Murder in Cormyr

by Chet Williamson

  Just as we turned to walk back up the stairs, we heard a sound from within the inner tomb. It was a dry rattle, like a fortune-teller casting the bones onto a tabletop over and over again.

  Or like an ancient skeleton, walking for the first time, and swiftly.

  37

  “I think someone’s awake,” Benelaius said softly, but I could hear the concern in his voice.

  I was more than concerned. My eyes felt as though they were the size of saucers, and my sudden freshets of sweat had just doubled the normal humidity of the swamp. But I couldn’t move until Benelaius grabbed my arm and started up the stairs. “I suggest we leave,” he said, and I didn’t have to be told twice.

  By the time we had grappled our way up the slick and mossy steps, abandoning our lanterns in our rush, I heard the clattering bones at the bottom. In spite of myself, I turned and looked down.

  It was the skeleton of Fastred all right, clad in armor, helm, and rotting boots. The gray day illuminated him poorly, but twin fires burned in the hollow eye sockets. The glare held me captive, and I could only watch as he began to ascend the stairs, the leather strips of boot dropping aside as the bony toes dug into the moss. I knew that I would stand there until he was at the top of the stairs, taking my thin neck between his finger bones and squeezing and squeezing until my eyes were as big as saucers, saucers popping right out of my head.…

  And then I felt a clout on the side of that selfsame head that jerked my gaze away, breaking the bonds that held me to the dead thing. “Run!” shouted Benelaius. “Now!”

  I did as my master ordered. I ran, knowing from his past teachings that what followed us was not truly Fastred’s ghost. That we had seen the night before, while this was only some wandering evil spirit that had entered his bones in order to wreak havoc among the living. Still, that knowledge was cold comfort as we squished our way along the trail, having to watch every step and yet move as quickly as we could. A single misstep would bring disaster, for the sound of rattling bones drew ever nearer.

  “Master,” I panted, “wouldn’t it be … a good idea … to work … a spell?”

  He moved fast for a stout man, and I was amazed that he was able to speak without panting. “As you know, I would prefer to avoid using magic, Jasper.”

  “We may not … have that choice … master,” I replied, feeling a hot burning creeping up my sides as I ran.

  “Just a bit farther,” he said, beginning to sound winded himself. “Make sure you do … whatever I do.”

  I grunted in affirmation and pressed on, not daring to look over my shoulder. I had no idea where we were, or how far we had to go to get to solid land, or even if that would do us any good.

  What I did know was that we had no chance of outdistancing the evil thing behind us. The clattering was growing louder and closer, and suddenly I felt something sharp like the point of a spear rake across my back, tearing my cloak and my shirt and the flesh beneath.

  The pain spurred me on, but I knew I couldn’t last much longer. Skeletal fingers plucked again at my back, and I nearly fell, when Benelaius suddenly shrieked at the top of his lungs. When I looked, I saw that he was diving belly-first onto the swampy ground.

  Make sure you do whatever I do.

  And I dove, too, just sliding under the barrage of thorns that whizzed through the air toward us.

  Benelaius had shouted to alarm the thornslinger, and that deadly tree had launched dozens of its lethal missiles in our direction. We struck the earth just in time, but the living horror that inhabited Fastred’s bones was not so lucky.

  I rolled when I hit the mud, and saw the thorns take the monster. They pierced the ancient armor, splintered the brittle bones, and shattered the yellow, moldering skull into four pieces that flew in separate directions as the split helm rolled to a stop by my feet.

  In seconds, what had been a running nightmare became a pile of harmless rubble, spread out over a wide area. Most of the bones sank quickly into the mire, but a large chunk of rib cage landed over a dead log, where it moved for a long time, the ribs twitching like separate fingers.

  At last I looked slowly at Benelaius, who smiled, put a finger to his lips, and said, so softly that I could barely hear, “Shhh …”

  We got to our feet, and I picked up the helm. Then we walked slowly and carefully out of the thornslinger’s range toward the road and safety. When we were a hundred yards away from the final resting place of Fastred’s bones, Benelaius turned back toward me. “All right, then,” he said with a great sigh, “now Fastred’s haunting of the swamp is at an end.”

  “Better late than never,” I said with a smile. “What was that thing, anyway? A wandering spirit?”

  “I imagine so. A good lesson for us. Always leave tomb doors closed. You never know what might come in and possess your corpse.” I made a mental note of it. Then Benelaius glanced at the ruined helm in my hand. “A souvenir?”

  “Yes, I thought.”

  “That’s fine … as long as whatever might be left of Fastred doesn’t want it back.”

  I thought for a moment, then tossed the helm on a muddy rise and didn’t look back at it as we trekked on toward dry ground.

  Jenkus and Stubbins were never a more welcome sight, and we mounted and headed back to the cottage. The rain was falling more heavily now. “It seems that the drought will shortly be over,” Benelaius said.

