by Adam Thomas
After dinner, Wyle excused himself to make a final round of town, and Shonasir took the opportunity to spread the map on the bearskin rug in the central room. “I’ve been thinking,” they said, and they put fingers on Cold Harbor and Miresedge. “If we find more undead in Port Eldasin, we’ve got ourselves a pattern.”
Shonasir traced their finger through the three towns. “It’s a straight line.” They continued moving their hand northwest. “And it cuts right through the mountains north of Thousand Spires.”
seven months ago
Rosamund Seeks Knowledge
Rosamund was at her wits’ end. The Kindred Society’s diamond mines in the Northern Mountains had been raided, the Ovladanix which maintained the mind control of the prisoners had been slain, and, to top it off, Malcolm Hightower had fled, leaving the rest of the Society on the hook for the crimes. In most circumstances, money could buy off any illicit behavior, but kidnapping and enslavement might be beyond bribes – especially with righteous crusaders like Lord Sondal Day taking an interest.
So far, Serafina was protected. Her husband, Pelagius, whose company Secureswift had been transporting the diamonds since Rosamund negotiated the deal, stated in a sworn affidavit that he knew nothing of how the diamonds were being mined. The fact that the Society’s dealings in the north intersected but a small portion of Sindar’s total business made him a witness rather than a conspirator. For the time being, Serafina was sticking close to Pelagius in order to distance herself from the Society.
Which meant Rosamund had not seen her for weeks.
And that did nothing to improve Rosamund’s mood. As far as she could tell, there was only one bright spot in this whole mess. The authorities who cleared out the mines missed her little side project. Rosamund knew how to hide in plain sight, and that knowledge extended to a secret entrance she had disguised so well that even she had trouble finding it on her infrequent visits.
When Lord Hightower invited her to join the Kindred Society’s business interests in the north, Rosamund made sure to carve out something for herself that was independent of the Society’s fortunes. She staffed her hidden segment with her own thralls, who were not attached to the Ovladanix, the aberrant creature who kept the enslaved half-elves and other half-breeds in line. But some of the creature’s mind-warping energy must have made her control over her thralls easier, because ever since it was killed, she was having a harder and harder time keeping her workers entranced.
Rosamund knew the problem was that her thralls were still alive. The undead were so much easier to control. But, while her vampiric magic was copious, she had never created a zombie before. She knew she could not research such magic in the university libraries; there was no way to assure her privacy. Even if she studied under a glamoured guise, there might be awkward questions. No, there had to be another way to gain the knowledge she sought.
An audience with the White Death was in order.
Rosamund journeyed farther north than she had ever been, high up into the mountains where the cold would make short work of anyone who needed warmth for life. She did not. She reached the dragon’s lair only to find the ancient one sleeping. The rumbling snores that echoed throughout the mountains spoke of the deep, years-long slumber that only dragons could maintain. She would find no help from the reclusive draconic necromancer. The dragon’s own undead thralls – white dragonborn all – tended to and protected their master. If only Rosamund could learn how to make them!
She was readying herself to leave in disappointment when a figure appeared from the back of the giant, icy cavern. Clearly a dragonborn by its copper-scaled hands and tail, the mysterious figure kept their feature hidden in the recesses of a deep-hooded cloak.
“If you were of the living, Shiroshivenn would awaken and devour,” the cloaked dragonborn said, her voice rhythmic, hypnotic. “As you are not, you are welcome to stand and adore.”
“You’re alive,” Rosamund said, sensing the blood flowing nearby. “Why does the dragon not eat you?”
“The White Death and I have an understanding. I am her student.”
“Then you and I have something in common. I seek to learn, not adore.”
“What do you wish to learn?”
Rosamund indicated the undead white dragonborn. “I need to make undead thralls like these zombies.”
“My master has taught me such magic, and I could teach it to you...for a price.”
“What do you want?”
The hooded figure cocked her head to one side and sighed out a long, visible breath into the frigid air. “My cloak keeps me from dying of the cold, but it does not make me warm. I wish to be warm while I remain here. If you can make me warm, I will grant you what you seek.”
Rosamund thought for a moment, and then pulled a tiny carved replica of a tower from her bag. “My sire gifted me this ages ago,” she said. “The fireplace within shall keep you warm.”
The dragonborn plucked the tiny tower from Rosamund’s palm. “How does it work?”
“Speak the magic word and the tower will grow. When it is finished expanding, it will hover in midair, and it shall be a cozy home for you in these icy climes.”
The clawed hand passed the tower back to Rosamund. “Show me.”
“What would you like the magic word to be?”
“Suruk Kadenn,” the dragonborn said, her voice full of confidence and anticipation.
“Very well.” Rosamund concentrated for a moment, then whispered the Draconic phrase. The tower floated into the air and began growing. When it was finished, a four-story structure hung before them, filling one corner of the massive cavern. Rosamund grabbed the dragonborn’s wrist and transported them both into the tower.
“Incredible,” the cloaked figure said. “You must be desperate to part with such a treasure.”
