D&D 02-The Living Dead

by T. H. Lain

  "Or maybe we're stuck with a wizard who can't cast spells," Hound-Eye growled. "I don't know if any of you have noticed, but we need her."

  Mialee regarded the halfling with an arched brow.

  Hound-Eye blushed, scowled, and added, "Well, don't we? We need the girl to fight those things. I never heard a mage burn a zombie with 'turnip wagon potato'."

  Turning from the discussion, Mialee listened closely to the sounds outside and thought she heard low voices—no clear words, but a cacophony of moans, groans, and guttural growls. Mialee noted for the first time that the few windows in the small room were boarded up, in a hurry from the look of it. The sounds she heard were not all animals. A low chorus of moaning, rasping voices growled in mockery of the lilting sounds of elves. These were elves with nothing to say but "urrrrrrrrrrrrr."

  Mialee placed a hand on the wand and felt her fingertips brush the comforting weight of her spellbook. She slapped her forehead. Of course! She couldn't' speak, but she might not be illiterate. But the special pages of the spellbook were made for spells. To scribble notes to her friends in it would be a terrible waste. She waved her hands at the others. With frantic gestures, she indicated she needed something to write on, and pulled out her dipless quill from the book pouch.

  "I think she wants parchment," Diir said.

  "There must be something, Soveliss," the other armored elf said, and moved to rummage through a desk that was pushed against a second door.

  Mialee took the time then to peer at the other occupants of the room who had not yet said a word. One, a bald, scholarly elf in expensive-looking but gore-spattered robes, huddled next to the fire and regarded everyone with nervous eyes. Crouched beside him was an elf woman holding a very young elf child—perhaps no older than seven years—on her hip. The family, for that's exactly what they appeared to be, was less filthy than everyone else present, including Mialee, but still looked like they'd been through hell These people were terrified and in no mood for conversation. The bald man looked like he trusted no one and meant to keep his family as far from the others as he could in the tiny space.

  "Banana?" she asked, pointing at Diir.

  As she was beginning to expect, the others were baffled. She walked to Diir and positioned herself between her ally and the other elf. She jabbed her finger at the man rummaging through the desk while she flapped her other hand like a bird beak next to her mouth. "Ba. Na. Na."

  "I think she wants to know why Clayn referred to me as 'Soveliss'," Diir jumped in. Mialee marveled at his wordiness. "Elder," Diir said to Zalyn, "perhaps you could explain?"

  Mialee sighed. Everyone she knew had gone insane. Diir was calling the hyperactive little gnome "Elder," and was referring to himself as "Soveliss." Mialee considered Zalyn and her new, scholarly speech pattern. The little gnome returned her look with one of apology and tucked a lock of hair behind one pointed ear.

  Mialee closed her eyes, put a palm to her temple and wished for the hundredth time that elves could sleep. She was getting a headache.

  The elf called Clayn turned and pressed a few torn scraps of paper, already partially covered in elf-script, into her hand.

  "Tornado honeybee, alacrity," Mialee thanked the ranger and took up the quill.

  Her nimble fingers scrawled a few words on the paper. Mialee felt a wash of relief when she saw she could read them, and they made sense. Devis read the words aloud, reading over her shoulder. Apparently this pernicious magic Hound-Eye had given her didn't affect her fingers. She tried to remember how many spells she could cast without speaking, but there were only a few. A few was better than none.

  " 'Where am I?'" the bard read." 'How did I come back? Elder? Soveliss?''" As Mialee scribbled rapidly, the bard added," Are those zombies outside?'"

  Devis regarded Mialee with a third of his practiced, lopsided grin. "Oh, the easy stuff."

  The elf woman gave him an irritated but gentle shove. She wasn't going to write the fact down for all to read, but Mialee found Devis's steady presence strangely comforting, even if the bard couldn't understand her when she talked and wouldn't take this seriously.

  Zalyn turned to Clayn. "Clayn, how much time do I have?"

  The ranger put an eye to a small gap in the boards over one window for a few seconds. He counted silendy. When the elf turned back to Zalyn, he said darkly, "I estimate an hour, maybe two. They have already drawn closer. The turning cannot last much longer. I hope Ehlonna is prepared to grant us a reprieve one more time."

