The Death of Dulgath

by Michael J. Sullivan

“So what are we doing?” Knox asked. Lightning flashed and in one instant revealed every strand of hair plastered to his head; rivulets of water streamed off his stubble. His eyes were angry, harsh and violent. That was the nature of the man. The truth of him shown to Christopher by the light of Novron. This, too, was a sign for Christopher, who needed such a man now. He needed an animal to help him kill, but Knox was merely a beast, something to be ridden then discarded when no longer of any use.

  “We go after them,” Christopher said. “We finish that bitch. Then we’ll claim we arrived too late. Explain that they took her for ransom but she died during the trip. We’ll be seen as heroes for killing them. If we don’t catch up before they reach the abbey, if the monks witness anything, we’ll have to take care of them, too. I trust you don’t have a problem slaughtering monks?”

  “Not for a worthy cause.”

  Spoken like a true monster—but at least he’s my monster.

  “Oh—you can trust it will be, my friend. I’ll take very good care of you,” Fawkes said even while he thought, I’ll slit your throat when you’re not expecting it and tell King Vincent you were the one who hired the rogues—that you split off from the rest at the market and, being suspicious, I followed you.

  “You’d better,” Knox said.

  “I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I didn’t.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Long Story Short

  Nysa Dulgath was indeed dead. Royce checked: no pulse, no breath, her skin cold. Not chilled, not clammy, but milk-jug-left-out-in-the-rain-over-night cold. He didn’t panic or have an overwhelming need to put space between himself and the unexpected corpse he was pressed against. This wasn’t the first dead body he had held. Corpses didn’t upset him—still, talking ones were a new experience.

  Royce leaned backward, holding her out to the full extent of his arms and glared into eyes that were staring back at him. He no longer supported her—its—head. He didn’t need to. She—it—was holding her—its—own head up.

  “Hmm. I’m not on the ground, and you’re not galloping away,” Nysa’s corpse said. “Does that mean you’re willing to hear the rest of the story?”

  “First, tell me who or what you are.”

  “My name doesn’t matter. Won’t mean anything to you. I was a Fhrey; that’s what our kind was called in the days before Nyphron. Before the First Empire. Elf is a human word, not ours.”

  “You were an elf?”

  “Best if you let me start at the beginning or this will get very confusing.”

  Nysa’s corpse waited, watching him as the horse continued to plod.

  “Okay,” was all Royce could think to say.

  “Who I really am is too long a tale to tell just now. I wouldn’t mind explaining everything, but we don’t have the time.”

  You’re already dead so, what’s the hurry? Royce thought.

  “The first thing you need to know is that Fhrey are nothing like you think. We are an ancient and noble—and granted, also an arrogant—race. We once ruled the world. Even this place was under our dominion.

  Royce smirked. He wasn’t about to be intimidated or hoodwinked, even by a talking corpse.

  “It’s true. There’s evidence everywhere. Those smooth bluish stone ruins on Amber Heights above the Gula River near Colnora…that was once a Fhrey fortress called Alon Rhist. And words like Avryn, Ervanon, and Galewyr are Fhrey words. Rhenydd, too—at least the ydd part. The oldest of my kind can live for more than three thousand years.”

  “So is that what’s going on here? You’re practically immortal. You can’t die?”

  “Oh, no—I already died. My body turned to dust thousands of years ago. But I broke Ferrol’s Law, and you need to be careful not to do the same. Ignorance of the law won’t protect you, and having a little human blood won’t either. You are part Fhrey, and as such you are forbidden from killing another Fhrey. Ever.”

  “Unlawful killing of anyone is called murder, and universally frowned upon. Unless you’re at a higher social level than your victim, in which case it’s called justice.”

  “Not the same thing. Humans have laws against killing one another, laws made by men. The law forbidding one Fhrey from killing another is made by Ferrol, our god, and it is he—not other Fhrey—who dispenses punishment for that crime. Ferrol’s will is the cornerstone of our society, and since the dawn of time only a few have violated his sacred law.”

  Royce couldn’t hide the sarcasm in his voice. “The punishment for murder in any society is death. What more could Ferrol do?”

