“I have watched you these past dreadful months. I don’t know what’s happened—to you, to the country.… I’ve watched and I’ve mourned, for many, many things, including you. Now this. No, sir—I cannot help you bury your son. Ask someone else. You pay well for service and silence. As for me, you need not fear. No one shall hear aught from me against Sir Tristan Hiregaard. You treat me well, sir. I can’t complain. But neither can I stay on for another day. This place has a pall over it now, sir, and it’s choking the life out of me one breath at a time.”
A weight seemed to settle on Tristan’s shoulders. He hadn’t realized until now just how strong a link with happier times Guillaume was. When he left, he would be the last. “I wish you the best, Guillaume.”
Guillaume regarded his master steadily. “And I you, sir, although I confess I fear the worst.”
Tristan decided not to enlist other help. Alone, he cleaned the body, covering the scent of decomposition with sweet-smelling herbs. He dressed Ivaar in the youth’s old clothes, the simple garb Ivaar had donned in a desperate attempt to link himself to a different class of people. “Why didn’t I listen to you, son?” Tristan whispered. “Why didn’t I see?”
He bore his son to the family burial ground and dug the grave. As he covered the roots of the thyme plant he had placed at the head of the newest grave, he paused. Kneeling, he placed his hands on the mound of clean-smelling soil and made his son a promise.
“Thyme is for courage. I’ll need it if I’m to do what I must. I took too long, and the price for my hesitation was your death. Malken seduced you, led you away from me, but he shall not escape me. I’ll somehow find a way to disconnect him from me. And when I do, I’ll tear him apart. I swear I will.”
He picked up a handful of earth. One thing he didn’t have in his vast inventory of items was earth from a newly dug grave. He had never had the desire to work the sort of spells that would require such ingredients. Now, though, he was fighting a dark foe. He could not afford to exclude any option in so noble an endeavor.
He plucked a sprig of thyme and crushed it in his other hand, releasing the sharp, clean, peppery smell. He breathed it deeply, and it calmed him. Courage. He returned to his sorcery chamber, his sense of purpose renewed, and set about working on his journal.
All the spells I have tried have failed, in one way or another. Yet my time has not been wasted. There is a pattern to these magics, both light and dark. Knowing what I do now, I am hopeful I will be able to raise enough power to trespass into Malken’s plane of existence—the cursed mirror. There, where we can be two separate entities, I will be able to fight and destroy him.
Tristan ticked off what he knew about Malken: Killer. Part of me. False priest. Underground ruler.
Ruler. The word brought him up short. Could he perhaps enlist Othmar’s aid? At once he dismissed the idea. Othmar was an idiot. Besides, he wasn’t really a king. The regents technically ruled. Othmar was at this point a figurehead. “The real person at the head of Nova Vaasa now is Malken,” he concluded angrily. If only Kethmaar were alive. Tristan recalled the saying: The hands of a king are the hands of a healer. And surely the king, who was linked so closely with the land he ruled, would be the one to heal it best.
But Kethmaar was dead. He couldn’t call on—
Tristan bolted upright. The idea that had suddenly flashed in his mind gave him equal parts joy and horror. Rising, he went to the bookcase and removed a small, plain box. He opened it, and gazed at the key that lay inside.
The moon was new. Tristan was glad of it as he cantered out of Kantora that night The guards let him pass through the Eye of the Needle with no problem, and Tristan found himself alone under a sky crowded with stars. He had not been alone the last time he had followed this route; hundreds of mourners had accompanied him as he took his king and friend to be laid to rest. That rainy day seemed centuries ago.
He was not completely comfortable with what he had to do, but he realized it was the only course. He rode up to the stone wall that encircled the building and dismounted. The key glittered first faintly in the dim illumination of starlight, then brightly with a magic all its own as Tristan spoke the command words. He turned it, and the lock clicked open. With an effort, Tristan pushed the gate inward. He turned to lead Kal inside, but the horse refused to move. Kal’s attention was focused on the open door to the crypt, a gaping black hole. The beast whickered softly and began to prance in agitation. “Easy, boy, calm down,” Tristan soothed, but Kal would not be comforted. Surprising Tristan, the horse broke away from his grasp and galloped several yards away from the mausoleum. His mount would not come when Tristan called, but stayed, pawing nervously.
