by Jean Rabe
"My baby!" she wailed as she brought her jaws toward his unarmored hand.
Willum clamped his teeth closed, the nervous humming in his throat louder. He brought his free hand up to her head and tangled his fingers in her hair. He groaned when he heard the fastening break on his leg plate and risked a glance down. The small corpse had sawed through the leather with her teeth, and her claws were reaching to his leg.
"No!" he hollered as he tugged hard on the adult corpse's hair. Muscles bunched as he yanked, and he was rewarded with a sharp crack. He held the dismembered head in his hand for a moment before he hurled it aside, taking a deep breath before dealing with the smaller one.
The large corpse continued to fight and would not let go of his sword arm. Although it was muffled by the drift he tossed the head into, he heard it continue to cackle.
"By the breath of Kiri-Jolith, what manner of creature are you?"
The dead girl's fingers clawed at Willum's leggings, finding the flesh beneath. The knight didn't cry out despite the pain, only doubled his efforts against the larger corpse. With his free hand, he began tearing it apart, bone by bone, and crushing the brittle ribs with his fist. At last the corpse released his sword arm, and Willum finished shredding the thing, all the while enduring the pain in his leg.
He turned his attention to the child.
Her face had been well preserved by the cold. Only a bit of her cheek was missing. Her eyes stared vacantly at him, and he prayed silently to the memory of Kiri-Jolith as he reached down and wrenched her head off. He fought with her for a few moments more, gritting his teeth as her small hands continued to tear into his leg. Not so long dead as the other, her flesh and muscles held her together more firmly, though in the end, Willum managed.
Gasping for breath, he dropped to his knees, effectively sinking to his waist in the snow. He fumbled around for his leg plate and quickly found it, then discarded it when he saw the strap was so badly mangled he couldn't reattach it. "Gods," he whispered, then dug through the snow for his sword, humming as he searched. The snow was disturbed by the fight, and several times his fingers closed about a bone from the larger corpse. "My sword," he muttered. "It's got to be around here somewhere." He persisted, refusing to be weaponless.
"Creatures of Chaos," he cursed when at last his icycold fingers closed on the pommel. "Got to find Camilla and…"
And die.
A pool of blackness slithered across the snow, looking like oil and moving quickly. It approached Willum as the knight got to his feet and started backing away. The blackness rose, forming legs and arms, spiderweb-fine hair, and eyes that glowed white like stars, then red like hot coals.
Camilla and her knights closed on the overturned wagon. She drew her sword and motioned for her men to spread out and to watch the snow for any hidden foes.
"We'll help you!" she cried as she rushed toward a man leaning on a wagon wheel. "We'll…" She stopped in her tracks. Closer now, she could make out the grisly details. The man was the village leader whom she'd met when she was with Gair, and he was dead.
"All of them are dead, Commander!" A young knight was turning over the other bodies. There were eight in all. Two families, she recalled from her previous visit. "They're clawed up pretty bad, like some big rabid animal got them. Maybe a bear. No wonder they were screaming."
Camilla's gaze dropped to the snow. There was a good deal of blood on the wagon and tinting the snow. "Tracks!" she snapped. "Do you see any animal tracks?"
The knights started searching, around the wagon and farther out. She gestured to four of them to follow her into the village. In the distance, she could see lights burning in some of the windows.
"Can't find any tracks!" she heard from behind her now. "It's dark, Commander, might be easy to miss."
She ran quickly down the center of the narrow path, kicking up snow as she went. The clanking behind her was a signal that her men were close behind. "Watch yourself!" she hollered loudly, an instruction meant for the men with her and for those still at the wagon. "Keep alert!"
Within heartbeats, she was in the center of the small farming community. Everything was eerily silent, the only sounds the ragged breathing from her and the men. She took in several gulps of air and ran toward the nearest home. A soft glow showed out from a curtained window. She pounded on the door.
No answer, and no sound came from within.
Waving to her men, they fanned out, knocking on door after door and getting no answer.
