Dance of the Dead

by Christie Golden

  Then, suddenly, the numbness was gone. Willen gasped for air, like a newborn devouring its first breath. With an effort, he opened his eyes, his body still twitching as it fought to breathe normally. The feu follet cleared his eyes of tears, and met Lond’s gaze evenly.

  The wizard was frozen with shock. “No,” he whispered in his raspy voice. “No … it’s not possible.” Lond swore and, frustrated with his failure, struck Willen heavily across the face.

  With an effort, the black-cloaked bocoru regained control of his emotions. Lond sank back down in his nightmarish chair, hands clasping and unclasping. Then, quietly, as if to himself alone, he began to laugh. “Dragoneyes, go fetch our little rabbit friend.”

  A chilling dread began to spread through the feu follet

  A few moments later, Dragoneyes returned. Bouki was determined to protest to the last and was literally being dragged by the neck, gasping and choking.

  “Oh, Willen! So they got you, too?” he said sadly to his companion.

  “Ah, you do know him, Bouki,” said Lond. The rabbit glanced up at him and let out a yelp of terror. He hunkered down, shaking, long ears flat against his silky head.

  “Yes, I know him,” Bouki quavered. “And I know you, too, Alondrin the Betrayer.”

  “Dragoneyes,” Lond ordered calmly, “bind Willen’s hand to Bouki’s paw.”

  The zombie did so, and Willen closed his eyes at what he suspected was about to happen.

  “You know what wrath you will incur if you hurt a loah, Alondrin,” he said in a low voice as Dragoneyes wrapped a torn cloth about his wrist. “Not just from the Maiden, either. Loahs are tied to the land, and if you hurt the land—”

  “Stop prattling to me like I was a novice,” Lond reprimanded. “The zombie lord will have to find me first, won’t he?”

  Dragoneyes tied the knot tight and straightened, awaiting his master’s next command. Apparently, however, Lond wanted this pleasure for himself. He extracted a red candle from its place atop a skull. Holding the flame in one black-gloved hand, the wizard crouched down near the terrified rabbit. Because he was touching Bouki, Willen’s empathic abilities were multiplied. The feu follet was flooded with the loah’s fear, though he gritted his teeth so as not to show it. He felt Lond’s malevolent gaze on him and kept his own eyes on the floor.

  “No, you don’t much like fire, do you, poor little Bouki?” Lond murmured.

  Bouki by now had edged back so that he was flattened against the door, his left forepaw raised and pressed tightly to Willen’s palm. “N-no,” he quavered.

  Willen thought calming thoughts, but they could not penetrate the thick wall of terror that the fire had aroused in the rabbit’s heart.

  “Then,” Lond continued in that same deceptively soft voice, “I don’t think you’ll like this!”

  Without warning the candle flame erupted, growing from an inch to a full foot high. The flame licked Bouki’s face, and the animal shrieked in pain and fear. The scent of charred flesh mingled with the stench of rot in the hellish cabin. The entire side of the creature’s face was burned black. Bouki’s eye was destroyed, and a thick fluid oozed from the crusted orb, sizzling as it touched the still-hot flesh.

  A cry broke from Willen’s lips. It was his eye blinded, his jaw burned and black, and he was so afraid, so horribly afraid …

  The two swamp creatures shivered and whimpered, reaching for one another for comfort. Tears streamed down Willen’s face.

  “Now, feu follet, you will tell me what I wish to know. If not—” Lond shrugged “—I enjoy playing with fire.”

  * * * * *

  Larissa awakened from a beautiful dream to the sounds of tension-filled voices arguing in high-pitched tones.

  “What?” she muttered fuzzily, then suddenly realized she was naked. Blushing, she pulled on her discarded clothing, waking up enough to see that the two verbal combatants were Longears and the Maiden.

  They were away from the clearing, beside the fast-flowing river. The Maiden was rooted in the muddy soil, and the loah sat on his hind legs, gesticulating with his forepaws. Combing her hair with her fingers, Larissa walked over to them.

  Longears fell silent at her approach, then without warning exploded with wrath. “You did this!” he shouted, turning on her angrily. “You made him careless. Now who knows what they are going to do to him and my cousin!”

