The Living Dead dad-2

by T. H. Lain

  "Mialee! Magic?" he shouted.

  "You want me to blast him? That's all I prepared for!" Mialee shouted back over the roar, stomping toward him.

  "Takata! Takaaaaataaaaa!" Hound-Eye shouted.

  Mialee snatched the silk rope and still folded hook without stopping. She twirled the metal over her head, then released the heavy weight. It splashed into the water with the rope across where Diir's body ought to be, if it had been above water.

  Mialee pulled, but couldn't budge the rope. Her feet sank into the muddy bank and water swirled around her shins. Devis waded out to help her pull, hoping the rope wasn't snagged in the debris. It stretched taut, and Devis thanked Fharlanghn he'd bought the sturdy silk. The wetter it got, the tougher it got. Hemp might already have snapped against the raging current.

  Through the tension in the rope, Devis felt small hands join his and Mialee's efforts a few feet behind. He glanced back, but still didn't see Takata, although Hound-Eye had stopped shouting for her. As Devis turned back to the river, something white flashed in his peripheral vision: a small, fur-covered boot at the end of a tiny, shattered leg protruding from beneath the crocodile's corpse. Devis understood the grim, horrified look in Hound-Eye's good orb as the tough little halfling hauled on the rope like an automaton. Hound-Eye, had found his wife. Now he was the last survivor ofTent City.

  Takata was lost, but Diir could still be saved. The length of silk grudgingly began moving toward them. Four sets of arms hauled hand over hand. A few seconds later, Diir's face broke the surface with a loud gasp.

  The soggy, exhausted band dragged themselves well clear of the Mormsilath's new course and flopped onto the road.

  "Hound-Eye…sorry."

  "Not your fault, bard," the gasping halfling replied. "She knew…"

  "All the same…sorry. Bridge is out. Guess we're committed," Devis managed before blacking out.

  Cavadrec popped Constable Muhn's last remaining eyeball into his mouth with a flick of a bony claw. The wight felt it pop between his teeth. He chewed deliberately as the fluid inside the morsel flooded his dry tongue.

  He hadn't eaten this well in centuries. Animal eyes varied in quality and flavor, and Cavadrec found nothing was as sweet as the optic nerve of a sentient being. The halflings he'd discovered nesting in the Morkeryth ruins had been a nice appetizer-the first real feast of intelligent food he'd had since his confinement-but the dwarves' sizeable orbs made a much more satisfying meal.

  The dwarves hadn't known what hit them, literally. As a wight, Cavadrec didn't necessarily need special magic to turn his enemies into minions, though that was his specialty. All he had to do was kill them personally. He'd relished the work, batting their useless weapons aside and pounding their faces into pulp with gnarled fists as one of them shouted curses at someone named Devis.

  He made sure to pluck the delectable eyes while his victims still drew breath. Dead eyes, Cavadrec found, tasted simply awful. And his new wights could see well enough without them.

  Cavadrec rolled the skin of Muhn's eyeball around his mouth and focused his concentration on the bridge. His second self, the semi-independent Cavadrec-mind that he'd sent to dominate the zombie crocodile, was finishing off Favrid's apprentice even as his wight-self enjoyed this repast. He felt a rush of physical power as his central awareness shifted from this skeletal form into the body of the massive crocodile. Again, he heard someone shout "Devis." Was this some local paladin? No, he saw through reptilian eyes, the Devis at the ruined bridge was plucking a ridiculous lute. The wight was reminded of his age-old defeat, in which a bard had played a part.

  Through his crocodile eyes, he saw an elf wearing Silatham armor and clutching a silver blade yell and leap over the crocodilian snout. Cavadrec felt the weight of the warrior land solidly, and a pair of legs clamped around the back of his wide neck. Cavadrec's wight-body flinched involuntarily as the magical fire poured into the crocodile's flank from one side and arrows pierced its thick hide from the other.

  One of the rangers had escaped the rats. Cavadrec was stunned. It was inconceivable that Favrid's young apprentice, the girl Mialee, could defeat the crocodile alone. Even half of the wight's power was more than enough to deal with the likes of her. But the elf woman had powerful allies. Cavadrec had not anticipated this development. Was the agile elf warrior the same one his wolves chased from Morkeryth? The dumb animals would not have recognized Silatham armor if they were wearing it.

