The Ghost King t-3

by Robert Anthony Salvatore

  Hanaleisa and Temberle exchanged concerned looks.

  “Tell me!” Rorick pressed.

  “It was terrifying,” his sister admitted. “I’ve never been so scared in my entire life.”

  “But it was exciting,” Temberle added. “And as soon as the fight began, you couldn’t think about being afraid.”

  “You couldn’t think about anything,” said Hanaleisa. “Hee hee hee,” Pikel agreed with a nod. “Our training,” said Rorick.

  “We are fortunate that our parents, and our uncles,” said Hanaleisa, looking at the beaming Pikel, “didn’t take the peace we’ve known for granted, and taught us—”

  “To fight,” Temberle interrupted.

  “And to react,” said Hanaleisa, who was always a bit more philosophical about battle and the role that martial training played in a wider world view. She was much more akin to her mother in that matter, and that was why she had foregone extensive training with the sword or the mace in favor of the more disciplined and intimate open-hand techniques employed by Danica’s order. “Even one who knew how to use a sword well would have been killed in the forest last night if his mind didn’t know how to tuck away his fears.”

  “So you felt the presence in the forest, too,” Temberle said to Pikel. “Yup.”

  “It’s still there.”

  “Yup.”

  “We have to warn the townsfolk, and get word to Spirit Soaring,” Hanaleisa added.

  “Yup, yup.” Pikel lifted his good arm before him and straightened his fingers, pointing forward. He began swaying that hand back and forth, as if gliding like a fish under the waters of Impresk Lake. The others understood that the dwarf was talking about his plant-walking, even before he added with a grin, “Doo-dad.”

  “You cannot do that,” Hanaleisa said, and Temberle, too, shook his head.

  “We can go out tomorrow, at the break of dawn,” he said. “Whatever it is out there, it’s closer to Carradoon than to Spirit Soaring. We can get horses to take us the first part of the way—I’m certain the stable masters will accompany us along the lower trails.”

  “Moving fast, we can arrive before sunset,” Hanaleisa agreed.

  “But right now, we’ve got to get the town prepared for whatever might come,” said Temberle. He looked at Hanaleisa and shrugged. “Though we don’t really know what is out there, or even if it’s still there. Maybe it was just that one bear we killed, a wayward malevolent spirit, and now it’s gone.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t,” said Rorick, and his tone made it clear that he hoped he was right. In his youthful enthusiasm, he was more than a little jealous of his siblings at that moment—a misplaced desire that would soon enough be corrected.

  * * * * *

  “Probably wandering around for a hundred years,” muttered one old water-dog—a Carradoon term for the many wrinkled fishermen who lived in town. The man waved his hand as if the story was nothing to fret about.

  “Eh, but the world’s gone softer,” another in the tavern lamented.

  “Nay, not the world,” yet another explained. “Just our part of it, living in the shadow of them three’s parents. We’ve been civilized, I’m thinking!”

  That brought a cheer, half mocking, half in good will, from the many gathered patrons.

  “The rest of the world’s grown tougher,” the man continued. “It’ll get to us, and don’t you doubt it.”

  “And us older folk remember the fights well,” said the first old water-dog. “But I’m wondering if the younger ones, grown up under the time of Cadderly, will be ready for any fights that might come.”

  “His kids did well, eh?” came the reply, and all in the tavern cheered and lifted tankards in honor of the twins, who stood at the bar.

  “We survived,” Hanaleisa said loudly, drawing the attention of all. “But likely, some sort of evil is still out there.”

  That didn’t foster the feeling of dread the young woman had hoped for, but elicited a rather mixed reaction of clanking mugs and even laughter. Hanaleisa looked at Temberle, and they both glanced back when Pikel bemoaned the lack of seriousness in the crowd with a profound, “Ooooh.”

  “Carradoon should post sentries at every gate, and along the walls,” Temberle shouted. “Start patrols through the streets, armed and with torches. Light up the town, I beg you!”

