve ever seen. Think of the stories, the discoveries—”

Something inside Eisenhardt clicked. With brute determination, his hand shot out, yanking the chain from Harrison ´s grip. The blade slipped free, slicing across Harrison’s fingers as it fell into Eisenhardt’s grasp.

Clutching his hand, Harrison yelped. “You son of a—” Pain exploded up his arm. Blood dripped onto the stone floor.

Ignoring him, Eisenhardt unsheathed a knife and hurled it towards the altar, missing Harrisons head by a smidge. The blade embedded itself into a rune in the stonewall, its colour and meaning long gone. A hidden mechanism clicked. The entire crypt shuddered.

Harrison´s knees trembled as realization dawned. “Oh, shit—”

The walls trembled and groaned. Stone tiles cracked and shifted beneath the strain. Unfazed by the chaos he had unleashed, Eisenhardt turned on his heel and sprinted for the exit. Triumphantly clutched in his hand was the onyx blade. Between them, the ground gave way, a gaping chasm splitting the floor apart. Harrison staggered back, scrambling for footing as the crumbling edge beneath him shattered like fragile ice.

“Damn it!” Harrison coughed from the deep of his lungs. “Was that really necessary?” Wincing at the sharp pain in his hand, he pulled himself onto the altar and sat there for a moment, catching his breath. He glanced down, assessing the damage—the cut stung like hell, but the frustration ran deeper. With a scowl, he tore a strip from his shirt and quickly wrapped his wounded hand.

With his uninjured hand, he unhooked a torch from his belt and swept its beam across the ruins, searching for a way forward. Taking in the destruction, he let out a low whistle and shook his head. “You always know how to ruin a moment, Eisenhardt.” The ground was treacherous, shifting underfoot, and he moved with care, tracing each unstable step with the bright beam. Fragments of the riddle clung stubbornly to his unruly mind:

Beneath the solemn fowl’s, pale gleam,
The coiling serpent haunts your dreams.
Where Fire’s breath lights the way,
And winds and sands call her name.
Follow echoes, long they dwell.
You´ll find the place the Ancient fell.

He pulled a weathered map from his jacket pocket, its once-crisp parchment now yellowed and softened by age and wear. A slow, shifty smile spread across his face. “Oh, buddy,” he muttered. “You’re going to be so disappointed when you realize Norway isn’t part of the equation.” Adjusting the strap of his Winchester, he pressed deeper into the chamber.

Eisenhardt´s knife remained lodged in the wall. Harrison walked to it and yanked it free. The metallic snap as the blade released punctuated the chamber’s eerie peacefulness. I could have pulled the trigger. I could have killed you. However, he had not. Remembering the solid weight of his rifle, his bandaged hand flexed impulsively.

The war was over, after all.

Sheathing the knife, he checked his pockets—he would kill for a cigarette— but found only a stick of gum. With a sigh, he popped it into his mouth, chewing furiously as if his life depended on it. Somehow, it helped forcing the thought away.

More pressing concerns began to dominate his mind. The curved blade was no mere trinket—it was a compass. The true path forward lay in the riddle’s verses, and he began to suspect where it actually led.

As for Eisenhardt… Well, that much Harrison knew, whatever awaited him on the other side of the world, they would meet again. With a wry grin, he tipped his hat. “Guess I’ll call this one a win.”

From the rubble, with unblinking amber orbs, the small barn owl had followed Harrison’s every move.

Northern Pike

Image: https://pixabay.com/users/maxicarre-5152610/ edited for colour and size – black and white ruined misssion church