Dance of the Dead

by Christie Golden

  “No time to explain. The boat is under attack from my friends. They won’t hurt you. Stop singing and stay in here. You should be safe.”

  Before they parted, Larissa to Lond’s room and Willen to the battle, they held one another tightly.

  “Be careful,” Willen warned, knowing how foolish it sounded.

  She clutched his hands. “You, too.”

  He kissed her once, lightly, tenderly, then he and the former prisoners slipped outside. She waited a moment, then followed suit, keeping as much to the shadows as possible as she hastened up two flights of stairs.

  * * * * *

  Kaedrin staggered back, grateful for an instant’s lull in the fighting. He surveyed the situation grimly.

  Zombies, most of them with huge chunks of dry flesh missing, were still battling with the lezards, but there were many corpses cluttering the decks. The smaller creatures had now arrived, and the decks crawled with rats, foxes, and other nimble mammals who tripped the zombies and then tore at their flesh when they went down.

  To Kaedrin’s pleasure, he suddenly saw Longears hasten across the deck and leap, hind legs first, at a zombie. The loah’s powerful hind legs kicked the undead creature’s face in.

  “Tired already?” came a teasing voice, shot through with strain. Kaedrin whirled, joy and fear mixing in his heart as he saw Deniri clamber on board. She looked at him, love on her sharp face. “Couldn’t let you have all the fun, could I?”

  “Deniri, it’s too dangerous—”

  “If you can fight, so can I. You think I’d let you die without getting a chance to kill a few myself?” Without another word, she shimmered and twisted into her mink form and scurried across the deck. He saw her launch herself at a zombie’s throat and begin chewing the dry flesh, then she was lost to his view.

  “Kaedrin, look out!”

  The voice was Willen’s, and the ranger reflexively brought his shield up and raised his sword as he turned. A cutlass thwacked heavily on the rounded shield as a zombie with slitted golden eyes swung at him. Kaedrin parried, slowly but in time. He managed to get a clear blow at the silver-haired corpse, but another zombie saw an opening in Kaedrin’s defense and struck. The blow bounced off the ranger’s armor, but the breath was knocked out of him for an instant.

  There was a brown blur, and then he realized that the second zombie had a huge mink at his throat. The beast’s teeth ripped furiously, and the zombie’s head was severed from the body. The mink nudged it overboard, but the headless body continued to move. Kaedrin returned his attention to the golden-eyed zombie, but saw to his horror that the walking undead had ceased taking an interest in him and instead turned his blade upon the mink. With a quick chopping motion, he stabbed the animal.

  Deniri squealed as she died, impaled upon Dragoneyes’ sword. Even in her death throes, she bared her teeth and futilely gnawed on the metal blade, her sharp claws shredding anything they came in contact with, even her own flesh. Her blood stained the floorboards.

  As Dragoneyes stepped on the furry corpse, holding it down so he could tug his sword free, Kaedrin’s sword ran him through. With a lost wail, the hermit of the swamp hurled himself into the thickest part of the fray, hacking wildly at anything, friend or foe, that came within the bite of his weapon. Willen, seizing a sword from the dead hand of a lezard, tried to go after the grief-crazed hermit, but saw him go down under a press of undead bodies a few moments later.

  “Kaedrin!” Willen screamed. All at once he felt large, dead hands clamp about his throat. Slowly the zombie squeezed. Willen twisted, his hands flying up to pry the unbelievably strong fingers from his neck.

  The pressure eased and something warm and wet spattered the back of Willen’s head. He stumbled away, turning to see who had attacked him. Brynn now had no head. As if the zombie were confused, his hands went to pat the stump of a neck, turning crimson with the flood that still spouted from the shoulders.

  With a grunt, Willen grasped Brynn’s body and, pushing and tugging, heaved it overboard. It fell with a loud splash, and the feu follet turned to see who his savior might be.

  Sardan gazed at him with a rather shocked expression. He, too, had droplets of red sprinkled on his face. The singer glanced down at the sword in his hand. “That sword move was from the third act,” he muttered. “Damn, it worked. Where the bloody blazes have you been, Will?”

