Sam Finch and the Zombie Hybrid (Sam Finch Series Book 1)

by Bouchard, J. W.

  Zosimus said, “My guess would be –”

  Just then, the physician’s assistant returned, Finnaeus following after him. The ancient-looking priest stopped at the edge of the bed. He stared down at Malavant’s body. “How long ago did he pass?” he asked.

  “Less than five minutes ago,” Arnaldus said.

  “Snag beetle poison,” Zosimus added.

  “It appears to be weapon tampering,” Alsted said. “A full investigation will need to be launched.”

  Finnaeus nodded as though none of this information surprised him. He turned his head and glanced down at Sam, who was still dazed from witnessing Malavant’s death. “I think it would be best if you returned to your living quarters,” the priest said in a soothing voice. “It may go without saying, but I would ask you kindly to not speak of any of this.”

  “I’d like to stay…if that’s all right,” Sam said. He wasn’t sure why he said it; if it was only out of curiosity or something else, but he felt like he needed to see it through to the end.

  Finnaeus said, “I see. Alsted, he’s your student, I’ll let you decide.”

  Alsted stared at Sam for a long time, and Sam stared back determinedly. “Let him stay then.”

  “Very well,” Finnaeus said. “We only have a small window of time. You see, the soul doesn’t leave the body all at once. It leaves a little bit at a time, in degrees, slowly seeping away. The amount of soul that escapes is in direct proportion to the amount of time that has gone by. That is why resurrection is such a touchy business. Even in the best of circumstances, something is always lost.”

  “How long does it take before all the soul is gone?” Sam asked. He knew this was a very serious matter, but a part of him couldn’t help feeling like he was in the middle of class, and that this was another lesson.

  “No two cases are the same,” Finnaeus said. “It varies depending on the person. Usually, a matter of hours.”

  “Fascinating,” Zosimus said. “But perhaps we should get on with it.”

  “Yes, time is of the essence.”

  Finnaeus bent forward, resting his left hand on Malavant’s forehead, his right hand on Malavant’s chest, over the area where his heart would be. Alsted, Arnaldus, and Zosimus watched eagerly. Sam wondered if, like him, it was the first time any of them had seen a resurrection performed.

  Finnaeus closed his eyes. His brow furrowed in deep concentration. “Ooh-dah-rah-ohmmm,” he chanted. And then his voice went an octave higher as he continued. “Feh-soo-laaa-doh-rum-kaaaa.”

  Bright white light surrounded the priest’s hands, spreading out from his fingers and onto Malavant’s body until the dead boy was completely surrounded by it. Sam had to shield his eyes because the light was so bright. Malavant’s body began to shake; a minor tremor at first, becoming more and more pronounced, until the bed shook, the frame rattling against the floor.

  Malavant’s body bucked wildly; his back arched to the point where Sam thought it would surely snap.

  “Is that normal?” Sam asked.

  “No,” Finnaeus said. “I believe something has interfered with the spell.”

  Malavant’s body continued to jerk violently, the bed rattled and shifted, hitting the stand next to it, causing the bowl of water sitting on top of it to fall and crash to the floor.

  “We have to do something,” Sam said, but had no idea what that something might be. In the end, all any of them could do was watch.

  The seizure went on for several minutes. Malavant’s body went rigid and fell back to the bed.

  “He’s breathing,” Arnaldus said, indicating the rise and fall of the boy’s chest.

  Slowly, Malavant’s eyes fluttered opened. His skin remained a sickly gray color, mottled with dark blotches. He stared at them. His lips parted, moved, but nothing came out.

  “Water!” Arnaldus shouted, and a moment later the physician’s assistant hurried up holding a small clay bowl filled with fresh water. Arnaldus tilted the bowl close to Malavant’s lips. Malavant drank, and despite choking a little, he kept taking small gulps until the bowl was empty.

  Sam noticed something else: Malavant’s eyes, which had been dark brown previously, were now coated with a milky white film. Sam knew he had seen something like that before, but couldn’t quite put his finger on exactly when or where; his mind was reeling from the traumatic event that had occurred.

