T Lain - The Living Dead

“You cannot die, Elder,” Clayn insisted. “We will find a way to bring you back. You are all that stands—”

“Of course she’s not,” Soveliss interjected. “Anyone can die, Clayn. And not everyone gets a second chance,” the ranger said, eyeing his grandson and Mialee darkly.

That surprised Devis, but he understood, he thought. His friend had lost his love and his children, and Zalyn had not been able to bring them back to life. Of course he resented the ones who returned. The bard sympathized, but hoped Soveliss would be able to overcome his bitterness soon. Devis missed Diir.

“He speaks the truth, ranger, and you know it,” Hound-Eye said, looking away from little Nialma.

Zalyn said, “A soul must want to return from the beyond. Even a god cannot force a free spirit back to this world if it does not want to make the journey. My conscious mind keeps me fighting Ehlonna’s call while I reside in this body, but once free of it, I fear that what I find beyond will be too much for this old soul to give up.”

“Don’t die, Elder,” Nialma said.

“Little one, it is not something I can change. I wish there was some way you did not have to learn this, not at this age, but all things end.” Zalyn grinned, and a gnomish twinkle appeared in her eyes. “But I will not leave you until you are safe. And when I am gone, Ehlonna will look after you, Nialma. I promise.”

Devis pounded one last board into place and sniffed. For Nialma’s sake as well as his own and everyone else’s he hoped Zalyn’s faith in Ehlonna was even half justified. The alternative was certain doom.

He heard a squawk from Darji and jumped. The little bird was back from her scouting mission, wriggling through one of the few openings left unblocked for ventilation. The raven still glowed with the soft, blue energy Zalyn had cast to keep Darji safe.

“I have word from Favrid, Elder,” the little bird cawed. The raven chirped into Zalyn’s ear while the elder nodded. The elf straightened, and some of her old strength seemed to return to her bent frame.

“Favrid is alive,” Zalyn announced, “but restrained. I must think on this while I rest. This evening, we will speak further.”

Zalyn promptly sat cross-legged, closed her eyes, and slipped into a state of meditation.

“Anyone have any dice?” Devis asked.

The day had been interminable. As the sunlight faded, making their little space even darker, Zalyn suddenly snapped out of her trance. Devis and Hound-Eye abandoned their efforts at teaching Nialma how to gamble, and they all gathered expectantly around the diminutive elf.

“Children, I apologize for leaving you,” Zalyn said. “We have much to prepare for. The day of prophecy is close at hand.”

“Says…you…banana,” Mialee managed without looking up from her spellbook. She almost had the invisibility spell, she hoped. She wouldn’t know until she tried, but it was the most useful spell she could think of that she could master in a short time.

“I admit,” Zalyn croaked around another hacking cough, “I deceived you. But holy Ehlonna told me that she needed a millennium to recover, and I will not doubt her, capricious as she may be. We must act one thousand years to the day from that hour we sealed the Buried One beneath Morsilath. But Darji has just told me something chilling, something I needed time to cogitate on before I told the rest of you.”

She composed herself, and Mialee and the others quietly shuffled around her to listen. For a split second, Mialee was reminded of the shambling movements of the walking dead. Even with a day of rest, the besieged group was showing signs of serious fatigue.

“What?” Hound-Eye blurted, shifting impatiently next to Nialma and her family.

“Just as we did not know of Cavadrec’s transformation from elf to wight, we did not know that this day chosen by Ehlonna would allow Cavadrec to compound his betrayal.”

“In Common?” Devis asked.

“Cavadrec has discovered a spell so terrible I am loath to describe it, but I must,” Zalyn said sadly. “He has discovered a way to raise the bodies of all the fallen warriors buried at Morkeryth and turn them into a well-armed wightling army under his complete control.”

“Why does he need a spell?” The bard pressed. “You said he used to do that all the time in the bad old days. He didn’t need a special spell to do what he did to Silatham. You said he just sent in a bunch of rats.”

“Never did he raise so many all at once, or such a pernicious group of corpses. Infectious wightlings are perfectly adequate to convert a living soul into the walking dead, but when I say the dead of Morkeryth, I speak of legends. The greatest of our elf heroes from the days before,” Zalyn intoned. “Many of the most recent fell fighting his evil at our sides. Thousands upon thousands of Silatham rangers, dwarven battle clerics, human paladins lending the strength of their many gods, and the noble fighters of the Halfling Defense Corps.” She eyed Hound-Eye knowingly, who nodded with a mix of horror and something like awe.

“There ain’t no ‘Halfling Defense Corps,’” Hound-Eye said. “My kind look after themselves, but we don’t go in for armies.”

“Not anymore,” Zalyn said. “The Corps’ ranks were decimated a thousand years ago. This region was forever changed by Cavadrec’s ravages, from the southern desert to the foul stench of Dogmar to your Tent City, my friend.”

“What does . . . exact dandeli-date. . . have to do with anytrout?” Mialee said with effort.

“The thousand-year mark is the crux of the spell, as it is the length of time Ehlonna demanded. Cavadrec must carry out the incantations and mix the appropriate potions and poultices. That, I fear, is why he has taken Favrid and, Favrid tells me through his familiar, the reason my thirimin yet lives. Cavadrec lacks only one element to complete the spell and raise his army of darkness. The Buried One must drink the freshly-drawn blood of one living being who witnessed the fall of all those he wishes to raise.”

Mialee gasped. “Feather,” she whispered.

“Cavadrec was not aware, I believe, that he had two choices,” she said, touching her fingertips to her breast. “My blood, too, would have worked. But he did not know I still lived. I have been hidden in the temple of the Protector for a long time, and we allowed the Buried One to believe I had died of old age.” She smirked ironically, now she really was dying of old age.

“I suspect that playful Ehlonna has seen fit to make my contrived prophecy truth. I hope so, for if we fail, she will suffer the most of all,” Zalyn replied. “Life will be replaced with living death. The world will fall under his sway, and the Hater of Life will reign supreme.” She sounded more than a little like the crone prophet.

“Oh, just that,” Devis cracked, but no one laughed. He grimaced, then asked, “So what must we do, Zalyn?”

“Clayn,” Zalyn nodded at the ranger and pointed at a dusty, forgotten chest bigger than Hound-Eye, tucked far beneath the battered and broken wooden table.

“Certainly, Elder,” Clayn said, and dragged the chest so that it sat before Zalyn. She whispered a short prayer and sprinkled a bit of some green powder on the trunk’s heavy lock, which disappeared in a magical flash. The lid popped open of its own accord, and the others stood and gathered behind the cleric.

Mialee’s jaw dropped. She didn’t recognize everything in the trunk—planes, was that a lute?—but it looked like a small treasure trove of scrolls, weapons, and artifacts.

“Not all components of our ‘prophecy’ were turned to stone and buried on the battlefield,” Zalyn said with a gnomish giggle. “Some have been here, in my home, for safekeeping.”