Death of a Darklord (33 page)

“What’s on the back of my neck?” Randwulf asked. “Tell me.”

There was a tiny wailing sound. A thin, high-pitched screaming. Randwulf turned this way and that, trying to see what was behind him. The growth’s miniature mouth was open and screaming.

Randwulf started grabbing at it, tearing at it. A minute arm fell to the ground; blood sprayed in a threadlike stream. The arm crawled and flopped. Randwulf was staring at it, mouth wide, screaming silently.

“Cut it off,” Silvanus’s voice brought them all back from the brink of utter madness. “Cut off the thing,” he said to Fredric, pointing to his malformed arm. The paladin slashed at the tentacle. Blood poured onto the floor, green and thick, not human at all.

Randwulf dropped beside the blood, clawing and tearing
at the thing on his neck. The tentacle flopped and slapped at Fredric.

Elaine broke. She flung the door open and ran down the empty hallway. The sheriff waited at the bottom of the steps. He looked up. “Are they ready for us?”

Elaine pushed past him and ran for the outer door. One thought ran through her head: Jonathan was right! Jonathan was right! She was corrupt. She was worse than corrupt.

Elaine ran out into the street, ran into the winter cold and welcomed it. She didn’t know where she was going, just away. Away from that room and what she had done. The memory of how good it had felt to do all the healing. Even raising Averil to be a thing of pain had felt good. And some small part of her had wanted to touch the little figure, caress it, enjoy it. To touch the thing growing out of Silvanus’s body. She forced herself to be horrified, but in truth she was attracted to all of it. Some part of her would have enjoyed it all, if she had allowed it.

It was that, that more than anything else that sent her running down the street. Part of her wanted to be back in that room playing with the things she had created.

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from his hands. They had dumped oil over the dirt so Gersalius’s fire would reach far into the melting ground. Beneath the blast of flame, the frozen earth had softened enough that Thordin and Konrad could begin to dig. Each time they reached frozen ground again, the mage sent more fire into the grave.

Jonathan objected to this blatant use of magic, but he was out voted. And there was no time. It was early afternoon. Darkness would fall in a few hours.

Gersalius lowered his hands. Flame licked up through the dirt here and there as the oil burned away. When the fire had died completely, Konrad leapt into the nearly empty grave. He plunged the shovel into the softened earth. The blade grated on something more solid than soil.

“I think we’ve struck coffin,” Konrad said. He dropped to hands and knees in the hole, scraping dirt away with his hands. Thordin lowered himself into the grave and began working at the other end. A coffin did appear, but it was rotted. The wood splintered at Konrad’s touch, flaking away in long strips. Thordin brushed the dirt away as carefully as he could. A narrow coffin was revealed.

The foot of the box was completely crushed from rot and the weight of earth. Jonathan peered down into the grave. The sunlight beat down, making the snow sparkle and showed bones and the remains of a patterned dress.

Thordin raised his hand, and Jonathan took it, helping the warrior out of the grave. There wasn’t enough room for both of them with the coffin to be opened.

Konrad tried to raise the lid, but the wood shattered in his hands. He finally just started tearing great pieces up and handing them to Thordin, who placed the wood carefully on the ground. The body was mostly bones, with some hair attached to the skull. The dress had been some fine cloth. Fine cloth does not weather well in the damp and mildew of the grave. The cloth was thick with wet-looking mold.

“Why would the undertaker’s wife not have risen from the grave?” Thordin asked.

“Better, perhaps, to ask why the spell that raises the dead begins in her grave,” Gersalius said.

“Do you know something, wizard?” Jonathan asked.

Gersalius shrugged. “Only guesses, and I see from your face that you may have the same thoughts.”

“We need to speak with the undertaker; that I know.” Jonathan stared down into the ruined grave. “Where is the sack I had you bring, Thordin?”

“Here.” He raised a large burlap sack from the snowy ground.

“Konrad, start handing up the bones.”

“Jonathan, we’ve desecrated the grave enough.”

“My theory was that someone was doing all this to make a better zombie. What if that were only part of the reason. What if Ashe wanted to raise his wife from the dead, not as a zombie,
but as something more. Elaine told of very lifelike zombies. The townsfolk say that the people who died early are normal zombies, rotting corpses, but the later deaths are better preserved. Ashe is waiting until his spell is perfected; then he will raise his wife.”

“But why take her body?” Konrad asked.

“We will use it as a hostage,” Jonathan said.

Gersalius smiled. “You can’t raise someone from the dead without a body to work on.”

Jonathan nodded. “Exactly.”

Konrad stared down at the skull with its scraggle of hair. “I can’t approve of Ashe’s methods, but I understand the desire. Beatrice’s death killed me, too.” He shook his head as if to clear away a bad dream.

