The Dead of Winter

WHEN THE SPIRIT MOVES YOU by Robert Lynn Asprin

"Is he asleep?"

"Asleep! Hah! He's passed out again."

Zalbar heard the whores' voices as if from a distance and wanted very badly to take exception to what they were saying. He wasn't asleep or passed out. He could understand every word that was being said. His eyes were just closed, that's all ... and damned hard to open too. Hardly worth the effort.

"I don't know why the Madame puts up with him. He's not that good-looking, or rich."

"Maybe she has a weak spot for lost puppies and losers."

"If she does, it's the first sign of it she's shown since I've been here."

A loser? Him? How could they say that? Wasn't he a Hell-Hound? One of the most feared swordsmen in Sanctuary?

Struggling to focus his mind, Zalbar became aware that he was sitting in a chair. Well, sitting slumped over, the side of his head resting on something hard ... presumably a table. There was a puddle of something cold and sticky under his ear. He fervently hoped it was spilled wine and not vomit.

"Well, I guess we'll just have to carry him up to his room again. Come on. Give me a hand."

This would never do. A Hell-Hound? Being carried through a whorehouse like a common drunk?

Zalbar gathered himself to surge to his feet and voice his protests ...

He sat up in bed with a start, experiencing that crystal clarity of awareness and thought that sometimes occurs when one wakes between a heavy drunk and the inevitable hangover.

Sleeping! He had been asleep! After three days of forcing himself to stay awake he had been stupid enough to start drinking!

Every muscle tense, he hurriedly scanned the room, dreading what he knew he would find.

Nothing. He was alone in the room ... his room ... what had become his room at the Aphrodisia House through Myrtis's tolerance and generosity. It wasn't here!

Forcing himself to relax, he let memories wash over him like a polluted wave.

He hadn't just been drinking. He was drunk! Not for the first time, either, he realized as his mind brought up numerous repetitions of this scene for his review. The countless excuses he had hidden behind in the past were swept aside by the merciless hand of self-contempt. This was becoming a habit ... much more the reality of his existence than the golden self-image he tried to cling to.

Hugging himself in his misery, Zalbar tried to use this temporary clarity of thought to examine his position.

What had he become?

When he first arrived in Sanctuary as one of Prince Kadakithis's elite bodyguard, he and his comrades had been assigned by that royal personage to clean up the crime and corruption that abounded in the town. It had been hard work and dangerous, but it was honest work a soldier could take pride in. The townspeople had taken to calling them Hell-Hounds, a title they had smugly accepted and redoubled their efforts in an attempt to live up to.

Then the Stepsons had come, an arrogant mercenary company which one of the Hell Hounds, Tempus Thales, had abandoned his mess-mates to lead. That had really been the start of the Hell-Hounds' downfall. Their duties were reduced to those of token bodyguards, while the actual job of policing the town fell to the Stepsons. Then the Beysib had arrived from a distant land, and the Prince's infatuation with their Empress led him to replace his Hell-Hounds with fish-eyed foreign guards of the Beysa's choosing.

Denied even the simplest of palace duties, the Hell-Hounds had been reassigned under loose orders to "keep an eye on the brothels and casinos north of town." Any effort on their part to intercede or affect the chaos in the town proper was met with reprimands, fines, and accusations of "meddling in things outside their authority or jurisdiction."

At first, the Hell-Hounds had hung together, practicing with their weapons and hatching dark plots over wine as to what they would do when the Stepsons and Beysib guards fell from favor and they were recalled to active duty. Exclusion from the war at Wizardwall, and finally the assassination of the Emperor, had been the final straws to' break the Hell-Hounds' spirit. The chance for reassignment was now gone. The power structure in the capital was in a turmoil, and the very existence of a few veterans posted to duty in Sanctuary was doubtlessly forgotten. They were stranded under the command of the Prince, who had no use for them at all.

