by Robert Evert
“If you mention her again, I will inflict more pain than you would like to experience.”
Edmund touched his nose and mouth; blood flowed freely, splattering in red puddles.
The Undead King shook his head in disgust. “Heal yourself, if you’re able. Otherwise, I’ll do it for you.”
Scrabbling farther away, Edmund cupped his nose and cast his healing spell.
“Smerte av reise.”
Slowly, the bloody flood changed to a trickle, then stopped.
“I could teach you more than that,” said the Undead King. “I could teach you real healing that doesn’t require words or thoughts. Eternal life, Edmund. Give me what I want, and I’ll give you eternal life. You’ll neither grow old nor die. You can have your kingdom and rule over it for as long as you wish; you’ll become like a god to your people.”
Legs quavering, Edmund fought to stand.
“Give me the formula you found in Iliandor’s diary, Edmund.”
Edmund staggered back, using the wall for support.
“It, it … it doesn’t, it doesn’t work!” He stumbled, nearly falling. “Look!” He pointed to the sword lying by the Undead King’s feet. “Look at the blade. It isn’t, it isn’t right.”
The Undead King picked up the sword and inspected the blade. Tiny chips marred the edge where Edmund had cleaved open goblin armor and struck stone.
“He didn’t write the entire formula,” Edmund said, “so it didn’t work; not completely. Look at the color of the steel, it’s n-n-nearly, it’s nearly black. It isn’t like the steel he made. It had a bluish hue.”
“Did you follow the formula precisely?”
“Of course! I, I wouldn’t make a defective sword! I … I wanted what Iliandor had, something indestructible. This, this is strong and light, but it, it breaks! It can be broken. I don’t have the formula!”
The Undead King’s lip curled. He cursed and threw the sword, clanging, against an ancient tapestry.
“Iliandor!” The Undead King drew his fingers through his long blond hair in frustration. “He must have left out a key step and hid that somewhere else.”
He stared at Edmund cowering against the wall.
“Tell me what you know. Tell me exactly what that document said. Perhaps I can improvise the rest.”
Edmund vacillated, considering whether he should run to the secret door or dive for his sword. Then he realized the stairs were behind the Undead King, and even with his sword, he couldn’t kill him.
He couldn’t run, and he couldn’t fight.
“Edmund”—the Undead King drew closer—“tell me exactly what that document said, word for word.”
Edmund dove for the sword, scooped it up, and, still prone on the floor, pointed it at the Undead King.
“Enough of this foolishness! Tell me exactly what that document said!”
“No.”
The Undead King sighed. “Oh, Edmund … I’d hoped we could avoid these unpleasantries.”
Edmund waved his sword, but the Undead King batted it away and seized Edmund by the throat.
“Tell me what it said.”
“No.”
Edmund screamed, body convulsing. Becky snarled and clawed at the cell door, unable to tear through its splintering wood. Then there was the sound of running feet as Pond leapt from the stairwell behind the Undead King.
“You!” the Undead King shouted, dropping a breathless Edmund to the ground.
“Me!” Pond pounced, thrusting his black-bladed rapier.
The Undead King sidestepped, dodging the blow. With a swipe of his foot, he tripped Pond and sent him reeling across the floor, rapier sliding out of reach.
The Undead King laughed.
“If you’re so heedless of your own discomfort,” he said to Edmund lying at his feet, “perhaps you’ll change your mind at your friend’s suffering.”
“No!” Edmund clambered to his knees and tried to pull the Undead King away, but the Undead King kicked him back. “No! Don’t! Leave him alone!”
The Undead King seized Pond’s neck and lifted him off the floor.
“Tell me what I want to know or he dies—slowly.”
Pond flailed, face draining white then turning ashen-grey. He bucked and contorted, eyes rolling up into their sockets.
“Tell me what the document said, Edmund. Word … for … word.”
Pond finally screamed—high and shrill.