  “Longears!” reproved the Maiden, her voice colder than Larissa had ever heard. “She is not to blame. Willen made his own choices and would be angry with you if he heard you now.”

  Larissa felt the blood drain from her face. “What’s happened to Willen?”

  The Maiden went to Larissa and gently eased the dancer to the earth, placing her cool lips to the young woman’s cheek in a fleeting kiss of reassurance.

  “He has been discovered. Longears saw them take him away.”

  Larissa’s gray lips formed Willen’s name. She closed her blue eyes, inhaled deeply and deliberately, then spoke in an unnaturally calm voice. “Then we attack La Demoiselle,” she said.

  The Maiden nodded. “I agree. If they discover his true nature, they will be able to torture him in a most hideous fashion. Brave as he is, I doubt he will be able to stand much of that, and they will soon know all our plans. I had hoped for more time to train you, but …” Her voice trailed off. She rose, extending a hand to Larissa. “Come. We must make haste.”

  “To the boat?” Larissa’s voice was hard with resolve.

  “No, not yet. We must first ask permission to attack Dumont.”

  “Permission? I thought you ruled here, Maiden. Aren’t you the Maiden of the Swamp?”

  The Maiden smiled sadly. “I am indeed, but my influence is slight. There is one who is the true lord of all of Souragne. He has permitted Dumont to travel safely through this realm, and it is he who must give us leave to attack his guest.

  “If we attack La Demoiselle without his leave, then he will attack us. And if he attacks us,” she said simply, “we will be destroyed. I tread a delicate line with Misroi. I will not tempt his wrath. This was why I did not wish to become involved with the rescue attempt, as Willen desired. I had hoped that he would be able to free our people on his own.”

  Larissa remembered the Maiden’s initial reluctance. It was only when she had agreed to be the one to lead the fight that the Maiden began teaching her.

  “But,” the Maiden continued, “for the first time, Misroi and I may be on the same side in this particular battle.”

  Larissa blinked, thoroughly befuddled. “What?” she managed at last.

  The Maiden chuckled sympathetically at her incomprehension. “Hurry up and bathe, my dear. I’m sure you’ll understand soon enough.” Her smile faded, and her green eyes grew sorrowful. “Sooner than ever I would have wished.”

  Obediently, Larissa bathed and dressed. She combed her long, wet hair and began to braid it.

  “Mo,” said the Maiden, laying a feather-light hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “What have I told you about that? Your hair is part of your dancing. Do not bind it.”

  “Am I going to need to work magic?” The thought alarmed Larissa.

  “You may,” the Maiden replied grimly.

  The Maiden led Larissa to a small boat. It was a hollowed-out cypress trunk that sat low in the water. The Maiden placed her hands on it, and Larissa saw that, for a moment, they grew into the wood. Then the Maiden sighed, and her hands became her own again. She looked tired, the green of her skin and hair even lighter than usual.

  “The pirogue will travel where you need to go,” she told Larissa, her voice frail. “It will take you to Anton Misroi, then bring you back here safely.”

  “Maiden, aren’t you coming with me?”

  “I am unable to leave this island. This is the only place where I may root.” She smiled wanly. “Elsewhere, the land is … unwholesome for me. It is part of the way my influence is limited. As for Misroi—some call him the Lord of the Dead. He is the master of t
he zombies. All I can say is that he is dangerous, temperamental—and extremely intelligent. Whatever you expect him to be, he will surprise you. Do not underestimate him, Larissa. And do not fight him. Any battle he enters into, he will win. Child …” The Maiden looked at Larissa closely. “You are embarking into danger. It is not too late to turn back. If you go, go of your own free will.”

  Larissa licked her lips, then pressed them together determinedly. “I love Willen, and he’s being held prisoner. How can I not do everything I can to free him?”

  The Maiden searched Larissa’s blue eyes. “Go, then, brave child. And remember, whatever Anton Misroi may be, you are a whitemane. Let the knowledge give you courage.”

  She stepped back, and Larissa eased herself into the boat. It was very steady. The Maiden pushed the pirogue into the river, and it slid smoothly through the greenish water.