Both practices and meetings had become more and more infrequent as individual Hell-Hounds found themselves drawn into the ready maw of Sanctuary's flesh-dens and gaming bars. There were always free drinks and women to be had for a Hell Hound, even when it became apparent to everyone in the town that they were no longer a force to be reckoned with. Just having one of the Hell-Hounds on the premises was a deterrent to cheats and petty criminals, so the bartenders and madames bore the expense of their indulgences willingly.

The downhill slide had been slow but certain. The whores' conversation he had overheard served to confirm what he had suspected for some time ... that the Hell-Hounds had not only fallen from favor, they were actually held in contempt by the same low-life townspeople they had once sneered at. Once-proud soldiers were now a pack of pitiful barflies ... and this town had done it to them.

Zalbar shook his head.

No. That wasn't right. His own personal downfall had been started by a specific action. It had started when he agreed to team up with Jubal in an effort to deal with Tempus. It had started with the death of ...

"Help me, Zalbar."

For once, Zalbar's nerves were under control. He didn't even look around.

"You're late," he said in a flat voice.

"Please! Help me!"

At this, Zalbar turned slowly to face his tormenter.

It was Razkuli. He was his best friend in the Hell-Hounds, or had been until Tempus killed him in revenge for Zalbar's part in the Jubal-Kurd nonsense. Actually, what confronted him was an apparition, a ghost if you will. After numerous encounters, Zalbar knew without looking that the figure before him didn't quite touch the floor as it walked or stood.

"Why do you keep doing this to me?" he demanded. "I thought you were my friend!"

"You are my friend," the form replied in a distant voice. "I have no one else to turn to. That's why you must help me!"

"Now look. We've been over this a hundred times," Zalbar said, trying to hold his temper. "I need my sleep. I can't have you popping up with your groanings every time I close my eyes. It was bad enough when you only showed up occasionally, but you're starting to drop in every night. Now either tell me how I can help you, something you've so far kept to yourself, or go away and leave me alone."

"It's cold where I am, Zalbar. I don't like it here. You know how I always hated the cold."

"Well it's no lark here either," Zalbar snapped, surprised at his own boldness. "And as for the cold ... it's winter. That means it's cold all over."

"I need your help. I can't cross over to the other side without your help! Help me and I'll trouble you no more."

Zalbar suddenly grew more attentive. That was more information than his friend's ghost had ever given him in the past ... or perhaps he had been too drunk to register what was being said.

"Cross over to where? How can I help you?"

"I can't tell you that ..."

"Oh, Vashanka!" Zalbar exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "Here we go again. I can't help you if you won't tell me what ..."

"Talk to Ischade," the spirit interrupted. "She can tell you what I cannot."

"Who?" Zalbar blinked. "Ischade? You mean the weird woman living in Downwind? That Ischade?"

"Ischade ..." the ghost repeated, fading from sight.

"But ... Oh, Vashanka! Wouldn't you know it. The one time I want to talk to him and now he's gone."

Seized by a sudden inspiration, Zalbar sank back onto the pillows and closed his eyes. Maybe sleeping again would bring the irritating apparition back long enough for a few clarifying questions.

As might be expected, he slept the rest of the night undisturbed.

Zalbar awoke near midday with a fresh sense of resolve. Razkuli's ghost had finally given him some information he could act on, and he was determined to rid himself of his otherworldly nag before he slept again.

The beginning of his quest, however, was delayed until nearly nightfall. The hangover he had eluded for his late-night conference with the spirit descended on him with a vengeance now that its ally, the sun, was shining bright. As a result, he spent most of the day abed, weak-limbed and fuzzy-headed, waiting until the traditional penance for overindulgence had passed before sallying forth. He might have convinced himself to wait until the next day, but all through his recovery he had clung to one thought like a buoy on a stormy sea.

It's almost over. Talk to Ischade. Talk to Ischade and I can sleep again.

Thus it was that a wobbly Zalbar donned his uniform and ventured out into the last rays of the setting sun, determined to rid himself of his nighttime tormenter or die in the attempt ... which, at the moment, seemed a reasonably attractive option.

