Dance of the Dead

by Christie Golden

  Slowly Larissa came back to herself, pulling her buried hands out of the mud. It let go of her hands with a reluctant, sucking sound. Absently she brushed off the mud on a pile of airmoss.

  Her first thought was to travel through one of the trees. She approached a giant live oak, trying to ignore the fact that it looked menacing. It’s just a tree, she thought, and the quickwood had been respectful and helpful.

  Taking a deep breath, Larissa reached out and placed a hand on the bark. Greetings. With your permission, I would—

  No!

  The response exploded in her mind with such ferocity that she winced. The dancer jerked her hand back, but not before an angry branch had seized it. The tree had sprung into frightening life, waving its branches angrily and clamping down on her with menacing strength.

  Before it could crush her, Larissa reacted. She didn’t have time to think and didn’t need to. Even though both wrists were securely held by the dark treant’s branches, she was able to move her fingers. Her body twisted, arching. Where the treant’s leafy limbs touched her, they exploded into flame. The tree roared in pain, instantly releasing her. It began to beat its fiery branches against its own trunk. The flames leaped for a few frenzied moments, then died.

  Larissa was well out of the treant’s reach and glared at it defiantly. “I have no wish to hurt anything in the swamp,” she cried to the listening foliage. “But I will if you force me to. All I ask is safe passage.”

  She waited—for what, she wasn’t sure. At last the singed treant rumbled in a bass voice, You may go on your way, Whitemane, but I will not let you pass through me.

  Larissa closed her eyes for an instant in gratitude for the Maiden’s teachings. Then the dancer turned back to the treant and planted her hands on her hips.

  I cannot force you to grant me passage to the Maiden’s island, she told it. But may I have your assurance that you won’t throw me down if I climb your branches to see where I am?

  The treant rustled sulkily. Then: Yes.

  I can hurt you again, Larissa warned.

  Understood.

  As Larissa approached, the treant even lowered its branches to aid her climbing. Larissa smothered a self-satisfied grin. It wouldn’t do to gloat.

  Despite the cumbersome dress, Larissa reached the top fairly easily. The sun shone down cheerily, its careless radiance a sharp contrast with the brooding shadows and gloom that was the world beneath the swamp’s mossy canopy.

  An ocean of green flowed beneath her. The young woman twisted, grasping onto a branch for support. It curled in her hands, but only to secure a grip on her so that she wouldn’t slip. A cold sinking sensation began in Larissa’s stomach when she realized that the sheltering trees prevented her from even seeing what part was swamp and what was dry—or fairly dry—land. She craned her neck, her eyes searching, hoping desperately to see—

  There it was. Larissa’s breath exploded in a sigh of relief. She could see the green glossy surface of the lake catching the sunlight. The Maiden’s island looked like a beautiful emerald to the grateful young woman.

  “I’m coming, Maiden,” she whispered softly. She carefully climbed back down, dropping the last six feet and landing gently in the soft soil.

  Her gaze fell upon the riding crop. For a moment she was tempted to just leave it where it lay. It could hurt no one here, lying forgotten in the swamp. But then, without quite knowing why, she bent and picked it up.

  It didn’t feel strange. It was simply a crop, cool leather lying harmlessly in her palm.

  “You meant something by this, Misroi,” she said aloud, pulling the length of the crop through her fingers. “What, I don’t know, but I’ll take it just the same.” At least, she added silently, I’ll know where it is.

  Careful to preserve the niceties, Larissa bowed to the treant. Thank you, she said.

  For answer, the treant rattled its branches. Larissa was reminded of a dog growling, but declining to attack. If this was another test of Misroi’s—and she was sure it was—then she thought she was doing quite well.

  One hand grasping Misroi’s riding crop, Larissa set off in the direction of the Maiden’s island. The earth was soggy, but it held, and her heart began to rise. She mentally went over the layout of the riverboat, wondering what the best way to attack it might be. The attack should come at night, that was for certain. Any creatures that would come to her aid in this place would certainly be able to see in the dark. The humid darkness, together with the gray fog that always seemed to arise in the evening, ought to provide excellent cover.

