The Living Dead

19

Cavadrec's tattered,purple robes billowed behind the tall wight as he stalked down the corridor. The angry howls and horrible cries of a thousand different undead animals echoed deep underground. Hooked claws swiped at the fast-moving wight as he passed through the cages.

The wight hoped to save this part of his plan for the end, but recent events convinced Cavadrec that the time for this scheme to be unleashed was now. His pets would easily keep the only real threat to himself-that damned sword, Mor-Hakar, and the elf who wielded it-from reaching this lair before Cavadrec could drain the fool Favrid and complete his spell of dominion. While he found it extremely doubtful that the elf alone could actually kill Cavadrec, the wight meant to take no chances. If the elf could not be destroyed, he could at least be prevented from finding Cavadrec until it was too late, either to stop Cavadrec or save himself.

At that hour, Cavadrec would drink the blood of Favrid and complete the holy incantations revealed to him by Nerull a thousand years ago. The reborn corpses of every living thing that had ever died violently in the shadow of Morsilath-human or animal, dwarf, halfling, or elf-would rise and walk the earth. Every last one of them would be at Cavadrec's command. They would spread over the world like a plague.

When all was complete, Nerull would elevate Cavadrec to the level of a god. The Reaper had told him so in dark whispers that slid through the wight's brain like oiled silk.

The wight reached the end of the wide aisle between his caged pets and wrenched the lever that released the doors. His wightling animals, ready to infect the world above-and more importantly, bolster the forces in and around Silatham, where he ordered them to go first-exploded from confinement and rushed out the maze of lava tubes lacing the region. Cavadrec whirled and returned the way he had come, wading through the mass of chaotic animals.

"Then something whacked me on the back of the head, and I woke up here," the bard finished. Devis insisted on relating the tale of their encounter with the wight before Zalyn explained herself.

"That was me," Clayn said with neither pride nor apology. "You looked like a crawling zombie, and smelled like one, too."

"Yeah, well, you might have said something before you pulled out the club, Cane," Devis muttered, rubbing the back of his skull.

"Clayn."

"Whatever."

"He'd have chopped your head off if I hadn't stopped him, Devis," Darji said.

Mialee scribbled with her quill and held up the note. "The 'prophecy'? Explain yourself, Z."

The Zalyn hag laughed, and the sound was nothing like the hacking, disgusting little creature they'd met before.

"One and one and one is three,

"One for the teacher, one is for me.

"The Buried rings a bell for thee,

"The Buried rings a bell for thee.

"Elf on my left, lute gold and prudent,

"Elf on my right, black-haired student,

"Elf yet to come, guardian true.

"One elf is the teacher,

"The last one is his muse."

Mialee sighed and rolled her eyes.

" 'Lute gold and prudent?'" Hound-Eye chuckled. "Are you serious?"

The crone cracked a grin. "I'm no poet, Hound-Eye, and I had to throw it together in a few days."

A con man himself, Devis still didn't get the game in this prophetic doggerel. "I think I get who the 'guardian true' is, and the rest. One of them is you, the other is Favrid. But why us?"

"Patience, please, all will be clear," Zalyn interrupted, and then turned to the silent elf woman.

Mialee had given up on speaking for now. Devis leaned one hip on the wooden table and crossed his arms, standing protectively beside Mialee. The bard didn't like this Clayn at all, even if he had apparently protected this family of elves all by himself against a village full of zombies for a full day with nothing but two swords and a dwindling stock of arrows. Devis didn't trust the man. Or maybe he just didn't like the way Mialee looked at him.

When did I become possessive? Devis wondered.

It was a silly question to ask. The bard knew exactly when he had sworn to protect Mialee. Unfortunately, he hadn't succeeded the first time. He was glad to have a second chance.

That was life, Devis thought. And death. And life again. He wondered idly what Mialee had seen while her spirit was absent from her body.

"Favrid told me your opinion of prophecy, Mialee, and I tend to agree with you. The prophecy was for Devis's benefit. I knew that Soveliss was headed to Dogmar and was likely to be locked up by our fair and just and paranoid constable. I needed to let you know, Mialee, that you and the man you called 'Diir' would meet. I also hoped, Devis, that you might find the idea of a prophecy intriguing from a financial perspective."

"How did you know I'd get thrown…in…you little weasel! You ratted me out to Muhn."

"Griffon doorjamb?" Mialee was livid.

"I assure you I did not expect them to find you where they did," Zalyn confessed, embarrassed, "but Soveliss had to be free, and I knew you couldn't resist Gunnivans old shatter spell."

"He's dead. How do you know Gu-"

"I'll never be able to explain all this if you don't stop asking me questions," the ancient elf woman said with a wink. Devis closed his mouth and decided it would be more pleasant to watch Mialee fume. She wore fuming well.

"A thousand years ago, the great alliance of clerics and wizards confined the prisoner, Cavadrec, beneath the mountain we now call Morsilath," Zalyn began.

She settled into a large, cushioned chair, one of the last pieces of unbroken furniture in the room.

Devis listened. Despite his extreme irritation over Zalyn getting him tossed in the clink on purpose, prophecies and great alliances made excellent material for epic ballads.

And the cleric had resurrected Mialee, so he found it hard to stay angry at the little woman. The crone grinned, but a sadness remained in her eyes.

"Devis, Gunnivan led us to you long ago, early in your career and before his death, and we have kept watch on you. If you accept this challenge, I promise you will sing a spell heard through all the planes."

"Really. Do these planes have any money, by any chance?" Devis replied. "You could have mentioned you knew Gunnivan, and that you're, you know, a thousand year old midget."

"I told you why I concealed my identity," Zalyn said with sudden authority. She smiled at the bard. "Trust me."

Bards that starred in their own epics could sack a lot of gold, and now he could honestly say that several dozen witnesses had heard that his 'coming was foretold.' He could make this work. To hear about a hero was cathartic or inspiring, to meet one could awe the average commoner and open the purse strings of genteel nobles seeking to impress their peers. The matrons of Dogmar alone might set Devis up for life. He shifted and nodded. He'd hear the little elf out.

"It is difficult to know where to begin," Zalyn said, looking less and less like a horrible crone and more like a simple, sad, tired old woman. Her eyes gazed distantly at a memory none of them could see. "As usual, the beginning is appropriate. Mialee, did Favrid teach you through lessons from his own past, as is the custom of Silatham wizards? Did you know he was from this village?""

The elf woman nodded once, then shook her head.

"And the Buried One, Cavadrec?"

Mialee again shook her head no and blurted, "Beltbuckle pie?"

"Dear, dear," Zalyn muttered, "I told him so many times that you were ready. Then I don't imagine he told you how he shaped your studies to prepare you for this eventuality. You should have visited this place long ago. Favrid is one of the most intelligent men I've ever met," Zalyn said, "but he would forget his spell components if his familiar didn't remind him."

"She's right there," Darji chirped.

"Mialee, I need to tell you something about myself. You may have noted," said Zalyn, touching a finger to her pointed left ear, "my true nature. I am an elf. A very, very old elf. But I am not quite this old."

Zalyn whispered a spell in which Mialee picked out illusory components-arcane magic, not divine. So Zalyn had more than one field of study, in addition to being much more than a novice.

Zalyn finished her spell and raised her chin. Her features were still wrinkled with age, but they were noble and graceful, and her eyes glinted with youth. She produced a ribbon from her robes and tied her long strands back into a silver ponytail.

"Unfortunately," she said, "I never was very good at disguising my ears."