  “Imprisoned,” Willen managed. Speech was still difficult, and he rubbed his throat. “Are you with me or against me?”

  Sardan made a terrible attempt at nonchalance. “I just saved your life, so I don’t think I’ll try to kill you now.”

  “Then start attacking the zombies.”

  Sardan’s eyes flew wide. Willen didn’t have the time to be gentle. “Yes, they’re all dead, Sardan. The things from the swamp are alive, and they’re my friends. Come on.”

  He turned, directing his sword against another of the animated corpses. Still rather stunned at his actions, Sardan nodded, glanced down at the crimson sword, then hurried to join his friend.

  * * * * *

  Lond watched the battle with the remote interest of a vulture watching two animals battle to the death. Most of the fighting was occurring on the lower three decks. The few foolish lezards who had attempted to attack the dark mage had gotten facefuls of powder for their pains. Already, a few of them were starting to rise, lumbering down to the lower levels to attack their erstwhile allies who stared in shock as they were slain by a friend.

  He had enjoyed the little trick he had played on Dumont. For all its callousness, Lond’s decision to attach the zombie limb had probably saved the captain’s life. He was off somewhere, no doubt, lamenting his fortune.

  The swamp creatures were slowly being outnumbered by undead crewmen and their own zombie kin. Lond smiled beneath his cowl. He’d be out of Souragne within the next day or so, free to unleash his skills on a new land.

  He realized that he had emptied his vials of powder, and turned to go back to his cabin for more. It was then that he saw the flash of white disappearing into his cabin.

  Larissa, curse her white hair. Lond hastened to catch up with her, but she already had a head start of a good minute or two.

  The young dancer was appalled at what she found in Lond’s cabin, and she lost a few precious seconds simply staring in horror and fighting back nausea from the stench. What was it Willen had said? The frighteningly decorated bottles were important to him. Some of the bottles contained nothing worse than ingredients for his spells; others, Larissa knew, contained something far more horrifying. The Maiden had explained that, not only did the former bocoru animate corpses, he also kept their souls.

  Larissa’s mouth set in a grim line. She ran to the first box within reach and began hurling its contents to the floor. The vials broke, their contents spilling in sluggish pools of liquid or piles of various powders. She began on the second box.

  The first warning she had of Lond’s presence was his growling voice chanting an incantation. She moved more swiftly, whipping her white hair back and forth, up and down, and visualized the bottles shattering in the third box.

  A sudden wind came out of nowhere, whirling about Lond and snatching away the words of power even as he uttered them. The magical wind conjured by Larissa had found the box and lifted it up to the ceiling. Larissa made a sharp move with her hand, and the box upended. Every one of the glass vials in the box fell to the floor, breaking with high-pitched sounds.

  What happened next took only an instant, but it seemed like an eternity to the shocked and horrified young dancer. That unpleasant but very ordinary noise was suddenly joined by others. A low groaning, as of several voices, began to swell from the broken shards of glass. All at once clouds of light shot upward, whirling crazily about the room. Then, as if by an unheard signal, they merged into a cloud and went straight for Lond.

  The mage cried out and backed away. Larissa seized her opportunity and bolted for the door. She had only run a few yards down the deck
before she collided into an unseen wall and hit the wooden deck hard. Rolling over, she saw that Lond was unhurt. The cloud of trapped souls had been unable to harm him and had vanished. His dark form advanced on her malevolently.

  “You’ve lost me my zombies, Whitemane, but there are more where they came from. As you taste death, know that you have failed everyone who counted on you.” He raised his hands.

  Larissa tried to think of something, but her mind went absolutely blank. In desperation, she rooted herself, hoping that somehow something would spring to mind.

  At that moment, a deep bellow went up behind Lond. “Run, Larissa!” came Dumont’s haggard voice. “Leave this bastard to me!”

  Startled, Lond wheeled just in time to deflect the captain’s sword stroke. It still bit deeply into his right shoulder, and Lond roared in outrage at the insult that Dumont would dare attack him. He wiped the blood up with his left hand, then smeared it together with his right.

