Free Mists of the Miskatonic (Mist of the Miskatonic Book 1) by Al Halsey

Laelius yelled. “And we will die like dogs!”
    Lucius reached out and grabbed Laelius by the shoulder. “If today is our day to die, let us die like Romans and not sniveling boy-loving Greeks!” he bellowed.
    “Prior Lucius,” Laelius shouted over the sound of the winds. The volume of the maelstrom increased. “We are not alone in this tomb.”
    Something skittered just past the dim torchlight behind the altars and pillars. A hail of tiny blades flashed and clashed against the soldier’s shields. Lucius hurled his pilum into the darkness: the javelin traveling fast and straight. Something screamed. The inhuman discordance of pain that issued forth was unlike anything he had ever heard. The intensity of the sound of wind increased exponentially. No longer was it the pure sound of massed air as it swirled and whirled. The Prior began to hear individual chatters and chitters: the malignant sing-song of diabolical entities. A huge gust of wind carried the pungent scent of fresh blood and ancient death.
    The legionnaires were pushed back against the wall by the unexpected gale, but they stood ready with weapons raised. Another rain of razor-sharp shanks clanged against scutums. One of the soldiers was too slow and the blade impaled itself into his neck. He gagged and fell: blood squirted from the wound as he toppled onto the floor. His fingers struggled in vain at this throat to remove the metal.
    “Keep backs to the door, lest we become encircled by our antagonists,” Lucius ordered. “Show yourselves!” he screamed into the darkness. Against the stone he glanced, now close to one of the painted frescoes and he held up his torch. For a fleeting moment before he turned forward to face the unseen enemy, the image of a dark figure that stood over a sacrifice with dissected chest became visible on the wall. The Legionnaire shuddered.
    “Who are our unseen enemies?” Laelius demanded. “What bedevils us in this crypt of evil?”
    The three formed a shield wall together with their backs against the sandstone. The dirty form of Anok Sabé staggered into view. The slave was naked, streaked in blood and dirt. His eyes now empty sockets of mangled flesh.
    “Hail, Roman conquerors,” the Egyptian said hollowly. The blind holes stared towards the soldiers. “Warnings were unheeded, so now you all will die. The things buried in these deserts, long forgotten by the gods were best left forgotten. Now you have stirred the walking dead from their dreams to feel their wrath.”
    The slave stood stoically. Behind him movement was detected: some menace in the blackness. Laelius screamed unintelligibly to Lucius and hurled his pilum. The blade of the javelin skewered the Egyptian through the neck and he fell to the floor. The slave’s dirty hands wrapped around the shaft. In his rage, the legionnaire pulled dart after dart from the back of his scutum and threw the plumbatae into the dark at whatever scuttled in concealment.
    The wind roared in anger. Undecipherable syllables babbled together in no cohesive form of language Lucius had ever heard. Another flight of blades flew through the air and he dropped behind his shield. The shanks clattered against the scutum. One of the other soldiers was a fraction of a second too slow as several of the darts impaled into his face. He shrieked and dropped. On the floor he writhed and flailed. His torch clattered and spun, the flame dying on the stone along with the soldier.
    The wind gusted and in the circle of weak light, a form crawled forward from the darkness. Lucius peered over the edge of his shield. He gasped at the sight of the creature: no doubt some primordial nightmare long since vanished from the sight of the gods. If Jupiter had spied such an abomination as it reared up on hind legs, he would have rained fire and lightning down on these catacombs.
    It was not a large creature, short of stature like a deformed child. It stood precariously on its hind legs. Its misshapen body was