Death of a Darklord

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  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.

  JONatHaN StePPeD tHROUgH tHe SPLINteReD DOOR. 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 tu
rned 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.

  HaRKON LUKaS StOOD IN tHe SHaDOWS Of tHe ROOm, last door to the right. Ashe had come running, with Konrad behind him. It had worked better than Harkon had hoped. Only Konrad had followed. He waited in the shadows, expecting the others.

  “Where’s Elaine?” Konrad stalked into the room, axe held ready.

  “I don’t think I’ll tell you,” Ashe said.

  “Tell me where she is, and I won’t kill you.”

  “I don’t think you’ll kill me at all.” He backed away toward where Harkon was hiding. “I think you will be the one who dies.” He swept the drapes aside, revealing Harkon.

  Lukas had to smile. He did so love a dramatic gesture.

  “The bard. What are you doing here?” Konrad said. He stood in a crouch, axe at the ready. He was surprised but still sure what to do. Kill it if it threatens you, no matter who it is.

  Ashe was smiling out at Konrad, eager for the show to begin. Harkon stabbed the narrow undertaker through the back. He fell to his knees, a startled expression on his face. His hands groped at the sword point coming out of his chest, then he fell slowly forward, sliding off the sword on his own.

  Harkon stepped away from the wall. “We don’t have much time. I’ll take you to Elaine.”

  “What were you doing here with the undertaker?”

  Oh, he was nicely suspicious. “From the smell of things, we don’t have much time. She’s locked in. She’ll be burned alive.”

  Doubt passed over Konrad’s face.

  “I suspected Ashe, but needed proof. When he ran in here, I hid. I was certainly glad to see you.”

  Konrad lowered his axe but did not put it away. Harkon sheathed his own sword. “We must hurry. Without our help, she’ll never escape.”

  Harkon walked toward him, hands loose at his sides, showing himself unarmed without being obvious about it. “She’s just across the hall in the next room.” He pointed out the open door.

  Konrad turned to look, and Harkon slid a hidden dagger into the man’s heart. Konrad gave a wordless cry, and his axe dropped from suddenly nerveless hands.

  Harkon lowered the dying man to the floor, holding him close. He grabbed the amulet and tossed it over Konrad’s neck.

  “Sleep. Sleep forever, my suspicious friend.”

  Something hit him in the chest, like a club. Harkon stared down to find a knife in his chest. Konrad’s hand slipped away from it, and he fell backward, collapsing to the floor.

  Harkon grabbed at the knife, trying to stop the blood. It bubbled, hot and wet. He tore it out of his chest with a scream. Blood poured over his hands. Darkness ate at his vision.

  Harkon fell forward, on hands and knees. He tried to change into wolf form, but it was too late. He was dying. No, he was dead.

  It was his last thought before the darkness ate the light.

  Elaine pounded on the door, screaming. Smoke was pouring through the cracks. The door opened inward, and she stumbled backward. Konrad stood there, half-lost in smoke. He grabbed her hand and pulled her into the choking cloud, then into the next room where there was a window with a rope of drapes tied to a heavy chair.

  “Climb,” he ordered.

  Elaine didn’t ask questions, there was no time. She grabbed the makeshift rope and climbed down. When she was halfway down the wall, the rope sagged as Konrad climbed on.

  “Drop, and I’ll catch you, girl.” Thordin’s voice.

  She took a deep breath and let go. Strong arms caught her, tumbling them both to the ground.

  Konrad dropped the last few feet, landing on hands and knees in the snow. Elaine ran to him, throwing her arms around him. He hugged her back, face pressed into her shoulder. Smoke billowed out of the window they had escaped from.

  With a shuddering roar, the floor collapsed, and flames whooshed to the ceiling. Blaine’s body was in there, but clean flame was taking it. It was a better end than the fate of most of Cortton’s dead.

  Konrad raised his face to hers. He was so close, so close. He kissed her, and she let him. His lips were soft, and his skin smelled of smoke.

  The amulet around his neck glinted in the flames. Elaine didn’t remember him ever wearing jewelry.

  Konrad ran his soot-blackened hands through her hair and laughed. He kissed her again, fierce and hard, as if he would push himself inside her through her mouth. It almost hurt.

  Thordin and Gersalius stood over them, watching the house burn. She looked for Jonathan and found him huddled in the snow, beside the burned body of a zombie.

  “Jonathan.” She called his name, but he didn’t move.

  Gersalius put a hand on her shoulder. “Tereza came back as one of them. We had to destroy her.”

  Elaine looked at Jonathan’s huddled form. She wanted to run to him, to tell him it would be all right, but in her heart of hearts, she knew it was a lie.

  tHe IRON gOat taVeRN WaS CROWDeD. tHe NeW bard was bringing in a lot of business.

 
; Kelric was a man of medium height but broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He had learned to play the guitar, harp, and harpsichord with larger hands than he had now, but these fingers were long and slender, made subtle by thievery, not practice. He had used that suppleness, re-teaching the fingers to play music rather than lift money from unsuspecting backsides. Kelric Cutpurse had become Kelric Sweetvoice in a matter of months.

  He missed his reputation as Calum Songmaster, but at twenty years old, he had years to rebuild his lost fame. Kelric had a higher, cleaner sound to his voice, which Calum quite liked. It was merely a matter of choosing new songs that suited his new voice, a new beginning in every sense of the word.

  Harkon Lukas had brought the young Kelric to Calum’s bedside. He had placed the amulet on the young man’s neck. A few words, and the change had been complete. Calum couldn’t even remember a sensation. One moment, he was lying in bed, racked with pain, the next he was standing staring down at an old shriveled man.

  It had been so long since he had looked in a mirror that he was shocked. His skin was parchmentlike, wrinkled, hanging in folds from his bones. The skin of his skull had slid downward like half-melted wax. Only his eyes were familiar. Only the eyes were left of what he remembered. Calum Songmaster had died a long time ago. He just hadn’t known it.

  Those eyes blinked up at him, mouth wide with a silent scream. Kelric had volunteered for this—he truly had—but he hadn’t understood. No one could explain the pain. He screamed, wordlessly. The tongue flopped in the toothless mouth, lips so thin there was nothing but the wordless hole.

  “I can’t, I can’t,” he screamed. “Take me out, oh, gods, take me out.”

  “What do you think, Calum? Should we trade bodies back?” Harkon touched the strong, new shoulders, kneaded the new muscles with long fingers.

  Calum stared down at the dying body. He looked at the panicked, pain-filled eyes. His eyes. But not anymore, not if he simply said no.

  Harkon’s lips gave a slow, spreading smile, like those of a well-fed serpent. He stalked to the bed, his gliding walk almost dancelike. He was enjoying himself.