Camilla's chest heaved from running, and she leaned against the home for an instant to catch her breath and watch her men. She spun and kicked at the door and plunged inside and was greeted by a chorus of screams.
People were huddled in front of a fireplace, wide-eyed, staring at her, crying in fright. She recognized one of them, the pregnant woman Gair had tended to. She held a poker in her hand as if it were a weapon.
"It's all right," she started. "When no one answered the door—"
"The creatures came," the pregnant woman cut in. "They came and we locked ourselves in. The Hansons. The creatures got them."
"At the wagon?"
The woman nodded.
"Dead things," said a man next to her. He was cradling a trembling boy to his chest. "All bones and teeth, and they was screaming. All of 'em was screaming something awful."
Camilla pointed to a table. "Push this against door, and don't come out until morning." She rushed back to the center of the village and waved to her men. "In twos! No one alone!" she hollered. "I'm not truly sure what we're looking for, though I believe it's—"
"Undead, Commander!" The first knight who'd left Willum rushed into the village. Out of breath, he haltingly but quickly explained about the skeletal woman and child and that Willum believed it was a trap.
"They're after the settlement, then," she said. "This was a distraction to separate us. A wise ploy, and one I fell for. Still, we can't abandon these people."
She thought for only a moment more, then ordered her men to conduct a fast search of the village and the barns, ordering them to make sure every house was locked tight and that nothing was lurking in the barns.
Several minutes later, they were running back down the trail toward the settlement.
"Gair," Jasper began. "My friend, I—"
"Spare me your pleasantries," the elf returned. "I'm not the same man you knew when we came to Schallsea Island."
The dwarf eyed him up and down. Once Gair had been fastidious, preferring to wear only the finest of clothes, expensive and well made, always cleaned and pressed. Now his leggings were filthy, smelling of dirt and something foul the dwarf couldn't quite place at first.
"Like the grave," Jasper whispered after a moment. "You smell like the grave."
The elf's heavy tunic was snagged in the front, and several pearl buttons hung loosely on fraying threads. His face and hands were dirty, his fingernails chipped. His hair was tangled and dusted with pine needles. The only bit of cleanness about him was a red cloak, which the dwarf recognized that as Camilla's.
"What happened to you, Gair?"
The elf threw back his head and laughed. "Happened? Happened, as in something is wrong?" He slowly drew his gaze to the dwarf's, his dark eyes wide and sparkling malevolently. "I guess you might say I learned a great deal from our teacher, my old friend. She taught me some spells when you weren't around."
"Fortunate for me," Jasper numbly whispered.
"She taught me how to talk to the dead."
The dwarf swallowed and scanned the mist. There was a break in it, and through it, he could see tiny people, the size of big beetles. From the direction of Goldmoon's tent, he saw a few soldiers gathering, identifiable only because of their red tunics. He spotted someone—Goldmoon, he sensed—pointing toward the Silver Stair. He suspected that with her human eyes, Goldmoon couldn't see him up here, not this high anyway. He took a step closer to Gair.
"An' what do the dead have to say, Gair?"
The elf backe
d down a few steps to accommodate the dwarf and give him more room. The mist of the lowhanging cloud swirled about the elf's thighs. "They tell me many things, my friend. The spirits of the Que-Nal tell me about the island's past. The spirits of the drowned barbarians tell me about the terrible war with the Blue Dragonarmy. Of course, there's always two sides to every story. The dragonarmy general tells me about the battle from his point of view. Then there's the Solamnic knights."
Jasper's eyes twitched.
"Not the ones at the settlement. The ones I killed, or rather had killed. They tell me about Camilla. I do so like the company of the dead, Jasper, but I miss sweet Camilla."
"You're mad!" the dwarf edged down another halfdozen steps. The elf obliged him and kept a respectful distance. The mist was swirling about both of them now.
"Mad?" Gair grinned wildly. "Maybe I am, at that, but I am also powerful."
The dwarf took another step down. This time the elf didn't budge.
"I can raise the dead, Jasper, keep spirits tied to the living world. Would you like to see your Uncle Flint again? I can manage it with the Silver Stair. And Riverwind—I thought I might bring him out tonight, parade him before our dear teacher. She'd be so impressed with my skills."