  She wondered how many of the crew members had been turned into zombies and was unable to block out the image of the thing that had been Casilda. For the sake of her friend, if nothing else, Larissa wanted revenge upon Lond.

  A warm blink of light flashed behind her. She wheeled, alert for an attack, and smiled in surprised pleasure as she realized it was only a feu follet. It drifted about lazily, blinking slowly.

  “Well, am I glad to see a friendly …” Larissa broke off, laughing. “Face” hardly applied.

  The glowing ball drew back, then came forward again. It paused, hovering, bathing the dancer with yellow light. A thought struck Larissa.

  “Can you take me to the Maiden’s island?” she asked, wondering yet again if the creatures understood language as she spoke it.

  The feu follet paused, pulsating, then began to move slowly over to one side. Larissa frowned. According to what she had seen from the top of the reluctant treant, the most direct route lay straight ahead, but the feu follets knew this place far better than she, so she shrugged and followed.

  Once it realized that Larissa was following, the little ball of light picked up its pace, sailing ahead with a sense of purpose. Larissa smiled to herself, thinking of Willen. She wondered if he would come with her when she left Souragne. She didn’t think he would be hard to convince. That is, if he could leave the island at all. Her smile faded. What if he were somehow linked to the land? What if he—

  Larissa’s arms flailed as she tried to stop her forward movement, but she tumbled into the quicksand with a little gasp. The mushy substance filled her mouth, and she spat frantically, choking on it. She panicked for a second, thrashing about wildly before she realized that her struggles only caused her to sink deeper.

  Almost as if it were a living creature, the quicksand sucked at her limbs, seizing her long hair and pulling her head back and down. Her dress was soaked, and Larissa knew that she had only a few minutes before the ghastly mud closed over her head.

  She looked wildly about for the feu follet, thinking that somehow it might be able to call for help, but there was no longer only one of the shining orbs. There were four of them now, and they did not express the agitation that the feu follet had demonstrated when she had been threatened by the deathplants. Larissa slowly realized that they were enjoying her terror. They pulsed and swelled, growing slightly larger, hovering over the dancer like vultures over a dying beast.

  It was then that Larissa knew that they weren’t feu follets at all. They were the feared will-o’-the-wisps. They had deliberately lured her here to trap her and feast upon her terror.

  She tried to think, but no answer came. Breathe water? The quicksand wasn’t pure water. It was an in-between substance. Turn it into earth? It would trap her, probably crush her. Then what?

  The hovering will-o’-the-wisps drew closer, eager for her horror and fear. At least, Larissa thought grimly, I can deny them that. She forced herself to relax, and to her surprise found that she could float fairly well. The dancer took deep, calming breaths, willing her heart to slow its frantic pace. It was then, when she was composed, that one of her outstretched arms brushed a trailing tree branch.

  Slowly Larissa craned her neck, fingers stretching to twine around the slim tendrils. Carefully, so as not to snap the twigs, she closed her hand around them. Hope began to seep through her. The will-o’-the-wisps, thwarted, began to move about agitatedly. She ignored the
m, keeping her mind as serene as she could and concentrating on the branch.

  Larissa began to pull with a slow, steady tug. The branch bent, but held. Now she was close enough to grasp the branch with her other hand. Still moving slowly, she pulled herself toward the bank, hand over hand, until at last she was able to pull herself completely out of the nearly fatal trap.

  The dancer crawled out of the muck with a distinct lack of grace. Her limbs were quivering with aftershock, and she sat down heavily. The will-o’-the-wisps drew near, definitely angry with her now. They dived at her with a shrill, humming noise, and Larissa felt fear rise in her as she heard the words they cried in a ghostly, shallow voice: “Whitemane. Die.”

  Gamely, she tried to force her fear away. They were only glowing balls of light. What could they possibly—

  She found out as one of them swept by her, buzzing angrily. Larissa gasped as a sudden jolt careened through her body, setting every hair on end and knocking the wind out of her. A second one dived at her, but this time she had clambered to her feet. She danced effectively, if awkwardly, and conjured magic housed in the element of fire. A small ball of flame began to take shape between her cupped palms, and she directed it toward the attacking creature.

