Sister of the Dead

by J. C.

  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 worth 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

  Shadowed 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. "

&nbs
p; 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 self-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.

  * * * *

  Leesil 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.

  He had seen these clothes before. Sgaile of the Anmaglahk had worn them, the elven assassin who'd hunted him in Bela.

  Leesil turned but stopped short before he could flee.

  Between the trees ahead of him stood a tall man with his back turned. Narrow framed and square shouldered, black hair cropped short in a military style, he wore an indigo silk dressing gown. Leesil stepped closer, one hand reaching down for a punching blade. It wasn't there.

  As he drew close, he saw a strange wound at the base of the man's head below the stubble of his hair. Blood seeped out, running down the man's neck to soak the robe's collar.

  The man reached back to touch the spot, then looked at his hand and smeared the drop of blood between thumb and fingertip. He peered over his shoulder at Leesil. His long face was accented with chin beard and scant mustache below prominent cheekbones and a bony shelf of brow.

  Leesil's throat closed up at the sight of Lord Progae's hazel eyes. He had never forgotten his first target.

  "It never seems to stop, does it?" Progae shook his head with a sigh, neither angry nor sad, nor even surprised as he looked down at Leesil's hands. "The blood, I mean. "

  Leesil barely found his voice. "I had no—"

  "Choice?" Progae supplied. "I understand. You followed orders, and undoubtedly were in no position to disobey

  None of us under Darmouth's sway ever were. But I wonder about them. " He looked down at the gro
und. "Was this necessary? Did you have to let this happen?"

  Leesil stepped around Progae, keeping a careful distance from the man.

  He stood on the lip of a shallow and wide depression in the earth, ringed about by a handful of trees. There lay three curled bodies, a woman with her arms wrapped about two girl children.

  There was little flesh left on them, their skin pulled tight over bone in starvation's last day before death. The children's eyes were closed, but not the woman's. The rag she'd wrapped around her head didn't hide her thinned hair.

  Leesil had slid a stiletto into Progae's skull while he was alone in bed.

  His wife and daughters were turned into the streets. The eldest was taken as an additional mistress by a lord who was loyal to Lord Darmouth. There had been no such half-salvation for the wife and the two younger daughters. As the family of a traitor to Darmouth, they'd found no noble or commoner who'd risk taking them in. Leesil never found them and heard only later that they'd starved to death in an alley.

  "Couldn't you have done something?" Progae asked. "It's not as if they tried to usurp Darmouth. "

  Leesil still felt blood on his hands and wiped them on his gray vestment, but it continued to run between his fingers. He backstepped until Progae faded from his elven night sight.

  Another voice carried through the forest. "We have a tenuous position here, Leshil. "

  High and lilting, it was touched with a strange accent he hadn't heard in many years. Not unlike the voice of Sgaile, used to the Elvish tongue and not wholly comfortable with a human language.

  "Mother?" Leesil whispered.

  "You are anmaglahk" came his mother's voice through the night forest.

  It was a quiet and hollow statement of fact with no pride in it. She had said this to him long ago... not long before he'd taken Progae's life.

  He spun about, searching for the voice. There was movement in the trees, but no more than shadowed silhouettes. Lord Darmouth's first mistress, Damilia, who'd conspired with Progae, stepped forward into his sight. She wore a deep green gown and ermine wrap, and a stray lock of auburn hair hung across her left eye. Her neck was deeply bruised around the welt left by a garrote wire. Leesil drew back from her.