Probably the scent of decay coming from the tomb, Tristan thought. He quelled his own misgivings. He was a soldier and had seen death before. As for what he had come here to do, well, it was a necessary evil. He went back inside the gate, pushing it shut behind him lest some late-night wanderer stumble this way and notice something amiss.
He drew his sword in one hand and conjured a ball of dancing light with the other. The ball, a glowing radiance about the size of his head, bobbed up and down slowly, following him as he walked toward the crypt. He did not worry about being seen by the light’s glow. If anyone was watching, the superstitious Nova Vaasan would think it a ghost, not a grave robber.
He had almost reached the crypt when the temperature suddenly plummeted. His sword in his left hand, he reached for his pouch with the right, ready to fight with weapon and magic. The cold made his fingers ache, made his movements slow. The short hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and he swallowed hard. “Show yourself,” he demanded to whomever—or whatever—was there.
In answer, the air before him wavered. Pale blue and silver shapes began to form. In a few seconds, Tristan was facing a line of spectral men. All wore either glowing armor or stately robes. Each carried a drawn sword. There was a similarity to their faces, which bore expressions of anger. Tristan’s heart twisted inside his breast as he looked at the figure in the center of the line.
“Kethmaar,” he breathed.
The apparition looked as he had in life before illness had destroyed him. The face was stern, the eyes disapproving. “Tristan Hiregaard,” said the ghost of Kethmaar in hollow tones, “this is sacred ground. You come to violate it.”
Tristan fought to keep his trembling from showing. If he displayed any fear, he was certain these apparitions would fall on him. “Kethmaar, I need your help,” Tristan answered, not addressing the accusation. In comparison with the echoing tones of the dead, his own voice, issuing from a living throat, seemed reed-thin and fragile. “There is a terrible evil afoot in Nova Vaasa. I have a way of confronting it, but I can’t do it without your help.”
The ghost shook its head. “We have passed beyond this world. There is no aid we can give.”
“But you must,” answered Tristan, becoming more agitated. “The hands of a king are the hands of a healer—you told me that. And the king is the land—its tragedies are his, its joys are his. I haven’t come here to rob you. I come with the utmost respect. But I need to take your hands—for the good of your land!”
“This is not a place for the living.” The hollow voice held a note of warning. “Go, Sir Tristan. Go back to the living and leave us to our rest.”
Tristan clenched his teeth. He had hoped Kethmaar would see the need, but no matter. He would proceed without the dead king’s blessing; he had no choice. Grimly, he stepped forward and walked through Kethmaar’s ghost, the magical light following him.
The cold intensified immediately, and Tristan shivered violently as his body attempted to warm itself against the unnatural chill. Tristan’s legs went almost completely numb, and it was with the greatest effort that he was able to continue moving forward, step by aching step. Fear rose inside him like a trapped beast, but he would not yield to the clawing animal. “I do not fear them,” he whispered between clenched teeth.
An instant later h
e passed through the wall of undead stewards. The chill vanished, and the forms of the dead coalesced into globes of pale blue light. With a whooshing sound, they whirled past him into the depths beyond. Then all was silence.
Tristan shuddered deeply and ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. He had beaten the guardians of the crypt, driven them back to wherever they came from. They were not so terrifying, after all. The thought cheered him, and he remembered the thyme on his son’s grave. Courage.
That courage began to ebb slightly as he descended into the first chamber of the mausoleum and took a good look at his surroundings. The mausoleum was several levels deep. At this level, the niches in the walls were empty of their grisly occupants, but it was still a sobering sight. The corridor was long, about three hundred yards or so. The walls to Tristan’s right and left held eighty niches, and there were ten more flanking the door that opened to the next level. The light he had conjured was little better than a flickering torch, and it cast strange shadows on the vacant, cobwebbed alcoves.
“I didn’t choose to be the house of this evil creature,” he said aloud. There had been nobility on the faces of the guardians, and he somehow felt he had to justify his presence. “I have no choice. I must fight him. I am here for the cause of good.” His own words fortified him, and he strode down the long, echoing corridor and descended the stairs to the next level.
