Death of a Darklord

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  They had to die, all of them, as he had originally planned. Perhaps just quicker. It wouldn’t be as much fun, but then, occasionally business had to come before pleasure.

  BLaINe LaY ON tHe SNOWY StReet. HIS LONg YeLLOW hair spilled out around his face like pale water. His cloak was bunched underneath his body, the white fur black with soaked blood. One leg had been bent at a painful angle, trapped under his body. Blood had poured from his mouth and nose, painting the lower half of his face black.

  Elaine knelt by his lifeless body. The key to the door had been on the attic floor. It had glinted up at her from the patch of moonlight. The dead man had dropped it while killing Blaine. How she would have gotten outside without the key, Elaine didn’t know.

  Now, she sat by his body, watching his blood leak into the fur of his cloak. A line of blood trickled from the fur to snake through the snow like a dark river trailing the finger of a god. Elaine screamed and tore at the snow, scattering it. The blood trickled down to pool in the frozen street. There was nothing she could do to stop it.

  Or maybe there was something. She had seen Silvanus raise the dead, felt him do it. Could she do it now?

  Elaine reached out and touched his face. The skin was still warm. He was barely dead, so close to being alive. Could she bring him back? Jonathan had told stories of sorcerers that raised zombies. If she did it wrong, would Blaine come back as a walking corpse? That was worse than death, but Elaine had to try. She would wonder forever if she didn’t.

  She gazed at Blaine’s wide, staring eyes, looking at the sky but seeing nothing. Snowflakes fell on his upturned face. They melted on his eyelashes, making tiny dots of moisture on his cheeks, like tears.

  Elaine took a deep breath and tried to gather what she had learned from Silvanus, tried to imagine how to raise her brother back to life. It wasn’t like healing a wound, was it?

  A sound behind her made her whirl, half-falling into the snow. Two zombies stood at the mouth of the nearest cross street. One wove back and forth as if drunk. It took a step forward and legs collapsed. When it tried to stand, one leg slid out of its tunic and lay twitching on the ground. The zombie balanced on the remaining leg as if this had happened before.

  A puff of snow fell from the opposite roof. She looked up and found a man-shape silhouetted against the moonlight. It leapt downward, almost seeming to float, hands and legs wide as if for balance. It landed with a thump on the snow and scuttled backward into the deeper shadows that hugged the houses.

  The thing seemed almost to glow with a white leprous light, the tint of night-growing fungi. It crouched in the shadows. It looked like a naked man, but wasn’t. It raised its face and looked at her. Its eyes glowed like black fire, sparking with an eternal flame that had nothing to do with moonlight.

  It opened its mouth and hissed.

  Elaine rose slowly to her feet. At the end of the street, the dead were gathering, but just as the other zombies had given way before the man that had killed Blaine, so they waited on this crouching thing.

  Elaine gripped the key in her hand. Would it let her get to the door? She glanced down at Blaine. He was dead. He’d died to save her. She couldn’t leave him like this. She couldn’t.

  The thing gave a bounding leap and landed on the other side of Blaine’s body. Elaine froze, staring down at it. It had been a man once, a man of medium height with brown hair. An ordinary man. It wasn’t ordinary anymore; it was bestial.

  It grabbed Blaine’s arm. Elaine stomped her foot at it as you would at a bad dog. It growled low in its throat and leapt straight at her. She had time to put her arms up to protect her face and neck, but then it was on top of her. Teeth tore into her sleeve, worrying it like a dog with a bone. Elaine screamed.

  There was a last tug at her sleeve, and the thing sat back. She could feel its weight shift as it settled on its haunches. The weight pinned her legs, but nothing else happened.

  Elaine lay there, waiting for the teeth to tear into her flesh, but they didn’t. Minutes passed with her lying on the frozen ground. Snow fell in soft, downy flakes, and that was all. Finally, she lowered her arms just enough to peek at the monster.

