by B. V. Larson
Quietly watching this scene was the troll at their feet. He did not speak, but he watched them both carefully. His curved claws gripped the bars that caged him, and he strained at them. The bars held despite his efforts.
“One more task, and you will be freed, wretched man of the Haven,” Morgana said.
“What would you have me do?”
She lifted her arm and pointed upslope. His eyes followed her gesture. There, at the top of the hill, was the old Drake Crypt. It had been sealed years back, after the Storm of the Dead. Inside, horrors were said to abound.
Slet’s face fell and his expression changed from murderous to fearful. “I can’t go in there. No one can. Lord Rabing—”
“Is absent and a fool to boot,” finished the witch. “You’ll go into that crypt and find what sleeps there. You’ll bring it back to me. At that point, you’ll be free of me, and I of you.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll force you slay your own son again. A true death, this time.”
Slet shook his head. “You could never force me to do that. I have no hopes, no dreams, no fears. I can’t be enticed like a maiden to dance until my heart bursts.”
Morgana sneered at him and lifted his lantern. She poured out the oil upon the cage. The liquid ran down over the top of it, slicking the troll’s fur and sliding down the bars.
“If one flame touches this—” she began.
Slet made his move. He lunged at her, arms extended to their fullest. If he could knock her flat—
But she touched her Jewel and a flash of light struck his eyes. The troll and he both hissed and reeled, blinded.
“Back, fool!” she cried. “If you try that again, I’ll smash the lantern on this cage and burn the little monster inside to ash!”
Slet staggered away. His eyes were squinched shut, and they could not see in any case.
“All right,” he said. “Mercy witch, I’ll do as you say. But you must promise not to—”
“NO!” she screeched at him. “No more words from you! Silence, I command it!”
Slet opened his mouth, but only tiny croaking sounds issued. He could not speak.
“Now, go to the tomb and bring back the Black Jewel. I will give you ten minutes. If you don’t return, I’ll burn this little devil alive.”
Slet fell to his knees, dizzy. A moment later, he could see fuzzy outlines of his surroundings again. His vision was returning. He struggled to his feet again, but slipped in the mud and almost slid into his child’s grave. Gathering himself, he rose and headed for the crypt. He did not know what he would find inside.
He’d sworn to Lord Rabing and the Constabulary never to open the tomb, which was heavily locked and warded—but that promise was to be broken this eve.
He fumbled with the jangling keys and tried them in each of the heavy locks. These were not simple, Haven-built locks, the sort of thing that kept a fisherman’s sons from pilfering a jug of corn whiskey. They were forged by Kindred Mechnicians. They could not be picked, nor opened at all by people unskilled. Slet had been trained to use them when he’d taken the job, but that was long ago.
“What’s the matter?” screeched the witch.
Slet was startled to realize she was near. He had not heard her approach. He glanced over his shoulder.
He found his numb lips worked again, and he could speak. The spell had passed.
“The locks are complex. One must hold down triggers and catches while twisting the correct key.”
“Damn Rabing. Damn his eyes! What was he thinking?”
“Perhaps of you, trying to make off with the Black Jewel.”
She twisted her lips at him, and left him to his work. After several minutes, he managed to get the last lock free of its creaking hasp. He swung open the grate, and the rusted hinges squealed and groaned in protest.
He turned back at this moment. “I know something of the Jewels,” he said to her. “They are jealous servants, and two will not have the same master.”
“You let me worry about that. Go get it. I’m growing impatient.”
Slet took a last look around at the dark hillside where he’d spent many unhappy years. They now seemed like a halcyon time of plenty compared to this sorry moment. Then he turned his back upon the surface world of life, sun and wind. He entered the black tomb.
The first thing he noticed as he crunched down the carven steps was the stillness of the crypt. Sounds from the outside world above were swallowed up and deadened immediately upon entering here. He could barely make out the steady drumbeat of the rain outside, and the wind lashing the trees was only a whisper.
In this new world, there was little for the senses to grasp. His ears rang with the stillness. The earth and stones were cold and the only odor was that of ancient dust.
There was also an uneasy stillness to the crypt which he felt rather than heard. It was as if the walls were waiting to take a breath, but did not yet dare to do so.
He dug into the pockets of his leather pants and brought out a candle stub along with some matches. As a grave digger who lived alone on Cemetery Hill, he never went anywhere without both of these essentials.
After rasping a few match heads over the walls, he managed to strike one alight. He touched it to the tiny blackened wick and a dim yellowy light soon flickered over the walls.
He looked around him, aghast. The place was a mess. He’d never known how they’d left it—and he was appalled to face the truth. The low ceiling dripped with distant rains, and there were tumbled caskets all around.
Sprawling on the floor at his feet were a dozen of the Dead. They lay in varying positions and states of decay. Some were no more than skeletons wearing rotted robes. Even the most recently dead had bones showing through in spots.
None of them looked as if they were resting easily. Their lipless mouths were open as if their existences had ended as they shrieked in agony. He supposed they probably had done just that.
“Gods,” he whispered to himself. “They just left them. They sealed the place, and left the Dead to slumber where they fell.”