“But Elaine awaits you back at the inn,” Gersalius said.

Konrad looked up, startled. Then a slow smile spread across his face. He nodded. “Yes.” In that one word, Jonathan heard an end to the long grieving. An end to bitterness.

Konrad began to hand up the bones, freeing them from the molded cloth. Thordin placed them in the sack. The bones made a dry sound as they slithered against one another.

Harkon Lukas sat just down the hill, listening. He had grown cold in the snow. The weak winter sunlight was not quite enough to warm him. They had discovered Ashe’s secret much faster than he had wanted them to. He had not counted on the magic-user. Ambrose had such a reputation for hating magic. It had surprised him.

Harkon did not like being surprised. If they questioned Ashe, he might reveal that it was Harkon who had given him the idea
for the poison and the spell, Harkon who had whispered in the undertaker’s ear that he might raise his wife back to life, Harkon who had broken his mind with talk of rotting corpses and his beloved wife as so much meat for the worms.

He could not afford to have Ashe tell all. He was Harkon Lukas, a bard of some reputation, but not a known force of evil. To have the brotherhood know him for what he was would spoil everything.

He could simply kill Ashe, but he wanted Konrad. Perhaps he could go offer his aid to the undertaker. Yes, that had possibilities. He could be Ashe’s ally, and in the process he could betray Ashe, steal Konrad’s body, and perhaps be a hero. He laughed silently, shoulders shaking with his inner mirth. Oh, that would be rich, indeed.

He stood and walked quietly down the hillside. He didn’t have much time to work his plans. He needed Ashe alive for the trap and dead before he could spill the truth. Needed to appear as Ashe’s friend, and his enemy. A neat trick if he could pull it off. And, being Harkon Lukas, he was confident he could.

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her way back to the center of town. The fountain’s water bubbled and flowed where her magic had melted the ice. A woman dipped a bucket into the freestanding water. A small child, so bundled from the cold Elaine couldn’t tell what sex it was, clung to the woman’s skirts. She walked carefully across the icy pavement with the full bucket. It was pure water again, the poison burned away, thanks to Elaine’s magic.

Of course, the townsfolk were all contaminated. If they died, even of natural causes, they would still rise. There had to be an antidote. Gersalius would know. She leaned into the cold stones of the building and wondered what to do. She could not bear to see Jonathan’s face when he learned what she had done, what her so-called healing had done. It was too horrible, and the fact that she was fascinated by it made it worse. She knew that the little man on Randwulf’s neck would have branched off, become independent, and she would have kept it, like a pet or …

She had wanted it. It had been her creation, and she had wanted to touch it, hold it. She had wanted to hold and caress everything she had made. Every horrible thing. That was a
knowledge she hugged to herself, to be shared with no one.

If she asked Gersalius about an antidote, he might read her mind. Would he see the horror in her? Would he read the sickness in her soul? She could not bear it, but neither could she leave the village to its fate.

She hid her face in her hands, shivering in the dying light. Night was coming. If she just stayed out in the streets, the dead would kill her, and she would rise as one of them. Elaine raised her face to the sky, too confused to cry.

A tall man with pale skin and black hair stopped in front of her. “Are you all right?” His voice was kind. She didn’t deserve kindness.

“I’m fine.”

“I am Ashe, the undertaker. You are Elaine Clairn, are you not?”

She nodded.

“You look cold.” He pulled his own cloak off and offered it to her. It smelled of herbs and medicines, and reminded her of Konrad. She took the cloak because she was cold and didn’t know what else to do.

“I was told you have been searching for a particular body.” He touched her long yellow hair, gently. “One that has hair like this, but a man, your brother.”

She stepped away from the wall. The cloak trailed into the snow to puddle around her. “Have you found Blaine’s body?”

“Yes, if a body is found in the village, they bring it to me for tending. Would you like to give your last respects? I must burn all bodies before dusk.” He glanced up at the darkening sky. “Time is nearing.”

“Take me to him,” she said.

He placed an arm around her shoulders, one hand lifting the cloak’s edge. “Wouldn’t want you to trip on the ice.”

It was more physical closeness than Elaine was comfortable with, but he was taking her to Blaine. For that, she could put up with a little familiarity.

He hurried her through the darkening streets. The light was failing. A soft blue dusk wrapped the village. He fumbled a key out of his tunic pocket. “The dead will be out soon; we must be inside.”

Elaine agreed. He pushed her through the door and locked it behind them. He leaned on the door with a sigh. “Safe, I think.”

The room had a richly woven carpet from wall to wall. Brilliant reds, blues, yellows covered the floor in cheerful luxury. The walls were a dark polished wood. Velvet-covered chairs and couches bordered the walls. Lamps gave a warm glow to everything. And in the center of the room on little cloth-draped stands, were coffins.