Sister of the Dead

by Barb Hendee

  Looking inside, he saw the creature as it peered into the empty stalls to one side. In the center of the room was a brick forge pit of glowing coals.

  "Wynn!" he called out. "Wherever you are, stay down!"

  The cloaked creature spun around.

  Chane had tossed aside many a corpse in his short time among the Noble Dead, but it had been a long while since he'd seen one that had succumbed to decay. The quarrel Wynn had fired into his left eye was gone, leaving a blackened hole that oozed down his gray and sunken cheek.

  "You like spells?" Chane asked. "Come try one on me. "

  A mere boast, since he had no clear idea what magic thiis thing had used upon Magiere and Leesil. Yet he did have a few tricks of his own.

  The undead took in Chane's fine cloak and sword and smiled with shriveled lips. His one eye narrowed in concentration. For an instant, Chane felt a pulling sensation from within his flesh; then it vanished.

  The corpse stopped smiling.

  It looked down from Chane's face to his chest, and Chane followed its gaze to catch the object of its interest. His own brass urn for binding familiars lay in plain view.

  You think you can match me... vampire?

  The words filled Chane's thoughts.

  Through long years of study, Chane knew of few reputed methods of conjury and thaumaturgy that might produce projection of thought. He froze for a moment, at a loss for what to do.

  He was facing a sorcerer.

  And that meant he was in serious trouble... as was Wynn.

  Chane lunged forward and swung, burning up the life energies he had consumed in past nights to bolster his speed and strength. He needed to take the thing's head without warning. The creature ducked under the blade, not even startled. It seemed to know what he planned even as he began to move.

  The creature grabbed a smith's heavy iron hammer from the wall and swung back at him. It was not skilled at combat, but the action took Chane by surprise. He stumbled back into the forge, and his hand pressed briefly through the ash into hot coals. He snatched it away at the sound of searing skin.

  Perhaps it needed time to cast, as Chane would when the moment came. When it swung clumsily again, Chane backed away, his thoughts turning quickly.

  Crafting lines of scarlet light with his thoughts, he visualized them overlaying his view of the creature and began whispering his chant. First the circle, then around it a triangle, and into the spaces of its corners appeared glyphs and sigils, stroke by stroke. He sighted through the diagram's center at the ground beneath the sorcerer's feet.

  And he heard the creature's laugh inside his head.

  A conjuror? And I worried you might be dangerous.

  Suddenly, Chane could not move. He could feel his body, and there was no ridid clench of muscle, but it would not answer his will to step away.

  As the last of his incantation rolled off his tongue, he shuddered at what he saw through the diagram in his thoughts.

  All the room's fixtures shifted in his sight. He saw the forge that should have been behind him and the smithy doors. He saw himself viewed from the room's far side, as if he looked through the eyes of someone facing him... the eyes of the dead sorcerer.

  A flicker of elemental flame ignited from the ground beneath his own feet, instead of his target's.

  The creature had slipped into his thoughts, fed him its own sight, and Chane had unwittingly turned his own con-jury on himself. Searing heat filled his boots as the hem of his cloak ignited. And he still could not move.

  Then the sorcerer's face contorted, and his mouth opened wide into a silent scream.

  The creature's arms twisted around behind his back, reaching, as smoke rose behind him.

  Chane felt control return to him. He dropped to the floor, rolling in the dirt to extinguish his cloak. The brief flame he had conjured was already gone, but his breeches were blackened and seared above the tops of his smoldering boots. He scrambled up again, suppressing the pain in his feet.

  Wynn stood in the forge room's back corner near a narrow workbench holding an empty crossbow. She leaned against the wall, trying to reload, but her grip kept slipping, and she blinked her eyes repeatedly. A jangling sound pulled Chane's attention back to his adversary, flailing to remove a smoking quarrel from his back.

  The sound came from a brass vial on a chain about his neck. It fell into view from the sorcerer's shirt amid his frantic struggle.

  Sorcery required no conjuring vessels, so why was this undead wearing one?

