Death of a Darklord

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  The door banged as someone hit it from the outside. Elaine jumped, giving a small scream.

  “Elaine, Elaine, open up. It’s Blaine.”

  Elaine glanced at the door, hands pressed on its wooden surface. “Blaine, I’m locked in.”

  “Locked in sounds good to me. The zombies already ate my horse. I don’t want to be next.”

  Elaine slammed her palm on the wood. “There’s a zombie in here. He locked me in.”

  The zombie in question said, “Who is this Blaine person?”

  Elaine pressed her back to the door. “My brother.”

  The zombie smiled again, licking the blood as it flowed from his cracked lips. “He can listen to your screams while you die. How wonderfully awful.”

  “Blaine!”

  The door shuddered as he beat on it with fists and sword hilt. “The door’s too solid. I’ll find another way in.”

  “There is no other way,” the zombie said, “I’ve boarded up the windows, locked all the doors. He is trapped outside with the others, and you are trapped inside with me.” He made a small movement with his hand, touching his chest.

  There was a sound outside, as if a body had slid into the door. “Blaine, are you out there? Blaine?”

  The zombie laughed. “The others will take care of your brother, Elaine Clairn, have no fear.”

  Elaine pressed her back into the door. “Blaine! Blaine!”

  Something heavy slithered along the door, shaking it in its frame. Something bigger than Blaine. The handle turned and rattled frantically.

  “Blaine!”

  “He’s gone, Elaine Clairn, gone before you.” The dead man walked toward her slowly, pacing like a cat. “But don’t worry. Your time is almost upon you.”

  He brought the candelabrum with him, carried in his gloved hand. The naked hand he held out before him. The fingers from which he’d licked blood now traced her cheek. The skin felt dry as parchment, not real at all.

  He brought the candles down to waist level, his head bowing toward her as if he meant to kiss her. Elaine shoved her hand into the flame. The flame danced on her palm, as it did during a vision. It did not hurt; it did not burn; it only flickered and danced over her skin.

  The zombie drew back, just a fraction. “What are you, Elaine? A wizard? I’ve never tasted wizard’s blood before.”

  Elaine put the tiny flame in front of his face so he could see it better. She took a deep breath and blew the flame into his face. She willed it to catch, to burn, to grow—and it did.

  The zombie shrieked, turning in the hallway, beating at his burning head with his hands. He dropped the candelabrum to the floor. One candle went out. Elaine grabbed the other and ran down the hall, shielding the flame with her free hand.

  Just around the corner, stairs led upward. She hesitated. Should she go farther into the hall or up?

  “I will kill you, Elaine Clairn. I will suck the marrow from your bones.”

  Elaine ran up the stairs. The flame bobbled, shrinking down to a bluish dot. She stopped running, letting the flame revive. Being lost in utter blackness with a zombie was too horrible. The flame reared up, tracing a delicate bell of light around her. Something heavy slipped at the bottom of the stairs.

  She looked down. The zombie’s face was at the very edge of her circle of light. The rotting nose was gone. His face had burned down to pinkish ligaments stretched over bone. What had once been a handsome man was now a rotting skeleton, as if the fire had revealed his nature.

  “I would have made it as pleasant as possible for you, Elaine, but not now. Now you will suffer as I suffer. And drinking your blood will heal me. Not even fire can harm me for long.” He moved up a step, holding on to the banister with his gloved hand. He moved as if he hurt, no matter how brave his words.

  Elaine backed up two steps. The zombie dropped to his knees and began to crawl up the stairs like a monkey, hand over foot, faster and faster. Elaine ran.

  A hand grabbed her at the top of the stairs. The candle dropped from her shocked grasp and rolled along the floor and died. She screamed, slapping at the hands, struggling to break free. The hands dropped her to the floor. She lay in a darkness so perfect she could have touched her own eyes and not seen her fingers.

  She could not see, but could hear. Feet and hands scrambled up the stairs, bumping and skittering. Whatever had grabbed her stood at the head of the stairs. It loomed over her but made no move to touch her or do anything else.

