Black-and-blue but grinning widely, Sophraea’s enormous brother gathered up the heavy skirts of the skeleton horse’s armor and dragged it out of the gate.
The knight fought to turn the horse, but Leaplow’s grip was too strong. For the moment, the dead warrior, his horse, and Leaplow blocked the gate leading into the Dead End courtyard and kept the other dead from entering.
The booming tread of the statue crossing the courtyard startled all the combatants. Everyone turned to watch Gustin’s stone fighter stride toward the graveyard gate.
Stunk’s men broke off their attack of Lord Adarbrent and stood openmouthed.
“Stop him,” the fat man screamed. “You’ll all be street beggars if you don’t stop him!”
His men hesitated and then raised their weapons and circled the stone man. One slashed at the statue with his short sword. The blade shattered on the granite head and the statue marched on.
“Clubs!” Stunk screamed. “Mallets! Don’t use your blades, you idiots!”
“Wood,” someone shouted and they all raced to pick up anything that could be used as a club. “Rocks,” yelled another.
The courtyard was littered with building materials. Armed with boards and stone urns, Stunk’s men raced back toward the walking statue.
“Don’t let them smash it!” screamed Sophraea.
“We’re defending a statue?” yelled Bentnor.
“Yes,” she yelled back.
“All right,” he agreed. Then he shrugged and motioned to his twin. The two men picked up the nearest of Stunk’s fighters trying to wrestle a half-carved tombstone into the statue’s path. With a heave and a grunt, Bentnor and Cadriffle threw the armored man across the courtyard into a couple of others. The twins gave a ragged cheer, as if they had scored a goal in one of their endless ball games.
Stunk’s men gave a unified growl. They dropped the junk they had picked up from the courtyard to draw their own weapons. Swords were fully out and they swung back toward the younger Carvers with blades upraised. Lord Adarbrent sped forward, obviously trying to place himself between the two lines of very angry men.
Gustin drew a deep breath and raised his own hands, only the faintest glow of magic quivering at his fingertips. His eyes were sparkling green as he advanced toward the two sides.
“I hope this spell works,” he muttered. “Want to give me one more kiss for luck?”
“Somebody is going to get killed.” Sophraea tried to keep one eye on her family and an equally desperate eye on Gustin.
“Probably me,” Gustin agreed. But he winked at her as he moved cautiously forward. “Try not to worry too much!”
Sophraea wrung her hands, twisting round and round Volponia’s ring.
“I wish that they would all freeze in place until we can get into the City of the Dead,” she said. The ring flared hot upon her finger and then icy cold.
The usual Waterdeep drizzle dissolved into fat snowflakes. The snow began to fall faster and faster. Soon the swirling white storm obscured the crooked chimneys of Dead End House.
A cold wind swept through the courtyard, tumbling Stunk’s fighters and Sophraea’s family into the drifts of snow piling up. Even the dead were blown away from the gate, pushed back into the City of the Dead. Sophraea heard Leaplow give a shout as the knight and his rotting horse slipped on the sudden ice that slicked every surface.
Only Gustin’s statue seemed impervious to this strange winter storm. It strode on, snow settling on its shoulders so it appeared as if the statue wore a white mantle over its carved armor.
“What have you done, Sophraea Carver?” Gustin asked.
“I made a wish,” replied the stunned Sophraea. “Volponia said something about the ring containing only half a wish. I was not expecting anything like this!”
“I think it was more like a wish-and-a-half,” said Gustin.
The statue passed Sophraea’s uncles and aunts and stomped down the little stairs leading into the City of the Dead.
“We better go,” said Gustin. “We need to finish the spell at the tomb.”
Sophraea checked her basket. Lord Adarbrent’s spellbook was still safely stored there. She stepped cautiously on the cobblestones of the courtyard. The stones were slick under her feet, but not impossibly so. Everyone around her slipped and slid, knocked prone and unable to regain their feet, caught by her wish.
Gustin started to slide and snatched at her shoulder to steady himself. As soon as he touched her, he stopped falling.