Another scream answered. Abby charged out of the stairwell at the Undead King, dagger thrust before her like a lance. She slashed at him but missed. Dropping Pond, the Undead King grabbed her wrist.
Becky roared, furious but helpless behind the reinforced door.
“No! Leave her alone!” Edmund fought his way to his feet. He brandished his sword.
The Undead King grinned at him, caressed Abby’s cheek adoringly.
“Now,” he said quietly, “you will tell me everything I want to know … I’m quite sure of it.”
“Don’t …” Pond said weakly.
Becky howled, the cell door buckling under her constant onslaught.
“Please,” Edmund begged. “Please, don’t!”
Abby kicked the Undead King’s leg and slashed at him with her dagger, but he merely continued to caress her check, smiling at Edmund.
“Tell me,” he said. “Or else.”
The Undead King’s pale hand slid up underneath Abby’s coat and chainmail. He fondled her petite breast.
Abby’s arms twitched.
“No!” Edmund cried.
She gurgled as her limbs flailed.
“Don’t! Please!”
“Then tell me what that document said,” the Undead King replied calmly.
Abby choked, then screamed.
Slowly, from the roots outward, her beautiful black hair turned white. Her skin drained to the color of drying clay.
Crying out, Edmund charged and, with all his strength, stabbed his sword directly at the Undead King’s heart. But the Undead King, still smiling, lifted Abby’s convulsing body like a shield and Edmund, unable to stop his strike, drove his sword into her flesh, impaling her through the stomach.
Blood poured from Abby’s mouth. The Undead King tossed Abby’s still-twitching body to the floor. Screaming, Edmund dropped his sword and fell to his knees by her side.
“Abby!”
“Tell me what I want to know, Edmund, and I’ll bring her back to life.”
Edmund laid his hands over Abby’s wound, trying to push her intestines back in.
He cast his healing spell—again and again and again.
The wound closed, but Abby still wasn’t moving. Her eyes, once a penetrating dark brown, had dulled, staring off into the distance.
“Tell me—”
“Okay!” Edmund cried between sobs. He cradled Abby in his blood-soaked arms. “Okay! I’ll tell you everything. Just save her! Save her!”
“What incantation did Iliandor use on the molten metal?”
“Te mär luun a kova.”
“Luun a kova?” the Undead King repeated doubtfully. “That doesn’t make sense. Are you absolutely sure it was luun a kova?”
“Yes! Yes!” Edmund shouted, clutching Abby’s body to him. “I’m sure! Now, please! Please, save her!”
“Te mär luun a kova …” the Undead King repeated thoughtfully as Abby’s blood spread in an ever-widening pool.
“Please!”
Annoyed, the Undead King reached down and touched Abby’s lips. In a great spastic jerk, she started to breathe, coughing and gasping, yet her face remained old and grey.
“Now, tell me exactly, in the original language, what the text said. If you leave out a single word, Edmund, I will not restore her to how she was.”
Rocking Abby in his arms, Edmund choked on his tears and recited what he’d found under the cover of Iliandor’s diary. The Undead King nodded eagerly, eyes bright with delight … until bent hinges squealed behind him. Pond had opened the door to Becky’s cell.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Becky stalked from the cell, long white canines bared in a silent, grinning snarl.
In Edmund’s mind, she was as massive as a mother bear, dark shadows rolling off her grey fur. Her eyes glowed flame-red.
The Undead King spun around.
Leaning against the wall for support, Pond rasped, “Get him, Becky.”
Becky ambled down the corridor toward the Undead King, who staggered back, looking around wildly, until his gaze locked on Edmund’s sword lying on the floor. He made to reach for it, but Edmund, still clutching Abby to his chest, knocked it away, then wrapped an arm around the Undead King’s legs so he couldn’t run.
Crying out, the Undead King stumbled, then toppled as Becky pounced, latching on to his raised forearm with her powerful jaws. There was a crunch and a shriek.