  On impulse, Chane snagged the dead man's cloak and pulled him around. The sorcerer, shocked by pain from the quarrel, did not respond quickly enough, and Chane grabbed the vial. A hard jerk broke the chain, and he threw the brass urn onto the forge's hot coals. The dead man's expression shifted from pain to horror as the brass began melting.

  No! I can't...

  The sorcerer lunged for the forge with outstretched hands, and Chane slashed out with his sword. The undead dodged aside, still fixed upon the brass vial. It caved in over the coals' heat, and a puff of vapor was released with a snap. The dead man's one filmy eye opened wide as his mouth gaped. He looked wildly about the room.

  A word—or was it a name?—screamed through Chane's thoughts.

  Ubad!

  Whispering, unintelligible sounds filtered through Chane's mind. Afraid that the undead sought to cast his own spell, Chane rushed him again, but the room filled with swirling clouds of gray. He lost sight of his quarry and couldn't see anything. As he thrashed about, the vapor began to thin almost as quickly as it had appeared, and the clouds vanished.

  The sorcerer was gone. There was only Wynn staring at him from her corner before she slumped to the floor.

  Her brown eyes wide with disbelief, the image of her oval face hit Chane as if he'd run into a wall. It had been so long since he'd seen her. He stumbled over to drop down beside her on the floor.

  "You are burned, " she whispered.

  There was a sickly pallor to her skin, something brought on by more than fear, and she kept blinking her eyes. Her hands shook as she clung to the crossbow.

  "It is nothing that I can't heal on my own, " he said.

  "Is he gone? Is Vordana gone?"

  "Yes, I believe so... though I'm not certain how or why. A sorcerer has no use for conjuring vessels. I hoped it was something he needed to maintain his existence. "

  Chane reached out to help her up, and she shrank away from him. Her gaze wandered over him as if she were looking for... looking at something on him. He glanced down to his scorched boots and breeches.

  "I will be all right, " he assured her.

  The reality of his presence seemed to dawn upon her. "What are you doing here?"

  "I saw that thing coming after you. I couldn't let him—"

  She shook her head, brown braid slipping from her hood. "That is not... you know what I meant. "

  How could he lie to her, keep her from telling the dhampir? How could he find some gladness in her eyes at the sight of him? The only times in his new existence he had been truly content were those sitting at a study table with her, delving into ancient parchments and sipping mint tea. He clung to the truth buried in a half-lie and held out his hand.

  "I came after you, " he said. "This backward country with its ignorant peasants is no place for you. I have a good horse that can carry us both back to Bela and your guild. I am not what you think, and with your help, we can make Domin Tilswith understand. "

  Her round eyes widened even more.

  "Please. I would do anything you ask, " he said, "if we can just go back to Bela and try to live as we did before. "

  Chane had never begged in his life.

  One tear ran down Wynn's cheek. She dropped the crossbow in her lap and put her shaking hands to her head.

  "Do you still feed on human blood? Do you still hunt and kill for your existence? Would you stop this for me?"

  Chane tensed. How could he make her understand that most mortals were cattle not w
orth her concern? They meant nothing. Only the few, such as her and Domin Tilswith, truly mattered.

  When he did not answer, Wynn wiped her face with her sleeve. She stopped crying but wouldn't look at him.

  "Did you see where the others ran off to?" she asked quietly. "Do you know what Vordana did to them?"

  For an instant she had shown concern for him, but now her thoughts were for her companions. He had poured out his most honest desire, and she spoke only of Magiere and Leesil and their dog.

  "They were panicked. I would guess that creature played their thoughts against them, perhaps buried them in false impressions, even fears. "

  "I have to find them, " Wynn said, and another tear slid down her face. "You cannot follow us. If Magiere knows, if she sees you, she will try to take your head. So will Leesil. "

  Now she was telling him what to do?

  "Don't you miss the guild?" he asked. "Our evenings together?"

  "Oh, Chane. " Her voice broke as she dropped her head low. "Go away! Even if I do, it was not real. You lied about what you are, and now I have to lie to Magiere and Leesil for you. Get on your horse and escape while you can. "

  Wynn stood up, bracing herself with one hand on the workbench. When Chane reached out to steady her, she froze for a moment. She did not pull away from his touch but neither would she look at him. She put the crossbow strap over her shoulder and walked to the door.