  Though his outburst attracted some attention, all eyes turned to the tavern door as it banged open. A man stumbled in, crying out, “Attack! Attack!” More than his shouts jarred them all, though, for filtering in behind the stranger came cries and screams, terrified and agonized.

  Tables upended as the water-dogs leaped to their feet.

  “Uh-oh,” said Pikel, and he grabbed Temberle’s arm with his hand and tapped Hanaleisa with his stump before they could intervene. They had come to the tavern to warn people and to organize them, but Pikel was astute enough to realize the folly of the latter intention.

  Temberle tried to speak anyway, but already the various crews of the many Carradden fishing boats were organizing, calling for groups to go to the docks to retrieve weapons, putting together gangs to head into the streets.

  “But, people …” Temberle tried to protest. Pikel tugged at him insistently.

  “Shhh!” the dwarf cautioned.

  “The four of us, then,” Hanaleisa agreed. “Let’s see where we can be of help.”

  They exited alongside a score of patrons, though a few remained behind—fishing boat captains, mostly—to try to formulate some sort of strategy. With a few quick words, Pikel tucked his black oaken cudgel—his magical shillelagh—under his half-arm and waggled his fingers over one end, conjuring a bright light that transformed the weapon into a magical, fire-less torch.

  Less than two blocks from the tavern door, back toward the gateway through which they had entered Carradoon, the four learned what all the tumult was about. Rotting corpses and skeletons swarmed the streets. Human and elf, dwarf and halfling, and many animal corpses roamed freely. The dead walked—and attacked.

  Spotting a family trying to escape along the side of the wide road, the group veered that way, but Rorick stopped short and cried out, then stumbled and pulled up his pant leg. As Pikel moved his light near, trickles of blood showed clearly, along with something small and thrashing. Rorick kicked out and the attacking creature flew to the side of the road.

  It flopped weirdly back at him, a mess of bones, skin, and feathers.

  “A bird,” Hanaleisa gasped.

  Pikel ran over and swung the bright end of his cudgel down hard, splattering the creature onto the cobblestones. The light proved equally damaging to the undead thing, searing it and leaving it smoldering.

  “Sha-la-la!” Pikel proudly proclaimed, lifting his club high. He turned fast, adjusting his cooking pot helmet as he did so, and launched himself into the nearest alleyway. As soon as the light of the cudgel crossed the alley’s threshold, it revealed a host of skeletons swarming at the dwarf.

  Temberle threw his arm around his brother’s back and propped him up, hustling him back the way they had come, calling for the fleeing Carradden family to catch up.

  “Uncle Pikel!” Hanaleisa cried, running to support him.

  She pulled up short as she neared the alleyway, assaulted by the sound of crunching bones and by bits of rib and skull flying by. Pikel’s light danced wildly, as if a flame in a gale, for the doo-dad dwarf danced wildly, too. It was as ferocious a display as Hanaleisa had ever seen, and one she had never imagined possible from her gentle gardener uncle.

  She refocused her attention back down the street, to the retreating family, a couple and their trio of young children. Trusting in Pikel to battle the creatures in the alley, though he was outnumbered many times over, the woman sprinted away, crossing close behind the family. Hanaleisa threw herself at two skeletons moving in close pursuit. She hit them hard with a flat-out body block, knocking them back several steps, and she tucked and turned as she fell to land easily on her feet.

&
nbsp; Hanaleisa went up on the ball of one foot and launched into a spinning kick that drove her other foot through the ribcage of an attacker. With a spray of bone chips, she tugged her foot out, then, without bringing it down and holding perfect balance, she leaned back to re-angle her kick, and cracked the skeleton in its bony face.

  Still balanced on one foot, Hanaleisa expertly turned and kicked again, once, twice, a third time, into the chest of the second skeleton.

  She sprang up and sent her back foot into a high circle kick before the skeleton’s face, not to hit it, but as a distraction, for when she landed firmly on both feet, she did so leaning forward, in perfect position to launch a series of devastating punches at her foe.