  “It worked,” Alsted said. “Well done, Finnaeus.”

  But Finnaeus didn’t share their enthusiasm, nor did he appear convinced that the resurrection spell had worked. “He’s up and moving,” he said. “I’ll agree with that much.”

  “Where am I?” Malavant asked.

  “You are in the infirmary wing,” Arnaldus said. “Do you remember anything of what happened?”

  Malavant shook his head. “No. All I remember is…the practical…dueling…and then something trying to take me away.”

  “You were injured in the duel,” Alsted said. “But you’re fine now.”

  Finnaeus, Arnaldus, and Zosimus looked at Alsted, but the dwarf merely shook his head. Sam couldn’t quite believe it: were they actually going to keep the truth of what really happened from Malavant? Simply forget to mention the fact that he had been poisoned, died, and been resurrected all within a matter of the last half an hour?

  Malavant rubbed his fingers over the wound on his chest.

  “You will probably have a nasty little scar after it heals,” Arnaldus said, “but it could have been much worse.”

  Malavant lifted himself up, but Arnaldus gently forced him back down. “You need to rest,” the physician said.

  “But I feel fine now. My head’s a little fuzzy, but that’s all.”

  “That’s good news, but I’m going to keep you here overnight. If you’re still feeling fine in the morning, I will release you from the hospital. For now, I want you to rest. I will have my assistant bring you more water and we will have dinner brought to you.”

  Malavant rested his head back on the pillow. The others started to leave and Sam followed them. When they were in the hallway, out of earshot, they stopped.

  “What has happened, Finnaeus?” Arnaldus asked.

  Finnaeus shook his head. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen anything like this before.”

  “But the resurrection worked,” Zosimus said. “He’s alive, isn’t he?”

  “Yes and no. I am not entirely certain the resurrection spell worked, or at least worked as it was supposed to. The color of the boy’s skin…if I didn’t know any better, I would say he has the curse of the undead.”

  “Undead? That’s preposterous,” Alsted said. “The boy’s talking just fine. Tell me, when was the last time ya ran into one of the undead that could carry on a perfectly normal conversation? Unless it was a vampire.”

  “Never. Zosimus, you say it was snag beetle poison that killed him?”

  “Of that I’m quite certain.”

  “Is that the only poison on the sword?”

  “The only poison discernible with the naked eye,” Zosimus said. “Why?”

  “I think it would be wise to hold onto the sword for further testing.”

  Arnaldus eyed Finnaeus. “What are you getting at?”

  “This may seem a little farfetched, but I believe it was more than snag beetle poison that infected the boy. His skin, his eyes – he shows some of the telltale symptoms. On the other hand, he can speak and seems to have his wits about him. I think the resurrection worked, but only to a degree. He’s both alive and dead.”

  “You think he’s a hybrid?” Sam asked.

  “Yes. The poison had infected him and he died. If the resurrection hadn’t been performed, I think he would have come back as a zombie. But somehow, the resurrection spell and the curse cancelled each – no, that’s not quite right – he got a little bit of both. His soul was maintained, but he is still infected.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Alsted said.

  “Either have I. You must wat
ch him closely, Arnaldus.”

  Arnaldus peered around the corner, peeking into the infirmary just long enough to see that Malavant remained in his bed. “I can’t keep him here indefinitely.”

  “Nor was I suggesting that you should,” Finnaeus said. “But watch him. If all is well, release him back to training. And then Alsted can keep an eye on him.”

  “Of course,” Alsted said. “King Leodan will want a full investigation.”

  “The girl will need to be questioned.”

  “The King will handle that himself, I expect,” Alsted said. “This is strange business.” Alsted looked as if he wanted to say more, but Sam had a feeling they all thought they had said too much with him around already.

  They don’t really think it’s an accident, Sam thought, but they don’t want me to know that.

  Finnaeus said, “I must return to meditations. My students will be expecting me.”

  Sam watched Finnaeus leave with Zosimus. Arnaldus bid them farewell and returned to the infirmary.