  "I'll ask her," the gnome said, smiling, and Mialee realized the little cleric was giving orders. "Please keep an eye on them and alert me as soon as they breach the divine protections. The temple is lost, but Ehlonna's chosen make their own places of worship," Zalyn told the elf, who resumed his lookout at the boarded window.

  The little gnome fingered the holy symbol around her neck absently. Mialee blinked. Zalyn no longer wore the crescent of Corellon Larethian. The over-sized medallion the cleric now wore bore a carving that depicted a rearing unicorn beneath branching boughs—the symbol of Ehlonna, goddess of the wood.

  "It appears we have been given a gift of time," Zalyn said. "While we wait for your voice to recover, Mialee, perhaps it's time I revealed to you who I really am, what you're doing here, and why we risked returning you to life in this place. First, I should tell you that I have been the sole occupant of the temple of the Protector—actually an ancient temple of Ehlonna, our sacred Mother—for nearly a hundred years. There are no brothers or high clerics. I brought you back."

  The gnome muttered an arcane spell, Mialee noted, then suddenly bent and aged before Mialee's eyes. She had become the withered, tiny crone from the Silver Goblet. Mialee could see now that the stinky little "prophet" was in fact an ancient, shriveled elf. The question was, which was the illusion—the gnome, or the crone?

  Mialee's eye grew wide. "Saddlebag, albino," said the elf woman, forgetting to write. "Saddlebag."

  Cavadrec's tattered, purple robes billowed behind the tall wight as he stalked down the corridor. The angry howls and horrible cries of a thousand different undead animals echoed deep underground. Hooked claws swiped at the fast-moving wight as he passed through the cages.

  The wight hoped to save this part of his plan for the end, but recent events convinced Cavadrec that the time for this scheme to be unleashed was now. His pets would easily keep the only real threat to himself—that damned sword, Mor-Hakar, and the elf who wielded it—from reaching this lair before Cavadrec could drain the fool Favrid and complete his spell of dominion. While he found it extremely doubtful that the elf alone could actually kill Cavadrec, the wight meant to take no chances. If the elf could not be destroyed, he could at least be prevented from finding Cavadrec until it was too late, either to stop Cavadrec or save himself.

  At that hour, Cavadrec would drink the blood of Favrid and complete the holy incantations revealed to him by Nerull a thousand years ago. The reborn corpses of every living thing that had ever died violently in the shadow of Morsilath—human or animal, dwarf, halfling, or elf—would rise and walk the earth. Every last one of them would be at Cavadrec's command. They would spread over the world like a plague.

  When all was complete, Nerull would elevate Cavadrec to the level of a god. The Reaper had told him so in dark whispers that slid through the wight's brain like oiled silk.

  The wight reached the end of the wide aisle between his caged pets and wrenched the lever that released the doors. His wightling animals, ready to infect the world above—and more importantly, bolster the forces in and around Silatham, where he ordered them to go first—exploded from confinement and rushed out the maze of lava tubes lacing the region. Cavadrec whirled and returned the way he had come, wading through the mass of chaotic animals.

  "Then something whacked me on the back of the head, and I woke up here," the bard finished. Devis insisted on relating the tale of their encounter with the wight before Zalyn explained herself.

  "That was me," Clayn said
with neither pride nor apology. "You looked like a crawling zombie, and smelled like one, too."

  "Yeah, well, you might have said something before you pulled out the club, Cane," Devis muttered, rubbing the back of his skull.

  "Clayn."

  "Whatever."

  "He'd have chopped your head off if I hadn't stopped him, Devis," Darji said.

  Mialee scribbled with her quill and held up the note. "The 'prophecy'? Explain yourself, Z."

  The Zalyn hag laughed, and the sound was nothing like the hacking, disgusting little creature they'd met before.

  "One and one and one is three,

  "One for the teacher, one is for me.

  "The Buried rings a bell for thee,

  "The Buried rings a bell for thee.

  "Elf on my left, lute gold and prudent,

  "Elf on my right, black-haired student,

  "Elf yet to come, guardian true.

  "One elf is the teacher,

  "The last one is his muse."

  Mialee sighed and rolled her eyes.

  " 'Lute gold and prudent?'" Hound-Eye chuckled. "Are you serious?"