  She found herself staring into a pair of black eyes. Those eyes looked at her not as a man but as an intelligent dog would. It was not the blank stare of the undead, or at least no sort of undead she knew of. She almost asked it what it wanted, as she had the woman, but there was no one behind those eyes to answer the question. At least, not in words.

  But it wanted something or it would have killed her by now. The zombie that had killed Blaine had wanted her blood. What did this one want?

  It crept off of her, slowly, moving down her legs hand over hand. It scuttled backward to Blaine’s body, grabbed his tunic, and began to lift the corpse over its shoulder.

  She sat up, hand reaching outward. “No.”

  It growled at her, low and deep. Lips curled back from teeth too sharp to be human.

  Elaine froze, unsure what to do. It was warning her off. It wanted Blaine’s body, but that it could not have. If she could find Silvanus, he could tell her how to raise Blaine to life. If she lost the body, Blaine was truly gone.

  “You can’t have him.” She forced her voice to be gentle, soft, as if she talked to a wild animal. “Please, don’t take him.”

  It gave a growling shout. The dead at the end of the street began shuffling toward them. Whatever power had held them at bay was gone. The creature had called them.

  It flung Blaine over its shoulder in one quick movement. Elaine crawled forward, hand outstretched, not sure what she was reaching for, the body, or the monster.

  “Please, don’t.”

  It rose to a crouch. Blaine’s hands trailed the ground, his hair a golden swash over the creature’s back.

  Elaine stood reaching for him. The creature sprang forward, moving in a series of leaps that carried it down the street in great bounds.

  “Blaine, please, no.” She ran after them, but couldn’t catch up. A sound brought her whirling to face the street. The dead were a solid wall limping toward the her. They were only a few steps away from the door. If she was cut off from it, they would drink her blood. She didn’t want to die, not like that.

  Elaine ran for the door. The zombies hesitated, confused by the fact that she was running toward them, not away. She pushed open the portal, and the dead surged forward. They understood what a door meant.

  Elaine slammed it in its frame, shoving the key in the lock. The handle turned. She leaned into the wood and turned the key. The lock shut home. The knob twisted frantically; the wood shuddered as the dead pushed against it, pounding on it.

  Elaine leaned back, feeling the strength of the mob thrumming the wood behind her body. She slid down the length of the door to sit, huddled. Tears streaked her face. The first sob escaped her lips. She buried her face on her knees, arms over her head, hugging her body tight and tighter. The dead stormed outside the house, beating on the nailed shutters, trying to get in. Elaine gave herself over to her grief, letting it drown the sounds of the dead outside and wishing it could drown the emptiness within.

  JONatHaN StOOD at tHe OPeN WINDOW IN teReZa’s room. Dawn had come at last. It spread in a soft wash over the village. The sky was white and heavy with snow, and fresh white flakes had filled the street below, deep and thick with footprints. The dead had wandered the streets until perhaps an hour before dawn. Jonathan had listened to them squabbling in the dark. What did the dead have to quarrel over? Why did they stay here in a town prepared for them?

  There were hundreds of zombies, a veritable army of the dead. They could move outward into the countryside and raid everything in their path. Here in Cortton the town hid in its upper stories, the livestock below. The livestock living inside had originally been protected against wolves. No wolves now came near Cortton. Even they feared the dead.

  Who had done this? Why had they done it? No matter how evil the perpetrator, there had always been a plan—some logic, no ma
tter how twisted. A great deal of magical energy had been used here, but for what purpose? Jonathan could find nothing that the zombies had gained for anyone.

  The town had been a center of commerce, but no farmer would come near it now. Traveling merchants would not enter the main street. The meistersinger’s reassurance of daylight safety hadn’t helped. After what he had seen in the night, Jonathan could not blame anyone for avoiding the town.

  A breeze had come with the dawn, an icy finger of wind that trailed down Jonathan’s spine as if he stood bare before the window. He shivered, and could not seem to stop.

  “Jonathan,” Tereza’s voice, hoarse, faint, but there. He turned with a smile. She held one hand out to him. The hand trembled, but the smile on her lips was firm.