  "I know everything has been spoiled and lost for you, " she said barely above a whisper. "And I am grateful you were here tonight, but you must go away. Get as far from us as you can. "

  Wynn left him standing there, and Chane did not try to stop her.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  S hadowed silhouettes flitted between the trees to either side of Magiere as she ran through the woods trying to escape. Each time she swerved to chase one down, it faded back into the forest beyond her reach. These skulking companions made hunger burn in her throat. When her night sight widened, she saw the glint of crystalline eyes in each dark presence.

  Undead trailed her every move.

  "We hunt, " a voice whispered off to her right. "And you hunt. "

  "We hunger, " from her left. "And you hunger. "

  One of the dark shapes appeared ahead of her between two wilting fir trees. Magiere slid to a stop, her grip tightening on the falchion's hilt.

  Its eyes were like stars dragged down from the sky and entombed in the forest. They fixed upon her.

  "You belong with us... you know this. "

  Magiere darted away and thrashed through the low branches. Night's chill ate into her but didn't slow her down. She ran faster, as if loss of body heat freed her. More shapes appeared in the trees, but these huddled upon the ground, alone or together. She heard their snarls, and beneath, the smothered whimpers of their victims.

  They were feeding.

  Magiere's rage grew. She swerved toward one shadow crouched by a cluster of bushes and raised the falchion to strike it down.

  It vanished, and her hunger swelled instead of receding.

  What remained was a young man prone upon the ground, limbs flailed out and vacant eyes staring up into the forest canopy. Beneath his slack jaw, blood leaked from his torn throat, and forest needles slowly fell upon him from above. She sensed a remaining trickle of life within him and saw her own hand reaching down for his throat.

  Magiere lurched back.

  Bodies lay everywhere upon the forest floor. Men and women, old and young. One girl child with eyes wide open sat limp against a tree like a doll on a shelf... like the stuffed doll the girl held in her lap. Bite wounds across her pale body showed through tears in her dress and wool sweater.

  "No more left, " came another whisper through the trees. "No more blood... but you still hunger. We still hunger. "

  All around Magiere, corpses decayed in the mulch.

  "Must find more... more life... and we follow if you lead. Lead us on, little sister. Your time is coming. "

  Magiere's hunger surged again. Holding it down forced a whimper from her.

  "Leesil, " she whispered, over and over with eyes closed, until his face filled her thoughts. When she opened her eyes again, the dead were still there, all about in the forest.

  A white flicker passed through the trees ahead, appearing briefly here and there between the rotted trunks. Magiere's senses opened wide in fright.

  She heard soft breathing and the barest rustle of footsteps in the mulch. The pound of its heartbeat seemed to vibrate upon her skin.

  This was all she heard—no other sounds, no living thing in the forest. Not even herself. Only one heartbeat instead of two, for beneath the cold spreading within her, her own heart had stopped.

  She was dead—and she was starving. The voices of the undead in the dark had whispered for her to find blood... to feed.

  The figure slipped from the trees and into the clearing where she stood.

  Leesil stared at her with amber eyes, white-blond hair hanging loose around his tan face. He held out his left hand like an offering.

  Magiere saw the scars of her own teeth upon his wrist. Inside she recoiled, but her body crept forward.

  "No, Leesil, " she sobbed.

  The words were difficult to say as her teeth grew and her jaw expanded. Magiere tried to halt, but her feet stepped forward until she felt the heat of Leesil within reach. Rage surged through her for no reason. Hunger deepened in a spasm that made her drop the falchion.

  "Stop me, please, " she begged him. "You have to... once and for all. "

  "You are alone in this thirst, " he said, and Magiere heard the undead gathering, closing in around them through the bone trees. "I'm all there is. And my blood is all that's left for you. "

  Magiere seized Leesil's arm, tears blurring her vision, and pulled him sharply toward her. Her jaws widened as she buried her face in his throat.