  The zombie galloped to the head of the stairs. Its breathing filled the darkness. There was a sound like the very air had been sliced, then a soft meaty thunk. A sound like rain, and warm liquid fell onto Elaine’s face. Something rolled, bouncing into the far wall.

  Sparks flared into the dark like falling stars. A small lantern woke to life. Kneeling in that warm circle of light was Blaine.

  She stared at him for a few moments, stared at his long, yellow hair, his white cloak spilling around him, absorbing the flame as if it were made of gold.

  Tears burned her eyes, blurring the light. She wiped her fingers on the wetness on her face and knew it was blood. The zombie’s head had rolled along the carpet. The headless body lay at the top of the stairs, leaking black black blood onto the floor.

  Blaine knelt to kneel beside her. “Are you all right, Elaine?”

  She nodded, not trusting her voice. She sat up and hugged him. They held each other, as if only the two of them existed. For that moment there was nothing but each other, nothing outside their circle of light.

  Elaine raised her head to stare into his face. “How did you get in?”

  “The attic window. It’s covered by wooden slats for air to get through. I guess he thought if you couldn’t see through it, you couldn’t crawl through it.”

  “I doubt he thought anyone would be climbing roofs in the dead of winter.”

  Blaine grinned. “Maybe not.”

  The zombie twitched, a hand convulsing on the floor. Blaine helped her to her feet. “You think you can climb the roof in skirts?”

  The dead man was trying to get his arms under his chest, trying to rise.

  “Yes, I can climb.”

  Blaine led her down the hallway, lantern raised for light, and they approached a small door set in a shattered frame. “The door was locked when I came through, but wasn’t nearly as well made as the front door.”

  The stairs were narrow and twisted. Cold air met them at the top, a swirl of snowflakes, and a cold patch of moonlight. That gaping window was one of the most wonderful things Elaine had ever seen.

  Blaine knelt by his fallen backpack. He blew out the lantern, wrapping it carefully before stowing it in the pack. Elaine stood in the cold moonlight and strained to hear anything. There was no sound of pursuit, not yet.

  Blaine gave her the pack. “Hand it out to me when I reach for it.”

  She clutched the pack to her chest and nodded. Blaine grabbed the windowsill and lifted himself. When he was even with the sill, he pushed upward with his arms, locking his elbows. He slid through the window headfirst; only his fingers showed, gripping the sill. One hand vanished, then his face appeared in the window.

  He balanced his chest and one hand on the sill, and reached his other hand through. She passed the pack to him, and he slipped one strap over his shoulder, then reached back for her.

  Elaine gripped his hand tightly. He flexed his arm, lifting her up. She could feel his wrist trembling with the strain, but he never hesitated. When she was even with the window, she grabbed the sill with one hand, helping him lift her to the window. With one hand, he pulled her through, the other hand tight on the sill.

  He tucked her against him. Elaine looked down into emptiness. The roof went almost straight down to the street below. Snow fell, swirling into the blackness. Her boots scrambled at the icy roof. Only Blaine’s arms kept her from falling.

  “Can you climb up above the window?”

  She tried to swallow her heart back into her throat. She coul
dn’t breathe, staring down into the swirling darkness.

  “Don’t look down, Elaine,” Blaine said. “Look at me.”

  She raised her gaze to his face. He was close enough that she could see the whites of his eyes, the pulse pounding in his throat. He wasn’t much happier up here than she was. Due to an unfortunate incident involving a dragon, both twins were afraid of heights.

  “Can you climb up onto the eaves?” His voice was calmer than his wide eyes.

  She looked up. There was a little projection over the attic window, just big enough for her to sit on if she were very careful.

  “Yes.”

  “Do it. I can’t hold us both much longer.” His voice was still calm, but there was an edge of strain to it.

  Elaine reached for the eaves. The clay tiles were so cold it hurt to touch them, but she was glad she had no gloves on. She needed every bit of gripping ability she had.

  She let go of Blaine, putting both hands on the slick tile, trusting him to hold her legs, to not let her fall. If he lost his grip now, they were both dead.

  She stiffly clutched the roof. “I need one leg free, but don’t let go.”