  He knelt beside the bed, taking her hand in both of his hands. He pressed her fingers to his lips. “How do you feel this fine morning, my wife?”

  Her smile widened. “Better than last night.”

  He spoke with his lips against the back of her hand. “Is there anything I can get you? Are you hungry?”

  “Did Blaine or Elaine come back last night?”

  It was the one question he did not want to answer, but he could not lie to her face. He’d never been able to lie to those dark eyes. “No, they did not.”

  She struggled to sit up but fell back against the pillows. “We must go after them. We must … help them.”

  “Tereza, either they found shelter last night, or they do not need our help.”

  “No, Jonathan. I don’t believe they are dead.”

  “Tereza, please.…”

  She tried to sit up again but fell back, gasping this time. Her skin paled, and a beading of sweat broke on her skin.

  “Tereza, you are too hurt to go anywhere.”

  She turned her face to the wall, pulling her hand from his grasp. “No, Jonathan. I won’t give up.”

  “There are hundreds of undead in the streets at night. Hundreds. I watched them from this window. There is no survival out of doors in Cortton after dark.”

  She turned her head, tears glittering in her eyes. “Then find their bodies.”

  He looked down at the floor, unwilling to meet her eyes. He was a coward. He did not want to tell her there would be no bodies to find.

  “What is it? What are you keeping from me?”

  He looked up. Something like a smile twisted his lips, but there was no joy to it. “I could never lie to you, could I?”

  “No, and don’t start trying now. What is it?”

  “The town council demanded to speak with me last night. They said all who died in Cortton rose to walk the night.”

  “Those that died of the plague,” she said.

  “No, my love, all who die in Cortton rise as undead.” He watched the horror spread across her face, the realization of what that meant for their “children.”

  “No, Jonathan, not that. I might be able to bear their being dead, but not that. Please, Jonathan, not that.”

  He held her good hand and cradled her head in his arms. He held her while she cried, but did not cry himself. He had insisted Elaine come. If she had been safely at home, Blaine would not have had to go in search of her. It was his fault, his doing. Jonathan would not let himself cry. He didn’t deserve it.

  A scream cut the morning, a wordless wail that held all the pain in the world. The sound froze Jonathan, heart pounding in his chest. Feet clattered up the stairs. The sound seemed to release him. He stood, moving gently from the circle of Tereza’s arms.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  He shook his head, but he feared he knew. He opened the door and found a crowd of people filling the opposite doorway.

  Jonathan pushed through the people until he stood in the doorway. Fredric had dropped to his knees, head bowed. Randwulf stood to one side of the bed. His young face raw with grief. Silvanus sat in the narrow bed, holding Averil’s limp body. He rocked her as he would a child, but her arms flopped with every movement like those of a broken doll.

  Silvanus was saying something, over and over, too soft for Jonathan to hear. Konrad stood at the window, staring out at the morning light. His hands were clasped so hard behind his back, the veins corded in his forearms.

  The white-haired doctor stood in the middle of the room. For a man that had seen a great deal of death, he seemed at a loss.

  Jonathan took a deep breath and stepped into the room. He went to Konrad. “What happened?”

  Konrad shot him a quick, harsh glance out of the corners of his green eyes. “She lost too much blood. Then the wound became inflamed. The fever burned her alive. No herb or potion that I had helped her.”

  “What of her own potions that she brought with her?”

  “She used the last on her father.”

  Jonathan glanced at the bed. Everyone seemed stunned, unable or unwilling to do anything. He stepped forward, past the stupefied doctor. He could hear what Silvanus was muttering now.

  “I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t save her.” It was a piteous litany. His voice squeezed tight with grief and guilt. Yes, Jonathan recognized the taste of guilt. It was too strong in his own mouth not to know it in others.

  He placed a gentle hand on the elf’s shoulder. Silvanus did not notice. He rocked his dead daughter in his arms as if her limp body were the center of the world. And for that one moment, perhaps it was.

  Jonathan squeezed the elf’s shoulder. “Silvanus?” He made the name a question.