It was his intention to follow the North Road, which skirted the city's walls, to the bridge over the White Foal River, thereby avoiding the streets of the city proper. It was well known that, following the Hell-Hounds' removal, the chaos in town had evolved into vicious street fighting between rival factions, and he had no desire to be delayed by a brawl. Once he had walked unafraid even in the Maze, the heart of Sanctuary's underground. Now, that was someone else's concern and there was no need to take unnecessary risks.

The further he went, the more he realized that he had underestimated the extent of the urban warfare. Even here, outside the city, his trained eye could detect signs of preparations for violence. There were boxes and barrels stacked in formations clearly designed for cover and defense rather than for storage, and there were any number of armed men lounging in corners with no apparent purpose other than to serve as lookouts. Despite his weakened condition, Zalbar grew more tense as he walked, feeling scores of concealed eyes watching him ... appraising his strength. Perhaps he should have taken the longer route, skirting the town to the east, then passing south along the wharfs where violence was least likely. Too late to turn back now. He'd just have to brazen it through and hope enough respect lingered for the Hell-Hounds' uniform to give him safe passage.

Dropping a hand to his sword hilt, he slipped into the jaunty, swaggering gait of old, all the while trying desperately to remember the latest whorehouse rumors of which factions controlled which portions of the town. His walk went unchallenged, and he was just beginning to congratulate himself on the endurance of the Hell-Hound reputation he had fought so hard to build when a stray gust of wind carried the sound of derisive laughter to him from one of the watch-posts. With that, an alternate explanation for his uncontested progress came to him with a rush that made his cheeks burn in spite of the cold. Maybe the Hell Hounds' reputation had simply fallen so low that they were considered beneath notice ... not a sufficient threat to bother springing a trap on.

It was a humbled and subdued Zalbar that finally arrived at Ischade's residence. He paused on her doorstep, momentarily lost in thought. Soldiers were never popular, and he had suffered his share of abuse for wearing a uniform. This was the first time, though, that he had been a subject of other arms-bearers' ridicule. Sometime, after he had rehoned his sword and his skills, he would have to see what could be done about reestablishing the respect a Hell-Hound uniform was due. Maybe he could interest Armen and Quag as well. It was about time they all started giving a bit of thought to their collective future.

First, however, there was the business at hand to see to ... and in his current state his mind could handle only one plan at a time. Raising a fist, he knocked on Ischade's door, wondering at the strange foliage in her garden.

The silence surrounding the house was unsettling, and he was about to knock again if just for the noise when the door opened a crack and a man's eye regarded him with a glare.

"Who is it and what do you want so early in the morning?"

"I am Zalbar of the Prince Kadakithis's personal bodyguard," he barked, falling into old habits, "and I have come ..." Zalbar stopped suddenly and stole a glance at the now dark sky. "Early in the morning? Excuse me, but it's just past sundown."

"We're sleeping late in this house. It's been very busy lately," was the growled response. "What is it you want?"

"I wish to speak with the person known as Ischade."

"Is this official business, or a personal matter?"

Zalbar considered trying to bluff, but could think of no way to phrase his inquiries to make them sound official.

"Personal," he admitted finally.

"Then come back at a decent hour. She's got better things to do than ..."

"Oh let him in, Haught," came a commanding female voice from somewhere out of sight. "I'm awake now anyway."

The guardian of the door favored Zalbar with one last dark glare, then stepped back to allow him entrance.

The Hell-Hound's first impression of Ischade's sitting room was that he had seen neater battlefields. Then his eye registered the strewn items, and he revised his opinion. Once he had led an assault against a band of mountaineers busily looting a rich caravan. The aftermath had been very similar to what he was seeing here: expensive goods tossed randomly with no regard to their value. A prince's ransom had been ruined with careless handling ...

He decided that he wouldn't like Ischade. His time in palaces and brothels taught him to appreciate objects that he could never afford and to be offended at their neglect. At least royalty knew how to take care of their toys ... or had servants who did.

"What can I do for you, Officer?"

He turned to find a raven-haired woman entering the room, belting a black robe about herself as she walked.

"Ischade?"

