Dark Magic (50 page)

As he started his first days of work, Morcant thought the quiet environment of the cemetery would be good for him. It was a restful place—and the tenants were quiet indeed. There was no one to trigger his nasty temper. Even Daz seemed like a reasonable fellow who wouldn’t badger him about his work and get himself punched in the eye—as all his previous bosses had managed eventually. The old man would give him chores and Morcant would do them all without complaint. At least until he had the coin he needed. After that, he would spirit Tegan away, and they would put the Haven behind them.

The day Morcant dug his very first grave, he dug it deep and square. Daz inspected the work and praised him. It was a job well done and both men knew it. Standing in the grave, Morcant grinned up at Daz and shaded his face with his heavy hand. Things were definitely looking better from his point of view. He could not wait to tell Tegan the news.

Two weeks later, they had a surprise burial. A woman had died in childbirth and her infant son had not survived the night. For reasons Morcant didn’t understand, the Silure family wanted them both buried the very next evening. This gave Morcant two graves to dig in a single afternoon. He didn’t complain when Daz told him of the rush job however, he simply grabbed up his spade and headed toward the graveyard, which was essentially grassy open area of the hilltop. Daz would give him a silver farthing for each grave, he knew. He told himself the work would help a family that wanted an urgent burial and they would pay extra for the service. It could only help him achieve his own goals more quickly.

Trees covered most of the hill, but not the graveyard itself. Each year, Daz cleared the trees from a new section of the hill, enough for twenty to thirty new graves. This had become part of Morcant’s routine, chopping down trees and clearing land when there were no graves to be dug. The hardest part was ripping out the stumps. They had to bring up a mule team from Riverton to help with that. Today there would be no chopping, but instead it would be a long day of digging. Fortunately, an infant’s grave did not need to be as large as an adult’s, but it wasn’t that much smaller. There had to be room enough for the gravedigger to stand in the bottom of the hole and work, after all.

He started by laying out leather tarps to catch the dirt as he threw it. When the ceremony was finished, the earth had to be shoveled back in without covering the nearby grasses. Then the same sod, carefully cut into squares, would be replaced atop the soil. With proper workmanship, the family would be able to visit the spot the next day without seeing so much as a clod of spare soil to remind them of the hole he’d dug today. Daz had taught Morcant this procedure, and the bigger man had not argued. There were few things in the world he respected, but the Dead were among them.

When he had the graves dug down to the level of his shoulders, he was almost finished. The rule was the hole had to be as deep as his shovel was long, and a little bit more. Standing in the grave, throwing scoop after scoop of dark earth over his shoulder onto the tarps, he heard a rumbling sound out on the lane. He looked up and saw a cart rolling up from town. He could tell immediately what the cart carried. Two boxes of rough-hewn wood rode behind the cartsman. Morcant frowned and leaned on his spade. His head, sticking up from the ground, gave him an odd perspective. He wondered if the dead saw the world this way, from a flat angle where they laid within the earth.

The cart was clearly carrying the corpses in their coffins to the gravesite. But there were no mourners, and the ceremony wasn’t due to commence until sunset. Morcant frowned and heaved himself up out of the grave. He stood and straightened, hailing Daz, the figure he now recognized as the cart driver.

“Ho, man!” he called. “Why so early?”

Daz shook his head. “I’m not sure. Old man Tad Silure didn’t say. He just gave me three crowns and told me to bring them up here today.”

Morcant stared, thinking of three crowns. “Silver or copper?” he asked.

“Silver,” Daz said, shaking his head.

Three silver crowns?
Morcant thought about that. This was not at all like Old Tad, nor anyone else in his clan. There was something strange afoot here, of that much he was sure.

“I know,” Daz said. “It is odd. But sometimes, in their grief, people behave differently than they would otherwise.”

Morcant nodded. “We are to put the coffins in now?”

“Yes. Before the people arrive.”

“Should we fill the graves? We don’t even have proper headstones ready yet.”