  “If a Fhrey kills another Fhrey, they are forever denied entrance to Alysin, the Sacred Grove, the afterlife. You might know it as Phyre, Rel, Nifrel, or even Eberdeen. For us, there is no greater loss. It means we are outcasts and will never again see the ones we love, and those who love us.”

  Royce, who’d never had much use for religion, didn’t know any of those terms beyond how to curse with them, as in Go to Rel or I hope you burn in Phyre, which until that moment he’d assumed referred to a funeral fire.

  “So you’re a ghost?”

  “Sort of.” Nysa’s shoulders shrugged.

  Realizing this wasn’t Nysa, Royce imagined a marionette and grimaced.

  “What you think of as ghosts are actually humans who through stubbornness or ignorance refuse to go to their reward. But it’s true we are both disembodied spirits unable to interact with this world in any meaningful way.”

  “You seem to be interacting just fine.”

  “In a body I can, as any spirit does. With a body I’m as capable as everyone else—more so, in fact.”

  More so? Like her comment, We don’t have much time, this jumped out at Royce, but he kept quiet.

  “The problem is, bodies don’t last, and it’s rare to find one unoccupied. I was lucky with Maddie Oldcorn, sort of like a squirrel moving into a bird’s vacant nest. Caught in a blizzard, Maddie died, but her body was mostly intact. Toes were never right, but I was able to live with that.”

  “So Nysa isn’t in there with you?”

  “No, she was gone before I arrived. If she had been alive, even lingering between worlds, I could have saved her. Same with Maddie. I can’t enter a body unless it’s vacant. A body with a spirit is like a candle with a flame—the original spirit must be extinguished before the body can be relit.”

  Royce had heard many bizarre tales over the years. Most he didn’t believe, but he’d actually seen a few things that made him wonder. He’d watched a four-day-old corpse sit partway up, burp, and then lie back down. And he’d watched a dead man shaking his head, although that turned out to be a rat rolling around inside an emptied skull. He had personally witnessed the fight on top of the Crown Tower and couldn’t understand why there hadn’t been any bodies at the bottom afterward. That last one still haunted him. But, if he were really talking with a three-thousand-year-old dead elf, this bizarre conversation took first place.

  “Who’d you kill?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I was young and foolish and oh, so arrogant. When I died, I was alone—a face pressed up against a window looking in at the world I used to know but couldn’t touch. I didn’t know about entering bodies then and could only watch helplessly as the people I used to know made terrible decisions. The person I cared the most about was another Fhrey, who, like me, also broke our sacred law. I wanted to be with him when he died, but once separated, I couldn’t find him. I looked everywhere. Then…well…I just kept heading west until I came to the land’s end, to this place, and here I stopped.”

  “Nice place.”

  “Yes, until the humans came. I tried to keep them out. Can’t do much without a body, but if I try really hard, I can make things move. I even possessed a few dead animals. Got a raccoon once. They have fingers, you know? Hands make all the difference and soon these will be too stiff to be of use. With hands I’m able to—” She stopped, refusing to look at him.

  Said more than she wanted to. More than
it wanted to, he corrected. This isn’t Nysa.

  He was having trouble remembering that and had to remind himself that if he touched her skin it would be like ice.

  “So you were Dul the Ghast’s nature spirit,” Royce said.

  “Ugly, ugly man. Sunken eyes, looked just like a skeleton. I don’t know why I did it. I was lonely, I guess. He was up on top of this mountain crying and begging for help. They were starving to death, you see. Dul’s son and daughter had died, and his wife was sick. The whole lot of them wouldn’t have survived another month, so he climbed up and begged for help. I like it up here, nice view. I sat on top of the mountain often and was watching the sunset when Dul came up bawling and wailing. I’d started to leave when I heard him say, I know you’re there. I know you can hear me. Please help us. At that time, no one had spoken to me for centuries, but here this creepy little man was talking right to me. I don’t think I can explain how that felt—to be acknowledged after so long—to have someone recognize that you exist when even you had started to doubt.