  The crone cracked a grin. "I'm no poet, Hound-Eye, and I had to throw it together in a few days."

  A con man himself, Devis still didn't get the game in this prophetic doggerel. "I think I get who the 'guardian true' is, and the rest. One of them is you, the other is Favrid. But why us?"

  "Patience, please, all will be clear," Zalyn interrupted, and then turned to the silent elf woman.

  Mialee had given up on speaking for now. Devis leaned one hip on the wooden table and crossed his arms, standing protectively beside Mialee. The bard didn't like this Clayn at all, even if he had apparently protected this family of elves all by himself against a village full of zombies for a full day with nothing but two swords and a dwindling stock of arrows. Devis didn't trust the man. Or maybe he just didn't like the way Mialee looked at him.

  When did I become possessive? Devis wondered.

  It was a silly question to ask. The bard knew exactly when he had sworn to protect Mialee. Unfortunately, he hadn't succeeded the first time. He was glad to have a second chance.

  That was life, Devis thought. And death. And life again. He wondered idly what Mialee had seen while her spirit was absent from her body.

  "Favrid told me your opinion of prophecy, Mialee, and I tend to agree with you. The prophecy was for Devis's benefit. I knew that Soveliss was headed to Dogmar and was likely to be locked up by our fair and just and paranoid constable. I needed to let you know, Mialee, that you and the man you called 'Diir' would meet. I also hoped, Devis, that you might find the idea of a prophecy intriguing from a financial perspective."

  "How did you know I'd get thrown...in...you little weasel! You ratted me out to Muhn."

  "Griffon doorjamb?" Mialee was livid.

  "I assure you I did not expect them to find you where they did," Zalyn confessed, embarrassed, "but Soveliss had to be free, and I knew you couldn't resist Gunnivans old shatter spell."

  "He's dead. How do you know Gu—"

  "I'll never be able to explain all this if you don't stop asking me questions," the ancient elf woman said with a wink. Devis closed his mouth and decided it would be more pleasant to watch Mialee fume. She wore fuming well.

  "A thousand years ago, the great alliance of clerics and wizards confined the prisoner, Cavadrec, beneath the mountain we now call Morsilath," Zalyn began.

  She settled into a large, cushioned chair, one of the last pieces of unbroken furniture in the room.

  Devis listened. Despite his extreme irritation over Zalyn getting him tossed in the clink on purpose, prophecies and great alliances made excellent material for epic ballads.

  And the cleric had resurrected Mialee, so he found it hard to stay angry at the little woman. The crone grinned, but a sadness remained in her eyes.

  "Devis, Gunnivan led us to you long ago, early in your career and before his death, and we have kept watch on you. If you accept this challenge, I promise you will sing a spell heard through all the planes."

  "Really. Do these planes have any money, by any chance?" Devis replied. "You could have mentioned you knew Gunnivan, and that you're, you know, a thousand year old midget."

  "I told you why I concealed my identity," Zalyn said with sudden authority. She smiled at the bard. "Trust me."

  Bards that starred in their own epics could sack a lot of gold, and now he could honestly say that several dozen witnesses had heard that his 'coming was foretold.' He could make this work. To hear about a hero was cathartic or inspiring, to meet one could awe the average commoner and open the purse strings of genteel nobles seeking to impress their peers. The matrons of Dogmar alone might set Devis up for life. He shifted and nodded. He'd hear the little elf out.

  "It is difficult to know where to begin," Zalyn said, looking less and less like a horrible crone and more like a simple, sad, tired old woman. Her eyes gazed distantly at a memory none of them could see. "As usual, the beginning is appropriate. Mialee, did Favrid teach you through lessons from his own past, as is the custom of Silatham wizards? Did you know he was from this village?""

  The elf woman nodded once, then shook her head.

  "And the Buried One, Cavadrec?"

  Mialee again shook her head no and blurted, "Beltbuckle pie?"

  "Dear, dear," Zalyn muttered, "I told him so many times that you were ready. Then I don't imagine he told you how he shaped your studies to prepare you for this eventuality. You should have visited this place long ago. Favrid is one of the most intelligent men I've ever met," Zalyn said, "but he would forget his spell components if his familiar didn't remind him."