  * * *

  Welstiel crashed through the brush in search of Magiere. He wasn't certain why she had suddenly fled into the forest, but he suspected.

  That dead thing in the crossroads had slipped something in her thoughts.

  Magiere had fallen prey to a command, a suggestion or impression now fueled by her own thoughts and emotions. Lost in her own mind, she was capable of anything, from cutting her throat to drowning herself in the river. He had to find her.

  Welstiel stopped, listening, trying to sense for Magiere's presence. He heard thrashing amongst the trees off to his right. Branches ripped at his cloak as he ran toward it. He slowed to a stop in the forest when he spotted Magiere ahead in a clearing. Bloodied scratches marred her arms and face from running through the brush.

  He hesitated, seeking for any way to approach her unseen, and circled wide through the trees to get ahead of her before she bolted again. She spun around, frantic as she looked about the clearing, then closed her eyes tight as she whispered.

  "Leesil... Leesil... Leesil... "

  Her eyes snapped open, and she stared directly at Welstiel.

  She saw him.

  Welstiel ducked through the trees, hoping it had been happenstance, but her gaze followed wherever he went. All his plans melted in that moment. She would not continue this journey or the quest he hoped to steer her toward. Instead, she would turn to tracking him. There was nothing more to do but resolve this crisis.

  He stepped from the trees to face her, holding out an empty hand. Hopefully he could stall long enough to free her of the phantasm clouding her mind.

  "No, Leesil, " she sobbed.

  Welstiel froze. In her delusion, Magiere thought he was her half-elf—and hunger and dread were plain upon her pale, scratched face. If Magiere ever believed she had fed upon—killed—her closest companion...

  His mind worked quickly. There was opportunity here.

  She could never face what she had done—thought she had done—or return to Miiska and the pathetic life she had tried to build with Leesil. Magiere would be adrift without purpose. Grief and sel
f-hatred addled a mind, made a person most pliable.

  Welstiel carefully wriggled his hand from his glove, snatching it with thumb and forefinger before it fell. He worked the brass ring off his finger, knowing what this would do to her. Without the ring's protection, her instincts would sense his nature immediately.

  Magiere shuddered.

  Welstiel knew this was dangerous, but the possible advantage outweighed any cost. She certainly could not kill him.

  "Stop me, please, " she begged. "You have to... once and for all. "

  "You are alone in this thirst, " Welstiel said. "I'm all there is. And my blood is all that's left for you. "

  Her irises full black, tears ran down her face as she seized his outstretched arm and pulled him close. She buried her face in his neck.

  Welstiel tensed, waiting for her to bite into him.

  A muffled moan rose out of Magiere that Welstiel felt through his chest. Her hands clenched tightly on the shoulders of his cloak.

  Magiere shoved him away hard.

  Welstiel grabbed at tree branches to keep from falling. His shock became frustration. Magiere collapsed to hands and knees like an animal trying to restrain itself. The sight was pathetic, distasteful.

  She looked up at him, a hint of confusion in her feral features.

  "Leesil?" she whispered with uncertainty.

  Welstiel realized he had pushed too far. There was nothing more to do but what he had come for in the first place. He drew back his hand.

  "Wake up, " he snapped, and struck the side of her head with his fist.

  Magiere spun backward, falling facedown in the wet mulch. Welstiel slipped on his ring and ducked out of sight behind the nearest trees.

  He watched her from hiding to make certain the blow was enough to break this fear-driven obsession. She choked a few times, rose to her hands and knees, and looked wildly about the clearing.

  "Leesil!" she screamed out. Magiere clawed her way to her feet and began running toward town.

  Welstiel sank to the ground. Any relief he felt was smothered in bitter disappointment.

  ILeesil stood alone in the forest. There was blood on his hands, on the stilettos in his grip. He dropped the blades, backing away, uncertain of where he was, what he'd done, and to whom. He glanced down at his arms. His sleeves were of thick cloth, colored a soft charcoal gray with a hint of green. A cloak of the same shade hung about his shoulders with its hood up over his head. Across his nose and mouth he felt a scarf wrapped to obscure the lower half of his face.