  “I didn’t know what I could do. I followed him home. Together we watched his wife die, and I performed my first miracle.”

  “I take it she made an unexpected recovery.”

  “Yes, as far as everyone else knew. There really wasn’t anything wrong with her, except the discomfort of acute hunger, the pain of losing her children, and a fever that was gone by the time I stepped in. Mostly, she’d just given up. People do that, more often than you’d think.”

  “So the squirrel settled into the bird’s nest.”

  “Yes, and with human hands, hands nearly like my own, I was able to—” She stopped herself again. “I was able to help them.”

  “Did he know?”

  “Oh yes. I set him straight right away. Did I mention how ugly Dul was? Didn’t want him touching me. I’ve never liked humans. Dirty, awful things. It’s why I never thought I’d find anyone to be with. Their kind can be so repulsive.”

  You’re a talking corpse spitting up blood, and you think we’re repulsive?

  “And yet you helped them.”

  “Was nice being alive again, to be able to do things. I thought I had found a way to survive, but then he came.”

  “He?”

  “The rumors of my miracles had traveled all the way to Percepliquis. When he heard, he came looking for answers.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Perhaps the most remarkable human—no, person—I’ve ever met, and I’ve been around a long time. His name was Bran and he was looking for someone. Not me, as it turned out, but I think something led him here and brought us together. Bran recognized me the moment we met. Not specifically, not my name, but he said he knew what I was. What I’d done. He’d been taught about my sort and knew what to look for. He told me the most amazing story, about a woman named Brin. At first, I thought he was making it up, but he spoke of places where I had lived—oh, so long ago—and told stories that were handed down from this Brin. Then, just like Dul the Ghast, I started crying. I didn’t think I could anymore, but that story—Brin’s story—gave me hope.”

  “What was this story?”

  “That eternity isn’t nearly as long as I thought; that there will come a day when I’ll have a chance to redeem myself. That this time, these moments right now, are my chance to learn, to practice, and to improve. But most of all, that both Bran and Brin will be watching and rooting for me.”

  “Are these people still alive? Are they Fhrey like you were?”

  “No, they were human and both died thousands of years ago. So long ago that the monks who practically worship Brin as a demigod have most of her story wrong—so wrong they actually think she was a man. I’d set them straight, but they wouldn’t believe me.”

  “If these two are dead, how can they be watching?”

  Nysa’s lips smiled. “That’s a completely different story, and we don’t have time for it, either.”

  “You said that before. What’s the rush? Why don’t we have much time?”

  “Because this body is dead. The muscles are stiffening. I’ll have to leave it soon. You need to get me to the monastery.”

  “Why? What’s at the abbey?”

  “Nothing right now—but something will be.”

  The trail was quickly turning into a mountain stream as the rain flash-flooded over rocks. Overhead, thunder boomed, rattling the trees. Scarlett had slowed down as the trail became a darkened tunnel, shrinking in on the sides, becoming the narrow footpath Hadrian remembered. They were halfway, possibly as much as three-quarters. He searched for landmarks, things he could remember, but in the storm everything looked different. Surely they were close to the top; the trees were getting shorter.

  The crash of rain made it hard to hear anything, and Hadrian might have died if it hadn’t been for Scarlett. Despite her professed desire to escape him in her chase after Nysa Dulgath, she continued to look back—never more than a glance—but enough to see he was still there.

  As they climbed into the shorter trees and low brush, lightning flashed while she looked back. She reined her horse and pointed. She wasn’t looking at Hadrian; her sight went past, focusing behind him. Wide eyes completed the story. Before she even yelled her warning, Hadrian had drawn his bastard sword and wheeled Dancer around.

  Lord Fawkes and Sheriff Knox came rattling up the trail. They were both soaked, slick, and shiny. They had drawn their swords, bright silver in the lightning flash. Both showed white teeth in vicious grins.

  “Deal with him, Sheriff,” Fawkes barked, letting Knox squeeze past.

  “Keep going!” Hadrian shouted to Scarlett.

  “There’s two of them,” she yelled back.

  “I can handle two.”