  Pain peppered his side and the bard's incessant singing rang painfully in his wrinkled, pointed, wight ears.

  It was time to end this nonsense. Cavadrec began a prayer to Nerull, calling down a hideously powerful blast of necrotic energy that should not only destroy the elf woman and her allies, but the crocodile, the wreckage of the bridge, and most of the landscape for miles around. Cavadrec felt the complex spell building behind the crocodile's empty eye sockets as the legs around his neck tightened like a vise. Then the elf's blade split the crocodile's skull.

  Miles away, Cavadrec the wight screamed.

  He had been a wight for just under a thousand years, eight hundred more than he'd existed as a living elf. When he accepted the gift of Nerull soon after his imprisonment, he'd marveled at how his new wight body could tolerate harsh environments and most physical harm without the slightest discomfort. As an elf, he had been vulnerable. As a wight, he could endure the heat of the burning earth deep beneath Morsilath or a hail of arrows.

  But in a thousand years of lurking beneath Morsilath, Cavadrec had never felt such pain.

  His jagged talons dug into his own gray, leathery face and pulled strips of ragged skin from his skull. The wight dropped to his knees and screamed at the setting sun. Had any travelers been unfortunate enough to happen upon the scene, Cavadrec would have ripped them limb from limb. As it was, the wights he had just created, sensing weakness, surrounded their murderer.

  He tore them apart instead, then turned and stalked back to the cracks in the rock face that led to his waiting mine cart.

  12

  The sun had been down for half an hour. Mialee scanned the forest for some sign of the wolves that hunted them. She wasn't just looking, she was magically scanning for their telltale, necrotic signatures. A few flickered black in her altered vision, but she had difficulty pinpointing individuals.

  Hound-Eye, limping along beside her, cocked his good eye at the elf woman, who smiled and returned her gaze forward. "Scanning," she explained, "but it's hard to get a fix."

  "Eight to the left, maybe a dozen to the right," Hound-Eye replied, "that I can see with one eye, anyway." He wasn't bothering to whisper. The hunters knew exactly where they were.

  Twenty, at least. Mialee let her detection spell dissipate to conserve her energy. She had no reason to doubt Hound-Eye, which was odd, considering how they'd met. She found he was quite honest about his profession once she got to know him. If they were going to get to the bottom of this, the halfling said, he was coming along for the revenge, or would die trying to get it. He actually pulled up his eye patch, revealing an empty red socket, and swore to them by his good eye that he would not betray them.

  The halfling claimed to know right where to find the "mythical" village of Silatham, and even now led them through the forest far from the overgrown wagon-track that ran to the ruins of Morkeryth and Tent City.

  Devis patched up his own injuries with a little ditty, and the gnome cleric kept their most grievous wounds from bleeding out. Zalyn's ability as a healer was limited. The gnome did the best she could, but all were still hurting to some degree. They agreed, however, to save the last few healing potions in case of another battle. If the elf village really was nearby, they could get aid there.

  The wolves started shadowing them shortly after the travelers moved away from the river. Diir informed them with unsmiling certainty that these wolves smelled familiar. Hound-Eye insisted this same pack had been part of the massacre at Tent City.

  A dozen normal wolves would have been t
hreatening, but Mialee was confident the group could handle such a threat. The creatures that Diir and Hound-Eye described were much more dangerous, akin to the crocodile: zombie-like creations displaying an unnerving amount of intelligence.

  The wizard nearly asked Hound-Eye and Diir if they thought the creatures were herding them toward Silatham, but decided she didn't want to know. If she could see it, Diir and Hound-Eye were probably already aware of it.

  Mialee's eyes flashed to Zalyn. The chatty gnome was silent. She had tried in vain to raise the halfling, Takata, but the prayers and invocations were beyond her. The failure seemed to have snuffed out part of her spirit.

  Mialee nearly tripped on a tree root when Hound-Eye's gloved hand smacked her bare thigh. The halfling stopped and jerked a thumb over one shoulder.

  "Slowly," he said, and turned. Mialee saw the others do the same from the corner of her eye.