Slet, a man who’d personally cared for the Dead for a decade, found the scene disturbing and unprofessional. He supposed he couldn’t really blame Brand and the rest. He’d been there and seen the Storm firsthand. They’d probably feared to spend any time down here and could not find a volunteer brave enough to come down and make things right. He could understand that. Even now, a decade later, the place was a horror.
Stepping over outstretched bony fingers and skulls wrapped in skin like parchment and dusty locks of dead hair, he made his way to the second stair. He had not seen anything vaguely like a Jewel thus far—and that could only mean the Black was farther down.
It was as he reached the second floor and found it much like the first that he began to wonder what might happen to him when he took up the Black. He’d heard stories, and he’d seen Brand in his rages. He did not know if his own mind would hold up, but he was willing to try. His son might not be much more appealing than the Dead at his feet, but he’d not see the child killed again so soon.
Gathering his courage, he stepped over a big Dead-thing on the way down to the lowest level. With a shudder, he realized who the body belonged to: Morcant Drake, the prior caretaker of this place. He pressed onward, wanting to get the whole affair over with.
It was as he passed Morcant by that he had a grim thought. These corpses ought not to have flesh clinging to them still. Not after all these years. They were exposed, not even in caskets. Could it be that the power of the Black Jewel, just by lying nearby, had preserved the Dead in their slumber. The thought was enough to give him a chill.
There! A silvery gleam shone from the floor at the base of the last stairway. That had to be it!
He shuffled forward, opening his hand and stooping—but he halted. The object that had caught his eyes wasn’t a Jewel or a Scepter, as he’d heard the Black presented itself. It was a sword. A rapier of excellent quality.
A thin-boned hand gripped the hilt. Curious, Slet picked up the blade and the dead fingers released it with reluctance.
He lifted it and swished it in the air experimentally. Perfect balance, if a bit on the light side for a grown man. He gazed at the corpse that held it, but no recognition came to him. Shrugging, he went down into the depths to the final floor of the crypt. There, he turned this way and that searching for the Jewel.
He froze then, for the first time realizing that he was not alone. There was a glimmering shadow in the darkest corner.
“I’ve waited here a long time for a visitor,” said a soft voice.
Slet’s eyes were wide with fright. He almost bolted rather than face whatever it was that addressed him. But he gripped the sword in his right hand and the flickering candle in his left, lifting the light slowly and peering into the corner.
He could not come out of this crypt empty-handed. His son would surely perish before his eyes if he did, he had no doubt of that. And no child of his deserved to die in fear and pain more than once.
So he bravely faced whatever had spoken to him. He expected to see a ghost, and he was right in that supposition. But he had not chanced to guess her identity.
It was the Shining Lady. She was the loveliest female imaginable. Her face was chiseled like a marble sculpture, her body curved to perfection. She was clad only in swirls of spun gauze. Her skin shone silver-white, reflecting the light of unseen stars. Her feet were like the talons of an eagle, but those abominations were hidden beneath her flowing white clothing, which was thickest around her legs.
Her effect upon Slet was immediate. His heart pounded in his chest, and he burned for her. He could barely think, and he could not speak at all. He parted his lips, and she did the same, smiling at him sadly. A single croaking grunt escaped from Slet, but that was all.
“You are to be my champion?” she asked in disappointment. “So long I’ve waited, and I’m thusly rewarded for my patience? I’d expected Brand, tired of dull mortal women clad in stinking flesh, to come to me at last. How are you called, lowly creature?”
Given leave to speak, Slet managed to stammer out his name.
“A Silure? Does my memory fail me, or isn’t that one of the lower clans of the Haven?”
“The lowest, my lady,” he said with typical Silure pride.
She tilted her head, and he followed her with his eyes as she came gliding closer.
“A rogue then,” she said. “Not a warrior, or a prideful mage. A thief in the night. A grave-robber. Tell me, rogue, did you come to find the Black?”
“I did, Lady.”
“Hubris. Madness. You cannot wield such power.”
“I do not want to wield it.”
The Shining Lady, who’d been approaching him with gentle movements, stopped gliding across the chamber littered with ancient Dead and toppled coffins.
“You don’t? Why then, pray tell, would you risk your only soul to come here and seek it?”
“To save my son.”
She looked at him curiously.
Slet, for his part, thought of nothing other than having her. To pull her ghostly lips close to his, to embrace her—such were the thoughts of ecstasy that raced through his mind. But something else, something irritating, tried to break through the spell she’d woven over him. He’d forgotten about the urgency of his quest. He’d forgotten about the world of wind and rain far above the ground. He’d even forgotten about Morgana and his staring bestial son in his silver cage.
“Let me see if I understand the situation,” said the Shining Lady. “You’re the creature of another? An agent? A minion without a will of its own?”
Slet frowned. Did this mean she would not embrace him? He wanted her, more than he’d ever wanted his lovely elven wife. It seemed grossly unfair that this woman might spurn him. He had to make amends. His mind raced and he tried to think of something that might please her.
“I have a will! I do as I must, however. I came to save…someone.”
“Your son, you said.”
“Yes,” said Slet, frowning with the difficulty of thought.
“Tell me then: whom do you serve, puppet?”
