The Living Dead dad-2

by T. H. Lain

  Beneath Mialee's fingertips, Favrid's robes disintegrated, becoming torn, ragged purple tatters. Patches of leathery gray skin showed through the tattered clothing. Sliver-white strands of soft, elven hair twisted into coiled black wire. Mialee felt pain and put a finger to her temple. Her friends pounded down the road behind, suddenly screaming. Devis shouted something she didn't understand. Favrid's head and shoulders swiveled as the old man turned to face the elf woman at last.

  Red, pinpoint eyes flashed in black sockets. The wight's hand shot out and grasped Mialee around the throat. His grinning, toothy rictus leaked black blood as the creature hissed fetid air into Mialee's face.

  "Mialee," the creature rasped as its lips twisted into a leer, and the wizard girl saw a black tongue that looked like a slug roll sickeningly in the wight's mouth. The creature's bony skull cocked to the right. It raised one wrinkled eyebrow as it added with false pathos, "Hurry."

  This, Mialee thought with sudden clarity, was not Favrid. The gnarled fist around her neck squeezed tighter. Mialee felt her toes leave the ground as the wight lifted her to look her in the eye.

  Mialee couldn't breathe and her head was filling with fog. The smell of the thing was overwhelming. Had she not been wearing the athel wood collar, she would have been dead already, and even the resilient wood could not protect her for long. Her arms flailed at her waist for a knife or a wand, Zalyn's trail rations, anything she could use as a weapon against the wight. Her hands, numb and tingling, could not grasp anything.

  "Drop the girl and back away!" a welcome voice boomed theatrically behind Mialee.

  She was in no position to see, but she heard two crossbows lock as the bard and Zalyn slid bolts into place. She heard Diir's short sword clear its scabbard and Hound-Eye's arrow slip from its quiver into the short bow.

  Mialee's vision was turning red, and a sound like ocean surf became a dull roar in her ears. From the corner of her eye, she saw lupine shadows circling them like sharks. How polite of them, she mused deliriously.

  The wight holding Mialee snapped his head back and cackled into the sky. "I don't think so," the wight hissed.

  "All right," Devis's voice echoed distantly, bravely, she thought deliriously, "but we asked nicely."

  The twang of bowstrings pierced the ocean roar in Mialee's ears. She forced her sleepy eyes to open and saw that her attacker now boasted an arrow in its chest and a crossbow bolt in either shoulder. The monster didn't flinch, but plucked the arrow from its chest while keeping Mialee in the air with the other hand. She kicked weakly at the creature, which held up the arrow and examined it.

  "Halflings," the creature snarled at the arrow in its claws. "Tasty, tasty halflings."

  The wight dropped the arrow and opened its jaws to the sky. It snarled, barked, and howled like a mad wolf, and the circling predators yelped in reply.

  The last voice Mialee heard was Devis's.

  "Does anyone have another plan?" the half-elf asked.

  Then she was flying through the air, something hard struck her skull, icy pain sliced her neck, and she died.

  15

  Devis, his lute forgotten and his crossbow on the trail behind, swung his sword blade madly into the snarling wolves. The wolves kept him from reaching her, and now the thing had her by the throat. Devis furiously hacked at ruined muzzles and torn hides, fighting his way through the pack with a fury he hadn't known dwelled inside him. He drove his sword through a hairy skull, heard a whimper, and charged to the helpless elf woman's aid.

  He was still several agonizing feet away when the wight tossed Mialee aside with a casual flick of its bony hand. Devis froze. He had been so close.

  The elf woman smashed headfirst against the base of a huge, old tree and Devis heard the sickening snap of vertebrae. She did not move and didn't seem to be breathing. Her limbs splayed awkwardly, her head twisted at an angle that no living person could accommodate without excruciating pain. Glassy eyes stared into the trees above, unblinking, unmoving.

  Mialee was dead.

  Blind fury surged through Devis's body.

  Mialee was dead.

  He screamed and charged the wight. Only rage guided his sword. He would cut this monster into a thousand pieces, burn the body, and drop the foul ashes into the dead crater of Morsilath itself. The silver blade sliced the air.

  Mialee was dead.