  Larissa forced herself to relax; the pirogue moved as though an invisible sternman were paddling it. She rode the river for a while, then the boat veered sharply to the right and entered into a dark, dank, cypress-shadowed bayou. In the distance was a whirring of insects. Other than that, the only sound was the slight rippling of the water as the pirogue sliced through it.

  Larissa closed her eyes, trying to “root” herself as the Maiden had instructed her. She was quite frightened at the thought of meeting someone who was known as the Lord of the Dead. It was bad enough dealing with the zombies aboard La Demoiselle when she didn’t know their true, horrific nature. Larissa hoped she’d be up to bargaining with the one who was lord of them all.

  The wind picked up, grew colder. It stirred up the rank scent of the marsh, and Larissa grimaced. Rain, light at first but becoming increasingly heavy, began to fall.

  “I didn’t even bring a cloak,” Larissa said morosely to herself, hunching over in a futile attempt to avoid being soaked. The fat raindrops pounded carelessly, splashing on the surface of the stagnant water.

  Shivering a little, Larissa glanced around, wondering if there wasn’t something, anything, she could use to shield herself from the weather. She looked over at the bank and started, gasping.

  Four skeletons, clad only in rotting garments, grinned back at her from the limbs of what appeared to be quickwoods. The men must have been trapped by the trees and starved to death, Larissa assumed. The quickwood moved, shifted, and Larissa realized that the “face” of the huge old tree was infinitely more malevolent than any of the quickwoods. A dull fire burned in the hollow areas that served it for eyes, and its mouth was filled with sharp protrusions. As she watched it, the tree lowered its bony ornaments to the grass.

  The skeletons rose awkwardly and disappeared into the greenness of the foliage. Larissa’s pity for the dead men turned to fear. She knew where they were going—to inform their master, the Lord of the Dead, of her presence. Grimly, Larissa folded her arms tightly about her shivering frame and thought of Willen.

  The storm increased in fury, and the little pirogue pitched, but held to its course. At last it headed for a bank and grounded itself. Larissa, half-blinded by the pelting rain, stumbled out, her bare feet sinking to her ankles in the soft, slimy mud. She heaved the pirogue onto the bank, fighting the greedy water for every inch of ground she gained. When she finally got the boat well away from the water, her arms, back, and legs hurt.

  She straightened, wincing. Larissa glanced around, hands shielding her eyes from the rain. There was nothing that looked like a house anywhere around.

  “Oh, wonderful,” Larissa exploded angrily. “Now what happens?”

  A sharp neigh was her answer, and Larissa wheeled.

  From the concealing draperies of mist and moss, a carriage emerged. There was something wrong with the horses drawing it. They walked oddly, stiffly, with none of a beast’s natural grace, and were a curious color. As she drew closer, Larissa’s lip curled in disgust. The wind changed, and the scent of the horses—the dead horses—wafted to her. The strange color of the horses was caused by rot, and bits of bone showed through where decomposing flesh had been rubbed off by their harnesses.

  The carriage drew closer, and Larissa saw that the driver, too, was a gray-green monstrosity of putrefaction. Larissa was frozen with fear, as rooted to the spot as the Maiden ever had been to her island.

  Somehow, Larissa was more terrified of that quiet, patient carriage, drawn by its rotting beasts of burden, than she had been of anything she could remember—not the mist horror, nor the creatures of the swamp, nor even Casilda’s horrible transformation. Those were things that had happened, that had been forced upon her. This carriage was here, she knew, because she had chosen to visit the zombie master.

  Somehow, she forced her leaden feet to take one step toward the waiting carriage, then another. Confidence returned to her with each step. The zombie coachman climbed slowly down from his perch and silently opened the door for her. The dancer hesitated only an instant, then, with a defiant toss of her white locks, she stepped inside.

  EIGHTEEN

  The coachman took his place, slapped the horses’ reins, and the carriage lurched forward. Larissa wiped the rain from her face as best she could. As she settled herself in the brown velvet cushions, she noticed that there was a black cape folded neatly on the seat beside her. A faint smile quirked one corner of her mouth. Whoever—whatever—Anton Misroi was, this was a considerate gesture. Gratefully Larissa toweled herself as dry as she could with the soft woolen cloak.