Daz nodded. “I know. I haven’t had time to chisel a single letter yet. There will only be their names on these. That much I know.”

Morcant thought about asking the names, but didn’t. It was best he didn’t know, he figured. This job could be strange enough without knowing an old schoolmate was in the box you were busy lugging about.

“Let’s get them off the cart,” said Daz. “I’ll go work on the stones. Do you think you can finish the graves and get them inside by yourself?”

Morcant eyed the two boxes. Neither was large. “I can do it,” he said.

Daz gave him a quick smile. “That’s why I hired you.”

They carefully set down the two coffins. Neither felt as if there were more than a few pounds of flesh in them. Morcant was slightly troubled in fact, by their lightness. Did the Silures’ starve their matrons?

Daz soon had the cart wheeling away toward his workshop and Morcant was left digging again. He worked at a steady pace. His body had grown more powerful since he’d taken this job. The first week had been all aches and pains, but now that he was growing accustomed to the work, he rather enjoyed the labor. As well, put side by side, he had to say that grave digging was better than chopping down trees and clearing the land. The single reason was that the earth down inside the holes was cool. He still sweated and got dirty, but at least he was out of the blaze of the sun when he stood at the bottom of a grave.

After an hour or so of more digging, Morcant heaved himself out of the grave again. It was harder this time, his muscles were sore and the hole was quite deep. He bent over with his hands upon his knees, sides heaving as he sucked in air for a time. He stared at the two caskets. He decided he’d put down the bigger of the two first. Small ones were tricky, they could tip over on you. He eyed the ropes and straps they usually used to lower caskets. Setting up that mess would take another twenty minutes or more. Deciding to just get it over with, he took hold of the casket and dragged it to the edge of the grave.

Morcant looked over his shoulder and gauged the sun’s position. It was quite late. He’d have to hurry or the mourners would arrive. One firm rule of this business Daz had drilled into him was his role: he was to be invisible. His work was to be the work of quiet magic when no eyes were upon him. No one wanted to see a gravedigger, least of all when they mourned a great loss. Morcant could understand that, and he worked to follow Daz’s rules.

He hopped down into the grave and tugged at the casket. It slid easily down into his grasp. His position was awkward, however. He put the coffin down between his legs, but there was no room for his boots to fit on either side. Cursing, he struggled in the hole. Dirt sifted down from the walls as he tried to climb out. He put his boot down upon the lid, and strained to pull himself up by his arms.

He’d almost managed the feat, when a terrible sound met his ears. A cracking sound. He looked down in horror. He’d cracked the lid of the casket. Cursing wildly, he scrambled out of the hole. He laid down upon the dirt and grasses and stuck his head down into the hole to examine the damage. The crack didn’t look that bad. With the sun shining above, a person would have to come right to the edge and peer down closely to notice it. How likely was that?

Morcant felt a wave of relief, until he noticed something. A wisp of gold. It came out of the crack in the lid. What was that?

He felt sick when he realized what he was seeing. It was hair. The occupant’s hair. That color…it wasn’t natural. It shone—like spun gold.

Suddenly, Morcant knew who it was he buried in a hurry this day. This was an elf maid, one of the ones Brand had brought back from the Fae lands. She had died in childbirth and lost her child as well. The time was right, he’d heard many of the elf girls were pregnant now and some of those pregnancies had gone—oddly.

Morcant thought of Tegan. She was with child, and quickening fast. Faster than what anyone would call normal, that was for certain. Already, he could see the roundness of her midsection, even if others hadn’t noticed yet. He wondered what might be inside her. So lovely she was, but with his bastard child in her guts. How could something unpleasant come from such a thing of sweet beauty? What might
his
child be?

He’d not really thought of this before. He’d heard legends and rumors, naturally. But when he was with his elf girl, he could not think of her as anything other than an exquisitely formed human girl. He knew she was something else, but oftentimes he believed what his eyes saw rather than whatever whispers came from the back of his mind. He saw what he wanted to see. Not a creature from another strange world, but a pretty maid who would naturally birth perfect children for him.