"Yes?"

Now that she was in front of him, Zalbar was suddenly unsure of what to say.

"I was told to talk to you ... by a ghost."

The man by the door groaned noisily. Ischade shot him a look that could have been used in the army.

"Sit down, Officer. I think you'd better tell me your story from the beginning."

Zalbar took the offered seat absently, trying to organize his thoughts.

"I had a friend ... he was killed several years ago. He's haunting me. The first time was a long time back and he didn't reappear, so I thought it was just a bad dream. Lately, he's been coming to me more often ... every time I try to sleep, as a matter of fact. He says he needs my help to cross over, whatever that means. He told me to talk to you ... that you could tell me what he couldn't. That's why I'm here."

Ischade listened to all this with pursed lips and a faraway stare.

"Your friend. Tell me about him."

"He was a Hell-Hound, like me. His name was Razkuli ..."

Zalbar would have continued, but Ischade had suddenly raised a hand to her forehe ad, massaging it as she grimaced.

"Razkuli. That's where I've seen that uniform before. But he isn't one of the ones that I keep."

"I don't understand," the Hell-Hound frowned. "Are you saying you know him?"

"He has ... assisted me from time to time," Ischade said, shrugging lightly. "Now, what can I do to help you?"

Zalbar tried to digest what Ischade was saying, but his mind simply wasn't up to the implications. Finally, he abandoned his efforts and returned to his original line of questioning.

"Could you tell me what's going on? What did Razkuli mean when he said that he couldn't 'cross over'?"

"For some reason his spirit is trapped between the realm of the living and the realm of the dead. Something is keeping him from a peaceful rest, and he wants you to help him on the physical plane."

"Help him how? What is it I'm supposed to do?"

"I don't know for sure. It could be any one of a number of things. I suppose the only way to find out is to ask him."

Zalbar straightened in his chair and glanced nervously around the room. "You mean you're going to summon the spirit? Here? Now?"

Ischade shook her head in an abrupt negative. "First of all, that's not the way it works. I don't summon spirits ... I send an agent or occasionally fetch them personally. In this case, however, I think we'll leave the spirit alone and pursue alternate methods for obtaining the necessary information. As you've probably noticed, spirits aren't particularly eloquent or informative. Besides, I just got back from a quest like that, and I'll be damned if I'll go to hell again for a while."

"How's that again?" the Hell-Hound frowned.

"Nothing. Just a little joke. What I mean is, I think we'll have better luck simply animating his corpse and asking what the problem is."

"His corpse," Zalbar echoed hollowly.

"... Of course, someone will have to fetch it. Do you know where he's buried?"

"In the garrison graveyard north of town ... the grave's clearly marked."

"Good. Then you'll have no trouble finding it. As soon as you bring it here, we can ..."

"ME?" Zalbar exclaimed. "Surely you can't expect me to dig up a grave."

"Certainly. Why not?"

The thought of digging up a well-aged corpse ... any corpse, much less that of his friend, horrified Zalbar. Still, he found himself strangely reluctant to express his revulsion to this woman who spoke so lightly of animating corpses and trips to hell.

"Um ... I'm Hell-Hound, part of a royal retinue," he said instead. "If I were caught, a charge of grave-robbing would be scandalous."

In his corner, Haught snorted. "Open fighting in the streets and the authorities are worried about grave-robbing? I doubt there would be any danger of discovery."

"Then you fetch it if you're so sure there's no danger of arrest," Zalbar snapped back.

"Yes, that's a good idea." Ischade nodded. "Run along, Haught, and bring us the contents of Razkuli's grave. With luck we can see this business done by sun-up."

"ME?" Haught scowled. "But ..."

"You," Ischade ordered firmly. "Now."

Haught started to reply angrily, then apparently thought better of it and slammed out the door into the night without another word.

"Now then. Officer," Ischade purred, focusing hooded eyes on Zalbar. "While we wait, perhaps you can tell me what you think of the Beysib-Nisibisi Alliance."