  Two black shapes loped along behind them through the trees, no longer making any pretense at lurking. Black pits stared soullessly at Mialee as one of the wolves raised its muzzle and let out a gurgling snarl. Three, four, six shapes fell in behind the first two, gaping jaws grinning with long yellow teeth. Eight behind them, picking up speed.

  Everyone stopped. The wolves slowed and milled about with menace. A few seconds passed as hunters and hunted sized each other up. One of the zombie wolves uttered a low growl deep in its tattered throat, and the pack took up the same call.

  Then the wolves roared and charged.

  "Run!" shouted Devis, but they already were.

  13

  Driven by sheer survival instinct, the weary band barreled through the trees. Darji's raven-caw reached Devis's ears from high above. He glanced upward, but could not spot the raven against the moonless, black sky. The bird would no doubt catch up with them in Silatham, unless she beat them to it.

  If he had wings, Devis would have been at the back rooms of the Silver Goblet by now. The bird had courage, but no appreciation for the finer things.

  Devis knew stories about Silatham, of course. Any bard worth his lute strings knew the legendary local haunts. The village was certainly that. He'd never actually been there, however, and had never really believed Hound-Eye's insistent tales of mysterious rangers hunting halflings for meat. Diir's armor baffled the halfling, who swore the man was dressed like a "damned Silatham ranger." They'd had a difficult time convincing Hound-Eye that Diir wasn't going to betray them, but the quiet elf's obvious confusion about his own recent past persuaded the scruffy halfling to tolerate the ranger, if he was a ranger.

  No one agreed on what the place was like-even Hound-Eye said he'd never actually been there, just "followed murderin' rangers until they disappeared, but I know where they disappeared and it's always the same place." According to myth and Hound-Eye's tales, the elves of Silatham were xenophobic in the extreme.

  The bard gritted his teeth at the nagging pain in his side, which their limited medicine hadn't healed. Xenophobia he could handle. The elves, he was pretty sure, didn't want to eat him, and that alone would be a welcome change.

  "I see a light!" Diir whispered. A dim orange glow resembling campfires ahead in the trees emerged as they crested a hillock. Zalyn picked up speed and passed the bard, leaving Devis trailing.

  Devis squinted. He didn't see anything, damn his eyes.

  "Don't make sense," Hound-Eye growled. "That's the spot all right, but there's never lights."

  The bard marveled that the wolves had not attacked. The grinning, snarling, undead beasts yipped and barked like hyenas and were keeping pace easily. The things were playing with them like barn cats over a nest of mice.

  Devis could think of only two reasons the wolves did not attack. Either they were simply trying to tire the prey out to the point where they couldn't fight back, or they were herding the group toward the rest of the pack. If Silatham was lost to the undead, so were he, Mialee, and the rest.

  The bard heard a rasping growl behind him and risked a glance over his shoulder. The lead zombie wolf was literally snapping at his heels. Devis pulled his long sword free of its scabbard and slashed awkwardly behind his back as he ran. He felt the blade tip make brief, fleshy contact. The wolf yelped and fell back. The sword was clumsy to hold while running, but he held onto it in case another wolf tried the same trick.

  Devis lifted his gaze from his friends' running backsides-how had he been chosen to bring up the rear?-and thought he could finally make out a faint light ahead. Dozens of bloody paws crashed through the brush behind them on the overgrown trail. He hoped the elves were ready for a fight. The bard and his allies were bringing a doozy to their front door. Unless, of course, they were running right into the talons of even more undead creatures.

  Devis didn't need the eyes of a full-blooded elf to see the bright flash of blue light ahead of them on the dark forest trail. A lone elf stood in the road about two hundred feet away, facing away from them. The elf was tall, thin, and wore tattered robes that hung from his lanky frame. Atop the elf's head was a pointed, silver helm. Devis could make out no further details. Normally, even his half-human eyes should have been able to see the buttons on the man's coat at this distance, but the moons were down and the only other sources of light were the distant orange glow and the pale light spell Zalyn had asked Mialee to cast on her helm.

  Devis heard the wolves snarling and yapping behind them. For whatever reason, the creatures were staying back. The bard hoped that meant they were afraid of the tall man. Maybe he was just an elf.