Now he moved more slowly. This level was occupied. No fewer than twenty kings slept in the niches in the stone walls. These hollows had inhabitants living as well as dead. As Tristan advanced, his magical light following, he heard the sounds of mice and rats skittering away at his approach. A spider who had made her web in the mouth of a skeleton waved her legs threateningly at him.
There was not as great a stench as he had expected. The mainly dry climate of Nova Vaasa desiccated rather than rotted, and the body of the most recent king was no exception. The features, dried and sunken, were still recognizable. The herbs Othmar had left on the coffin were gone, eaten by scavengers.
Expecting a second attack from the stewards, Tristan stepped forward cautiously, sword in hand, but Kethmaar’s body never moved. Tristan gazed at the beautiful robes of state he had seen Kethmaar wear so often. His gaze traveled to the king’s sword, Failnot, which lay by Kethmaar’s side. Tentatively, Tristan touched the great weapon. He had been knighted by this sword many long years ago when both he and the king were energetic, enthusiastic youths.
Tristan studied the dead face sorrowfully. The flesh was dry and leathery, almost mummified. Kethmaar’s eyes and nose had sunken into his face. The great king Tristan had known and loved was no more. “I’m sorry, Kethmaar,” he said softly. “But I have to do this.”
Sheathing his sword, Tristan drew his dagger. He reached into the coffin and took one of the dead hands in his own.
A low groan whispered through the confines of the crypt. Tristan jumped back, frightened. The sound came again, a long, soft, yet unspeakably terrifying noise. It took Tristan a moment to realize what it was. Bodies, as they decomposed, underwent disturbing changes. Blood settled, giving pallid corpses unnaturally ruddy complexions. Nails and hair continued to grow—and air escaping the lungs past the vocal cords made eerie sounds. These unpleasant facts of nature had given rise to superstitions such as vampires or the walking dead. I’ve let this place get to me, Tristan told himself. I’m becoming as superstitious as the rest of Nova Vaasa!
He bent again to his task. When the corpse shifted, Tristan reminded himself again that occasional movement was not unheard of in a settling corpse. He bent and clasped the hand.
The other one shot up to seize his throat.
Tristan shrieked. Despite his terror, his reflexes were good enough so that the dead hands merely scratched his throat. The next instant, the knight was spinning away and drawing his sword. The thing that had been Kethmaar bolted upright and roared its anger. The flesh that barely covered its skull cracked and flaked off with the movement. Glowing red dots appeared in the depths of its sunken eyes. Tristan had wondered briefly if the thing were animated by the spirit of the dead king, but one look at the rage in the eyes quelled that thought. This was not Kethmaar, and only its body had ever been Kethmaar. A clawed hand reached for Failnot, and the corpse leapt down from its resting place. With staggering speed, it fell upon Tristan.
Tristan, startled by how fast the thing could move, was forced into a crouched position, fighting upward. Stroke after stroke battered down on him. Grunting, he parried well until one knee, unused to the strained position, gave out. Tristan cried aloud as Failnot struck him a glancing blow to the right shoulder. He went with the force of the blow, rolling forward, turning despite the pain, and scrambling to an upright position.
Kethmaar was on him almost before he could turn around, and nearly struck him a second time. Blades clashed with a metallic, almost musical ring that echoed through the cavernous halls. Underneath that sound and the noise of Tristan’s own grunts and panting, Tristan could hear something else—something whispering, rustling, almost too faint to be sensed. The corpse of his king continued to rain blows upon him, and he dared not turn his attention to find the source of the barely audible sounds.
Tristan managed to get in one blow of his own, bringing his sword down on his adversary’s leg. The blade bit into the flesh, but did little damage to the desiccated skin and muscle tissue. It did not slow Kethmaar, who pursued his attack with the same speed, silence, and skill. Tristan’s injured shoulder clamored for attention. He was only grateful it was not his left, his sword arm. Sparks flew as Kethmaar renewed his attack. Briefly Tristan wished that he had cast a stronger light spell, or had thought to conjure other defensive magics. Now, it was too late. He could no more concentrate on a spell—let alone seize a moment to form the proper gestures—than he could abandon his quest to destroy Malken.
