Death of a Darklord (27 page)

They had been told there was a plague of the dead, but there were hundreds of zombies in the streets, more than could have died this winter. Cortton was not that large a village. Where had all the dead sprung from? This was a question he intended to ask the council.

The town council consisted of the innkeeper, the meistersinger, and the undertaker. The innkeeper, Belinna, was the woman who
had thrown oil on the zombies. She was tall and wide, but not fat. Fat implied softness, indulgence. Her brawn was solid, what some would call big boned. Her hair was tied in a long plait down her back. The boy that had held the torch was her eldest son. He stood by her side now—tall, slender, dark, but his harsh, watching eyes were mirrored in Belinna’s.

The meistersinger, Simon LeBec, had been a well-known bard in his younger days. Jonathan had heard him sing once, perhaps thirty years ago. He had been the handsome darling of all the ladies then. His hair was white as snow now, his face lined. Only his eyes remained the same—piercing blue.

Jonathan did not try to remind LeBec that they had met thirty years ago. He had not been known as a mage-finder then. He had been simply Jonathan Ambrose, a wandering adventurer who happened to specialize in slaying wizards. He hadn’t had the law behind him then, and was almost an outlaw. Jonathan remembered the surety of purpose he had, like a shield that could not be pierced. No doubts.

He stood, staring at their worried faces, watching the strain fade just a little simply because he was there. It was obscene that they had such confidence in him.

The undertaker, Marland Ashe, was a tall, thin man. His milk-pale skin and violet-blue eyes were typical of the natives in this area of Kartakass. The combination was startling, lovely, but some disease had pock-marked his cheeks until the skin was rough as gravel. The spoiled skin seemed odd below those large, beautiful eyes.

The three of them sat behind a long table in the common room of the inn. There were only a few servants. Jonathan and his companions were the only guests. Visitors did not come to a cursed
village. If they happened in by accident, they hurried away before nightfall. If they happened to come after dark … well, Jonathan had seen what happened then. They died.

“What is it you want of me tonight, councilors?” His voice was polite. Jonathan was surprised that he sounded so businesslike, almost pleasant. His voice was such a lie. It gave no hint of the anguish inside his heart and head.

“We need to know what you plan to do to help us,” LeBec said. The meistersinger’s face was calm enough, his folded hands very still on the table before him. Too still. The effort he was making to appear calm showed in his shoulders, arms, even the still hands.

Jonathan fought an urge to laugh in his face. What could they do? They had ridden into town and been nearly wiped out. They had been unprepared for what met them.

“Your messenger told us that a third of your town had died from some evil plague. He further told us that they had risen as undead and walked the streets. There are hundreds of dead out there. Where did they all come from?”

The meistersinger glanced at the undertaker. Ashe spoke, “The village graveyard has been emptied. Cortton was once a much larger village, a town. The graveyard held more dead than the town holds living.”

“If we had been told there were hundreds of dead here, we wouldn’t have ridden into Cortton after dark.”

The innkeeper shifted in her seat. “We did not think it mattered. You are the mage-finder. You defeated the vermin plague of Deccan. Surely there were more of them than there are of our dead.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything the bards tell you,” Jonathan said.

LeBec looked down at the table, studying his hands. He glanced up at Jonathan’s face and held his gaze. “I know that some of my brethren exaggerate, but not that much. We truly thought you would be safe, riding straight to the inn.”

“Did you really? Then why did no one open the door? The women that lie upstairs might have been saved their injuries if the door had opened sooner.”

None of them could meet his eyes. Anger flared through him in a rush that almost burned along his skin. He opened his mouth to say what he thought of them all, but a voice interrupted.

“They were afraid, mage-finder.”

Jonathan turned to see Harkon Lukas leaning against the wall. His arms were crossed carelessly over his chest, and a mocking smile curled his lips. He was dressed in a wine-dark burgundy tunic, and pants trimmed in black velvet. His burgundy hat boasted no less than three black plumes. His monocle caught the lamplight, winking at them.

“And I resent the defaming statements against my profession. I assure you I sing only the truth.”

“You saved our lives tonight. For that I am grateful.”

Lukas pushed away from the wall, striding toward them. He waved the gratitude away. “It seemed silly to let the savior of the village die in the street.”

“We could hear the dead outside the door,” Belinna said. “We feared they would force their way in and kill us all. All who have died since the plague began have risen to haunt the night. A clean death I would have risked.” She touched her son’s arm. “But this walking death …” She shook her head. “It is a different thing to risk.”

Jonathan could not argue with that. “I thought only those
that died of plague rose from the dead.”

She shook her head. “All.”

“That is odd. If the plague was a spell, only plague victims should rise from the dead.”

“What does it mean that all dead walk?” LeBec asked.

“Perhaps the plague is not a spell, or not all of it.”

“I don’t understand what you are implying,” LeBec said.

Jonathan shook his head. He wasn’t sure he could explain it yet. It was merely the seed of an idea, not ready to see the light of day yet. Certainly not ready to be explained to a group of nervous strangers.

“I wish to gather more evidence before I speak.” It was a standard stalling tactic. The three councilors nodded and murmured, as if he had said something clever.

“Of course,” LeBec said, “we understand. Accusations of black magic are not lightly made.”

Jonathan said nothing. He had found that a stern face and silence often did better than words. Especially if you had nothing to say.

“Do you think you have the answer to Cortton’s little problem so soon?” Harkon Lukas stood in front of Jonathan, hands on slender hips. He was a tall, strong-looking man, but there was something feminine about him, a grace that was closer to a dancer’s movements than a bard’s. There was a sparkle in his dark eyes that said he suspected Jonathan of bluffing.

Jonathan almost smiled, but managed to swallow it. He gave a solemn nod of his head. “I have some suspicions.”