  Dumont had begun whistling a spell when Lond raised his right hand and squeezed it tightly. Blood dripped down onto the deck. It hissed like a snake as it made contact with the wood.

  The captain froze. His face grew gray, and the sword fell from his suddenly numb left hand. His right hand, the zombie limb, crept up to his chest and began to claw frantically. It ripped easily through his shirt, through the flesh of his chest, only to be thwarted by the breastbone. Undaunted, the zombie limb curled into a fist and smashed its way into Dumont’s chest cavity. The undead hand groped about, then emerged with what it had been seeking.

  Dumont’s heart.

  It still beat and blood spurted crazily. The hand tightened, and then the heart was only so much pulpy flesh. The captain’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed to the deck. The zombie arm continued to scrabble with a life of its own.

  Larissa stared, sickened and full of horror. Her mind was numb for a terrifying instant. She had once loved Dumont like a father and, despite his betrayal, still cared for him. “Uncle,” she whispered.

  “Meddler,” Lond snarled angrily. “Now, Whitemane, it’s your turn.”

  Larissa’s eyes blazed with fury. This time, the young woman was ready for him. The few seconds she had rooted herself had given her an idea. She pressed her body to the wooden floor, sending a message to whatever life still lingered there. Her command shivered through the wooden planks until it reached the fanciful carving of a griffin that adorned the pilothouse.

  Jeweled eyes blinked. Gold-leafed wings opened, and with a sound like a spar breaking in a storm, the animated carving tore itself free from the confines of the pilothouse. It hovered for a fraction of an instant, then, with the determination of an eagle bearing down on its prey, it flew straight for Lond.

  The wizard, however, had ample warning. As the wooden beast bore down on him, beak open and claws outstretched, Lond uttered a spell. The griffin collided with the invisible wall Lond erected, and splintered with a horrible cracking sound. It fell to the deck behind Lond, sticks of wood now and nothing more.

  Larissa tasted bitter frustration. She had expended a great deal of energy tonight, and the griffin had taken almost all of what remained. Lond turned slowly around to face her. Panting, Larissa couldn’t even summon enough strength to rise. She waited defiantly for the killing blow, her face radiating her loathing.

  But Lond did nothing. He surveyed her critically for a moment, not even moving when Larissa haltingly got to her feet to face him.

  “Did you really think to stop me with a wooden toy?” he asked her. “Fruit and flower magic is nothing, nothing at all. There’s only so much you can do by following all the rules. When you make new rules for yourself, only then can there be no limits to your power.”

  He stepped closer to her, and she backed away, one slim hand reaching out to the railing for support. “You have a great deal of ability,” Lond continued silkily. “No wonder the Maiden was so eager to enlist your aid. But you see how quickly fruit and flower magic fails you. Blood and bone—there lies true power. And I can teach you, Larissa Snowmane. I can guide you along the path.”

  Larissa kept her eyes on her enemy, but inwardly she was calculating how long it would take her to reach the pilothouse and from there the open space of the roof. If she could escape down the other side—

  “Why make something grow greener when you can twist it to your whim? Why encourage life, when death is so much more predictable and manageable? Why be like the feu follets when the will-o’-the-wisps are what the people fear and respect?”

  He tore at his long sleeves, ripping the black fabric. A knife appeared in his hand, long and sharp, and he touched it to the flesh of his lower arm, then sliced. The waning moon cleared a cloud, and Larissa had a perfect view of that arm.

  It was the size and shape of an ordinary man’s arm, but the incalculable crisscross of scars made it horrific. Blood magic was bought, not given, and Lond had bought the dark knowledge with his own crimson fluid. Again and again he had cut open his flesh, sometimes removing entire chunks of meat, until there was no spot on the arm that was not scar tissue. The light glistened on the lumpy, shiny flesh.

  Red liquid dribbled down, dropping onto the deck with an ominous hiss. Clawing hands tore off the black cloak. The evil mage wore only a tunic beneath his concealing robes, and every bit of visible flesh was a scar. His face was the most monstrous of all. In his diabolic bartering, he had bargained away most of the flesh of his cheeks. White bone gleamed through like an emerging death’s head. Only the eyes, it seemed, had been spared the blade. They gleamed evilly, coldly, out of a mass of raised puckers.