In the next hour, while anxiously awaiting Haught's return, Zalbar became firmly convinced that Ischade was insane. The silly woman seemed to have some idea that the arrival of the Beysib in Sanctuary was somehow part of a Nisi plot ... this opinion apparently based on the observation that both cultures were snake-cults. Zalbar's efforts to point out that the Beysib used small vipers, while military reports indicated that the Nisibisi were into man-sized constrictors, fell on deaf ears. If anything, his arguments seemed to reinforce Ischade's conviction that she was the only one who could see the true ramifications of what was happening in Sanctuary.

He assumed her mental imbalance was the result of her profession. If she was indeed a necromancer, constant involvement with death and corpses was bound to be unsettling to the mind. After all, look at the effect that dealing with one dead person was having on him!

As much as he dreaded viewing his friend's remains, Zalbar's conversation with Ischade was so unsettling that he was actually relieved when a footstep sounded outside and Haught appeared once more in the doorway.

"I had to steal a wheelbarrow," the necromancer's assistant said in a manner that was almost an accusation. "There were two corpses in the grave."

"Two?" Zalbar scowled, but he was talking to thin air.

Haught reappeared in a moment carrying the first moldering body, which he dumped unceremoniously on the floor, and turned to fetch the second one.

Ischade bent over their prize, beckoning Zalbar to move closer.

"Is this your friend?"

Zalbar was still shaking his head. "I don't understand it," he said. "How could there be two bodies in the same grave?"

"It's not uncommon," Ischade shrugged. "Gravedig-gers get paid by the body, and if you don't watch them, they'll dump two or more bodies into the same grave rather than going through the trouble of digging several ... especially if there are two graveyards involved and they don't want to have to drag the second corpse across town. Your friend was probably buried with someone else who died about the same time. The question is, was this him?"

The corpse was almost beyond recognition. What skin and flesh was left was dried and mummified; bone showed in many places. There was a gaping hole in the abdomen, and the internal organs were not in evidence.

"N ... No," Zalbar said carefully. "I'm sure this is someone else ... maybe Kurd."

"Who?"

"Kurd. He was a butcher ... a medical researcher he called himself, but he performed his experiments on the bodies of living slaves. He died the same day as Razkuli, disemboweled by ... a dissatisfied customer. I saw his body at the charnel house when I went there to identify my friend. They were the only two there at the time, so if you're right about the gravediggers' negligence, it stands to reason that his would be the second body."

He was babbling now, trying to avoid examining the corpse more closely.

"Interesting," Ischade murmured. "I could use a repairman. But you're sure it isn't your friend?"

"Positive. For one thing, Razkuli was ..."

"Here's the other," Haught announced from the doorway. "Now if you don't mind, I think I'll retire for the night. A little of this type of assisting goes a long way."

"That's him!" Zalbar said pointing at the new corpse.

"I think I see the problem," Ischade sighed. "You could have saved us all a lot of trouble if you had been more specific. Why didn't you tell me he had been beheaded?"

Sure enough, the corpse which Haught had propped against the wall noticeably lacked its hatrack.

"I didn't think it was important. Is it?"

"Certainly. One thing that will always hold a spirit in limbo is if its physical body has been dismembered ... particularly if an important piece, like its head, has been denied a burial."

"What? You mean his head hasn't been buried?"

"Apparently not. As I said earlier, gravediggers are notoriously lazy, so I doubt they would dig a separate hole just for the head. No, my guess is that that portion of your friend's body has somehow gone astray. The reason the spirit hasn't been able to instruct you in more detail is because it can't tell which part is missing, much less where it is."

She turned to Zalbar with a smile. "This will be simpler than I thought. Bring me the head of Razkuli, and I can put his spirit to rest for you. Do you have any idea where it might be after all this time?"

"No," the Hell-Hound said grimly, "but I know someone who might. Don't bother going back to sleep. If I'm right, this won't take long at all,"

Innos, one of several grooms who watched over the military barracks and stables, awoke from a sound sleep to find lights ablaze and a swordpoint at his throat.

"Think back, Innos!"

