by Dave Gross
What? she signed.
“Prince of Wolves,” I muttered, unsure for a moment whether I was talking to myself or greeting the dead man.
She slapped my arm. I ignored her, thinking she was only going to mock me again, but she kept slapping me until I turned. She pointed behind us, into the graveyard.
Tudor’s “rock farts” were appearing at an increasing rate, only now the red dust did not dissipate into the wind. Instead, it accumulated into little clouds that moved about the yard as if seeking something lost. Some disappeared into the ground, while others slipped inside tumbleweeds and wore them like armor. Within moments, more gaseous eruptions had burst from the earth around the tombstones, and the first white fingers of bones poked up out of the earth and kept emerging.
Azra hissed and pulled my arm. A starknife appeared in her hand, and she held it up like a warding totem. Before we had moved more than a few steps into the graveyard, we were surrounded.
None of the restless dead were complete skeletons, and they weren’t made solely of bone. Within the red clouds, tiny metal coffin handles, blackened by age, hung suspended beside runny lumps of ground slime eked up from the deep damp. Half a skull hovered in the space a heart might hang in a human body. A tangle of centipedes wriggled in place of a head, one of the insects ringed by a tarnished silver wedding band. The spirits shambled toward us on rattling legs formed of ribs and collarbones.
I whipped a boot dagger at one of the nearest. The blade passed through without so much as changing course. I threw another that nicked a pelvis before spinning away. The spirit did not seem to notice.
“Hurry,” cried Tudor, dancing in terror at the edge of the gate. Behind him, I saw the Sczarni wolves creeping toward the cemetery wall.
“Get over here!” I shouted. A dark wolf, possibly Malena, moved toward me. Two others began to follow, but a growl from silverback Dragos stopped them. He sat to watch what would unfold, and the others obeyed his example.
“Should have killed the son of a bitch,” I muttered. Azra paid me no attention. She spread a ring of silver ash around us. Her hands moved like charmed cobras, and the ring flared to life, but only for an instant. Before the divine wall could form around us, the red wind whipped through and scattered the sparkling dust.
“What now?” I said.
Azra jerked her head toward the tomb while drawing another spell. She twisted her hands and snapped her palms outward. A ray of silver light shot through the nearest spirit, which sagged like a speared jellyfish and collapsed.
“Tell me you can do that all day long,” I said.
Azra shook her head and continued backing into the mausoleum. I drew the big knife and covered her as best I could without getting in the way. She slapped me on the shoulder, and when I turned to look she signed, Hold door. She spun into a dance, her feet rising off the ground as she climbed airy steps to the top of the sarcophagus. There she continued her ritual.
“Right,” I said, turning back to face the gathering mob. Each of the spirits was a different jumble of dust and mold and bone fragments, and it was hard to see where one ended and another began. Some overlapped as they shuffled forward, and that’s the one thing they all had in common: they were coming for us.
I thrust my knife at the nearest spirit. The blade hissed like a hot knife in butter, and the undead thing recoiled for an instant, but then it came on again.
“Whatever you’re doing,” I called to Azra, “Make it quick.”
Golden light filled the interior of the tomb. At the threshold, the spirits hesitated. One oozed out a ruddy tendril that steamed and exuded a strong sulfuric stink as it bathed in the divine radiance. Despite the pain or annoyance or whatever sensation a spirit felt, the thing urged itself forward, slowly at first, but then with more confidence.
“Not enough,” I said. “What else you got?”
Azra shot me a look of disgust. With a flourish she gestured at my knife and set it ablaze with silver light. Help, she signed.
“Glad to,” I growled, slashing at the spirits who pushed in through the open vault. Now my blade sizzled as it cut through their airy bodies. When I hit a bone it snapped, and chunks of greasy matter sloughed off their wounds and bubbled on the tomb floor. I slashed and stabbed like a mad butcher, but still they pressed forward. For every one I put down, they pushed me back a step.