  With both skeletons quickly dispatched, Hanaleisa backed away, pursuing the family. To her relief, Pikel joined her as she passed the alleyway. Side by side, the two grinned, pivoted back, and charged into the pursuing throng of undead, feet, fists, and sha-la-la pounding.

  More citizens joined them in short order, as did Temberle, his greatsword shearing down skeletons and zombies with abandon.

  But there were so many!

  The dead had risen from a cemetery that had been the final resting place for many generations of Carradden. They rose from a thick forest, too, where the cycle of life worked relentlessly to feed the hunger of such a powerful and malignant spell. Even near the shores of Impresk Lake, under the dark waters, skeletons of fish—thousands of them thrown back to the waters after being cleaned on the decks of fishing boats—sprang to unlife and knifed up hard against the undersides of dark hulls, or swam past the boats and flung themselves out of the water and onto the shore and docks, thrashing in desperation to destroy something, anything, alive.

  And standing atop the dark waters, Fetchigrol watched. His dead eyes flared to life in reflected orange as a fire grew and consumed several houses. Those eyes flickered with inner satisfaction whenever a cry of horror rang out across the dark, besieged city.

  He sensed a shipwreck not far away, many shipwrecks, many long-dead sailors.

  * * * * *

  “I’m all right!” Rorick insisted, trying to pull his leg away from his fretting Uncle Pikel.

  But the dwarf grabbed him hard with one hand, a grip that could hold back a lunging horse, and waggled his stumpy arm at the obstinate youngster.

  They were back in the tavern, but nothing outside had calmed. Quite the opposite, it seemed.

  Pikel bit down on a piece of cloth and tore off a strip. He dipped it into his upturned cookpot-helmet, into which he’d poured a bit of potent liquor mixed with some herbs he always kept handy.

  “We can’t stay here,” Temberle called, coming in the door. “They approach.”

  Pikel worked fast, slapping the bandage against Rorick’s bloody shin, pinning one end with his half-arm and expertly working the other until he had it knotted. Then he tightened it down with his teeth on one end, his hand on the other.

  “Too tight,” Rorick complained.

  “Shh!” scolded the dwarf.

  Pikel grabbed his helmet and dropped it on his head, either forgetting or ignoring the contents, which splashed down over his green hair and beard. If that bothered the dwarf, he didn’t show it, though he did lick at the little rivulets streaming down near his mouth. He hopped up, shillelagh tucked securely under his stump, and pulled Rorick up before him.

  The young man tried to start away fast, but he nearly fell over with the first step on his torn leg. The wound was deeper than Rorick apparently believed.

  Pikel was there to support him, though, and they rushed out behind Temberle. Hanaleisa was outside waiting, shaking her head.

  “Too many,” she explained grimly. “There’s no winning ground, just retreat.”

  “To the docks?” Temberle asked, looking at the flow of townsfolk in that direction and seeming none too pleased by that prospect. “We’re to put our backs to the water?”

  Hanaleisa’s expression showed that she didn’t like that idea any more than he, but they had no choice. They joined the fleeing townsfolk and ran on.

  They found some organized defense forming halfway to the docks and eagerly found positions among the ranks. Pikel offered an approving nod as he continued past with Rorick, toward a cluster of large buildings overlooking the boardwalk and wharves. Built on an old fort, it was where the ship captains had decided to make their stand.

  “Fight well for mother and father,” Hanaleisa said to Temberle. “We will not dishonor their names.”

  Temberle smiled back at her, feeling like a veteran already.

  They got their chance soon enough, their line rushing up the street to support the last groups of townsfolk trying hard to get ahead of the monstrous pursuit. Fearlessly, Hanaleisa and Temberle charged among the undead, smashing and slashing with abandon.Their efforts became all the more devastating when Uncle Pikel joined them, his bright cudgel destroying every monster that ventured near.

  Despite their combined power, the trio and the rest of the squad fighting beside them were pushed back, moving inexorably in retreat. For every zombie or skeleton they destroyed, it seemed there were three more to take its place. Their own line thinned whenever a man or woman was pulled down under the raking and biting throng.