  Mialee gasped. "Favrid?" the elf woman whispered.

  "Favrid?" the others responded simultaneously.

  "It could be," the elf woman hissed. "Teleportation is no big feat for him."

  "Why didn't he teleport himself to safety?" Devis whispered as the group maneuvered to keep watch on the wolves and the shadowy figure. "Why won't he face you? I don't trust it, love."

  "Why doesn't he do something?" Zalyn asked.

  "Because he's a wizard, that's why," Hound-Eye spat. "He didn't save Tent City, did he?"

  Darji circled low over their heads. "Hound-Eye, Favrid did everything he could," the little raven chirped.

  "I'll tell that to the dead, when I get a chance to bury them," the halfling retorted darkly.

  "Favrid!" Mialee shouted. "Master, I've come to help!"

  "What?" Devis said as Mialee ran ahead. "Mialee, wait!"

  The solitary figure did not turn. Another wolf howled, and the stinking pack drew closer.

  "Planes!" Devis swore and jogged ahead to keep up with her. She was fast.

  "Mialee."

  The voice that spoke the elf woman's name drifted down the road through the cool night air from the direction of the lanky figure. It reminded Devis of pipe-smoking old Gunnivan. The voice was gravelly and deep, but had the mellifluous quality of a practiced stage performer or epic balladeer.

  The party collectively stopped, Mialee far ahead, Devis behind, and the others watching them, the tall man, and the wolves. The wolves howled mournfully and whimpered.

  "Favrid," Mialee said breathlessly. "I'm here. We're coming to help."

  "My child, I'm injured," the voice intoned paternally, but with a hint of urgency.

  Mialee again broke into a run toward the figure, stumbled, recovered. "He needs help!" Mialee yelled over her shoulder.

  Devis and the others dashed to follow.

  "Mialee, I don't think-" Devis shouted, but broke off to bat at a snapping snout near his heel. A knot gripped his belly. Something about this smelled bad, and it wasn't just zombie wolves and crocodile guts.

  14

  Mialee could not believe her good luck. Her heart leaped in her chest. The last few days had lasted for decades. Now, after all her searching, the miles and miles of terrified running, she was about to reunite with her old teacher and find sanctuary. The old man would have little trouble dealing with the monsters yapping at their heels. Devis may not have been able to see the old elf clearly at a distance,
but Mialee could make out every line and garish color as soon as the blue flash of teleportation had subsided around the distant figure.

  She heard a caw above and wondered why Darji wasn't on Favrid's shoulder already. The bird would certainly confirm what Mialee already felt in her heart. Her old teacher, whom she now realized she had missed terribly, was alive, and hurt.

  The wizard heard the snarling wolves and the pounding of booted feet as her enemies and allies alike tried to keep up. The trail ahead broke into a clearing where Favrid stood, with a wall of thick trees beyond. Gentle sounds slid through her mind like the memory of a dream.

  "Mialee," the warm, familiar voice drifted to her ears, "hurry, Mialee."

  The voice pulled her insistently away from her companions. The elf woman ignored the pain in her legs and increased her lead ahead of Diir, Devis, Zalyn, and Hound-Eye.

  She was so close. Favrid still faced away from Mialee, but she would have recognized the garish robes and aged hunch anywhere. Long, white strands of thinning hair flowed down the old elf's back. Favrid had lost the hair on top of his head at the tender age of 80, but insisted on trimming the wispy locks that remained only under extreme duress.

  The silver, pointed helm was unfamiliar to her and looked somewhat out of place, but she could only imagine the dangers Favrid had faced since he'd sent Darji to find her. The helm looked well used and bore many dents and nicks, no doubt souvenirs of Favrid's miraculous escape.

  Darji. Where was she?

  She knows I am here, a gentle voice whispered in Mialee's skull.

  Of course. The little bird must already feel Favrid. Even now the raven must be communicating with him from some lofty vantage point overhead. The old wizard had not yet turned to face her because he was concentrating on the contact. It had to be Favrid. The powerful wizard would protect them and destroy the foul predators that threatened to devour her. As she drew close to her former master, her heart swelled with certainty and warmth. She reached an open hand out and placed it on Favrid's shoulder.