The Lawrence Watt-Evans Fantasy

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  That was promising—when this was done maybe he would spend some money on her, buy her a good dinner back in Splittree perhaps. She had been thinking that the group turning back were probably the smart ones, that she was a fool to stay, but Uril’s smile prompted her to reconsider. Uril would soon have money to spend, and she would not be particularly demanding; he might keep her around for quite some time, which would certainly be preferable to approaching strangers in inns and taverns.

  And she was surely already as drenched as she could get…

  That was when she slipped and fell face-first in the mud.

  Before she even realized properly what had happened Uril had her arm and was lifting her back to her feet.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled, looking down at the huge brown smear down the front of her frock and hoping there was no damage that wouldn’t wash out.

  “You’re quite welcome,” Uril said. “You’ll want to be a little more careful up ahead—it’s just as slippery and a good bit steeper.”

  Siria muttered something, she didn’t know exactly what, and turned away, ostensibly to brush the mud from her frock, but really to hide her blush. Here she had wanted to impress Uril as someone charming, someone who would be good company, and then, right in front of him…

  Well, there was nothing to be done about it now.

  Uril turned away and marched on through the marsh, and a moment later Siria followed, ignoring the snickers of the others. She kept to herself after that, apart from the rest of the group; she had no desire to turn those snickers into open laughter by letting them see her take another tumble.

  Half an hour later the trees thinned enough to give them a clear view of Haridal Keep, former home to assorted necromancers and monsters. Captain Lethis and his men marched on, undaunted, but some of the others stopped and whispered.

  Siria couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she could imagine. Haridal Keep, even after sixteen hundred years, was impressively forbidding. The castle had been built atop a huge mass of bare stone that thrust up from the earth, and some of the walls had not been built atop the outcropping, but carved directly from it. The towers had long since crumbled, and the battlements were broken and uneven, but most of the walls still stood straight and strong.

  “I think I’ll wait here,” a plump woman declared loudly. “It’ll all be over by sundown, won’t it?”

  A chorus of discussion arose, reached a quick crescendo, then died away as most of the party began to settle down under the trees, spreading canvas from branch to branch to keep off the rain.

  Siria hesitated—it would be good to get under shelter—but then slogged on, following the ten chosen soldiers. Staying with the others, constantly displaying her soiled frock, would be too embarrassing.

  Besides, she was curious to see the inside of Haridal Keep, and what the famous magical armor and sword looked like, and whether the Undead Lord would actually appear.

  It was only when the party reached the long crumbling stair up to the castle gate that she realized that she was the only one besides the soldiers who had come this far. She hesitated before setting foot on the steps. Maybe she shouldn’t be here. She didn’t really belong with these professional heroes when they were going about their job.

  “Come on,” Uril called, waving to her from a dozen steps up.

  “Captain Lethis won’t mind?” Siria asked.

  “Why would he? Come on and get out of the rain—assuming there’s any roof left in this drafty old ruin!”

  Quickly, Siria scampered up the steps.

  If nothing else, this got her feet out of the clinging, slippery mud that had made the journey so miserable. That alone made it worth the effort.

  The main gate was a heap of broken stone; the soldiers simply marched over it, but Siria, with her much shorter legs, had to clamber awkwardly. Uril glanced back at her and hesitated, as if he might come to her aid, but she determinedly didn’t meet his gaze as she picked her way through the mess.

  Past the gate was an empty stone courtyard, and then a gap in the yard-thick wall that had once divided the courtyard from the great hall. That gap had once had an archway and door in it, but they were long gone, the arch crumbled, the stones above it fallen away leaving an opening that was as broad as a farmer’s wagon at the base, and that widened to three times that at the top.

  There was no roof, no shelter from the rain, in the great hall. Siria brushed wet hair from her eyes to see Captain Lethis standing there, consulting a document, with the other nine men gathered about him.