  And those unfortunate victims soon enough stood up, fighting for the other side.

  Horrified and weak with revulsion, their morale shattered as friends and family rose up in undeath to turn against them, the townsfolk gave ground.

  They found support at the cluster of buildings, where they had no choice but to stand and fight. Eventually, even that defense began to crumble.

  Hanaleisa looked to her brother, desperation and sadness in her rich brown eyes. They couldn’t retreat into the water, and the walls of the buildings wouldn’t hold back the horde for long. She was scared, and so was he.

  “We have to find Rorick,” Temberle said to his dwarf uncle.

  “Eh?” Pikel replied.

  He didn’t understand that the twins only wanted to make sure that the three siblings were together when they died.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE POLITICS OF ENGAGEMENT

  It was the last thing Bruenor Battlehammer wanted to hear just then. “Obould’s angry,” Nanfoodle the gnome explained. “He thinks we’re to blame for the strange madness of magic, and the silence of his god.”

  “Yeah, we’re always to blame in that one’s rock-head,” Bruenor grumbled back. He looked at the door leading to the corridor to Garumn’s Gorge and the Hall’s eastern exit, hoping to see Drizzt. Morning had done nothing to help Catti-brie or Regis. The halfling had thrashed himself to utter exhaustion and since languished in restless misery.

  “Obould’s emissary—” Nanfoodle started to say.

  “I got no time for him!” Bruenor shouted.

  Across the way, several dwarves observed the uncharacteristic outburst. Among them was General Banak Brawnanvil, who watched from his chair. He’d lost the use of his lower body in the long-ago first battle with Obould’s emerging hordes.

  “I got no time!” Bruenor yelled again, though somewhat apologetically. “Me girl’s got to go! And Rumblebelly, too!”

  “I will accompany Drizzt,” Nanfoodle offered.

  “The Nine Hells and a tenth for luck ye will!” Bruenor roared at him. “I ain’t for leaving me girl!”

  “But ye’re the king,” one of the dwarves cried.

  “And the whole world is going mad,” Nanfoodle answered.

  Bruenor simmered, on the edge of an explosion. “No,” he said finally, and with a nod to the gnome, who had become one of his most trusted and reliable advisors, he walked across the room to stand before Banak.

  “No,” Bruenor said again. “I ain’t the king. Not now.”

  A couple of dwarves gasped, but Banak Brawnanvil nodded solemnly, accepting the responsibility he knew to be coming.

  “Ye’ve ruled the place before,” said Bruenor. “And I’m knowin’ ye can do it again. Been
too long since I seen the road.”

  “Ye save yer girl,” the old general replied.

  “Can’t give ye Rumblebelly to help ye this time,” Bruenor went on, “but the gnome here’s clever enough.” He looked back at Nanfoodle, who couldn’t help but smile at the unexpected compliment and the trust Bruenor showed in him.

  “We’ve many good hands,” Banak agreed.

  “Now don’t ye be startin’ another war with Obould,” Bruenor instructed. “Not without me here to swat a few o’ his dogs.”

  “Never.”

  Bruenor clapped his friend on the shoulder, turned, and started to walk away. A large part of him knew that his responsibilities lay there, where Clan Battlehammer looked to him to lead, particularly in that suddenly troubling time. But a larger part of him denied that. He was the king of Mithral Hall, indeed, but he was the father of Catti-brie and the friend of Regis, as well.

  And little else seemed to matter at that dark moment.

  He found Drizzt at Garumn’s Gorge, along with as smelly and dirty a dwarf as had ever been known.

  “Ready to go, me king!” Thibbledorf Pwent greeted him with enthusiasm. The grisly dwarf hopped to attention, his creased battle armor, all sharpened plates and jagged spikes, creaking and squealing with the sudden motion.

  Bruenor looked at the drow, who just closed his eyes, long ago having quit arguing with the likes of the battlerager.

  “Ready to go?” Bruenor asked. “With war brewing here?”

  Pwent’s eyes flared a bit at that hopeful possibility, but he resolutely shook his head. “Me place is with me king!”