“Not desperate,” Rosamund corrected. “Once I made use of this tower in my travels, I am settled now in a manor and have no need of it. What I do have need of is a spell to make zombies.”
The dragonborn said, “And you shall have it.”
The next day, Rosamund departed with a spell scroll in hand. She journeyed back to the secret entrance of Sulun Depths and gathered all her living thralls around her. With ruthless efficiency, she broke their necks, one by one. Then she unfurled the scroll and read the spell. Immediately, the newly minted zombies rose. She bade them continue their mining, and they went back to work. The rest of the Kindred Society’s operation might have been shut down, but Rosamund was a survivor. She would keep this little side business going, if for nothing else than to provide her diamonds with which to adorn Serafina Sindar.
There was even a space in the mine that would be perfect for Serafina in the days after her turning. Soon.
Soon.
sixteen
The Sea Dog’s Yarn
The B-Team’s lone vegetarian was more than a little miffed by the selections on Sheriff Rasmussen Wyle’s dinner table. That night, while the rest of their friends were asleep, Shonasir woke Alurel and enlisted her aid as an accomplice. Together, they snuck into the larder where they found Wyle’s prodigious stores of meat in a large icebox.
“It’s for his own good, really,” Alurel said. “Eating this much meat is going to make his heart give out.”
“Right, right,” Shonasir agreed. “We’re doing this for him.”
“Speaking of ‘this,’ how are we going to carry it all?”
The elf winked. “I have an idea about that. Stand back.”
Shonasir drew their little-used shortsword and slashed it through the air. Alurel watched in amazement as a flurry of snow arced off the blade and swirled in a circle at their feet. The swirling grew faster and faster, rising up to the larder’s ceiling. When the miniature blizzard died down, an eight-foot tall block of ice filled the small room. Whereas Shonasir’s Awakened Flame and Storm danced
in and out of a humanoid shape, the Ice remained that way, looking like a statue hewn from a stone slab but before any details are carved into it.
“I didn’t know it would be so big!” Shonasir said.
Alurel was squashed against the shelves at the back of the larder. “You’ve never awakened this one before?”
“No.”
“Good choice of timing.”
“Sorry, Alurel.”
Shonasir concentrated their will on the Ice, who bent down and gathered all of Wyle’s meat stores into its thick, frozen arms. Ducking under the larder’s door frame, the Ice moved into the kitchen, and Shonasir let it outside via the back exit. The Ice rumbled its way into the scraggly woods behind the sheriff’s house with Alurel and Shonasir jogging to keep up.
“Now what?” Alurel asked.
“Now I tell it to wait here.”
“Won’t it melt?”
“Eventually, but the meat should be well-preserved. He’ll find it after serving us something else for breakfast.”
They returned to the house and slipped through the dining room on their way back to their bedrolls. A candle flickered at the far end of the long table, where they found Rhys talking to Wyle’s self-portrait.
“Rhys, what are you doing?” Alurel hissed.
“Just having a chat,” he said.
“Did you eat more mushrooms?”
“I don’t mind telling you, yes I did.”
Alurel slapped her palm to her forehead. “Come on, let’s get you a drink of water.”
The next morning, the party awoke to a breakfast of toast and various preserves. Wyle was apologetic about the lack of bacon. As they departed, the sheriff doffed his extravagant hat with a pompous flourish and thanked them for their service to the town of Miresedge.
They set out away from the coastal swampy ground and cut the corner of northeastern Torniel on their way to Port Eldasin. Without a bridge in sight, they had to ford the Glassrun River, and the others spent an anxious few minutes convincing Emric to get in the water. The dwarf steadfastly refused. Finally, after Jeral demonstrated the river was no higher than his own throat and Rhys offered to carry Emric on his shoulders, the bard relented.
The day was cool but sunny, and by early afternoon their clothes had dried, and the sight of the beautiful farmland of northern Torniel put a spring in their step. At sundown, they reached Port Eldasin, the second largest city in Torniel and gateway to the interior of the small country. Shipping and ship-building were the primary trades of the port, as evidenced by the fact that nearly every business clung to narrow strips of land on either side of the River Eld’s widened mouth. Half a dozen ships were under construction – some nearing completion, others just ribs bending skyward.
The B-Team found a tavern called the Drunken Dreamer on the near side of the river and ate their fill after a long day of travel. The pub was filled with boisterous halfling shipwrights taking their ease after work. They struck up a conversation with a woman named Liana Renet, and this time Jeral kept his mouth shut about what halflings were half of.
Instead he said, “I didn’t know there were so many halflings outside the Twenty Tatters.”
“Oh, we’re all over, really,” Liana said, her accent the characteristic lilting singsong. “But Port Eldasin is the place to be for ship-building.”
“They don’t build ships in the Tatters?” Rhys asked.
“Not big’uns like here. There’s not enough ready access to wood back home.”
“What about the Dasost Forest?”
“Those reclusive elves? They wouldn’t chop down a tree for all the pearls in the ocean.”
Alurel loved the halfling’s voice and wanted to keep her talking, so she asked, “And what are you building right now?”