  “The entrance to the crypt was behind the high table,” Lethis said. “That would be that way.” He pointed to one end of the room, but how he made his choice Siria could not guess. She followed along as the men marched across the ruined hall and began poking through the rubble that filled one end.

  “Here,” Staun said, as he uncovered a black opening.

  “Right,” Lethis said. “We’ll need a light.”

  “Light it once you’re inside, out of the rain,” Uril suggested.

  “Good idea,” Staun agreed, and Lethis nodded. Then they began climbing down into that lightless pit, one by one. Siria heard a splash, and quiet cursing, and muttered comments, as the ten men vanished into the hole.

  She hesitated. That opening did not look inviting at all—but she had come this far, and what was the point of standing in the rain?

  And then a faint orange glow appeared in the blackness as someone got a light going, and she realized from how brightly it shone that the daylight, not very strong to begin with, was fading—the afternoon must be almost over, the sun nearing the horizon. She would be waiting in the dark soon no matter where she was; she might as well go on.

  Cautiously, she climbed over the stones and lowered herself into the hole.

  Strong hands reached up and grabbed her waist, and she yelped with fright before realizing that it was Uril, helping her down.

  A moment later she was standing in a tunnel with the soldiers, a tunnel where the low spots in the uneven floor were flooded to various depths. Three of the men held lanterns that thinned, but did not fully disperse, the surrounding gloom.

  “This way,” Captain Lethis said, pointing. As he started walking, and the others fell into step behind him, he asked, “Did anyone get a look at the sun before we came down here?”

  “Couldn’t see it through the clouds,” Staun grumbled. “I told you we waited too long.”

  The captain did not bother replying; instead he broke into a trot down the passage.

  The others followed him through what seemed to Siria a senseless maze of passages and tunnels, dark corridors of rough stone with broken floors and barrel-vaulted ceilings. She had to run to keep up.

  At least, she thought as she stumbled around the fourth or fifth corner, she was out of the rain.

  And then they were in the chamber they sought, and she almost fell down the half-dozen steps that led into it.

  The soldiers were already arranging themselves around the contents of the chamber—a black stone sarcophagus that gleamed as if freshly polished, and beside it a dusty, sagging wooden chest.

  Staun prodded the chest with the toe of his boot, and one side caved in.

  “Rotted through,” he said.

  “It’s four hundred years old,” Uril pointed out. “That’s from the Third Lodrian War.”

  “Get it open,” Lethis ordered. “If it’s not the armor and sword, it probably says where they are.”

  “You think the Undead Lord is in this?” Fellan asked, pointing at the sarcophagus.

  “If he’s not, then we’re in trouble, because I don’t know where else he could be,” Lethis replied, as Staun knelt and tugged at the lid of the chest.

  The lock pulled free of crumbling wood and the chest opened, revealing a long, narrow oilcloth bundle, a rolled and tied parchment, a
nd a tangle of rotting wool threads and dully-gleaming metal. Lethis promptly snatched up the parchment, while Staun prodded gingerly at the mess of wool and metal.

  “This is it,” Lethis said, as he unrolled the parchment and read it. “Someone had terrible handwriting, and it’s in Old Mardish, but it definitely mentions King Derebeth, and that’s the word for armor.” He turned to one of the other soldiers. “Grulli, you know some Old Mardish, don’t you?”

  “A little,” Grulli said, accepting the parchment. He squinted at it and held it closer to a lantern as he read, then nodded. “It says the Undead Lord will rise today, and must be stopped with the Sword of Light wielded by a person wearing the armor of King Derebeth.” He lowered the parchment and gestured at the box. “That’s the sword and armor, and the Undead Lord will appear in the sarcophagus.”

  Staun lifted out the bundle of metal and unfolded it, tearing away the dessicated remnants of the wool to reveal a mail shirt of bizarre and ancient design that somehow, despite centuries of neglect, showed not a speck of rust or corrosion.