“Interesting,” the wizard noted. “Hang onto me, Sophraea, until we get into the City of the Dead.”
She threaded her arm through his. They picked their way around the fallen fighters toward the gate.
Of the fighters in the center of the courtyard, only Lord Adarbrent managed to stay upright. He swayed from side to side, the snow-filled wind billowing out his coattails.
Sophraea grabbed his arm. At her touch, the old nobleman stopped swaying.
“Can you walk?” she asked.
He took one careful step and then another. He nodded at Sophraea.
Gustin and Lord Adarbrent, with Sophraea in the middle to steady them both by hanging onto their arms, followed after the marching statue.
The statue marched straight ahead, its eyes fastened on its goal. It seemed more than willing to follow that one instruction from Gustin, to walk to a named destination. But what if that was all it could do?
“Then one of us has to put the shoe inside,” Sophraea muttered to herself as she pushed through the snow after it. “And one of us has to close that door.”
The ghastly knight righted its skeletal horse as they passed. Over her shoulder, Sophraea saw the knight gather up the rotting reins of its steed but give the creature no signal to move.
Leaplow yelled and tried to get to his feet, only to slip and fall again.
“That haunt is still watching us,” Gustin informed her.
Sophraea’s own sense of movement within the City of the Dead informed her that all the dead were changing their course, turning back from the gates and other exits, and moving slowly toward the north of the graveyard, toward the Markarl tomb.
She didn’t know if it was the token that the statue carried or Algozata’s horrible spellbook that attracted the dead’s attention. She tried to be glad that they were no longer trying to invade Dead End House or the rest of Waterdeep.
But she wondered if ending the curse would be enough. Ever since Gustin tried to reverse Lord Adarbrent’s spell, she’d sensed a change in the atmosphere. The noble dead were no longer content with playing tricks on the living, such as rattling a few windows at Stunk’s mansion or causing a few houseplants to wilt.
Something worse had woken; something that hungered for more than petty revenge.
Up in Volponia’s room, her plan had seemed so simple and so clear. In Volponia’s room, she’d thought she knew all the answers. In Volponia’s room, she had not been afraid.
But as the snow blew bitter in her face and the noble dead began to move again within the City of the Dead, Sophraea wondered if she’d been right.
For the sun was setting, and the dead were always stronger at night.
She shivered. She had no more wishes in the magic ring. She had to rely on her own courage and the courage of her companions. Would that be enough?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Once the trio had passed through the gate into the City of the Dead, Sophraea’s wish began to loosen its grip upon everyone in the courtyard. The snow continued to fall, but at a gentler rate.
First to struggle to their feet were Rampage Stunk and his fighters.
Stunk saw the flick of Sophraea’s cloak disappear through the gateway.
“Follow them!” he bellowed at his bewildered men.
As Stunk and his men disappeared through the gate, the Carvers finally found themselves able to rise out of the snow.
“Sophraea!” cried Reye, starting after her daughter.
Astute followed hard on the hee
ls of his wife and the rest of the Carvers followed him.
Everyone tumbled through the ravaged opening of the graveyard gate, following the clear tracks of the stone statue leading them north, deeper into the cemetery.
As always in the City of the Dead, Sophraea’s vision shattered into pieces. She felt as if she looked through the eyes of a dozen Sophraeas, all showing her glimpses of this part of the graveyard or that part.
“Your eyes are burning blue,” Gustin stated. “Your face is shining like a candle. Sophraea, what do you see?” “Too much,” she replied.
All around her, she could see the outlines of the dead, keeping pace with her as she followed Gustin’s statue.
Every tomb’s occupant, every grave’s sleeper, was awake. And waiting to see what would happen next. Gustin’s own attempt to reverse the curse earlier had roused them all.
Behind her, she could see just as clearly that Rampage Stunk was urging on his frightened men. He did not know the pathways, the twists and turns, as she did. But the marks of the statue’s passage were clear in the snow and he would have no problem following them.