He fell to one knee. “I serve thee, lady.”
“No,” she said sadly.
Slet felt tears of regret roll down his muddied cheek. How could he cause her anguish? He was nothing, a flea to be crush betwixt fingernails. It was wrong of him to cause her the slightest pain.
“You serve another. Name the person who sent you into this crypt.”
Slet licked his dusty lips and beetled his brows. He could not recall the name for a moment…then he had it at last: “Morgana.”
The Shining Lady gave him a quizzical look. “Morgana? Who is this person? What does she have that might cause a simple River Boy to seek his doom in this place?”
“She has my son in a cage, and I believe she wields a Jewel of Power.”
“Absurd. I know every Jewel and everyone who has one. What Jewel do you claim to have seen? What does it look like?”
“Like the sun and the stars together as one.”
“What is its color?”
“White, I would say.”
The Shining Lady retreated from him. Slet felt pain at her withdrawal. She’d been getting closer and closer, and although he’d learnt since childhood that her embrace meant certain doom, he’d been more than ready to clutch her. Now that she pulled back he felt lost and dejected again, but he also felt some of his wits returning.
“You’ve released me from your spell,” he said. “Why? Will you not take me?”
“You claim to have seen the White? The Sunstone? It cannot be. That Jewel was lost before I was made. Do you understand that?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I only know what I have seen.”
“What is this nonsense about a child?”
“My son—he is a troll, and she has him in a silver cage. She threatened him with fire if I did not come down here and bring her the Black.”
“Insane,” the Shining Lady said. “A stranger comes and seeks to wield both the White and the Black. Madness! Not even Brand is so foolish as to attempt such a feat. She can’t have the power to carry both. No one ever has.”
“Lady,” Slet pleaded. “Is the Black even here? I must take it back up the steps. I must save my son. Have mercy, dear Lady.”
She looked at him with a sudden guile. He did not know her mind, but the ghostly figure did not look like someone who often showed mercy.
“I’m not unkind,” she said. “I hear your plea, and I answer. Take the Black, but…”
“Where is it?”
“It is hidden from view—and time is short, is it not?”
After having explained his quest to the ghost, he recalled it with clarity. How long had he lingered here? He must find the Black, and he must find it quickly.
Slet pushed at coffins and dry bones, seeking the Black. He found a crown fallen from an ancient skeleton, but gave it no heed. What was a fortune to a man that let his only child die and die again?
“Where is it?” he asked her desperately. He turned around and lifted his sword.
“You raise a blade to me?”
Slet looked down in surprise. The silver rapier was indeed in his hand. But he did not lower it.
“If I must, and even if you have no flesh to cut.”
She nodded as if fascinated. “Very well, swear to do as I say and I’ll tell you where it is hidden.”
Breathing hard, he nodded.
“Here,” she said, stepping to one side.
Slet stumbled forward. At first, he did not see, but then he spotted a glimmer. The Scepter was there, behind a headstone of carved granite. The stone had a simple inscription: Morcant Drake.
“Before you take it, let me tell you what you must do, because your mind may be lost when you grasp the Scepter.”
Slet heard her speaking behind him, but his eyes remained upon the Black Jewel. Necr
on was the very absence of light, and its dark power filled his mind and chilled his soul.
“What must I do?” he asked.
“This crypt is full of Dead,” she said softly. “They sleep now, but they can be awakened. Touch the Jewel to the forehead of each, and you will have an army. You must march at the head of your army up out of this crypt—and there you will find Morgana and you will destroy her.”
Slet’s lips worked. Finally, he managed to speak. “If I wield the Jewel the first time I pick it up, I will surely go mad.”
“That is my price, and you promised to pay it. Now, swear to me again.”
“I swear I will raise the Dead, and I will kill Morgana.”
“Good. Now lift your Scepter, my beggar, my King!”
Slet reached a clutching hand into the empty tomb and gripped the scepter. An explosion of non-light burst in his mind.
He straightened slowly. He was now a thing apart from what he’d once been. He turned toward the Shining Lady, and her powers did not sway him now. He saw her beauty but did not feel driven by it. Before he’d been under her command, ridden as a man might drive a horse down a lane. He was her creature no longer.
She backed away wordlessly.
Slet turned and dropped his candle. It was no longer necessary. He could see everything despite the perfect darkness—even the tiny creatures that swam through the earth nearby were plain to his cold, inner sight.
He strode first to the body from which he’d taken the sword. He touched the Jewel in the Scepter to the skull of the fallen elf who’d once brought a silver rapier down into this crypt. There was a blinding flash of darkness—of non-light. It was as if a void filled the crypt with nothingness then gently receded.
Puck’s eyes did not open, because he no longer had eyes. The holes in his skull came up to regard Slet, as if he were curious about the man who had awakened him. Then, like a puppet being yanked erect by a harsh master, the fresh Dead-thing struggled to rise with jerking motions.
For Slet, this experience of awakening the Dead was the worst of his life. Not because he’d witnessed the Dead rising, but rather because he’d felt what it was to make such an unnatural event occur. A tiny bit of his own soul was lost forever in the process. It was like having a fingertip snipped off.