  The creatures whined in annoyance. Then, to the dancer’s shock, the ball of flame bounced off the will-o’-the-wisp and ricocheted back toward her. She barely had time to leap clear, and even then the globe of fire singed her side.

  Larissa hit the earth hard, wincing at the pain in her burned side. She rolled over, and suddenly saw Misroi’s riding crop lying where she had thrown it when the quicksand had claimed her. Eagerly she seized it, then stared at it, wondering what in the world she was supposed to do with it.

  The riding crop should come in handy, Misroi’s note had said. I know you know how to use it.

  No, I don’t! Larissa’s mind wailed, even as another will-o’-the-wisp flew at her with deadly intent. She tried to roll clear, but the being’s electrical charge hit home. She gasped again and arched in pain.

  Pain. Misroi had beaten the beautiful black stallion, driving the noble creature to its death. Lond used pain, too, but he had taken the path of—how had the Maiden put it?—bone and blood. Blood! That was the answer!

  Larissa sat up and struck her left hand sharply with the crop. A red welt appeared, but no blood. She swore, then struck again, harder, forcing herself to ignore the pain. This time, a thin trickle began to meander down her palm, following the lines of her hand.

  “Die, Whitemane.”

  Larissa didn’t know if she could survive another attack. She didn’t plan to find out, either. As the glowing ball dived again, she was ready. She held the riding crop clenched tightly in her hand, prepared to strike the will-o’-the-wisp with everything she had.

  To her astonishment the crop twisted in her hands, the way she herself had caused the poker to writhe in Misroi’s grasp at Maison de la Détresse. The dancer almost dropped it, but she held on grimly.

  Misroi’s riding crop grew longer, until its contorting length was over six feet. It filled out until Larissa’s small hand could barely close around it, and its color flushed from black to greenish brown. A head took shape at one end, a head that had two slitted golden eyes and fangs—

  Larissa screamed, but somehow, despite the terror that flooded her, she kept her grip on the thrashing snake. As she watched, the reptile swung its head toward the glowing balls of light. A black tongue flickered, and then it opened its jaws impossibly wide. As the will-o’-the-wisp dived for the attack, the serpent struck. It gulped down the light creature in one bite. Larissa was reminded of a legend she’d heard once, of how the will-o’-the-wisps were caused by a snake eating the sun.

  A shrill sound emanated from the remaining creatures. One flew in a wild, zigzag pattern, its light flickering crazily. A second one hesitated, then attacked Larissa as its fellow had. Again, the snake struck. This time, Larissa raised the serpent in the will-o’-the-wisp’s direction, facilitating the reptile’s attack.

  The last two will-o’-the-wisps had had enough. They sailed off into the hazy green depths of the swamp, and soon their radiance was lost to view.

  Larissa’s shoulders sagged, and she slackened her grip on the snake. It turned to gaze at her, and she met that slitted, unblinking stare evenly. Its tongue flickered. Then, with the same speed it had demonstrated before, the snake turned back into a simple black riding crop.

  A tired smile touched Larissa’s lips fleetingly. “Thank you, Anton. But how, by the rats of Richemulot, did you know I loathe snakes?”

  She took a few moments to calm herself, then climbed another tree for a second look at the Maiden’s island. The treacherous will-o’-the-wisps fortunately had not taken her too far off track.

  When Larissa climbed down, she hunted about for a large branch. She would not be caught by quicksand a second time. The dancer continued walking, testing the earth before her with the makeshift pole and avoiding any areas that did not seem completely solid. Larissa kept her ears open for any sign of danger, but there appeared to be nothing hostile—for the moment, at least, she thought grimly.

  The heat increased, and so did her hunger and thirst. Her time with the Maiden and, curiously enough, her dinners with Misroi, had given her at least some idea as to what was wholesome to eat in this treacherous place. As for water, since it had rained recently, there was plenty to be found trapped in hollows of stones and trees. The taste was unpleasant, but it slaked the burning of her throat.