  He loosened his hold on her legs. “I won’t let go.”

  She put one foot on the windowsill. Now was the scary part. For her to put both feet on the sill, Blaine had to let go. She stood for a moment, hands digging into the tile, feet solid on the sill. She heard Blaine sigh when he had only his own weight to support.

  Elaine stood on tiptoe, hands scrambling for a hold. When her fingers felt as secure as they were likely to, she braced her feet and crawled upward. She felt Blaine’s hand shove her from behind, and she ended up straddling the eave’s roof. There she sat, relearning how to breathe.

  She heard Blaine begin to ascend behind her, and knew she’d have to move. There wasn’t room for both of them. She looked up at the icy, snow-patched tiles and sighed. She had to move, but she wasn’t going to enjoy it.

  She crawled to her feet, hands gripping the tile, lifting her an inch at a time. She could see Blaine’s fingers at the edge of the eaves. He gave a muffled yell, and one hand vanished. He hung by the other.

  Elaine went to her knees, reaching for him. She couldn’t hold him alone as he had held her. Even as she moved to do it, she knew they would both fall, and she was content with that, if the only other choice was to watch him go alone.

  The headless zombie had seized Blaine’s legs, and its body hung half out the window. Elaine lay flat on the eaves, giving her brother her arm. He didn’t take it, trying to grab the roof again but failing.

  “Take my arm, Blaine, please.”

  His eyes said everything. “No,” was all he said aloud.

  She clutched his sleeve and pulled. The zombie clawed up Blaine’s body; the weight tipped. His fingers slid off the tiles. She dug her hands into his clothing, screaming, “Take my hand!”

  The zombie fell out the window, still clinging to Blaine’s legs. Blaine hung for a moment. She tightened her hold, flattening her body along the roof, fingers digging into the cloth.

  Blaine fell, and the cloth ripped. As he dropped away into darkness, he mouthed her name, “Elaine.”

  “Blaine!” She lay on the roof, the cloth of his tunic tight-gripped in her hands. She watched the snow tumble into the darkness and strained to see him. But there was only black night and the fall of snow.

  teReZa LaY VeRY StILL UNDeR tHe BLaNKetS. HeR raven hair, rich and full as fur, spread out on the pillow. Her face seemed more lovely and less harsh in deep sleep, and this was a very deep sleep. Her left arm was bandaged tight to her chest. The wound had bled and bled until Jonathan began to fear it would take her life.

  Averil had been so badly hurt that the doctor said she might die before morning. Her throat had been bitten by one of the dead.

  The doctor had given Tereza an herbal drink to help her sleep, to keep her from going out into the night in search of the twins. Only rest, the doctor said, only rest and time would heal her.

  Jonathan sat by the bed, her hand resting in his. Even in drugged sleep, she held lightly to him. The lamplight wavered, smearing in a wash of gold. The tears finally fell in silent streaks down his cheeks. Were the twins dead? Could they survive for hours in the night with the dead?

  No. Jonathan knew the answer was no.

  He bowed his head over Tereza’s hand. He’d called Elaine corrupt, evil, and he still believed her supposed healing was evil, or at least unnatural. But he would have given a great deal not to have quarreled, not to have the last memory of her tainted. The thought that she had died thinking he hated her, perhaps hating him in return, was almost more than he could bear.

  Tereza would live. The doctor would not promise that she would ever have full use of her arm again, though. Tereza didn’t know yet. He wasn’t going to tell her until he had to. He was a coward.

  There was a soft knock at the door. Jonathan thought about not answering, pretending he was asleep. The knock came again. He sighed, then said, “What is it?”

  The door opened slowly. Thordin stood half in the frame. His gaze went to Tereza’s pale form. He looked at Jonathan.

  “She’s resting.”

  Thordin took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The townsfolk are gathered. The town council wishes to speak to us tonight.” He stepped into the room, closing the door gently behind him. He leaned against it, arms crossed over his chest. “I didn’t explain that Blaine and Elaine were more than helpers to the mage-finder. I … didn’t know if you wanted them to know.”

