Rise of the Dead Prince (10 page)

15
The Truth about Death

A
fter the initial shock wore off, Ian became quite interested in how this magic worked. Why had Meier kept his mind when all others had lost theirs? Meier didn’t know, of course, but there was one person who did. Crocus was in the throne room when the brothers finally made their way back there. He was smiling broadly. It was clear that he felt the same relief that Ian did, but unlike Ian, Crocus did not seem surprised. On the contrary, he looked though he had been expecting the pr
ince.

“Welcome back, young man!” he said with his hands on Meier’s shoulders. The remaining ministers were completely taken aback at the sight of Meier and his new appearance. One of them nearly fainted, while others covered their chests as though about to have an infarction. It was understandable. Everyone looked to Crocus. He did not keep them waiting over
long.

“It’s best that everyone take a seat, I think,” he said. They all were still a bit dazed with surprise, but they obeyed. Once everyone was seated, Crocus cleared his throat. “As some of you already know, I am not the jester and fake wizard you all know. I have been standing vigil in the service of the royal line for decades. The reason for this is twofold. The first reason is that I have been waiting for the prince of Valahia that would be born with magic. That prince is Meier. The second reason is to help and guide him in his time of greatest need. That time is now. As for Meier’s condition, I can explain that as well, but first I have to ask you all to agree to not get
…
excited.” There was a round of exchanged glances, but then they all nodded. Crocus conti
nued.

“I had Meier killed.” There was a gasp across the court. “I had a very good reason though. In doing so at the precisely correct time, I have saved his mind from oblivion. You see, gentlemen, there is no cure to the curse. Once infected, one must surely die. One need not lose their wits, however. The curse has distinct stages. The first is the fever. The next is the lethargy. The next is the draining of all color and life force, and the next is death, but more than this, those taken by the curse lose their memories and everything that made them human. The final stage is rising from the dead. To save Prince Meier’s mind, I took a gamble. By skipping the penultimate step, his mind was saved. All it took was for Meier to die from something
other
than the curse itself. So I conspired to have him thrown from the ramparts. Meier was dead, but the curse had run its course for long enough that he rose from the dead, but without losing his mind. In other words, Meier slept through the worst part of the disease. So there you have it, gentlemen. Meier is dead, yes, but in all other ways, he is exactly the man you
knew.”

The men and women that had slowly gathered in the throne room shook their heads and talked among themselves. It was all so fantastical that they did not know what to believe; yet here was the prince, alive and well, albeit slightly
dead.
They had all seen the effects of the terrible curse and the walking dead that followed, so in truth, it was not impossible to believe. King Ian had listened to all of this with great interest. He believed every word. He did have a pressing question, how
ever.

“Crocus, you mentioned that you
conspired
to have Meier killed. With whom did you conspire?” he asked. Crocus took a deep br
eath.

“Again, I must ask you all to suspend your disbelief for what I have to say,” he said. Ian looked around impatie
ntly.

“Yes, Crocus, I’m quite sure that we all can manage that, given what we have already heard,” he said. Crocus looked at Meier, who took the cue to take
over.

“Ian,” he said, “it was Father, Mother, and Assur. They are ghosts, brother, and they dwell inside the castle.” There was another round of gasps and whispers in the throne room. Ian was suddenly very still. Meier could see his eyes filling with tears. The pain of the loss was still too near. To think that his lost family was still close by made him feel both joy and sorrow in a single mo
ment.

“Can this be true?” he muttered to himself. “You can
…
see
them, little brother? Are they well?” Ian asked softly. Meier stepped up to the throne and put his hand on Ian’s shou
lder.

“They are better than well, Ian. They were happy
…
jovial even. They bade me follow them while I was dying, and they helped me to walk. Though at the time I did not understand, I see now that they were the ones that saved me from the fate
worse
than death.” Ian just nodded. It was the happiest news he had heard since they had
died.

“Are they here with us now?” asked Ian. Meier looked around the throne room. There they were, standing at the back of the room! Meier smiled at them, and they smiled
back.

“Yes, brother, they are in this very room, and they are smiling at us,” he said. Ian cried tears of joy. His heart was broken and his mind was weary. If it was madness, he did not want to be sane. Here they were, watching over him. Even if he could not see them, it was enough to know that they were t
here.

“Is there some way I can see them?” Ian asked. Meier turned to Crocus. He shook his
head.

“You cannot see, hear, or touch a ghost unless you are dead, dying, or have magic. There are rules, you see. One thing they
can
do is move inanimate objects. They may not, however, touch any living thing, unless it is on the verge of death.” Ian listened intently. He had many questions, but for now this would do. He asked one last t
hing.