Azra hooted for my attention. She pointed at the peaked ceiling, where more spirits oozed their way in through the window slits. One gassy figure let slip its bones and sod to thump wetly on the floor, then plopped down on top to resume control of its fragments. Azra burned it with another holy ray, but her expression was turning desperate. I didn’t think she could do that again, and from the look of it, she didn’t know what else she had to fight with.
The undead pressed me back, and I reached over to touch Azra’s arm. I gave her a look, but she shook her head.
Then she danced.
The room filled with what looked like fireflies, and wherever they lit, the translucent substance of the spirits crackled and spat.
If we’d had three more like Azra with us, we might have won. But then the fireflies faded.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have—”
For a second I thought it was Azra who had screamed, but the sound came from the tomb entrance, where a blade of blinding light swept like a scythe across the undead. Where the sword touched their rotten remains, it did not just cut but destroyed. The spirits evaporated at its touch, suspended bones blackening and shattering, the muck of graves exploding into puffs of dust.
In seconds the assault was over, and there in the doorway, inexplicably accompanied by a huge dog, stood Varian Jeggare, Count of Cheliax, Venture-Captain of the Pathfinders, and my boss. He choked at the sight of me, and his eyes welled up with tears.
I felt a big mushy sentiment rising up out of my churning stomach, but I swallowed it back down and tried to think of a smart remark. Nothing came to mind.
Chapter Fifteen
Graves
Radovan was naturally dumbfounded by my sudden appearance, but, among its many other benefits, my gentle upbringing has prepared me to face the most unexpected turns of event with grace and aplomb.
Unfortunately, Arnisant, as I had named the hound, did not share my composure, leaping up and barking in excitement. I had to turn my full attention to making him sit, and then I plucked my handkerchief from my sleeve to wipe the ancient grave dust from my eyes before speaking.
“Nice dog,” said Radovan. He displayed one of those lopsided grins that had become so rare in the past year or so. It fell short of the full effect of his menacing smile, but it caused Arnisant to lie down by my feet with a whimper.
“I trust you are unharmed,” I replied, marveling not only that he lived but that he displayed no obvious signs of injury. The fall from the Senir Bridge alone should have been fatal. Then I noticed the starknife in the hand of the woman beside him. At first glance, she appeared to be a peasant girl, yet she held herself with the confidence one expects from a village elder. Considering the glow of recent consecration that filled the room, I supposed she was a cleric and bowed to her in the Varisian style. “May Desna smile upon you, sister.”
She returned my courtesy with a nod. In other circumstances, I might have taken offense at her presumption of the higher status. Perhaps she had little experience with a higher class of people, for she left her introduction to Radovan. “She’s Azra,” he said. “And the big fellow ...” His mouth fell open as if to trap a thought that had surreptitiously escaped. “...is Tudor.”
Radovan rushed from the mausoleum, Azra on his heels. Arnisant and I followed, pausing only to retrieve the satchel I had dropped outside the mausoleum. Nearby, my phantom steed gazed emotionlessly at me. It would not last much longer, so I dismissed it with a thought, and it faded away into the nether.
The light of Galdana’s sword had dimmed after it destroyed the last of the restless dead, but as a result of t
heir residue or the lingering spirit of the place itself, the sword still produced enough light to show our way through the broken cemetery.
Just beyond its walls, a group of men and women were donning clothes they pulled from a large, worn satchel. Earlier I had seen only a pack of wolves, drawn there by the holy light and a familiar voice shouting from within. The animals had scattered at my arrival, probably cowed by the sight of Galdana’s drawn blade, although Arnisant no doubt prided himself on routing them with his ferocious barking as he ran beside my phantom steed.
Judging from their clothes and the way they displayed their tattoos, I deduced they were Sczarni, the Varisians’ particular breed of scum. Worse, adding the clue of their nudity to what I had seen earlier, I realized that we stood among werewolves. I gripped the sword tightly and touched a scroll tucked into my belt. Radovan and Azra approached the Sczarni as if they were familiar with them.