And behind Stunk came her family, Astute and Reye, Leaplow and Bentnor, all the uncles, aunts, cousins, and sisters-in-law. All following because they thought she needed help. And she was terrified for them all.
“Sunset,” whispered Gustin, as if raising his voice could disturb that expectant hush that filled the City of the Dead.
At her other side, Lord Adarbrent walked without comment. But she knew the old nobleman also was aware of the dead keeping pace with them and the enemies following behind him. It was written in the straightness of his back and the keen glances he darted from side to side.
Snow continued to fall, muffling their footsteps upon the paths, granting an eerie quiet to the memorials they passed. The shadows seemed deeper, blacker, in contrast to the white piling up at the base of the tombs.
But when Sophraea concentrated her vision on what was actually before her, she could see to the west the faintest glimmer of red.
“Not sunset, not just yet,” she answered Gustin.
Lord Adarbrent too glanced to the west.
“Not quite night,” he agreed. “But almost. And not a night to be long within these walls.”
“No, we’ll do what needs to be done and leave,” Sophraea said. Then her vision of what was behind her obscured her sight and made her stumble on the path. Gustin caught her and held her steady.
“Stunk’s men,” she informed him, “they saw my family and they’ve turned back. They’ll be fighting again.”
And blood spilled upon the snow, on that night and in that place, would bring disaster upon them. That thought sprang into her mind as easily as she knew the right turn to take or the name of the monument that they were passing.
“Too many of the dead are awake,” she said, desperate to convey her insight to the men beside her. “We need to keep everyone moving, keep my family and Stunk’s men from fighting! If they do fight, it will be like meat thrown before hungry dogs!”
“Can you make a light, wizard?” asked Lord Adarbrent, turning back the way that they had come.
Gustin nodded. A blazing ball of white light appeared in his cupped palm. He tossed it once or twice and then flung it upward. It whizzed into the sky, breaking apart in a shower of sparks.
Shouts came from behind them. Gustin’s firework had been seen!
“That will bring them running,” said Lord Adarbrent. The old man stood in the center of the path, an old-fashioned silhouette against the snow. Flakes settling on his black hat formed a pattern like a white plume. “It is me that Stunk wants. He will pursue me farther into the graveyard. Let the dead follow us if they wish.”
“No,” protested Sophraea. “You don’t understand. It’s not like it was before. Something is stirring. Something worse than before.”
“But it started with the spell that I cast,” said the old man. “So, let me help now, to make amends.”
“If you leave us, you might not be able to find your way out,” Sophraea said. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see paths shifting, bushes bending down to hide the way, and, everywhere, shadows weaving black webs of confusion. On this night, only a Carver could safely find her way out ofthe City ofthe Dead. Sophraea was sure of that!
“If I am lost,” Lord Adarbrent said, “then it is a sacrifice I make for one of the great families of Waterdeep. Captain Volponia was right. Waterdeep needs Carvers, just as much as it needs nobles and wizards, merchants and adventurers, and all the rest. Your family is as much a part of Waterdeep’s history and its future as all the rest. You keep the City of the Dead beautiful. And you keep it safe.”
Sophraea chewed her lip. Letting the old nobleman sacrifice himself for her family seemed wrong. The snowflakes fell like cold tears on her upturned face.
Another shout, this one behind them, made her turn. The topiary dragon galloped toward them, half swimming through the snow. Briarsting rode high on his bushy steed’s neck, waving wildly at them.
“It’s all chaos and confusion, from one end of the City to the other,” the thorn called to them. “The City Watch has shut all the gates. The Blackstaff and the Watchful Order are warding all the walls!”
“Are there any living in the City of the Dead?” Sophraea called.
“Just that crowd that’s following you,” said Briarsting. “We saw them pass and knew you had to be close. I’ve been searching for you all afternoon. Met your brother chasing the dead down the paths toward your house. Now there’s a boy who likes a fight! And then, every light and flame went out. That’s when the Watch started yelling for everyone to clear out and locked down the gates!”
“That was me!” said Gustin.
“Did you know dousing the light was like ringing an alarm in the ear of every corpse within these walls?” the thorn inquired.