“Care to share them?”

Jonathan shook his head, silent. He couldn’t keep the smile hidden. Only Harkon Lukas saw it. The bard cocked his head to
one side, staring at Jonathan. An expression passed over his face that Jonathan could not read.

“Remind me never to play cards with you, mage-finder. You have the proverbial poker face.”

“I don’t have much time for playing games.”

“Pity. Games are so diverting.”

“Do you really think so?” Jonathan asked. His thoughts were on Tereza and the missing children. “I find games a waste of precious time.”

“Ah, yes, you have people lost outside. Time is precious to them. How many hours until dawn? Can they survive on the streets that long?”

Jonathan turned away from him. He couldn’t face the bard’s mocking face. He didn’t think the man was being purposefully cruel, but it amounted to the same thing.

“Harkon,” LeBec said, “you are being thoughtless.”

His face crumbled into sorrow, his graceful hand touching his heart. “Oh, I am so sorry. I am not merely thoughtless, but cruel. I am already thinking of the song I shall write when they come safely back, having survived the night running from a horde of the dead.” He smiled. “They will tell me of their brave exploits when they come through that door.”

Jonathan studied the bard’s face. He couldn’t tell if he were being teased or if the man just had a peculiar sense of humor. Was he trying to comfort Jonathan with such childish tales? The twins were not coming through that door or any other, not alive.

“I am sure if they return they will be most happy to regale you with their night.”

“Especially Blaine,” Thordin said. He’d been quietly leaning against the opposite wall. Now he walked to the center of the
room to stand near Jonathan. “Blaine loves a good brag.”

Jonathan nodded. “Yes, he does.”

“Then I will give him the chance to brag to a bard, something all of Kartakass longs to do.”

“Do they?” Jonathan said. “I do not. I stand by my earlier statement. Bards collect the facts but never quite get them right. I have heard stories of my own exploits where only my name remained unchanged.”

“Simon, I believe he accuses us of being liars.” He stared at Jonathan, taking two strides to bring them nearly touching. His quick, dark eyes flitted here and there over Jonathan’s face as if he would memorize every line of it.

“Enough, Harkon. Leave our guests be. They have people they worry about.”

“And well they should,” Harkon said. He spoke directly to Jonathan’s face from inches away. “I am writing a song about the dead of Cortton, mage-finder. The dead of Cortton are not just murderous, they are hungry.”

Jonathan could not speak. It was Thordin who asked, “What do you mean, bard?”

Harkon Lukas never glanced away; he stared straight into Jonathan’s eyes. “The dead feast upon the living. That is how they kill, with naked hands and teeth.”

Thordin pushed Lukas backward. The bard stumbled, but did not fall.

“Either you are a fool, or you are taunting us,” Thordin said. “If it is the latter, we can settle it with cold steel. There is room enough to fight right here.”

The bard gave a surprised bark of laughter. “A duel? You challenge me to a duel?”

“Unless you admit to being a loose-tongued fool, yes, I challenge you.”

Jonathan knew he should stop this, but he couldn’t. He’d seen the bite wound in Averil’s neck, Tereza’s arm. The thought of that happening to Elaine and Blaine, of them being torn apart piece by bloody piece, mouthful by screaming mouthful … the image was thick and red and worse than anything else he could have imagined.

Harkon Lukas laughed again. “I am a fool, sir warrior, a loose-tongued fool. An occupational hazard, I fear.” His laughter echoed off the stone walls, rising to the high-beamed ceiling. Jonathan fought the urge to hit him, to stop that cheerful sound. His mind was full of horrors that the bard had put there. He shouldn’t be laughing.

“If you cannot hold a civil tongue, then leave us,” Jonathan said.

The laughter trickled down and faded. That strange, unreadable look was back on Lukas’s face. “My deepest apologies.” He gave a low, sweeping bow, hat plumes gliding over the floor. It was the same bow he’d used to usher them through the door.

Jonathan watched the bard give his theatrical apology and didn’t believe a word of it. He had meant to upset them. Jonathan wasn’t sure why, but he knew it was true. Regardless of motive, Jonathan hated Harkon Lukas. It was one thing to believe the twins dead, but eaten alive … The thought made the hours until dawn a creeping, agonizing thing. He had Harkon Lukas to thank for that. Jonathan intended to see that the bard got his just rewards. If it was within the mage-finder’s powers to make one bard’s life miserable, Jonathan would do it.

It was petty, and he hugged the thought to him like a prayer. He would torment Harkon Lukas for tormenting him now. It was cold comfort, but the mage-finder was willing to take any comfort at all on this long, eternally long night.

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cat. He swatted his hat against his leg as he climbed, beating it in time to his frustration.

Ambrose knew. He knew. Harkon was not sure how much he knew, but he was not the innocent Harkon had thought him. He had invited them here to taunt them. He could have simply captured Konrad Burn, but no, he, Harkon Lukas, had to play games. His own arrogance amazed him. Had he really thought the brotherhood’s most visible member was a complete fool?

Harkon nodded to himself. Yes, he had thought just that. He had never been terribly impressed with this brotherhood before. But Ambrose’s eyes had held a taunting knowledge. Had Ambrose come here to join in the game? Not an innocent lured to cure some magical plague, but a brother aware that the true heart of all evil in Kartakass was in this town. Surely if the mage-finder had known that he, Harkon Lukas, was the heart of evil, there would be more of the brotherhood in Cortton. There would be a great hunt, and he would be the prey.

No, Ambrose suspected, but he was not sure. But how close was the mage-finder to being sure? Harkon still could hardly
believe he had had to save them. He had had to open the inn door. The foolish villagers would have let their potential saviors die. He had thought that saving them would put him in their good graces, but the look in Ambrose’s eyes said clearly that he didn’t trust the bard as far as the next room.