Death of a Darklord (34 page)

Each coffin was a different color, a different wood: the near-black of cherry, the thick brown of oak, the paleness of pine. Some had golden handles, some were just painted in gilt. One was white with silver edging—dainty, a child’s coffin.

“Don’t have much use for these now,” he said. “Just wrap the bodies in shrouds and burn them. Only just figured out that fire stops them rising.”

He helped her off with the cloak and spread it carelessly on a pale wooden coffin. The cloth looked strangely at home on the wood. “Just upstairs, in my best laying-out room.” He took a lamp from a wall sconce and led the way up a broad set of carpeted stairs.

Carved doors bordered the hallway. He stopped before the last door on the left. Again he unlocked the door. “I have found that a locked door can keep the dead in as well as out. I lock all the doors just in case.”

Having been on the streets of Cortton after dark, Elaine couldn’t argue with the precaution.

Ashe pushed the door inward, raising the lamp high. The pool of golden light fell outward, gleaming in a fall of yellow hair.

Elaine stood breathlessly in the doorway. She could not see his face, but the hair alone was enough. Blaine lay on a cloth-draped table near the far wall. The last rays of sunlight cast only grayness against the windows.

Her breath fogged in the room, and she shivered. It was as cold in this room as outside. The windows were raised to let in the winter night. Cold to preserve the body.

She walked as if in a dream. Even though she had seen Blaine in the street, his death had somehow become unreal. Perhaps this sense of unreality was a kindness. It made the grief less raw. If it simply wasn’t real, it couldn’t hurt you.

Blaine lay wrapped in rich cloth, hands folded over his chest. His hair had been combed and spread around his face. There was no trace of blood or what had killed him. Ashe was good at his job. In the uncertain light of the lamp, she almost expected Blaine to open his eyes, but she knew he wouldn’t. He had never drunk of the contaminated water. He was well and truly dead.

An idea occurred to Elaine. She knew Blaine wouldn’t rise from the dead, but how did the undertaker know? The sunlight was almost gone. Why wasn’t he burning the body, or locking the door?

Ashe smiled at her. “I was at the inn just after you left. The
sheriff told me of how you raised the elf’s daughter from the dead.”

Elaine shook her head. “It didn’t work. She was …” She had no word for what Averil had become. Not a zombie, but not alive, not really.

“I know it did not work as you had hoped. I have had that problem for weeks now.”

Elaine turned away from her brother’s body, giving her full attention to the undertaker. “What do you mean?”

“I lost my wife, as you’ve lost your brother. You want him alive again, don’t you?”

Elaine nodded.

“I want my wife back. I have had some success with other dead, but it is never quite right. You can raise the dead back to life, but it is not quite right. Together, perhaps, we can solve both our problems.”

“You poisoned the water. You brought the plague. That’s why you hadn’t been burning the bodies.” Her voice was soft, almost matter-of-fact. It was better than screaming.

“I have been trying to prefect my spell, yes. It was only a few days ago that someone else voiced the idea of burning the dead. I knew it would stop them from rising, but I didn’t want that.” His face was cheerful in the lamplight, almost self-satisfied. He was mad, completely. Jonathan had been right. He was trying to raise a better zombie. No, that wasn’t it. Ashe wanted his wife alive again—not a zombie, but alive.

“I can raise the body, but not the mind. If you’ve seen the others I’ve healed, you know what I’ve done.”

He set the lamp on the edge of the table. The light gave a golden aliveness to Blaine’s face. “You are very new at healing.
You will get better at it, as I have gotten better working with the dead.”

Elaine stared into his smiling face and had no words. What could she say to someone who was crazy? Who had seen the horrors her healing had created and wanted her to continue, to experiment, to get better at it? Ashe seemed to think practice would mean Elaine could heal without deforming the patient. Elaine feared practice would give her control of what deformities she made. She could heal, but at what cost.

There was a sound, almost like an explosion from downstairs. “I think we have company,” Ashe said. He didn’t sound afraid. He walked toward the door, but did not give Elaine his back. He was crazy, but still didn’t trust her completely. He left her the lamp.

“Gaze upon your brother’s face while I tend to our company. When I return, you can tell me if you would not spend every ounce of your life-force on bringing him back. I think I know what your answer will be.” With that, he closed the door. The key turned in the lock. Elaine was locked in, alone, with her brother’s corpse.

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. Thordin was already in the room, naked sword gleaming in the light of many lamps. Gersalius and Konrad entered behind them. The door had fallen to a combination of Konrad’s axe and the wizard’s spells.

Jonathan glanced back at the gaping door, and the darkness that sat just outside. “If we can walk through the door, so can the dead. We don’t want our retreat cut off,” he said.

“Then we’d best hurry,” the wizard said. “There is every chance that this Ashe can control the dead his spell has raised.”

“You didn’t tell us that,” Konrad said.

The wizard shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. “I just thought of it.”

“The wizard is quite correct,” a voice spoke from the far doorway. Ashe stood just inside it, out of sword range. “I can control the dead.”

Something crawled into the doorway behind Ashe. It was the undead Tereza had seen that first night, the one that moved with inhuman speed. This was Jonathan’s first clear look at it.

Its skin was smooth, but discolored, spotted with patches of
odd shapes, like the skin of a snake, mottled and patterned. It opened its mouth and hissed at them.

Ashe touched its head, absentmindedly as though patting a dog. The thing leaned into his legs, apparently enjoying the attention.

“This was the first one that had some mind left, but as you can see, it never progressed. He will always be a loyal animal.” The undertaker smiled as he spoke. “Have you missed your little blonde companion?”