Jasper's fingers squeezed the handle of his hammer so tightly they nearly lost sensation. He kept his eyes locked onto Gair's, and he slowly pulled the weapon free from his belt. There was an instant shushing sound as Gair drew his long sword and pointed it up at the dwarf.
"You wouldn't want to hurt me, Jasper. We're close, the best of friends. Think of all the secrets we've shared. I've missed you almost as much as I've missed Camilla. The undead talk to me, but they don't argue like you used to. I really miss that."
"Well, climb on down an' I'll argue with you some more." The dwarf gestured with his hammer.
Gair shook his head. "I'll stay right here, thank you." Carefully he crouched on the shimmering step beneath his feet, keeping his eyes on Jasper and the sword pointed up at the dwarf's belly. His free hand drifted down to touch a step. "I need the Silver Stair, my friend. I need its power."
"Let's go talk to Goldmoon," Jasper urged, his voice carrying a hint of nervousness. "She's been worried about you."
"Quiet!" the elf admonished. "I need to concentrate."
"She'll help you," the dwarf continued. "You don't need this kind of magic, Gair. Let her help you. Let me help you."
The elf's expression softened for a moment, as if he were considering the dwarf's words. His eyes lost some of their sparkle, and he lowered the sword a few inches. "Jasper, I—"
"Goldmoon can help, Gair. Goldmoon cares about you."
"I've done things, Jasper, things she wouldn't approve of. Dark and—"
"It doesn't matter." The dwarf's words were sincere, tumbling from his thick lips. "She'll forgive you. Let her help. We can—"
"I've killed people, Jasper. Good people. Knights. Roeland Stark. Do you remember Roeland? I wouldn't let his spirit—"
"Gair, listen to me." The dwarf noticed the bits of red gathering around the base of the Silver Stair, returned his gaze to the elf. "Put down your sword an' come with me. Everythin'll get worked out. You'll see."
"I don't think my new friends would like that. The dead ones."
"Just try."
The elf seemed to be battling some inner demon. His lip was sucked under his teeth and he was chewing on it, and the sword in his hand was lowering a little more.
"Goldmoon will help you. Let her help you. Come with me."
"Goldmoon…" The elf's sword arm shook almost imperceptibly. "I fear not even Goldmoon could forgive me, Jasper. I—"
"There he is!" One of the soldiers had spotted Gair, and Jasper and was pointing frantically in the air. "The elf! Tell Goldmoon he's on the Silver Stair! Way up there!"
The elf's expression instantly hardened, and he raised the sword to Jasper's throat. The dwarf backed up a step.
Goldmoon had gathered most of the settlers around her, was calming them and telling them to stay together. She watched a dozen soldiers and some of her followers head toward the Silver Stair. Then she spotted more soldiers lining up across the eastern side of the settlement. There were nearly a dozen more Solamnic knights whom Camilla had not taken with her. Fully in their armor now, they were receiving orders from a lieutenant whose name Goldmoon could not recall.
"What's going on?" This from one of the Thorbardin dwarves. "We heard screams."
"From down the trail," one of the fishermen explained. "Maybe them renegade Que-Nal again."
"No." It was Iryl. "I spoke to Skydancer. He said there would be no more trouble. He would keep Shadowwalker in line."
The fisherman scratched his head. "Well, if it ain't the barbarians, who is it?"
"Whisperers." Orvago had emerged from the building site, his clawed fingers wrapped around the ivory pommel of the broadsword. A ridge of hair stood up from the top of his head and ran down his back, disappearing into his tunic. He growled softly, a trail of spittle finding its way over his bottom lip and landing on the bald head of a man who stood in front of him. "Sorry," he added softly.
The bald man growled back and wiped at his head. He glared at Goldmoon and opened his mouth as if to say something, but his words were drowned out by high-pitched shouts coming from the southern edge of the settlement.