Beside the crumbling gateposts, a pair of naked men menaced an enormous man-child, presumably Tudor. The bullying Sczarni laughed as Tudor cringed, but their demeanor changed when Radovan strode toward them. The elder, a lean man with a fantastic white mane and long moustaches, crossed his arms in a gesture meant to convey nonchalance, but his posture revealed he was anything but confident.
“We caught this peasant spying on you, my prince,” said the other man, a thick and hairy fellow with muttonchop whiskers. Despite his insolent tone, Radovan ignored that one and went straight for the old man. He feinted a grab at the throat, but when the Sczarni raised his arms to protect his face, Radovan swept his legs and knocked him to the ground. He followed the man down, striking him full in the chest with his elbow spur. I knew from past experience that Radovan’s spurs were not long enough to pierce the heart, but I could not help but wince as the crack of the Sczarni’s breastbone echoed throughout the canyon.
Radovan rolled up to his feet and turned his back on the injured man, who lay there wheezing, too stunned to lift his arms to the wound. Beside me, Arnisant lowered his body and growled at the strangers, while Azra hissed in sympathetic pain.
“On the ground, you disloyal curs!” roared Radovan. The other men and women fell to their hands and knees, some remaining half-dressed. While he usually maintained a cool head, I had seen Radovan angry before, fighting for his life and mine, but this time the fury was on him like a halo. “You want to follow me, you damned well come when I call!” he shouted in surprisingly credible Varisian. The rest was a string of such toxic curses as I had not heard since observing my sergeant berate the men during my first campaign in defense of the Empire.
When he had finished, a few among the Sczarni begged forgiveness, while the rest finished dressing or turned away their sullen faces. The old man glowered with barely concealed hatred as Radovan conferred in low tones with a strikingly handsome woman. She appeared to be placating Radovan, whose resistance was obviously crumbling as she maneuvered closer. He has ever been vulnerable to feminine charm.
“What was that about?” I asked Azra.
Long story, she signed, ignoring me in favor of squinting at Radovan’s conference with the beautiful Sczarni woman.
“You are a Pathfinder!” I cried.
She released a weary sigh and turned her eyes to the heavens. No, she signed emphatically. She pointed into her open mouth, where I saw the ragged stump of her tongue.
“I am terribly sorry,” I said, not knowing how else to respond to such a blunt gesture. “I am Count Varian Jeggare.”
She nodded. The dead boss.
“Fortunately, not yet dead.” The equanimity of her reply caused me to wonder how my seeming demise had affected Radovan. Judging from the motley entourage he had accumulated, any mourning he had experienced had not diminished his industry.
Tudor approached Azra, warily avoiding me and the sword I held high like a torch. His protruding forehead was only one of several signs of gigantism, and his childish expression suggested the disorder was accompanied by some degree of idiocy. I lowered the weapon to show I meant no harm, and he stood near Azra, cowering like a bullied child taking refuge behind his mother’s skirts. My fleeting empathy vanished when I saw him thrust a finger into his nose. I made a mental note not to let him touch me with those befouled digits.
Radovan returned from his conference with the dark-haired Sczarni woman. “Malena tells me the Sczarni are setting camp by the old village,” he said, indicating the area by the ridge with a jerk of his thumb. Near the broken road, they had already built a fire and begun removing a surprising quantity of gear and furnishings from their bag.
They are not afraid? signed Azra.
“They seem more concerned about the cemetery,” said Radovan. “Besides, I told them you would curse them all if they left us alone tonight.”
You do not command me, she signed.
“It was either that or beat on a few of them,” he said. “I figured you could use the rest instead of dancing them back to health all night.”
They will turn on you, she warned.
“You’re the one who said they’ll turn on me only if I show weakness,” he said. “While I am strong, they’ll treat me like their prince.”
Azra set her jaw and lifted her fingers to sign a rebuttal, but instead she sighed and waved away his argument in a gesture of disengagement, not concession. I sensed that she and Radovan had established a history of argument. She turned her back on Radovan and examined Tudor for wounds. I noticed the boy wiping his sticky hand on the chest of his tunic.