  The elf gave a sobbing cough and looked up at him. Those golden eyes swam with tears. The tears looked like mercury sliding down his cheeks, as silver as the elf’s hair was gold. Elves cried silver tears. The sight of it startled Jonathan down to the soles of his feet, tingling. The sight was astonishing, the grief unbearable.

  “Silvanus …” Words failed him. What could he say? I’m sorry wasn’t enough. I grieve with you was a lie. He hadn’t known Averil, not really. He’d have traded her life for Elaine’s in a moment. “There are no words, but I am deeply sorry for your loss.”

  “I tried to raise her from the dead. All these years it came easily to me. But this time, when I would have given my whole soul for the power, it did not come. Why?”

  Some questions had no answers, or at least none that we wanted to hear. “I don’t know, Silvanus. I don’t know.”

  He hugged her to his chest, his one good arm tight against her back. The missing arm was longer, and the stump helped hold her in place. The sight of the growing stump made Jonathan’s stomach clench. Nausea burned at the back of his throat. He took a deep breath through his nose and swallowed. He would not let his own fears make this hideous scene worse.

  “We have to tend the dead before dark,” the doctor said. His voice sounded ordinary enough. Jonathan wondered why he himself felt so startled. He had seen many scenes of grief before.

  Silvanus shook his head, rocking faster. Averil’s hand slapped the bedframe with a meaty thunk. Every few moments; thunk—thunk—thunk. That one sound seemed worse than all the others.

  Randwulf rushed forward, grabbing both the elf and his dead daughter in his arms. Hugging them both. He held them close and the awful sound stopped.

  Randwulf’s head was bent over Silvanus’s shoulder. There was a large bump at the top of the boy’s spine. Jonathan couldn’t remember it being there before, when he saw Elaine heal the old wound.

  He shook his head. Now was not the time.

  “We have sent for the undertaker,” the doctor said.

  Silvanus’s head snapped up, rage sparkling through the tears. “No, not yet.”

  “We must have her out of doors by dark,” the doctor said.

  “Why?” Silvanus asked.

  Jonathan made a movement to attract the doctor’s attention. He gave a small shake of his head. The doctor frowned, not seeming to understand.

  Jonathan walked over and put a hand on his shoulder, directing him toward the door. “I
think we should give Silvanus a few moments alone with his grief.”

  “But we can’t have a dead body inside.…”

  “I know that,” Jonathan said softly, “but it is an hour past sunup. We have time.”

  The doctor shook his head, eyes wide with what Jonathan now recognized as fear. “The undertaker is on his way. We must …”

  Jonathan practically shoved the doctor through the door, pushing the crowd aside. When they were in the hallway, he spoke, low and urgent, “They do not know that all dead in this cursed village rise to walk the night. And you will not be the one to tell them.”

  The doctor’s mouth made a little O of surprise. “It is my duty to protect this town.”

  “And a fine job you’re doing. Now get out.”

  The doctor sputtered, protesting. “I am the doctor here. You are to find the source of this evil, but I am to protect the living.”

  Thordin had come up. He stood at Jonathan’s side, simply staring at the doctor. There was really nothing in the look that Jonathan found frightening. It was just Thordin, but the doctor paled.

  “I think you had better leave,” Thordin said in a low, careful voice.

  The doctor’s eyes widened, then without another word, he fled down the stairs.

  “You must be a great deal more frightening than I think you are,” Jonathan said.

  Thordin shrugged. “The doctor scares easy.”

  “That he does,” Jonathan said. “It might be interesting to find out why.”

  They stared at each other for a few heartbeats. It was enough, no words needed. Thordin went to follow the doctor or perhaps to question him, Jonathan didn’t care which. Who better to corrupt the dead and dying than a doctor? The village had only one. Who would question him?

  He heard Tereza calling his name faintly through the other door. He opened the door with a smile that was all lies. Averil’s death was one more reminder of their own loss.

  “The girl’s dead, isn’t she?” Tereza asked.