Tristan yelped again as Failnot struck home a second time. The blow this time was not as damaging, though, and Tristan’s leather armor proved sufficient protection. Hope rose in Tristan. He was certain his cause was just. He attacked with renewed energy, but Kethmaar fought on with the stamina of something both more and less than human.
Suddenly Tristan’s left arm was jarred all the way up to his shoulder by a blow. At that same instant, he saw part of his sword splinter off and go spinning to one side. Shards of broken metal flew into his face. Instinctively, Tristan threw up his right hand to shield his eyes. The pain of the gesture took him by surprise, and he gasped.
Just as the blow was about to fall, something clamped down on his leg and tugged him out of reach. Failnot clanged into the stone a scant two inches from Tristan’s head, sending a shower of sparks. Tristan wildly glanced down to see who his rescuer might be. A skeletal face grinned up at him. The thing was no savior, but another undead attacker. A second hand closed on his shoulder. Tristan writhed violently, breaking the hold both creatures had on him, and sprinted back toward the entrance of this level of the mausoleum. He jammed his hand in his pouch and searched furiously as he ran, finally coming up with the necessary ingredients. The things followed him swiftly. He took a precious few seconds to judge the distance and barely had time to toss the items in the air and utter the spell in a hoarse voice. He concentrated his attention on the door at the far end and extended his hands.
Fire erupted in a thin streak from his hands to speed down the corridor. A huge crackling sound rent the air of the mausoleum. Right before the giant fireball exploded at the base of the door, Tristan realized that he had misjudged the distance. The hall was too short.
He flung himself facedown on the cold stone, not cold for much longer. He dimly heard the clatter of his sword hitting the floor as he frantically covered his head. There came a whumph, and then heat seared his head and shoulders as the back draft from the fireball rushed up the hallway. Smoke filled the air and Tristan coughed violently. His scalp and hands felt singed, and his lungs stung. For a moment, his eyes were so filled with tears he couldn’t
see. At last, he rolled over.
The fireball had destroyed most of the lumbering monstrosities, but not all of them. Those that had been farthest away from the flames still lurched toward him, what remained of their clothing and skin blazing brightly. Kethmaar, the closest, was also aflame, but he came on, his sword raised.
Tristan scrambled for his own sword, ignoring the pain of his injuries and the burns that covered his hands. Kethmaar had nearly reached him, roaring angrily amid the popping and crackling of his burning body, and raised Failnot above his flame-crowned head. Frantically Tristan swung. The blow was clean and strong, and it sliced the leathery body in half. Tristan harnessed the momentum of the blow and reversed it, severing Kethmaar’s head from his shoulders as the torso began to fall. The three parts of Kethmaar tumbled to the floor. Rotting organs slipped from their leathery-skinned encasements. The torso, still ablaze, continued to wield Failnot, while the legs kicked frantically and the head jabbered, the light in the eyes fading.
Tristan lunged again, his blade chopping the sword hand of the monster away from its arm. The hand ceased to struggle. Tristan glanced back down the corridor. The fiery zombies continued to come, their arms outstretched, their dry bodies all but consumed by the fire. They’d be on him in less than a minute. Tristan grabbed Kethmaar’s sword hand and pried the weapon loose. As he shoved the one hand into his pouch, he sliced the other one off and seized it as well.
He whirled and ran toward freedom, feeling the heat given off by the zombies at his back. The infuriated dead were faster than Tristan had expected. They were just a few yards behind him when he emerged into the clear, cool night. “Kal!” he cried.
The horse whickered anxiously to its master from the other side of the gate. Tristan hit the gate at a run. He leaned back, crying aloud with pain as he pulled the gate open. Breathing heavily, he darted through and heaved the gate closed. It moved slowly, reluctantly, as if it, too, wanted to catch the interloper. “Come on, come on,” Tristan muttered aloud. The heavy gate was too much for his injured arm, and it was hard to pull closed with his good arm. Whatever arm he used, his hands protested hotly.
The Enemy Within Page 26