  Larissa pressed on until nightfall. She made a bed of airmoss, tugged from a nearby live oak, and sank down on it gratefully. Before she went to sleep, however, she danced a protective ring about her bedding. As soon as she hit the earth, her body, weary from the physical exercise and the constant tension, dropped off to sleep.

  The young dancer woke a few hours later, thoroughly disoriented. It took her several seconds before she remembered where she was. Something had awakened her, she was sure of that. Careful to remain well within the circle, Larissa rose and looked about cautiously.

  The night seemed calm and still, almost peaceful, but Larissa knew better. The trees stayed silent; there was no breeze to bestir their drooping branches, and few of them were anything more hostile than simple trees. No eldritch illumination warned of dangerous will-o’-the-wisps or heralded the more welcome feu follets. The hum of distant insects and the occasional splash of a small animal in the water were the only sounds that floated to Larissa’s straining ears. All seemed quiet.

  What, then, had awakened her? Larissa sat down and hugged her knees to her chest. She didn’t relax. She had been through far too much since she entered the swamp to doubt her instincts now. The dancer waited for the sound to come again.

  And it did.

  “Larissa,” sighed the voice.

  At once she was on her feet, ready to execute a defensive dance movement if she needed to.

  “Who’s there?” she snapped, her eyes flickering about. Nothing moved.

  “Oh, my child, have you forgotten?” came the same sad, forlorn echo of a voice. Before Larissa’s eyes, a translucent shape began to form, solidifying into recognizability. The dancer gasped, feeling as though she had been kicked in the chest.

  “Papa,” she whispered.

  The ghostly figure nodded sadly. Aubrey Helson was dressed just as he had been when last she had seen him. He floated just above the ground, his expression sorrowful. “I have missed you, Larissa.”

  Tears sprang to Larissa’s eyes. “Oh, Papa,” she quavered, “I’ve missed you! What happened? Why didn’t you come back for me?”

  “I would have, but Dumont murdered me,” came the answer. Larissa already knew that to be true in her heart, but hadn’t dared examine the thought too closely. “Revenge will be ours soon. Come, my beautiful little daughter. I will take you safely to the Maiden.”

  Larissa, nearly blinded by tears, swallowed hard and stepped out of the ring.

  �
��No, Larissa! Don’t!” came a sharp cry. Willen charged out of nowhere and pulled her back down to the soggy earth. “It’s not your father. It’s a trap!”

  Larissa, her eyes still on the spectral image of the man she had loved, struggled against the feu follet. “Willen, no, it’s Papa. He wouldn’t hurt me—” Willen had wrapped his strong arms around her, pinning Larissa’s arms down. She thrashed, trying to reach her father, but her beloved’s grip was implacable.

  Willen turned his attention to the specter. “Begone!” he cried. “You are nothing at all! I know you for what you are, and you cannot harm her anymore!”

  The ghost of Aubrey Helson opened its mouth. A horrible shriek exploded, rending the stillness of the night. It shimmered and changed, until it was nothing more than a shapeless mass of white fog. At last, it vanished altogether.

  Larissa abruptly stopped struggling, collapsing limply into Willen’s arms. He held her comfortingly. “Willen,” she whispered, clinging to the strong arms about her. “Thank you.”

  “You are very welcome.”

  Suddenly she turned to look up at him, craning her neck and searching his eyes. “You’re free! How did you escape?”

  He grinned roguishly. “It took a lot of effort. I’m the only one, though. We’ve still got to go back and free the others. Come on. Let’s get going.” He rose and extended an arm to help her up.

  “Wait a minute. How did you know that that … whatever it was … wasn’t the ghost of my father?”

  “This is my territory, remember? I know what kind of things lurk in the heart of the swamp. That’s a creature the locals call a plat-eyes. They generally take a human shape, usually of someone well-known to the victim, but can also appear as a dog, or cat, or any other animal. Always black, though. They keep trying for fresh human bodies. It was hoping to lure you away, just like the will-o’-the-wisps did.”

  Larissa was still holding onto his hand. She kept her face neutral, but she thought with all her heart, I hate you! I wish you were dead!