  A black staff appeared from nowhere in the wight's hands. The bard's sword hit the ebony wood and bounced back. Devis bellowed and maneuvered to strike again. The wight twirled the staff in both hands like a fighting monk.

  Heavy black wood, hard as deknae, cracked across Devis's jaw. The bard flipped painfully onto his back. The sword slipped from his hand. His eyes rolled to his right, and he saw the blade embedded point-first in the hard earth, hilt waving in mock greeting.

  Devis clambered back to his feet and yanked the sword free from the earth. The snarling wolf pack circled more distantly now, waiting to snap up anyone who ran from the fight. Diir circled and flanked the wight opposite Devis, dodging blows from the creature's black staff. Zalyn shouted a battle cry and charged into the fray in her gleaming armor, and the wight promptly sent her flying with the butt of the staff. She landed with a clang, but couldn't get up in the awkward armor.

  Devis glanced around for Hound-Eye. The halfling had abandoned them after all. Devis would kill him. Then he spotted Hound-Eye crouched over the fallen elf woman, trying to get her to swallow a potion from Zalyn's leather bag. The bard detected no movement in Mialee's limp body, even after Hound-Eye tossed an empty vial over his shoulder, cursing and shaking Mialee gently. Potions could only do so much.

  Revenge was a simple, animal thing, but Devis wanted it more than anything. He forced himself to turn away from Mialee's lifeless eyes and face her killer.

  He should have stopped her. Why hadn't she listened when he warned her? It had to be magic. He should have caught up to the elf woman and held her back. He should have stood beside her and faced down Muhn and his guards, then taken the elf woman far away.

  He should have stopped her.

  He held no hope that they'd be able to find anyone powerful enough to bring her back from the beyond. Silatham was no good, he knew with chilling certainty. The "lost outpost" had not, apparently, been able to stop the undead. He knew Zalyn couldn't do it, and the missing brothers of her order were dead and stumbling around Silatham without eyes even now, if they'd gotten that far.

  Devis ducked back from the wight's staff as it cut the air in front of his face. Focus, bard. He brought up his sword blade and felt it block the staff and violently bounce back.

  The bard redirected his attack and sliced his sword into the creature's leg. The wight screeched and shoved the base of the black staff into Diir's gut. The elf retched and doubled over onto all fours. His swords clattered on either side of him.

  Devis took advantage of the wight's distraction with expert timing. His long sword sliced the air and carved a neat arc through the back of the wight's neck, though the cut did not decapitate the creature. Before he could try again, one gray fist flew up from the creature and connected with a loud crack against his chin. The bard staggered to his knees.

  Diir's short sword lay next to Devis's boots. He saw Diir struggling on the ground, coughing up blood as the wight turned from Devis and moved to strike the ranger again.

  Devis dropped his own weapon and took up the blade Diir used to kill the crocodile.

  The wight turned and loomed over the stunned Diir, who seemed unable to focus on the monster inches away. Hound-Eye wailed at the gods while Zalyn kicked and squirmed like an overturned beetle. Devis heard no sound from Mialee.

  Devis raised the short sword behind his head and took two quick breaths. His eyes narrowed at the tattered rags that hung from the thing's gray, leathery back, and he hurled the short sword end over end like a carnival performer.

  The throw was going to miss. The weapon tumbled away from him as time crawled to a standstill.r />
  In the split second that was available, Devis managed to sing a single line that summoned a glowing hand-shape beside the tumbling sword. With it, he nudged the blade toward the wight. If he'd miscalculated the weight of the unfamiliar sword, it would simply smack against the monster like a club. In the process, they would lose what was probably the most powerful weapon they had.

  Devis calculated correctly. The tip of the silver sword pierced the wight's back squarely between its hunched shoulder blades. The heavy blade sunk in to the hilt. The skeletal thing screeched in agony, and Devis smiled bitterly.

  The black staff fell by the wayside as the wight clawed at the silver weapon. The hilt protruded from its back while the tip, extending several inches from the creature's chest, gleamed dully in the starlight. Devis stalked forward empty-handed, fists clenched, the last man standing. He grasped the sword and kicked hard at the creature's back. It stumbled forward onto its belly, then clawed and writhed on the bare ground. The thing was dreadfully hurt, yet it seethed with power.