  Other than the odd pattern of links and the lack of aging, it was a very ordinary mail shirt, with no magical aura that Siria could see. She hoped whatever spell was on it still worked.

  “Captain, it’s up to you to choose who wears it,” Staun said. He looked at the shirt. “I don’t think it will fit me.”

  The others gathered around and stared at the mail shirt; Siria, who had been watching from the bottom step rather than setting foot in the crypt itself, came forward as well, peering around the soldiers for a closer look at the miraculous garment.

  “It does look a little small,” Uril said.

  “No one ever said Derebeth was a big man,” Lethis said. “I suppose ancient heroes came in all sizes.”

  “Captain,” Uril said nervously, “maybe ancient heroes came in all sizes, but we don’t. We’re all big men. I don’t think any of us can get that thing on.”

  Lethis looked suddenly worried. “Maybe it will magically expand on the right person,” he said. “Staun, try it on.”

  Staun obeyed, pulling the mail over his head, but his hamlike hands would not fit in the sleeves, and the tunic would not fit over his broad shoulders. He lifted the metal shirt off again and passed it to Grulli.

  While Grulli struggled with the garment, Staun unwrapped the Sword of Light from the oilcloth bundle. Siria stared in awe at the gleaming, ivory-hilted weapon; it shone in the dim glow of the lanterns as if it were in direct sunlight, sparkling like freshly-polished silver. This weapon clearly was magic; it had all the glamour the mail lacked.

  “There’s no problem with the sword, anyway,” Staun remarked, as he hefted it.

  Grulli had no more success with the mail shirt than Staun had; he passed it on to Uril.

  After Uril came Lethis, then Mokor, then Fellan, and so on. By the time the eighth of the ten was struggling unsuccessfully to don the shirt everyone in the room had become aware of an odd whistling sound.

  “It’s coming from the tomb,” Uril said, stepping back.

  “We have the Sword of Light,” Staun said. “Why don’t we try to dispose of the Undead Lord with that, even without the armor?”

  “It doesn’t look as if we have much of a choice,” Lethis said, as Orpac gave up and passed the armor on to Kael—who was the largest of them all, and the armor had shown no signs of any unnatural expansion.

  “At least now we know why Porl and Rusran got the job,” Uril said. “They must have been runts.”

  Siria, unnoticed by the men, grimaced at that. As a “runt” herself, she suddenly felt a new empathy for those heroes of old.

  “Captain, maybe if we open the coffin and I go at whatever’s inside with the sword…” Staun suggested.

  “Do it,” Lethis agreed, as Kael handed the shirt to Worna, the last of the ten carefully-chosen warriors. Staun stepped up to the side of the sarcophagus with the sword in his right hand, and reached for the lid with his left.

  “Captain, I don’t know…” Uril began.

  “Do you have a better idea?” Lethis demanded.

  “Maybe,” Uril said. He pointed at Siria, who was trying hard to stay well out of the way. “It might fit her.”

  The whistling sound was growing louder and deeper, and suddenly the lid lifted from the black sarcophagus, rising unsupported into the air. The whistling turned into the roar of a great wind, and the three lanterns flickered and dimmed. To Siria it seemed not so much as if the light faded as if darkness poured in from somewhere, like oily smoke.

  “Worna,” Lethis ordered, “throw her the shirt.”

  Worna struggled to get his right arm out of the shirt so he could obey.

  Staun thrust the Sword of Light into the darkness beneath the sarcophagus lid—then screamed, and snatched it back. Siria stared in horror—something black, like an animate liquid, was crawling up Staun’s arm, wrapping itself around his wrist and elbow.

  Staun’s grip loosened, and the Sword of Light fell from his hand, to bounce on the edge of the sarcophagus and land ringing on the stone floor.

  The sarcophagus lid fell away to the other side and landed with a deep, thick thump that shook the stone floor.

  “Oh, blast,” Lethis said. “All right…”

  And then he stopped and stood motionless and silent.

  Staun, too, was now frozen, and Uril, and Fellan.