“It wasn’t intentional,” Gustin said.
“And there’s a great statue stumping its way toward the Markarl tomb,” the little man added, standing high on his perch and squinting his eyes against the flurries.
“That’s mine too,” said Gustin.
“Well, you have had the busy afternoon,” Briarsting concluded. “But now what?”
“We need your help,” Sophraea said. “Yours and every guardian that you can rouse.”
“Every ghost and spirit with a friendly feeling toward Waterdeep is striving to keep the gates closed tonight,” Briarsting stated.
Sophraea closed her eyes for a moment and, in her Carver vision of the graveyard, she could see that Briarsting was right. Glimmers of silver and gold stood before the public gates and along the wall, working as hard as the City Watch and the wizards of the Watchful Order on the other side to keep Waterdeep protected from the dead in the coming night. Heroes and legends, even the bright flare of some long-forgotten dead god, ringed the outer perimeters to hold the living city safe.
Only the Carver’s gate and Dead End House behind it was unprotected. Lord Adarbrent’s curse was a black break in the shimmering circle of ghostly goodwill.
“We need to get to the Markarl tomb,” Sophraea said, her eyes popping open to contemplate her companions. “But can you bring my family and Stunk and Stunk’s men there too? Help Lord Adarbrent lead them that way, but keep them from fighting?”
The topiary dragon swept its tail from side to side, sending up a spray of snow.
“We can do it,” Briarsting swore.
“Are you sure?” said Lord Adarbrent.
Sophraea nodded firmly. “Your noble dead will not sleep if they smell blood within these walls,” she said with conviction. “Keep my family and Stunk’s men apart but bring them to us. We need them all to be there when this is finished.”
So we can get everyone safely out of the City of the Dead, she thought, but did not want to jinx her luck by speaking this out loud.
Catching Gustin’s hand, Sophraea hurried toward the Markarl tomb.
They passe
d the reflecting pool. Out of the corner of her eye, Sophraea saw that the weeping warrior no longer covered her face. The stone woman stood very straight, stone sword and shield upraised, to protect whatever lay beneath her feet.
At the corners of other tombs, guardgoyles were stirring, beaks open and ready to scream, wings outstretched to beat off any intruders. Perpetual flames burned bright enough in the dishes outside tomb doors to reveal the elemental faces within the fire. Certain fountains shot higher into the night as the water spirits within roused themselves against the torpor caused by snow and ice.
Briarsting was right. All the guardians of the City of the Dead were awake.
Running through the snow, drifts as high as Sophraea’s knees, they caught up to the stone statue as it entered the little circle of land that Stunk had claimed for himself. A few marker stakes crunched under the statue’s feet as it continued toward the open door of the Markarl tomb.
A pale young lady in a gold brocade dress and shoes stood in the doorway. She smiled sadly at Sophraea and Gustin.
“I am so sorry,” Sophraea said to the ghost, “but this must end.”
She pulled the spellbook from her basket. “What must we say?” she said, flipping open the book.
Gustin raised his hand and cast a wizard light over her shoulder to illuminate Algozata’s spellbook.
“A bit of doggerel,” the wizard said. “That anyone could read. That’s what Lord Adarbrent said.”
“But what page?” In her distress, Sophraea almost tore the pages, flipping one after the other. Strange symbols, written in uneasy colors, flashed before her eyes.
The silence of the graveyard was once again shattered by shouts and muffled cries. One voice above the rest was clearly her brother Leaplow, yelling “Sophraea! Gustin! Are you all right? Where did this bush come from?”
A black shape slid next to Sophraea. Lord Adarbrent shook the snow from his wide coat cuffs with a practiced twist of the wrist.
“Almost amusing,” he huffed. “That creature cut the crowd in two and ran them here like a well-trained sheep dog with two flocks.”
The Carvers were pressed back against one tomb, held there by the sweeping tail of the topiary dragon. At the beast’s other end, equally at bay from the snapping teeth and Briarsting’s occasional flourish of his thorn blade, Stunk and his men huddled together.
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