  As Diir regained his senses, he crab-crawled away from the thrashing flurry of rags and limbs nearby.

  Then the wight's red eyes locked onto the short sword in Devis's hand. A vile curse exploded from it in a language the bard barely comprehended. Pinpricks of scarlet light deep in black sockets flashed intensely. Were they focused on Devis, the sword, or both?

  Devis edged closer to the creature, which was now on all fours and trying to stand. A bony arm extended toward the fallen staff.

  The slash across the back of the wight's neck formed a fleshy, ridiculous smile. If the sword could hurt the wight, Devis was willing to gamble that it could take the thing's head right off with little difficulty. He raised the magical blade overhead.

  Before he could strike, the pinpricks of red in the wight's eye sockets flared brightly and the monster snarled a string of unintelligible invective. The air around it rippled like a heat mirage, and it disappeared.

  The short sword cut through empty air. Devis lost his balance and barely caught himself before tumbling again to the ground. He blinked and looked at the short sword clutched in his hand, not quite sure what had just happened. Had the wight disintegrated, or disappeared? Was it gone or still here, invisible? Devis scanned the surrounding darkness.

  A faint orange glow still flickered in the distance. The wolves had scattered, though he knew not why. Devis decided the wight, too, was gone. He dropped the short sword and ran to Mialee with a black knot of dread twisting in his belly.

  Hound-Eye looked up into the bard's eyes. His face was wet with tears, and he convulsed with choking sobs.

  "I'm sorry," the halfling choked, "I used all of our potions. They're no good!"

  Devis gazed down at the glass-eyed, still-beautiful elf woman and felt tears crawling down his cheeks. Hound-Eye was right. Mialee's neck was broken.

  "Ehlonna hinue, Mormhaor shan!"

  Zalyn was on her feet and conjuring something to pursue the fleeing wolves and keep them running. Were his attention not consumed by the dead woman before him, Devis might have been surprised that their inexperienced young cleric had suddenly found the wherewithal to repel two dozen undead wolves. He might have noticed that the god the little cleric invoked was not the Protector. If Devis's eyes had not been glued to Mialee's body, he might even have spied the gnome tucking a golden icon engraved with a tree and unicorn into her leather bag.

  Devis knelt and closed the girl's dead eyes with the backs of his fingertips, the only part of his hands not covered in wight gore. He noted sadly that Mialee's soft, pale skin did not flinch when an errant tear freed itself from his face and landed on her cheek.

  A tiny gauntlet fell on his shoulder. "The brothers . . . they can-" Zalyn began.

  The brothers from her temple. Devis, in his fury and grief, had not believed it possible they were alive. But even if the chance was slim, he had to try. He took his abandoned long sword from Diir and sheathed it.

  Devis scooped the woman's body into his arms and stood. The rage gave way to resolve and a glimmer of hope. Still, their little band was so beaten and battered.

  "Zalyn," he said, "I think the odds . . . they're not good. That thing was waiting for her."

  "There is at least one cleric of the Protector in Silatham capable of bringing her back, Devis," Zalyn said, and her impish voice became heavy with an authority Devis had never heard from the little gnome before. "I feel it in my heart," the gnome added, pounding a gauntlet into her armored chest.

  "Let's go find your cleric. He'd better be alive, because he's going to help her, or I'll kill him."

  16

  Cavadrec hurled the teleportation helm with all his considerable supernatural might at the black deknae throne that dominated his underground lair. The metal clanged loudly off the heat-treated stone and bounced against the flank of a surprised zombie wolf before finally settling onto the floor, mocking him. Favrid's head lolled to one side, and the battered, old elf cracked a smile despite the agony Cavadrec knew he felt. Cavadrec considered killing the fool on the spot, but restrained himself. Such an impulsive act, satisfying in the short term, would be disastrous for his ultimate plan. Instead, he decided to crush the old man's spirit.

  "Your idiot girl is dead, old friend," the wight hissed into Favrid's face. "I killed her myself."