  “Maybe on a good day, but this isn’t a good day for you.”

  She knew not to mention his ribs, not to even say he was hurt, but that’s what she meant. She refused to abandon him in the face of uneven odds.

  “Trust me. I can handle this,” Hadrian told her.

  “I remember you now,” Knox said, tucking the loose end of his sodden cloak into his belt after the fashion of some mercenaries. In the military, only officers wore them. Those that transitioned out brought their cloaks as status symbols but maintained the axiom that only fools fight with a flag on their back.

  Seeing the cloak, Hadrian remembered Knox, too. They had both been at the Battle of Gravin River Ford. Hadrian had been an arrogant kid of fifteen who’d just joined Warric’s Third Battalion, his first enlistment. Knox was a veteran in the same unit. Hadrian hadn’t kept his fighting ability a secret, and when he rallied the troops and almost single-handedly held the line against Earl Francis Stanley of Harborn’s forces, Ethelred had appointed him captain.

  Showing up his elders and getting promoted hadn’t won him many friends. Hadrian didn’t remember Knox in particular but wouldn’t be surprised if he still held a grudge.

  “You know what I think?” Knox said. “I think you were lucky that day. Never heard of any great acts of heroism after Gravin Ford.”

  That was because Hadrian had resigned his newly awarded commission within a month of receiving it. As an officer he had the right to abdicate, and he did, leaving Warric altogether to join the ranks of King Armand’s forces in Alburn, where he kept a lower profile and managed to serve for a whole year.

  “And like the tart said”—Knox grinned his white teeth at Scarlett—“this isn’t a good day for you.”

  The trail was narrow, forcing Scarlett to stay behind him. She was out of immediate danger, but that was Hadrian’s only blessing.

  Dancer wasn’t a warhorse; she wasn’t trained for combat. With one hand needed for the reins, Hadrian was limited to a single sword against two enemies. And his ribs hurt. Carrying Nysa had at best aggravated the wound, and possibly done real damage. Riding hadn’t helped, either. Stiff and sore, he suffered constant pain that cycled with an annoying randomness between an ache and a stabbing jolt. Scarlett and Knox were right
: This wasn’t a good day for him.

  The sheriff spurred his horse and charged forward, swinging as he came. Knox was a seasoned soldier and used an economical stroke that demonstrated more respect than the sheriff’s words. He didn’t expect to kill on first clash, which itself was proof of Knox’s own martial acumen.

  Hadrian caught the blade easily, but the impact sent a screaming thunderbolt down his side, making him cramp and preventing a proper counter. Trapped on the horse, he was limited to a twisting effort from his torso—and that part of him was broken. Instead, he took advantage of the part of him that wasn’t. Rising, he slipped out of his right stirrup, gave a hard kick, and caught Knox in the stomach, sending the man over his horse’s side and onto the ground.

  Hadrian shot a look to his left, expecting Fawkes to be on top of him. With Knox down, Hadrian readied his blade to block whatever attack Fawkes would give him—only he wasn’t there. Intent on catching Royce and Lady Dulgath, the lord had taken the opportunity to force his horse through the brush that bordered the trail, riding right past Hadrian.

  He would have had a clear path, except that Scarlett was waiting.

  As Fawkes attempted to race by, Scarlett, lacking a sword and holding only a small knife, did the only thing she could—she leapt at him. Flinging herself off her horse, she tried to grapple Fawkes to the ground. Hadrian expected Fawkes to cleave her in half, and if he’d been left-handed he might have. But his sword was on the wrong side. Instead, he backhanded Scarlett in the face, sending her to the ground.

  Fawkes wasted no more effort on either of them and rode up the trail.

  By the time Hadrian looked back, Knox had gotten to his feet and moved uphill, around to Hadrian’s off side.

  Trying to fight on horseback with broken ribs on a narrow trail had all the makings of a disaster. Using her as a shield, he jumped down on the far side of Dancer.

  Hitting the ground was excruciating. The jolt brought more flashing lights, and he sucked air through clenched teeth for a second before he could think again. Then, slapping Dancer out of the way, he drew his short sword.