  And Worna finally had the mail shirt off.

  “You, wench!” he called. “Here!” And he balled the shirt up and flung it at Siria.

  She ducked, letting it hit the wall behind her. She turned, snatched it up, and by the time she turned back a shape was forming in the air above the open coffin—a shape that was black and vaguely manlike, but not quite human. The only distinct feature that was visible as yet was a pair of red eyes that seemed to glow as they scanned across the men in the room.

  “Oh, Holy Mother,” Siria gasped, clutching the mail shirt to her chest.

  At that the red gaze suddenly swung in her direction, and she lifted up the shirt to cover her face.

  Even through the protective mail, she could feel the thing’s displeasure.

  She began bunching up the mail, struggling to get the shirt over her head.

  “I can’t believe this,” she said to no one. “We’re all as good as dead—I’m no hero! I’m just a poor orphan girl. Even if I get this thing on, all I can do is run for help, and by the time anyone gets back here…”

  She didn’t complete the thought.

  She pulled the shirt on—it fit fairly well, in fact. Her arms slid easily into the sleeves, and her head popped through the neck.

  And she almost wished it hadn’t. All the ten men, the Council’s ten best warriors, were turning toward her now, their expressions dazed and flat. The shape in the air was thickening, becoming more solid.

  “You can’t hurt me!” Siria said, but her voice trembled.

  Staun bent down and picked up the Sword of Light, but he did not use it against the Undead Lord; he didn’t even look at the black thing. Instead he hefted it and took a step toward Siria.

  She swallowed. Maybe the Undead Lord could hurt her—he couldn’t harm her directly while she wore the armor, but the Sword of Light could probably hack right through the mail.

  And even if it couldn’t cut the magic armor, it could cut her exposed throat, or split her skull.

  “Staun,” she said, “drop the sword! Please!”

  “Woman,” Staun said, in a strained and unnatural voice, “you are all that stands between the Undead Lord and his freedom.”

  Siria swallowed again.

  It was true, she knew. The Council had left it until too late and had sent the wrong men, and the Undead Lord was materializing—had materialized, really. In a few moments he would be completely revived, and it would probably take a war to st
op him—if anything in these wizardless post-Extermination times could stop him!

  Staun took another step toward her, and another—and to either side others were joining him, forming a line, trapping Siria against one wall of the chamber.

  She had no weapon, no way to fight them—and even if she could, what good would that do against the Undead Lord?

  But if she just stood here, Staun would kill her, and the Undead Lord would be free. She looked up, over Staun’s shoulder at the thing hanging there, at the red eyes that watched her every move.

  She was no warrior—but she had fought a few, in her own way. She had never been on a battlefield, but more than once she had been face to face with drunken soldiers who wanted their way with her.

  She had been defending herself from rape then, not death, but the methods she had used then were all she had.

  Staun stepped forward, sword rising to strike—and she slid suddenly down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, her legs thrust out before her, knees bent.

  Startled, Staun checked his thrust and pulled the sword back. Puzzled, he lowered his gaze.

  He was moving very slowly and stupidly, Siria saw. That was surely, she thought, because he was doing what the Undead Lord wanted, rather than what he wanted.

  She flung herself forward, between Staun’s legs; before he could react she had rolled over onto her back and taken aim.

  “I’m sorry, Staun,” she said. Then she kicked as hard as she could, with her leg fully extended.

  Her foot hit soft tissue, and Staun’s breath came out in an astonished and agonized whoosh. He crumpled forward, dropping the Sword of Light.

  Siria whirled and grabbed for the Sword, snatched it away and pulled herself out from beneath poor Staun’s crumpling form.

  The others were turning, trying to surround her, but they, too, were slow and stupid, as if wading heavy-laden through deep water. She rolled clear, still clutching the sword, then leapt to her feet and ran toward the sarcophagus.

  The Undead Lord glowered down at her, and a voice spoke from nowhere, inside her head.