  He shook his head. “No, our grief is our own. Blaine was of the brotherhood. He knew the risks. It is Elaine.…” His voice failed him, and he turned his head away so Thordin could not see the tears.

  “It is no one’s fault, Jonathan.”

  “Isn’t it?” he said. He turned back to Thordin, anger and tears mixing in his eyes. Self-hatred threatened to choke him. “If I had left her behind with the wizard, let her learn her magic in peace, she would be alive.”

  “We don’t know they are dead, Jonathan.”

  “Elaine was unarmed, Thordin.”

  “Blaine went to find her. He is a good fighter.”

  “We would all have been killed if Lukas had not opened the door. He saved us all.”

  “Someone else might have opened a door to the twins.”

  “Thordin, it is night, and the dead walk the streets. No one will risk himself for strangers.”

  “There are always good people, Jonathan, wherever we go,” Thordin said.

  Jonathan shook his head. “No, Thordin, no false hope. We must face the truth.”

  “You are burying them before they are dead, Jonathan. You are simply giving up,” Thordin said. “It is not like you to give up without a fight.”

  “Perhaps I have learned that you can fight long and valiantly and still die a bad death.”

  “You speak of Calum Songmaster,” Thordin said.

  Jonathan nodded. “Elaine asked if Silvanus could heal Calum. It never occurred to me to ask for Calum’s sake. She thought of it.”

  “Elaine has a good heart,” Thordin said.

  Jonathan nodded again. He scrubbed his free hand across his face, smearing the tear tracks more than hiding them. “You said something about the town council.”

  “They want to see you tonight. They are badly frightened and want the reassurance of the great mage-finder.”

  “We entered the town and lost four people in less than an hour. They still think I can help them?”

  “Your reputation is strong, Jonathan. They believe in you.”

  “I am not some magical talisman that can chase away the evil just by being here,” Jonathan said. His voice was harsh.

  “They probably do expect something that easy, that dramatic, but even small hope from you will be enough tonight, if you’re up to it.”

  Jonathan stared at him. He wanted to be angry that Thordin would even ask, but looking into his friend’s blunt face, hi
s anger faded. He was simply tired, so tired that all he wanted was to crawl in beside Tereza and sleep, sleep, cling to his wife as if just by touching her he could keep her safe.

  He raised her hand to his lips, bestowing a gentle kiss on her fingers. He stood and laid her hand under the covers, tucking them beneath her chin. He ran his fingers through her hair, then turned to Thordin.

  “Let us go comfort the town council,” he said.

  Thordin smiled. “We always do a lot of hand-holding in this job.”

  Jonathan just nodded. He glanced back at Tereza as Thordin shut the door. She looked very pale in the lamplight. She had lost so much blood, but not as much as Averil. He glanced at the door across the hall.

  Silvanus stood vigil over his daughter. If she survived until dawn, the doctor thought Averil would live. If she survived.

  They had been told there was a plague of the dead, but there were hundreds of zombies in the streets, more than could have died this winter. Cortton was not that large a village. Where had all the dead sprung from? This was a question he intended to ask the council.

  The town council consisted of the innkeeper, the meistersinger, and the undertaker. The innkeeper, Belinna, was the woman who had thrown oil on the zombies. She was tall and wide, but not fat. Fat implied softness, indulgence. Her brawn was solid, what some would call big boned. Her hair was tied in a long plait down her back. The boy that had held the torch was her eldest son. He stood by her side now—tall, slender, dark, but his harsh, watching eyes were mirrored in Belinna’s.

  The meistersinger, Simon LeBec, had been a well-known bard in his younger days. Jonathan had heard him sing once, perhaps thirty years ago. He had been the handsome darling of all the ladies then. His hair was white as snow now, his face lined. Only his eyes remained the same—piercing blue.

  Jonathan did not try to remind LeBec that they had met thirty years ago. He had not been known as a mage-finder then. He had been simply Jonathan Ambrose, a wandering adventurer who happened to specialize in slaying wizards. He hadn’t had the law behind him then, and was almost an outlaw. Jonathan remembered the surety of purpose he had, like a shield that could not be pierced. No doubts.