Goldmoon threaded her way through the gathering and saw an ancient Que-Nal standing on a crate. The light from the dwarves' campfire showed his face was so deeply lined it looked like the rough bark on a tree. Feathers were stuck, seemingly haphazardly, in his hair, and beads dangled from a wild mane of grayblack braids, clacking as he shook his head. He wasn't wearing much, despite the cold, only a tunic smeared with what Goldmoon suspected was blood, plus furry boots, the tops of which were ringed with bird skulls. With surprising agility for one so old, he leapt off the crate and made a piercing yipping sound. It was echoed by many voices.
More Que-Nal sprang up from behind crates and drifts of snow, from around the edges of tents that were on the fringes of the settlement. They were young and muscular, their faces smeared with blood and ashes, beads clacking. Their eyes were wild and darted to the ancient shaman, who was raising a spear in his hand.
"Kill the Que-Shu!" Shadowwalker cried. "Kill all of them!"
The Que-Nal surged forward, spears and knives in their hands and cries of death on their lips.
Iryl stood stunned for only a moment, shaking her head in disbelief and whispering, "Skydancer promised."
Orvago roused her into action as he brushed by, knocking her into the Solace twins as he thundered toward the shaman. The elf's eyes still held a touch of incredulity as she reached to her belt and pulled free a long knife, then rushed to join the fray.
Goldmoon was shouting for people to protect their children and for those who were able and armed to defend the settlement. Some who carried no weapons made do with makeshift ones, grabbing torches to use as clubs and pulling tent poles loose.
The soldiers on the eastern edge of the settlement were charging the Que-Nal, not bothering to wait for orders. Swords and spears clashed, and in less than a moment there were dead men on each side.
The Solamnic knights spread out, the lieutenant ordering them to keep the barbarians from reaching the settlers. The knights made a valiant effort, but there were too many renegade Que-Nal. Most of the young barbarians met the knights head-on, Shadowwalker screaming to strike where the plates of armor joined. Some skirted past and directly into the path of Orvago, Iryl, and the others.
Goldmoon hesitated only a second as she surveyed the scene. There were soldiers and barbarians falling, and barbarians falling to the knights, who presented more formidable foes in their heavy armor. The gnoll had dropped three barbarians in as many swings, his magical broad sword fairly whistling through the air. Iryl was at his side, crouched and slashing with her long knife, blood dripping from the blade.
At the Silver Stair, the soldiers were poin
ting into the air and shouting, but there was so much noise from the battle with the Que-Nal that Goldmoon couldn't make out what they were saying.
Another soldier fell, a spear lodged in his leg, and Goldmoon ran toward the man. She nearly trampled Redstone, who was hurling spikes from the building site at a trio of young barbarians.
"Can you use a staff?" the healer shouted to her.
The dwarf nodded. "Any weapon." Her voice gruff and breathy. "I can use anything."
Goldmoon thrust her treasured staff into the woman's thick hands. "Use this well. My other talents are needed."
The dwarf looked at her quizzically for a moment as the healer continued to dash toward the fallen soldier, then her stubby legs churned over the snow-packed ground and toward the trio, a Thorbardin battle cry spewing from her lips.
Redstone cracked the staff into the head of the lead barbarian, happily surprised that he fell with the first blow. She brought the other end around to smack into the second barbarian's stomach, felling him, too. The third looked at her through narrowed eyes and jammed his spear forward, but the squat dwarf dropped to a crouch, and as the spear passed over her head, she jammed the tip of the staff forward, nearly impaling him. He crumpled, and she drove the staff against his head to make sure he wouldn't be getting back up.
"Well indeed," she said, as she pounded toward a rank of soldiers and barbarians. "I better take good care o' this for Goldmoon. Wish Jasper could see me now. Wonder where he is?"
Jasper watched some of the settlers leave the base of the Silver Stair, running toward the far end of the settlement. He could hear the sounds of battle. The soldiers seemed torn between staying and pursuing the elf or joining their comrades. Within a heartbeat, some of them were running away, leaving only six behind. The six began to climb up the stair.
"What are you doin', Gair?" The dwarf's broad face was etched with anger.
"Doing?"