Konrad took a step forward, axe raised. “You have Elaine?”

“I found her wandering the streets, quite distraught. She’s upstairs with her brother’s body. She’s quite talented in her own way.” He looked at Jonathan when he said the next: “Do you know what she did to your friends at the inn?”

Images flooded Jonathan’s mind. He saw again what had been waiting for them at the inn. They had passed it on their way to the undertaker’s house, hoping to enlist Fredric and Randwulf’s aid. There had been blood everywhere. The stench of burning hair and flesh had been chokingly thick. Randwulf lay on his stomach in the floor, the back of his neck a blackened mass of burned and butchered flesh. Fredric had carved his own arms nearly hollow, trying to cleanse himself of the scales that had burrowed into his flesh.

Averil’s body was pinned to the bed, blood everywhere, as if she had died twice.

Silvanus lay on the floor, arm chopped clean and burned on the end. He had grabbed Jonathan’s robe and whispered, “She did not do this on purpose. It was an accident.”

Jonathan had fled that room to Tereza’s arms, only to find her burning with fever. He had left her side not knowing if she
even knew he had been there. The wound had gone septic. But after what he had seen in the next room, he was glad Tereza had refused Elaine’s healing.

He had led them to Ashe’s house through the gathering dusk, determined to end this tonight. There had been no time to seek Elaine, and Jonathan wasn’t even sure he wanted to. His worst fears had been confirmed in that small room.

“I think Elaine and I can work together,” Ashe said. “Our combined powers should be able to raise the dead in truth.”

“Elaine will never help you,” Konrad said.

“Oh, I don’t know. Lock her in a room to watch her brother’s body rot, and she might.”

“You’re more a monster than any of the dead,” Konrad said. He stalked forward, but Thordin grabbed his arm.

“Not yet,” he said.

Thordin released Konrad’s arm and palmed a small clay jar with a waxed stopper. Jonathan and Gersalius lifted stoppered pitchers from sacks at their belts. They pulled the tops from them. Konrad threw the jar at Ashe, and as the clay shattered, oil splattered over his clothes. Ashe yelled, and the creature leapt.

Thordin fell to the floor with the creature atop him. He dropped his sword—the fighting was too close for that—and scrambled for his belt knife.

Konrad sunk his axe in the thing’s back. The spine crunched under his blade. The creature screamed, rearing, and Thordin speared it through the belly with his knife. It screamed again but did not die. Thordin doubled his feet under it and kicked it backward. It landed at Ashe’s feet, but scrambled to turn and fight.

The undertaker laughed. “Let’s see how you do against more.”

The coffin lids slammed back, and the dead crawled out.

Jonathan splashed oil on the dead and the coffins. He heard more liquid spatter behind him and knew Gersalius was doing the same.

Konrad yelled, “Wait! Where’s Elaine?”

Jonathan shook his head. He couldn’t think of it. He struck fire with flint and steel. Flame sputtered to life.

The creature circled Thordin and Konrad. Ashe turned and ran. Konrad bolted past the creature, leaving Thordin on his own, and gave chase.

Jonathan called, “Konrad, don’t.” But he was gone, and the oil went up in a whooshing rush. They were suddenly surrounded by flame.

Thordin had pinned the first zombie to the floor. He smashed a jar of oil on it, and the flames crawled over its skin. The thing rolled and screamed as if it hurt. The dead didn’t hurt, did they?

The other zombies fell back into the coffins and burned. No screams, no struggles; they died like good zombies should.

Flames ate the rich carpet and licked at the walls. The far doorway was a wall of dancing fire. A backwash of heat chased them toward the shattered door.

“Jonathan,” the voice brought him whirling around. Tereza stood just outside the door. The flames showed blood on her face. The varnished panels must have been flammable because they went up in that moment with an intense flame that drove the three of them outside.

Jonathan stepped from the shattered door to his wife, taking her arms. “You’re hurt.”

She smiled. “It’s not my blood.”

“You shouldn’t have come. We can fight this evil without you.”

She glanced at the flames. The room was almost engulfed. Gersalius and Thordin stood to either side. They all looked at the blaze and up to the untouched upper story. Elaine and Konrad were up there, somewhere.

Tereza leaned into her husband’s chest, arms wrapping round him. She didn’t know. She had fought her way through the streets to find them, and she didn’t know Elaine was upstairs.

“We have to do something,” Thordin said.

Tereza hugged Jonathan tight. Both arms hugged him. He tried to move her back a step to see her face. Her skin was cool, the fever broken. She nestled against him, arms pressing into his ribs.

“Tereza?” he said it softly.

She spoke with her lips against his neck, cheek nestled in his beard. “Jonathan, I’m so hungry.”

Teeth cut into his neck. He screamed and tried to push her away. She clung to him, mouth fastened to his neck, lapping up the blood, digging for flesh.

Thordin pulled her head back by the hair. Gersalius helped peel her off Jonathan. Thordin flung her into the snow-covered street. Tereza stood there, looking just like herself except for the blood on her face.

Gersalius splashed oil on her. She screamed, “Jonathan.”

“No!” He took a step forward. Thordin grabbed him.

Gersalius snapped off a flame spell. It arched through the air like a tiny star, then hit the oil with a loud blue rush of heat.

Tereza shrieked, and what she screamed was his name. “Jonathan!”

He collapsed. Only Thordin’s arms kept him from falling. The big man lowered him to the ground and sat, cradling him.

She burned. The skin that he had caressed so many times peeled and blackened. The hair went up in a shower of sparks. Through it all, she screamed his name. At the end, Jonathan screamed hers.

She fell forward into the snow, one burning hand still reaching for him.