  The pool of blood glittered blackly in the moonlight, then began to ooze slowly in Larissa’s direction.

  Now, thought the dancer. She made a dash for the pilothouse stairs and from them leaped gracefully onto the boat’s roof. She ran across the flat surface and was about to slip down the other side when she came face-to-face with a zombie climbing up to meet her.

  It was Dumont. His eyes were empty as they fastened on her, and his blood-covered zombie arm reached out and closed around her ankle. Larissa stifled a cry, wrenching her ankle free, and moved farther down. This time, an undead lezard clambered onto the roof with slow and determined movements.

  Larissa glanced wildly around. They were closing in on her from all sides now, and even as she watched, Lond appeared on the roof. He was gently levitated as if by an unseen hand, and he landed with a quietness that mocked Larissa’s panic.

  Abruptly, terror fled Larissa. Her back was against the wall now, and there was no room for fear. She straightened and regarded Lond coolly.

  “I am familiar with your path, Alondrin the Betrayer,” she said in icy tones as the zombies moved ever closer. “Your dead men do not frighten me. I have dined with the Lord of the Dead, been a welcome guest in Maison de la Détresse. I am aboard this boat as emissary of Anton Misroi, someone I believe you know well. Did you really think that he would have let me gather what power I wield on my own?” She laughed, and there was no mirth in the sound.

  With poised elegance, she raised her arms and settled herself on her feet. “Misroi was my tutor. He instructed me in the Dance of the Dead. Permit me to demonstrate.”

  Larissa withdrew the riding crop Misroi had given her and struck her left hand smartly. The blow stung terribly and blood appeared, but she paid it no mind.

  The crop lengthened, twisted, transformed into the snake Larissa had worked with earlier in the swamp. It did not bother Larissa at all now. She had conquered that particular fear and was in absolute control of her magic. She was a whitemane, a dancer, and if she shrank from this task, all would be lost.

  Without the slightest shudder, she placed the serpent about her neck and shoulders. Swiftly the creature twined itself about her arms. Its weight was cool and comforting, dry and smooth, and Larissa felt new confidence surging through her.

  The snake draped about her like a living shawl, Larissa began to dance. Without a second thought,
she forsook all the spells she had hitherto learned under the tutelage of the Maiden, and launched into the terrifying Dance of the Dead.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Willen’s attention had been briefly diverted when the griffin masthead had cracked to its new life and began to fly. He could pay it little heed, however, because he was fighting with Yelusa, Lond’s first nonhuman zombie.

  She fought with a sword that Willen wildly thought must be heavier than she was, swinging the weapon with little accuracy but great force. He parried, the impact jarring his arm painfully. Yelusa had one distinct advantage over the feu follet: she could fight forever, and Willen was already starting to grow tired.

  He decapitated the owl maid, to his own surprise, after she suddenly paused, sword arm raised with a blow that never fell. Gasping, Willen dared a quick look around. All of the zombies had ceased fighting. As one, they turned and started up the stairs to the uppermost level of the boat.

  Sardan hurried up to him. The grim expression on his face was far different than the bard’s usual insouciant, slightly bored grin. Willen doubted if the handsome blond tenor would ever be the same. “What’s happening?” he panted, wiping sweat from his brow with a bloodstained hand.

  “I don’t know,” Willen replied, “but I don’t like it. Why would Lond pull all his zombies out of the fi—Larissa!”

  Sardan blanched. “She’s here? You’re letting her fight? She doesn’t know—”

  “Sardan, she’s our leader. And she’s up there, I know it. Come on!”

  Willen ran up the stairs with a speed he had not realized his human body possessed. A terrible fear coursed through him. Larissa, powerful though she might be, could never stand alone against the entirety of Lond and his undead army. The feu follet had no idea what he might do to save her—his magic was mainly defensive—but he knew he had to try.

  He arrived on the rooftop, lungs heaving. Sardan followed. The feu follet was behind the crowd of zombies and so couldn’t see what was going on.