  “I’ll walk ya back to quarters,” Alsted said.

  “I know my way back,” Sam said.

  “I’m sure ya do, but do an old dwarf a favor, would ya?”

  Sam walked out of the castle with Alsted, down the path and through the square, until they arrived at the living quarters. Before they reached it, Alsted pulled Sam aside. “Listen, boy, I won’t go beatin’ a dead horse, but let’s keep this situation to ourselves, shall we?”

  This is why he wanted to walk with me, Sam thought. To make sure I’d keep my mouth shut.

  “You don’t think it was an accident do you?” Sam said.

  Alsted stared at him for several seconds before a slight grin came over his face. “Ya’re a clever boy, I’ll give ya that.”

  “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

  “And perceptive,” Alsted said. “There are things ya’re better off not knowing. I need ya to focus on yar training. It mayhap that a storm’s coming. A big one. Ya’ll need to be prepared. Ya showed courage today. That can’t be taught. It’s somethin’ ya’re either born with or ya aren’t. Hang onto that. There may come a time when ya’ll need it.”

  With that, Alsted left him standing there. Sam’s mind was a frenzied whirlwind of confused thoughts; it would take time to sort it all out and put the pieces together. He couldn’t believe most of what had happened. But he did know one thing: he wanted to talk to Sarah more than ever.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  MAKING AMENDS

  The first thing Sam did the next morning was to take out his pen and parchment and begin writing a letter to his mother. His head ached and his eyes were bloodshot. Curtis, along with the other boys, had interrogated him until late into the night about what had happened to Malavant. Sam had sat on his bed, the other boys huddled around him (surprisingly, Cully Duke was among them), and told them the story, with one major difference: he made no mention of the snag beetle poison, the resurrection, or the likelihood that Dartis Malavant was now quite possibly some strange undead hybrid; a zombie with a soul was how Sam’s mind insisted on describing it.

  Sam’s version of events was dull and boring compared to what had actually taken place. In his watered-down version, Malavant had been wounded, suffered an infection, but Arnaldus had managed to cure him and he was now in the infirmary on his way to a speedy recovery. “And it sounds like it was all so minor that they’ll release him tomorrow,” Sam had added.

  Sam knew he had succeeded in allaying their suspicions when boys started wandering back to their beds before his story was finished.

  “It should have been her,” Cully spat before returning to his bed. “Wouldn’t have happened if they never had let her in here.”

  By the time he had finished, it had been well past midnight, and exhaustion hit Sam like a sack of bricks. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and fall asleep, forget about the mysterious business he had witnessed that day for at least a little while. Curtis had pestered him, convinced that there was more to the story than Sam was letting on, but Sam had stuck to his modified version of events.

  Curtis continued to snore, completely oblivious to the first rays of sunlight poking in through the window. The melting snow had formed a small stream on the ground outside their window. Sam listened to more water drip off the eaves as he sat up in bed and began writing.

  Dear Mom,

  I’m sorry for not writing you sooner. With training and tests, it has been very busy here. Do they know what Dad has come down with? It would have been nice to see you over the holiday, but it’s no big deal since Dad is sick and all. Classes are going well and I’m learning lots of stuff. I’ve also made several friends, and was thinking that maybe over the summer my friend Curtis could stay with us for a week or two. Anyway, I miss you guys, too, and hope you enjoy the holidays. Been getting lots of snow here! Tell Dad I hope he gets better soon and I’ll have some stories to tell him.

  Love,

  Sam

  P.S. - Thanks a lot for the gold pieces!

  Sam read over what he had written. Satisfied, he rolled the parchment tightly, looped a length of twine around it, and tied it off in a bow.

  He shoved his hand between the mattress and boxspring of his bed, searching until he found his coin pouch. He opened the top and poured the five gold pieces onto the palm of his hand.

  Looking around the room, Sam saw only five other boys in the living quarters. Two were still asleep (Curtis being one of them), and the other three were already getting dressed and packing their things.