I turned away and asked Radovan, “Prince of the Sczarni?”
“Just the werewolf ones, I think,” he said.
At least he was fully aware of their true nature, but his willingness to associate with lycanthropes of any sort surprised me. He had nearly died at the hands of a wererat gang during his tenure with the despicable Goatherds.
“Are they the same creatures who attacked us at the Senir Bridge?”
“Same clan,” he said. “But the one who led the attack is dead.”
“Then why do they follow you now? Surely you must realize they will want revenge.”
“Boss, I don’t even know where to begin.” Before he could continue, Arnisant began to bark somewhere in the graveyard. It began as an alert, but the sounds accelerated and transformed into a howl.
We ran toward the sound, which came from a spot just inside the cemetery walls. Tudor paused at the gate, debating whether to enter the accursed place or remain outside with the Sczarni. By the time we reached Arnisant, Tudor came puffing up behind us, afraid to be left alone among the werewolves. He was not a complete idiot.
Galdana’s sword did not brighten, but by its feeble light we saw the hound was reacting to a grave. Despite the weeds and dead wildflowers upon the mound, it was instantly apparent that the grave was months old, not centuries.
“Boss, why did you come here?” asked Radovan.
I indicated the mausoleum. “If I have followed her research correctly, my Pathfinder sought that tomb.”
“I hate to say it,” he said, and then fell silent because he knew I had observed the same fact that he had upon entering the tomb. Before he and Azra disturbed it, no one had been inside the mausoleum for centuries.
While Arnisant stood sentry outside the vault door, Radovan and I searched the mausoleum. Working side by side with him evoked happy memories of our concerted efforts to unravel the mysteries and intrigues of my peers in Egorian. Besides, focusing on the object at hand distracted me from my dreadful suspicion of what we would find in the cemetery.
Dragos and Cezar grudgingly unearthed the recent grave as penance for failing to come to Radovan’s aid earlier. I took advantage of our relative privacy to familiarize Radovan with my experiences at Willowmourn, including my suspicion that Casomir Galdana was a disciple of Urgathoa, the Pallid Princess. In the time since my escape, I had begun to formulate a theory to explain why he had allowed me access to his uncle’s library. It was important to him that I continued my rese
arch, even after a first attempt presumably went awry, requiring him to have my memory blotted. Somehow he had given his scheme away the first time, before he had gained what he desired from me. It could only be that he too wished to find my missing Pathfinder, or more probably the object of her quest. If so, his object had to be the Lacuna Codex, which I knew was connected to his appalling goddess.
Radovan’s account of his experiences since the incident on the Senir Bridge distracted me even more than did the contents of the tomb, but the ancient coin Malena had given him was even more intriguing. I agreed with his assessment that the image appeared so similar to the lord on the sarcophagus that they were almost certainly representations of the same man. Even the convergence of those clues, however, led to more questions. If this man were in fact the lost lord of Virholt, it was difficult to reconcile his prominence in the ancient chronicle with interment in this isolated village. If he had been buried with honor, his tomb should be in a more prominent location. Alternatively, if his death at the hands of Tar-Baphon were ignominious, one would expect no memorial whatever. The latter case seemed more likely, considering the dearth of references in the accepted history of Ustalav.
“You say this fellow was lord of the whole region, a king or prince,” said Radovan, passing me his talisman. “But this is only a copper.”
“Just so,” I said. It is my habit to give him a chance to answer his own questions, but I was struck by the image on the coin. “Do you not find this image familiar?”
Radovan frowned. “At first I worried it was just a coincidence Malena was using to scam me,” he said. “And then Azra told me I was being a fool about this Prince of Wolves business. But yeah, I’ve seen a face like that in a few mirrors.”
I could only nod agreement. The resemblance was remarkable. Certainly, native Ustalavs share certain recognizable features, but I would be surprised to learn that Radovan was not a direct descendant of the man depicted on the coin. Naturally others, especially the current nobles of Ustalav, would require significantly more evidence.