Becky clawed and bit, snarled and thrashed while the Undead King screamed beneath her. He clutched Becky’s fur in desperation, shouted words in some language long forgotten. Where he’d grabbed, blue flames erupted, but Becky’s fur didn’t even singe. She dragged her claws across the Undead King’s already bloodied face.
Pond crawled to Edmund’s side. “How … how is she? Is she … is she okay?” Then he saw her ashen face and her blood-covered stomach. “Oh by the gods, by the gods!” Grasping Abby’s limp hand, he began to sob.
Abby stirred. “Shut … up,” she whispered.
Both Edmund and Pond gave a cry and squeezed her tight.
“Kill … him,” she gasped. “Kill him, Ed.”
“What?” Edmund wiped away his tears. “What did you say?”
“Kill … the bastard.”
The Undead King writhed on the floor, struggling to keep Becky from ripping into his throat.
“Pond, can you, can you stand?” Edmund said. “Can you carry her?”
Pond nodded through his tears. Then, still sobbing, he said to Abby, “I love you! I love you so much!”
“Shut up,” she said, voice a little stronger. She offered a weak smile.
Edmund pushed her into Pond’s arms and seized his sword lying in Abby’s blood.
“Get her out of here. Through the library. Do you know how to get there?”
“Yeah.” Pond clambered to his feet, holding the nearly limp Abby. “To the top, then left.” He hugged her, kissed her forehead. “I’m so sorry,” he told her. “I’m so, so sorry!”
Abby’s hand flinched, as if she were trying to slap him. “I’m not getting married.”
“We’ll talk about it later.” Pond hugged her again.
“Get her out of here,” Edmund said. “Go! Go out the secret door!”
“Are you going to be okay?” Pond asked, sniffling.
“Go!”
“All right. But Ed—”
“Go!”
Pond hesitated. “Good luck, and … and thanks.”
“Thank me when we’re safe. Now get her out of here.”
Edmund watched Pond struggle up the stairs, Abby in his arms. When they were out of view, he turned his attention back to the Undead King, Becky still atop him, snapping furiously as he fought to keep her at arm’s length, electric-blue fire dancing harmlessly off of her grey fur.
Staggering up to them, Edmund aimed his sword and drove it into the Undead King’s heart. Blood erupted in a geyser as the Undead King’s resistance to Becky crumbled. Becky, the blue fire disappearing from her fur, seized his throat and bit down. Thrashing her jaws from side to side, she nearly ripping the Undead King’s head clean off his body.
The Undead King didn’t move.
Edmund fell back against the blood-splattered wall and slid to the floor. Becky pranced over to him. She barked as if wanting to play.
Edmund stroked her neck, then pulled her close to him. Burying his face into her bloody fur, he began to weep.
“Thanks, girl. Thank you!”
She licked the side of his face.
“I don’t know what the hell a werehound is, but I’m glad you’re on my side.”
She pulled out of his embrace, lowered her front end, and barked again.
Edmund was about to laugh at her when, to his horror, the Undead King’s hand began to flex. The gashes in his chest and throat were completely gone. His face was white and drawn with pain, but clearly, he was very much alive.
Snatching his sword, Edmund hacked the Undead King’s body over and over again. He cut off the head, the arms, the feet. He hacked until his sword had cleaved deep gouges in the ceramic tiles beneath; he chopped until his arms grew weary. But even as he collapsed, exhausted from his labor, Edmund could see the wounds slowly re-healing.
“I’m … I’m never going to kill him.”
He’s mastered life and death …
Becky stood at the foot of the stairs, peering back, tail wagging.
Get out of here! The best you can do is run. Run, and get Pond and Abby back to Rood.
But this wasn’t why he’d come to the tower in the first place.
“Becky, can you smell a baby? A human baby?”
Becky bounded about, barking.
“Find her, girl! Go on! Find Molly’s baby! Go!”
Turning, Becky sprang up the stairs. Edmund slashed at the healing body several more times, then hobbled after Becky, a sense of fear creeping over him.
When Edmund had finally managed to reach the top of the stairs, Becky danced about, then ran off down the hallway.