  Victor was one of them. He swept up a large canvas sack and threw it over his shoulder. He noticed Sam sitting up in bed. “I’m off,” he said.

  “Going home for the holidays?”

  “Aye. Good ter forget about this place fer a few weeks. Ya stuck here?”

  “Yeah, my dad’s sick so my parents couldn’t make the trip. That’s okay though, I’m sure I’ll find something to do.”

  “Right. Well, enjoy the holidays, Sam.”

  “You, too.”

  Sam watched Victor leave. It was the longest conversation he had had with any of the boys (except for Curtis) since he had started training. At least he knew that Victor didn’t hold a grudge against him. Maybe some of the other boys’ cold shoulders would thaw now that it seemed as though he wasn’t spending time with Sarah. He had grown an inch since last summer, but he was still small compared to the other boys, and Cully Duke still loathed him fiercely. In spite of all that, perhaps he was making headway. But he didn’t get his hopes up.

  He needed to talk to Sarah; needed to let her know that what had happened with Malavant wasn’t her fault. Maybe she already knew. Surely, Alsted would have reported the events to King Leodan by now. The fact that someone had somehow managed to tamper with Sarah’s sword baffled him; who else would have access to it? Sam had never seen her leave it lying around before, and the castle was the safest place in the entire kingdom.

  But he wanted to tell Sarah himself. He had given Alsted his word that he would keep everything he had seen to himself, but he didn’t think he would be going back on his promise by telling Sarah. More than anyone, she had a right to know.

  Curtis snored loudly. Occasionally, he would mutter something in his sleep. Sam dressed quietly, cursing under his breath at the squeaking noises his leather harness made as he strapped it to his back. He scribbled a short note to Curtis letting him know he was going to the village and would be back shortly and left it on the edge of his friend’s bed, next to his pillow. Curtis wouldn’t be pleased that Sam had left without him, but this was something he needed to do on his own.

  By the time Sam reached the village, his boots were nearly soaked through. The sun was shining, the snow was melting, and he had to work his way through wet sludge.

  He stopped outside the Bard’s Tale, wiping the mud from his boots as best he could. There was no guarantee that Sarah would be there, but it was his only option as there was no way he would gai
n access to the castle without an invitation.

  The bell over the entrance jangled when he opened the door and stepped inside. The inside of the Bard’s Tale was decorated for the holiday; sparkling silver, gold, and blue tinsel hung from the ceiling and over the bar. A shabby-looking tree stood in one corner of the room. The same bard Sam had seen on his first visit was there again. This time, he was seated on a stool near the corner of the bar, plucking the strings of his harp. He would strum the strings, start to sing a line or two, and then shake his head in disgust before starting the song over.

  Seeing all of it brought a smile to Sam’s face. There were several other people in the restaurant, but he didn’t see Sarah anywhere.

  Lazarus came out from behind the bar to greet him, all smiles. “Ah, you’ve come back! Sam, isn’t it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Hot chocolate?”

  “Yes, please,” Sam said as Lazarus showed him to the same corner table they had occupied the first time.

  “We have a special going on right now. For an extra copper, we’ll add a few drops of our finest Borganian cream. It’s seasonal. Makes the hot chocolate even better. How about it?”

  “Sure,” Sam said. “Why not?” It was impossible to argue given the man’s enthusiasm.

  “Coming right up!”

  “Hey, Laz, has Sarah been in yet?”

  “Sarah? No, I’m afraid not. Was she supposed to be meeting you here?”

  “I just thought she might stop by is all.”

  While Sam waited for his hot chocolate, he stared out the window. The street was alive with people doing last minute shopping.

  Either Sarah hadn’t arrived yet or she wasn’t coming. If nothing else, he would enjoy his cup of hot chocolate and then go back to the living quarters and catch up with Curtis.

  Oh well, Sam thought. Never expected this plan to be foolproof.

  He absently wondered how Malavant was doing. Yesterday’s events were like a dream; they had been vivid while fresh on his mind, but now the memory was fading and he was having trouble seeing it clearly.