His eyes traveled to the second casket. There lay the answer.

Morcant looked all around the hilltop. There was no sign of the mourners yet, nor of Daz. Distantly, he could hear the
tink-tink-tink
of the old man’s chisel striking stone. There were no other people in the cemetery. Even the birds were hushed and still in the final warmth of the day.

His eyes went back to the tiny casket lying in the green, waving grasses. He swallowed, and he remembered his oath to Daz. He’d promised many things, and one had been not to disturb the Dead unnecessarily.

Morcant walked to the casket and his shadow fell over it. He knelt down, and opened it. The hasp flipped up effortlessly. The hinges did not creak, as they were freshly oiled. The lid came open, and inside he saw a bundle wrapped in a stained woolen blanket of faded blue. He hesitated, and almost closed the lid again.

But he had to know the truth. He spread open the blanket, revealing the small face inside. A hideous sight filled his eyes and his mind.

A moan escaped his lips, and he reached to close the lid again, sorry he’d ever thought to open it. He could not close it, however, he could only run his eyes over the pathetic, vile thing in the casket. Fur, sharp teeth—staring eyes that were those of a human child. The last thing he fixated upon was the strangling cord wound around its neck. They had killed it, he knew in an instant.

He slammed the lid closed and fumbled until he had the hasp closed. The memory of what he’d seen haunted his mind. He could not escape it. He dragged the tiny coffin to the edge of the small grave he dug for it and cast it in. The thin wood shattered and the blue blanket could clearly be seen inside. Worse, he could see the dead, glinting eyes staring up at him. They were filled with madness. He wondered:
How could something be
born
mad?

Morcant began shoveling then, filling both graves. He could not recall if these were his instructions now, and he did not care in any case. He wanted these two sad, horrible deaths put away into the earth and forgotten.

He heard a voice as he shoveled and grunted. A voice that came from behind him. “Do you know what you have done here?”

Morcant twisted around, almost stumbling and falling into the graves. His eyes were wide with guilt and fear. He fully expected Daz to be standing behind him, hands on hips and a scowl upon his features. He was about to be fired again, and this time the punishment was richly deserved.

But it was not Daz. It was another. A hunched figure with a cowled face and a silver rod in his hand. The figure used the rod as a cane, walking closer with uncomfortable steps.

“I’m sorry,” Morcant said. He thought perhaps this was an early mourner. “I slipped. I’ll fix the grave before the others come, have no fear.”

“Sorry?” asked the other, coming a step closer. “Fear?” The head beneath the cowl shifted and Morcant heard a strange rattling, gargling sound emanated from it.

“Do you laugh at me?” Morcant asked, bemused and annoyed.

“I always laugh at fools. That is their purpose.”

Morcant stood to his full height. Under different circumstances, he might have taken his shovel and given the oldster a good crack on the shoulder. He turned instead and went back to his shoveling.

The voice came again to him, very close now. It was just over his shoulder. The words were mere whispers. “Takes a lot of guts to turn away from the likes of me,” said the old man. “I’ll give you that much, gravedigger.”

“If you could please wait for the others, sir. Just go up the hill and wait there by the workshop, if you would.”

“But you still haven’t answered my question,” the raspy voice said. “Do you know what you have done here?”

“I’ve filled in the graves. I’m sorry.”

“That’s not good enough, gravedigger!”

Morcant whirled to face his heckler, and the spade fell from his numb fingers. Forgotten, it tipped up and slid into the larger of the two graves.

He faced the Black Jewel. Clasped by a claw of wrought silver at the end of a silver rod, it emanated darkness and icy cold. The hand holding the rod was a fan of finger bones. The oldster’s cowl had fallen back, revealing the horror within. The lich was plain to him now. Its skull was ancient, and its eye sockets were empty orbits of shadow that no light could penetrate.