  The carriage itself seemed sturdy and wellmade, though it hadn’t been cleaned in a while and there were several rips in the cushions and dents in the wood. The dancer wrapped the cloak about her still-shivering frame. The windows of the carriage were fogging up with her breath, and she rubbed a clear patch and peered out.

  She felt the carriage jolt and saw that they had left the marsh for a cobblestone road. They traveled for a time, flanked by the swamp, until the carriage halted abruptly.

  They had come to a large wrought-iron gate manned by more zombies. As Larissa watched, fingers clenched tightly in the black fabric of Misroi’s cloak, the lumbering undead creatures opened the massive gate to permit the carriage to pass through. One of them turned what was left of its face up to her as she passed, and Larissa shuddered. The creature’s eyes had rotted away.

  Inside the gates, wilderness yielded to civilization. Larissa saw that this was a plantation, similar to the ones near Port d’Elhour. Workers labored in the field despite the downpour—workers who moved with a mechanical, steady rhythm that revealed their true nature. Larissa closed her eyes and took a deep breath to steady herself.

  She sat back in the carriage for a time, unwilling to see what new horrors were unfolding as she journeyed toward Misroi. At last, however, the carriage slowed and stopped. The coachman appeared at the window, then opened the door for her to step out.

  It was a plantation indeed, a huge, sprawling mansion that was as draped with airmoss and cobwebs as any tree in the swamp. The house proper was elevated about a yard off the ground, supported by wooden poles to keep out the swamp’s moisture. Peacocks strutted on the ill-kept lawn, their beautiful plumage drenched by the downpour. The whole image was a grotesque parody of normal plantation life.

  Steeling herself, Larissa pulled the cloak’s hood over her head and stepped down onto the gravelly drive. She winced a little as her bare feet were bruised by the stones. The dancer made her way slowly and carefully to the house, climbed up the creaking steps to the porch, and lifted the brass knocker carved like a horse’s head. She hesitated, just for an instant, then slammed it down hard.

  For an agonizingly long moment, there was no answer. Then the door slowly creaked open. Larissa’s heart hammered with trepidation.

  A zombie, better preserved than the others Larissa had seen on the plantation, stared down at her impassively. His clothing, which was still mostly whole, revealed him to be a highly placed servant. He stank horribly.

  “I—” Her voice almost broke. She paused and continued cal
mly. “I have come to see your master.”

  The zombie’s mouth worked. “Enter,” he groaned in a voice that had obviously not been used for some time. He stepped back and opened the door even wider. Larissa went inside, her blue eyes flickering about.

  She was in a wide entry hall. Once-fine carpeting, now water-stained and ruined, covered most of the wooden floor and wound up the sweeping spiral staircase that twisted up to the next story. Dust lay thickly on the beautifully carved banisters, disturbed here and there by large handprints. Most of the light was provided by a huge, glittering cut-glass chandelier. A sudden movement off to the side caught her eye, and she turned swiftly, only to meet her own pale reflection in a tarnished mirror.

  The zombie servant pointed to a room on her left, then held out his black-nailed hand expectantly. Larissa stared at it for a moment, not understanding. Then she realized what he wanted and handed him her rain-drenched cloak. He bowed and left her alone.

  Carefully Larissa stepped into the parlor. Two small, low tables were placed in front of comfortable-looking sofas. A fireplace flanked by two velvet-covered chairs took up a large segment of the wall. Atop the fireplace was a mantlepiece carved from some dark wood upon which a lighted candelabra and what looked like an etching of some sort were placed.

  The draperies were opened, pulled back by two brass holders fashioned to look like children’s hands. The storm outside, however, dimmed the daylight. Despite the valiant attempts of the candles and the fire, the room remained morosely dark.

  The fire snapped, its warmth and crackling sounds incongruously cheerful and welcoming to the soaked dancer. Kneeling in front of the fire, Larissa gratefully spread her hands out to its warmth. She noticed that a poker had been inserted well into the red-hot coals and wondered why.

  The storm continued to rage, and Larissa shivered despite the warmth of the fire. Gradually its heat penetrated the damp chill of her clothes, and she began to get warm. She looked around the room again, noticing that the wallpaper was covered by carefully wrought drawings. Curious, she took the candelabra from the mantlepiece and stepped up to the wall.