It was Zalbar. Innos had watched his degeneration into a brothel barfly with no interest other than that there would be one less bunk for him to police. Now, however, the Hell-Hound's eyes were blazing with a savagery that spoke of old times. Innos looked into those eyes and decided that he would not lie, whatever question was asked ... just as the street watcher had decided not to laugh at the Hell-Hound when he stalked back from Ischade's.

"Bu ... but Zalbar! I have done nothing!"

"Think back!" Zalbar commanded again. "Think back several years. I was coming out of an audience with the Prince ... so upset I was nearly out of my mind. I handed you something and told you to dispose of it properly. Remember?"

Innos did, and his blood ran icy.

"Y ... Yes. It was the head of your friend Razkuli."

"Where is it?"

"Why, I buried it, of course. Just as you ordered."

The swordpoint pressed forward, and a small trickle of blood made its way down Innos's throat.

"Don't lie to me! I know it hasn't been buried."

"But ... if you knew ..."

"I just found out tonight. Now where is it?"

"Please don't kill me! I've never ..."

"Where!? It's important, man."

"I sold it ... to the House of Whips and Chains. They use skulls in their decor."

Innos was flung back, and he closed his eyes as Zalbar raised his sword to strike.

After a frozen moment, he risked a peek, and saw the Hell-Hound standing with the sword hanging loose at his side.

"No. I can't kill you, Innos," he said softly. "I could expect little better from anyone else in this town. If anything, the fault is mine. I should have seen to the head myself."

He fixed Innos with a stare, and the groom saw that he was smiling.

"Still," he continued in a friendly tone, "I'd suggest you pack your things and leave town ... tonight. I may not be so understanding the next time I see you."

Zalbar did not even bother to knock, but simply pushed his way through the door of the House of Whips and Chains. It was his first visit to this particular brothel which catered to tastes bizarre even for Sanctuary, but his anger outweighed his curiosity. When the madame rushed wide-eyed, to confront him, he was brief and to the point.

"You have a skull here as part of your decorations. I want it."

"But Officer, we never sell our decorations. They're too difficult to replace ..."

"I didn't say I wanted to buy it," Zalbar snapped. "I'm taking it with me ... and I'd advise you not to argue."

He swept the room quickly with his gaze, ignoring the girls peering out from hiding.

"That brazier ... with the hot irons in it. It's a fire hazard. I could close this establishment right now, Madame, and I doubt you could fix the violations faster than I could find them if you ever wanted to re-open."

"But ... oh, take the silly thing. Take all of them or take your pick. I don't care."

"All of them?"

Zalbar was suddenly aware that there were no less than a dozen skulls peering at him from ledges and mantels around the room.

"You're too kind, Madame," he sighed heavily. "Now, if I could trouble you for a bag?"

The rest of the night was mercifully fuzzy in Zalbar's mind, as fatigue and shock began to numb his senses. Ischade had revived Kurd by the time he arrived back at her house ... which was fortunate, for the vivisectionist was of invaluable assistance as they faced the macabre task of matching the severed vertebrae to discover which in the bagful of skulls was actually Razkuli's.

He buried his friend's now assembled body himself, not trusting the necromancer to do it, digging the grave far from the normal graveyards, under a tree they both knew. His task finally complete, he staggered back to the Aphro-disia House and slept uninterrupted for more than a day.

When he awoke, the events seemed so distant and bizarre that he might have dismissed them as a fever dream, were it not for two things. First, the spirit of Razkuli never again appeared to spoil his slumbers, and second, Myrtis threw him out of Aphrodisia House after hearing he had visited the House of Whips and Chains. (She soon forgave him, as she always did, her anger dissipating almost magically.)

The only other consequence of the entire episode was that a week later, Zalbar was given an official reprimand. It seemed that while engaging in sword practice with his fellow Hell-Hounds, he had broken off drilling to administer a merciless beating to one of the onlookers. Reliable witnesses testified that the victim's only offense had been to make the offhand comment: "You Hell-Hounds will do anything to get ahead!"