T Lain - The Living Dead

Hound-Eye looked up into the bard’s eyes. His face was wet with tears, and he convulsed with choking sobs.

“I’m sorry,” the halfling choked, “I used all of our potions. They’re no good!”

Devis gazed down at the glass-eyed, still-beautiful elf woman and felt tears crawling down his cheeks. Hound-Eye was right. Mialee’s neck was broken.

“ Ehlonna hinue, mormhaor shan !”

Zalyn was on her feet and conjuring something to pursue the fleeing wolves and keep them running. Were his attention not consumed by the dead woman before him, Devis might have been surprised that their inexperienced young cleric had suddenly found the wherewithal to repel two dozen undead wolves. He might have noticed that the god the little cleric invoked was not the Protector. If Devis’s eyes had not been glued to Mialee’s body, he might even have spied the gnome tucking a golden icon engraved with a tree and unicorn into her leather bag.

Devis knelt and closed the girl’s dead eyes with the backs of his fingertips, the only part of his hands not covered in wight gore. He noted sadly that Mialee’s soft, pale skin did not flinch when an errant tear freed itself from his face and landed on her cheek.

A tiny gauntlet fell on his shoulder. “The brothers . . . they can—” Zalyn began.

The brothers from her temple. Devis, in his fury and grief, had not believed it possible they were alive. But even if the chance was slim, he had to try. He took his abandoned long sword from Diir and sheathed it.

Devis scooped the woman’s body into his arms and stood. The rage gave way to resolve and a glimmer of hope. Still, their little band was so beaten and battered.

“Zalyn,” he said, “I think the odds . . . they’re not good. That thing was waiting for her.”

“There is at least one cleric of the Protector in Silatham capable of bringing her back, Devis,” Zalyn said, and her impish voice became heavy with an authority Devis had never heard from the little gnome before. “I feel it in my heart,” the gnome added, pounding a gauntlet into her armored chest.

“Let’s go find your cleric. He’d better be alive, because he’s going to help her, or I’ll kill him.”

Cavadrec hurled the teleportation helm with all his considerable supernatural might at the black deknae throne that dominated his underground lair. The metal clanged loudly off the heat-treated stone and bounced against the flank of a surprised zombie wolf before finally settling onto the floor, mocking him. Favrid’s head lolled to one side, and the battered, old elf cracked a smile despite the agony Cavadrec knew he felt. Cavadrec considered killing the fool on the spot, but restrained himself. Such an impulsive act, satisfying in the short term, would be disastrous for his ultimate plan. Instead, he decided to crush the old man’s spirit.

“Your idiot girl is dead, old friend,” the wight hissed into Favrid’s face. “I killed her myself.”

He drove a fist into the old wizard’s gut for emphasis. Favrid coughed up something black that dribbled down the front of his pale, bare chest.

Favrid groaned. Cavadrec welcomed the anguished sound. His mood improved slightly. He should have brought the old fool down here ages ago.

The wolf dashed off down one of the many exits that led from Cavadrec’s lair into the maze of lava tubes crisscrossing the earth beneath Morsilath and the surrounding forest.

Cavadrec reflected on the battle that had cost the apprentice her useless life. The wight seethed.

So the blade had been recovered. The pain it inflicted was great, but the bard had caught him off guard. If the wight faced the blade again, it would be on his terms. He knew all about Favrid and Linnelle and their little plan, although Linnelle had not lived to see it come to fruition. Favrid would, but not as the old man expected. Cavadrec had removed the wizard from the equation personally. With the elf woman out of the way and the ridiculous gnome their only divine hope, they would never escape Silatham alive. All that remained was to alert the troops.

While Favrid whimpered and moaned in the dimly lit cave, Cavadrec focused his consciousness on one of his most useful servants.

His wight-self cracked into a death’s head grin at what he saw when he looked out through the tiny, borrowed eye sockets of the wightling rat.

The remaining members of the party walked wearily onward toward the mysterious glow of Silatham. Despite the sad burden he carried, Devis gaped when he saw the place.

A curved wall of wood, woven together with ancient elven techniques like Dogmar’s strange Temple of the Protector, rose into the massive evergreen trees and disappeared into the darkness high above. The massive trunks of the old-growth forest of Silath were embedded into the wall, or more likely the wall had been grown around them.

Silatham looked like an enormous, splayed onion impaled on huge evergreen trees. Several rope ladders hung down over the ground, and a curved leaf of the onion—maybe an artichoke—opened out to form a ramp that could support heavy weight; carts, horses, even marching troops. That explained the clearing. It was a mustering or unloading area. Drop your big artichoke ramp, load it up with soldiers, and the elevation renders them well-defended, Devis thought.

Of course, the place was on trees. Fire could be a problem for defenders. Live athel trees were impervious to most natural flame, and the trees had no doubt been soaked with defensive magic. The problem with this bustling town scenario—in addition to the fact that it was a myth—was location, location, location. Devis couldn’t understand how this place would support itself. It sat ringed by dense forest that would break a pack mule’s leg in a minute. It wasn’t large enough to have farms inside the onion wall. And you’d have to haul soil up a hundred feet to grow anything in treetop gardens.

This could only mean one thing. There had to be huge stores of food under this place: steaks, bread, wine, and ale. It all had to have been brought in before the trees grew up to surround it. Silatham had been stuck up there when this forest was very, very young.

Which meant that the huge, central tree sticking up through the onion had to be a fake. It was as big as the rest, but it had to be the route to the stores. Devis was suddenly very hungry. He shifted Mialee on his hip, and her arm flopped free and struck Hound-Eye. The little halfling yelped and moved ahead of the bard.

Devis’s arms ached. It was time to give up on the romantic hero bit for a moment. He flung Mialee over his left shoulder and jogged to catch up with Hound-Eye and the others. He winced every time he heard the lute smack her in the head and decided to just walk fast. Diir was already starting up one of the rope ladders. Devis hoped the ranger knew a secret way in.

The elf seemed to know where he was going, and that was encouraging. Devis still didn’t trust the glow. The splayed onion looked as if someone had lit a candle inside. This place wasn’t all dark, living athel. It was dead, and burning. Devis could actually feel the heat on his face.

From close up, Devis could see gaps, open seams where the woven wood had dried and split from age. This was dead athel like the temple in Dogmar, not dark, living trees.

Devis knew a surprising amount about athel trees, learned from a big-eared elven artisan in exchange for a tune and a good word with a barmaid at the Dog’s Ear. The thing about athel wood was, it could grow in the ground—like the temple once had—or on other trees. Elves used to use the stuff to build in the trees before athel became so rare. When it was alive, athel trees could be woven using a technique very similar to bardic magic and it was dark, rich, reddish brown. When athel died, it turned golden yellow like the temple, or white, if not treated properly.