  He drove a fist into the old wizard's gut for emphasis. Favrid coughed up something black that dribbled down the front of his pale, bare chest.

  Favrid groaned. Cavadrec welcomed the anguished sound. His mood improved slightly. He should have brought the old fool down here ages ago.

  The wolf dashed off down one of the many exits that led from Cavadrec's lair into the maze of lava tubes crisscrossing the earth beneath Morsilath and the surrounding forest.

  Cavadrec reflected on the battle that had cost the apprentice her useless life. The wight seethed.

  So the blade had been recovered. The pain it inflicted was great, but the bard had caught him off guard. If the wight faced the blade again, it would be on his terms. He knew all about Favrid and Linnelle and their little plan, although Linnelle had not lived to see it come to fruition. Favrid would, but not as the old man expected. Cavadrec had removed the wizard from the equation personally. With the elf woman out of the way and the ridiculous gnome their only divine hope, they would never escape Silatham alive. All that remained was to alert the troops.

  While Favrid whimpered and moaned in the dimly lit cave, Cavadrec focused his consciousness on one of his most useful servants.

  His wight-self cracked into a death's head grin at what he saw when he looked out through the tiny, borrowed eye sockets of the wightling rat.

  The remaining members of the party walked wearily onward toward the mysterious glow of Silatham. Despite the sad burden he carried, Devis gaped when he saw the place.

  A curved wall of wood, woven together with ancient elven techniques like Dogmar's strange Temple of the Protector, rose into the massive evergreen trees and disappeared into the darkness high above. The massive trunks of the old-growth forest of Silath were embedded into the wall, or more likely the wall had been grown around them.

  Silatham looked like an enormous, splayed onion impaled on huge evergreen trees. Several rope ladders hung down over the ground, and a curved leaf of the onion-maybe an artichoke-opened out to form a ramp that could support heavy weight; carts, horses, even marching troops. That explained the clearing. It was a mustering or unloading area. Drop your big artichoke ramp, load it up with soldiers, and the elevation renders them well-defended, Devis thought.

  Of course, the place was on trees. Fire could be a problem for defenders. Live athel trees were impervious to most natural flame, and the trees had no doubt been soaked with defensive magic. The problem with this bustling town scenario-in addition to the fact that it was a myth-was location, location, location. Devis couldn't understand how this place would support itself. It sat ringed by dense forest that would break a pack mule's leg
in a minute. It wasn't large enough to have farms inside the onion wall. And you'd have to haul soil up a hundred feet to grow anything in treetop gardens.

  This could only mean one thing. There had to be huge stores of food under this place: steaks, bread, wine, and ale. It all had to have been brought in before the trees grew up to surround it. Silatham had been stuck up there when this forest was very, very young.

  Which meant that the huge, central tree sticking up through the onion had to be a fake. It was as big as the rest, but it had to be the route to the stores. Devis was suddenly very hungry. He shifted Mialee on his hip, and her arm flopped free and struck Hound-Eye. The little halfling yelped and moved ahead of the bard.

  Devis's arms ached. It was time to give up on the romantic hero bit for a moment. He flung Mialee over his left shoulder and jogged to catch up with Hound-Eye and the others. He winced every time he heard the lute smack her in the head and decided to just walk fast. Diir was already starting up one of the rope ladders. Devis hoped the ranger knew a secret way in.

  The elf seemed to know where he was going, and that was encouraging. Devis still didn't trust the glow. The splayed onion looked as if someone had lit a candle inside. This place wasn't all dark, living athel. It was dead, and burning. Devis could actually feel the heat on his face.

  From close up, Devis could see gaps, open seams where the woven wood had dried and split from age. This was dead athel like the temple in Dogmar, not dark, living trees.

  Devis knew a surprising amount about athel trees, learned from a big-eared elven artisan in exchange for a tune and a good word with a barmaid at the Dog's Ear. The thing about athel wood was, it could grow in the ground-like the temple once had-or on other trees. Elves used to use the stuff to build in the trees before athel became so rare. When it was alive, athel trees could be woven using a technique very similar to bardic magic and it was dark, rich, reddish brown. When athel died, it turned golden yellow like the temple, or white, if not treated properly.