“Wait!” he called after her.
He limped through the dining hall and the observatory until he reached the stairs to the uppermost level. Becky was already vaulting up them.
“Stick close, girl. You don’t know who—”
She disappeared from view.
“Wait!”
Still weak, Edmund labored up each step.
Again Becky waited for him at the top of the landing, but she was no longer playful. Growling, she glared to the right, down the passage, away from the Undead King’s bedchamber and library.
Breathing hard, Edmund leaned on his sword.
“She’s … she’s that way? You sure?”
He glanced behind him, half expecting to see the Undead King thundering up the stairs.
He’s going to come soon. Run! Just get out of here and get Abby to safety.
He peered right, down the passage as it bent out of view, and signaled Becky to follow him.
“All right, Beck. Let’s … let’s go find Molly’s daughter.”
They stalked cautiously along the inner wall of the curving passage, past several closed doors of intricately carved wood, until they came to one of gilded metal, much like the Undead King’s own bedroom.
Becky growled at the crack under the door. Just beyond it, Edmund heard movement—quick movement, as if somebody was trying to hide.
But who?
Maybe the baby’s guarded.
Or maybe the Undead King has a queen!
The thought of killing the Undead King’s wife gave Edmund a flash of pleasure. But could he actually kill a female of any race? Next to him, Becky bristled as she glowered at the gold doorknob.
He took a deep breath.
Okay. Let’s get this over with.
In one fluid motion, Edmund flung open the door and charged inside, wielding his gore-covered sword. Immediately something heavy struck the top of his head, driving him to his knees. His vision went grey. Somewhere nearby, Becky snarled, barked, and bit. A woman screamed. Then another sound joined the commotion: a baby crying.
“Becky!” Edmund struggled to his feet.
The baby’s crying rose to terrified screams that hit ever-higher notes.
Edmund’s vision started to clear.
A few paces away, a figure fell to the floor. Becky leapt on it, biting and clawing as the screams and shouts grew more frantic.
Reaching for his dropped sword, Edmund heaved himself to his feet. A female goblin, rotund with large breasts sagging out of an open tunic, writhed on the floor s
winging a heavy book. Becky drove forward, clamping on to her meaty throat, snapping the goblin woman’s neck with a loud crack.
Near the arched stained glass windows spanning the far wall of the stately room, a throne-like rocking chair of brown chestnut still tottered back and forth as if its occupant had suddenly sprung up. Next to it stood an exquisite crib of carved ivory, studded with rubies and sapphires glimmering in morning’s soft light.
Edmund crept toward the crib.
A head popped up above the railing.
Though its red face was contorted in a scream and glistening wet from crying, Edmund immediately recognized the round cheeks, button nose, and strands of auburn hair.
The baby’s screams faltered as she examined Edmund with wide green eyes, fear shifting to confusion, then to delight. She sat back down with a plop.
Molly …
The baby giggled as she lifted a chubby foot to her mouth, a thick string of drool connecting her toes to her toothless gums.
She even looks like her.
Especially around the cheeks. But the eyes, the eyes are more like—
Edmund gasped.
Norb wasn’t the father!
The baby smiled at Edmund.
Oh no …
Him!
The baby cocked her head, pulled her moist toes to her nose, and giggled some more.
She’s flirting with me?
She thinks she can get you to do anything she wants.
Like mother, like daughter.
Edmund laughed despite himself then stifled a bittersweet sob.
Oh, Molly …
He picked up the baby and held her. She had an oddly fresh smell, like a meadow after a clean spring rain.
You can’t bring back Molly, but—
Behind them, something gurgled.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Haggard and as pale as a corpse, the Undead King lurched into the room, gasping through his still-mangled throat.
“Leave her alone.”
Snarling, Becky shot at the Undead King, but one kick of his foot sent the puppy crashing into the rocking chair.
“Leave … her … alone,” he said again, voice strengthening as the gash across his neck healed. “She’s mine.”