  “If this continues.”

  My master looked up at the sky, sniffed the air, then nodded. “It will.” I didn’t ask him how he knew, but I wanted to learn. He had not yet taught me the secrets of the weather.

  “You know, it’s a shame,” I said, “that no one will ever know the truth. You really should record the events for posterity.”

  “I leave that to you, Jasper. Your vocabulary is certainly up to the task, and your recording skills are as fine as most scribes. Write it down if you will, but it must be a tale that cannot be told for many years.”

  “Does Lindavar know the entire truth?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I had to keep it secret from both of you so that your … performances would be believable. Besides, Lindavar’s success will not only improve the way his fellow War Wizards look upon him, but will also bolster his image of himself.”

  “It’s too bad that he takes all the credit when you really solved the mystery,” I said, and chuckled. “Instead of the ‘consulting cogitator,’ you could become famed as the ‘cogitating conjurer!’ ”

  “Please …” Benelaius moaned, then added lightly, “I no longer need such recognition. Besides, the nature of men being what it is, I am sure that there will be many more crimes to investigate in the future, even in a sleepy little town such as Ghars.”

  By the time we arrived home, the rain was falling heavily. I stabled the horses, then went inside to find Benelaius unaccustomedly piling up logs in a haphazard manner in the fireplace as the cats watched curiously. “Thought a nice fire would banish the dampness,” he said, putting a large log on top so that the pyramid toppled over, scattering the cats in every direction.

  I laughed and said, “Well, if you’ll just wait until I get our muddy clothes soaking in some water, I’ll build a fire, master.”

  He straightened up and gave me one of his serious looks. “First of all, you don’t have to wash the clothes; secondly, you don’t have to build the fire—I should be learning how to do these things for myself; and thirdly, you need not call me ‘master.’ ”

  Then I remembered what, in the exciting rush of the last several days, I had forgotten. “My indentured service to you,” I said. “It’s over today.”

  “It is,” said Benelaius briskly. “And although I shall be sorry to see you go, I know that you have been looking forward to your economic and social freedom. You may feel free to spend the night here, of course, or longer, and leave whenever it suits you.”

  I didn’t know what to say. The joy I had expected to feel on this day had been replaced by another kind of joy, that of havin
g helped to accomplish a great task, of having been the legs and eyes and ears of a great man, one who had taught me much, who had made me into a different person, and who could teach me still more.

  Lindavar had asked me to look after Benelaius, had said that he needed someone like me. And I thought that maybe I needed him as well.

  For a while longer, at least. It had proven to be quite an exciting week, and for all I knew there could be more excitement to come. If not, at least I would continue with a splendid education from one of the greatest men of the age. All in all, not a bad deal.

  “Master … uh, Benelaius … did you say you were sorry to see me go?”

  “I did. You are bright, alert, and you cook far better than I. I particularly relish your sausages.…”

  “Would you be willing then to let me remain in your employ without an indenture? As a salaried employee?”

  Benelaius tried to look slightly surprised, but I saw that he was feigning. “I do pay you a salary, Jasper. A silver falcon a month.”

  “And if you wish me to remain … Benelaius, you shall pay me twenty silver falcons a month.”

  The startled expression on his face was sincere. “Oh, now I hardly think that—”

  “Farewell, then.”

  “What about five?”

  “What about twenty?”

  “Oh, come, Jasper, we can surely bargain …”

  “Fine. Let’s start bargaining at twenty.”

  “Seven?”

  “You like doing your own laundry?”

  “Nine?”

  “Feeding all the cats?”

  “Twelve?”

  “Caring for the horses?”

  “Fifteen?”

  “Mucking out the stables?”

  “Eighteen?”

  “Emptying your own chamber pot?”

  “All right, then, twenty!”

  But I had only begun. “Cooking? Washing the dishes? Going into Ghars for supplies?”

  “Twenty-five, then! And not a copper more!”

  “A deal!” I cried, and grasped his hand and shook it.

  He shook his head ruefully. “I see that halfling blood in you all too clearly,” he said. “Very well, then, wash up our cloaks, then build me a fire, make me some tea … and bring in the books on invertebrate species. We’ve neglected your studies for far too long.”

  I grinned and made him a slight bow. Soon there would be a fire in the fireplace and a pot of tea on the hob. I swept up the muddy cloaks under one arm and proceeded to the washtub in the kitchen, whistling cheerily and petting hordes of purring cats as I went.

  I was home.

  About the Author

  Chet Williamson is the author of many novels, among them Ash Wednesday, Reign, and Second Chance. His shorter work has appeared in Playboy, The New Yorker, Esquire, and many other magazines and anthologies. His work has been nominated for the World Fantasy Award, the Mystery Writers of America’s Edgar Award, and the Horror Writers of America’s Bram Stoker Award.

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