“New commission,” she said proudly. “The Zenith Two is the ship’s working name. Don’t know if that’ll –”
“The Zenith!” a rickety old voice called from the bar.
“Oh no,” Liana said, shaking her head. “Don’t get him started.”
But it was too late. An grizzled old human man with pale skin and a cloud of thin white hair clinging to all but the top of his head staggered over to their table and plopped himself down. “Did I hear someone say the Zenith?”
“The Zenith Two, you old sea dog,” Liana said, trying to divert him, to no avail.
“Lemme tell you the story of the Zenith,” he said, his voice dropping low and raspy. His wild eyes closed as he gathered himself, and in that moment, Liana mouthed the word, “Run.” But there was no time, and besides, Emric’s face was plastered in a grin so wide birds could nest in it.
The sea dog opened his eyes and they were far away, carried along by the current of dementia. “I was naught but a cabin boy aboard the merchant ship Triumph when the tales of Captain Redtooth began. Her ship was the Zenith, and it only attacked at night, plundering other vessels up and down the eastern coast of Sularil. Pirate ship it was, and the captain, a beautiful woman with long, red hair. I can see her even now when I close my eyes.”
He did so again, and let out a long breath, almost a purr. Emric couldn’t tear his eyes from the old man, but he whispered to his friends. “Redtooth? Didn’t Grem Axehaft mention that name?”
The sea dog heard Emric’s whisper and repeated the name with such enthusiasm he almost fell off his chair. “Axehaft! Yes, yes! One day, the old dwarf came aboard the Triumph and bade our captain to put out to sea in Redtooth’s waters. We waited many nights until the Zenith was sighted in the moonlight. Then we did the unthinkable.”
The old man paused and raked his wild eyes over his audience.
Emric obliged him with the question he was waiting for. “What did you do?”
“We sailed toward the pirates!”
Emric gasped right on cue.
“Axehaft and his soldiers did battle with the pirates, and Axehaft took on Redtooth alone. I watched from the quarterdeck of the Triumph. The dwarf had a gleaming axe in one hand and sharp stick in the other. Redtooth held crackling magic in her hands. But Axehaft got the better of her. She was down on the ground when Axehaft made to pierce her with the sharp stick. But before he could do it, she pulled a dagger and slit her own throat!”
“What happened next?” Emric said, this time authentically enthralled.
“Redtooth disappeared into a cloud of mist and was never heard from again.”
The sea dog banged his fist on the table like a judge’s gavel, signaling the end of his tale. Emric clapped, and then the rest of the bar, which had fallen silent to listen, added their applause. The old man looked around in wonder, and tears filled his eyes.
Emric flipped him a golden aril, “Go buy yourself a few drinks, and thanks for the story.”
The old man stared at the coin like he had never seen one before. Perhaps he hadn’t. Emric eyed his companions until they coughed up a gold coin each, as well. The sea dog pocketed them and wandered away, weaving through the Drunken Dreamer’s tables.
“I’ve never heard him so cogent,” Liana Renet said after he was gone. “He usually can’t string more than a few words together.”
Alurel fixed the halfling with narrowed eyes. “Who are you building the Zenith Two for?”
“Dunno,” Liana said. “Most ships are commissioned by companies, not individuals. This one’s being financed by an outfit out of Thousand Spires called Secureswift.”
“The Sindars,” Alurel said under her breath.
“Axehaft did say he suspected the Kindred Society,” Shonasir offered. “And we know Serafina is a member.”
“Are you saying this Redtooth is back?” Jeral asked.
Shonasir puffed out their cheeks and released their breath in a thoughtful exhale. “The name of the ship might just be a coincidence.”
“Or named by s
omeone who enjoys the history of Sularin piracy,” Emric said.
“Either way,” Alurel said. “I think Secureswift and the Kindred Society bear a little scrutiny when we get back to the city.”
Rhys stood up and swung his swords onto his back. “Speaking of the city. Liana, can you direct us to the City Watch?”
“There’s a drawbridge up a bit towards the sea. Cross that and the watch’s headquarters are on the other side.”
“Thank you for your company,” Alurel said.
“My pleasure. Always like meeting newcomers.”
The B-Team paid for their meal and exited the lively pub. The moonlight glistened on the water of the River Eld’s delta as they crossed the bridge. Just as the helpful halfling had said, they found the City Watch straightaway and ran into an officer who was leaving the building.
“Excuse me,” Rhys said.
The officer turned to reveal a young woman with pale skin and dark hair pulled back so tightly into a bun that her eyebrows looked perpetually arched. She was whip-thin and wore a thin blade comfortably on either hip. She eyed Rhys up and down and gave a passing glance to the rest of the party.
“How can I be of service?” she asked.
Rhys grinned stupidly and found himself at a bit of a loss for words. Jeral rescued him, saying, “We were commissioned to look into cases of bodies rising from graveyards recently. Also, I think my friend here wants to know your name.”
“Collins. Holly Collins,” the officer said, her eyes flicking back to Rhys. “And it’s about time someone came to deal with them. We’ve penned them in with makeshift walls around the cemetery, but that’s far from a permanent solution.”