  "She's right there," Darji chirped.

  "Mialee, I need to tell you something about myself. You may have noted," said Zalyn, touching a finger to her pointed left ear, "my true nature. I am an elf. A very, very old elf. But I am not quite this old."

  Zalyn whispered a spell in which Mialee picked out illusory components—arcane magic, not divine. So Zalyn had more than one field of study, in addition to being much more than a novice.

  Zalyn finished her spell and raised her chin. Her features were still wrinkled with age, but they were noble and graceful, and her eyes glinted with youth. She produced a ribbon from her robes and tied her long strands back into a silver ponytail.

  "Unfortunately," she said, "I never was very good at disguising my ears."

  "You see," Zalyn continued, "I can speak so of Favrid because I've known him for a very, very long time. He's my thirimin."

  " There-a-mint?'" Hound-Eye blurted.

  "It means they're married," Devis clarified.

  "Oh," Hound-Eye said, and squinted his good orb at Zalyn. "He halfling-sized, too?"

  "Hardly," Zalyn said with a look that made Hound-Eye fidget.

  Mialee felt Devis shift closer to her as he leaned against the table. Mialee had been staring at the point where the back of Devis's leather trousers made contact with the table, and shook her head.

  "Favrid and I have been wed for a thousand years. We found thirimin together when we fought the Buried One. Before he was buried," said Zalyn, "as Favrid and I formulated the method that would allow us to defeat Cavadrec. The plan that the three of you and the two of us, Favrid and me, will attempt to make reality. To defeat the Buried One, instead of simply confining him, we must take a new tack."

  Mialee looked at Devis, who frowned. What had he expected, that they'd be conjuring pancakes for the downtrodden of Dogmar?

  "Wait," Devis said, "you said you had to hide your identity from us. What's your name?"

  "Zalyn will do. I have used it for centuries. The Buried One would know me by a different name, one I won't bother to mention, lest Cavadrec hear you say it at a bad time," the little elf explained.

  "Something like, 'I can't believe we're being killed and eaten by a wight that so-and-so roped us into fighting with a bit of improvisational prophecy?' Something like that?" Devis aske
d.

  Zalyn smiled. "Something like that.

  "The Buried One was once a colleague of Favrid's and mine," Zalyn went on, then turned pointedly to Devis, "and Gunnivan's."

  Beside her, Mialee felt Devis start.

  "The Buried One was once a cleric of the Mother, an elf named Cava. We learned, traveled, and fought together. Gunnivan rallied our spirits, Cava was the expert in spiritual dangers. Favrid and I explored arcane magic. Cava performed the bonding ceremony when Favrid and I decided to join. No others would marry a pair of eighty-year-old striplings. Even then, Silatham had a tendency toward knee-jerk traditionalism." Zalyn smiled.

  "The four of us were inseparable comrades. We traveled, fought, and learned together. But Cava deceived us all. We didn't know it, but he had been studying without us. He abandoned Ehlonna—" Zalyn jerked her thumb at a boarded window—"somewhere inside that mountain, which we called Kesirsilath back then. He found a source of tremendous, frightening knowledge. He secretly embraced the Hater of Life, whose name I shall not utter in our sanctuary.

  "One day, while traveling through the far southern forest, we discovered an ancient tomb of a great high cleric of Moradin. Favrid and I, of course, wished to explore the find. No dwarves have lived in the far south for millennia, and the secrets it may have held..."

  "Forget dwarves, I've never heard of any 'Great Southern Forest,' either," Hound-Eye growled. "There's nothing down there but sand."

  "Believe me, I'm aware of the discrepancy, Hound-Eye." Zalyn said, "I was there when the desert was created."

  Mialee couldn't quite make out what the halfling thief muttered in reply, but it sounded something like "smart-arsed immortal bastards."

  "Cava refused to enter the tomb," Zalyn said as Hound-Eye stewed. "At first, he simply insisted we did not have time, then tried to convince us it was too dangerous. We thought he'd gone mad, or fallen under the sway of a fear spell. We had faced far more difficult challenges together in our adventures, and Cava was no coward. Gunnivan tried to break any fear effects with an inspiring ballad, in fact, but Cava simply grew more and more angry.