“Why have they remained
here?”

Crocus stepped forward. “Because, young king, they cannot rest yet. Wold, Mira, and Assur are bound to the castle. They will remain, I think, until the country is saved. In that way, they are much like myself, for I believe I have been granted long life for exactly that purpose.” Ian sat back in his throne, slowly digesting all of the incredible things he had heard. It was then that he asked the question on everyone’s mind, yet also that one that no one knew the answe
r to.

“What do we do now?” he asked, looking at his trusted advisers. He was answered by silence on all sides. Not even the wise and knowledgeable Crocus could respond. It was after a few long seconds that Meier offered his plan, which in this case was the first and only thing that came to
mind.

“I’ll go south,” he said. More silence followed. “I’ll go into the heart of the swamp to discover the cause of this blight on our land,” he continued. Ian sat back in his chair, looking concerned. He finally s
poke.

“I cannot condone an expedition to the south, not when there is so much to be done here. The land within our borders must come first.” As much as he would have loved to be the one to take on such a dangerous mission, being king had changed his perspective. Reckless decisions would lead to disa
ster.

“Brother,” said Meier, “I was not asking for an expeditionary force. I will go alone. Call me a scout if you will.” The was a symphony of murmurs from the crowd. He wanted to go alone in to the cursed swamps of Arnovo, where all the dead were going? It was pure folly. Surely the king must have something to say to
this.

“I certainly can’t allow that, Meier,” said Ian. “It would be suicide, given even your state. You haven’t heard the most recent reports. The dead have started attacking soldiers and citizens. Individually, they are not much of a threat
…
but they have taken to traveling in vast numbers. They are deadly, Meier. The country has taken terrible losses already. I will not carelessly add one more prince to the list of things lost.” Meier looked at his brother’s face, and it was intransigent. He would not be m
oved.

“Very well,” said Meier with a sigh, “I will respect your wishes.” Ian nodded. Crocus stepped forward and bowed in deference to the th
rone.

“My lord,” he said to Ian, “there will soon come a time when Meier’s destiny will lead him south. The reason for this is clear. There are things that Meier can do that no one else can.” Ian, for the first time since he became king, looked a
ngry.

“Have you not heard my words, Crocus? I told you both, and I will not tell you again! Do not speak to me of this anymore!” With that, the matter was closed. Meier and Crocus excused themselves and left the young king with his ministers to decide what next would be done about the plague of the
dead.

Meier and Crocus made their way to Crocus’s room. They had plenty to discuss. Despite this, it was hard to know where to start. Meier began with what he thought was the most perti
nent.

“What should I do now?” he asked. He had never been dead before. What did one do in these types of situat
ions?

“Well, for starters, I think you should behave normally. You are a prince, so be a prince,” Crocus answered in a matter-of-fact tone. Meier was upset by the an
swer.

“Crocus
…
how in the
world
is that possible now?” he asked, raising his voice at the old man. Crocus waited a few seconds for him to calm
down.

“Meier, I want you to go with me on this. Everyone will be thinking the exact same thing. That is why you must
show
them that you are still the man they knew and loved. Be yourself. Ride through the city. Let those who would fear you see that their fears are unfounded. Wave to the people. Talk to them. Be one of them. After all, you’re dead, but you’re still
you
. What’s to fear?” the old man said with a dismissive wave of his
hand.

Meier looked at him in disbelief, and then he took off his left glove. Crocus’s eyes widened slightly. A smile came to his craggy face. “Well, look at that!” Crocus exclaimed, clearly not repelled. Meier just scoffed. How could it not be revolting to anyone who sa
w it?

“Crocus, are you deranged?” Meier asked honestly. “I’m a monster!” He quickly put the skeletal hand near the old man and clicked it along each finger, turning it over for him to get a clear look at it. Certainly
now
he would see how terrible it
was.

“Monster? This is incredible!” exclaimed Crocus, clearly impressed. He clapped his hands in excitement. “Such resilience! Such wonderful magic!” Meier quickly put his glove back on. It was not the reaction he was looking for. Crocus turned his tone to serious. “As for your second comment, Meier, keep in mind that monster is as monster does. In other words, you are not a monster until you
behave
like one. Actions speak louder than words, but they also speak louder than your condition. I hope you understand this.” Meier was still somewhat incensed, but after a few seconds, he found himself wondering why. Much as he presently hated to admit it, the old man had made an excellent p
oint.

“You really think anyone would understand this?” he said, holding up his left hand. Crocus laughed a
gain.

“No, probably not. That’s why you’ll
obviously
wear a glove, dear boy. I’m just happy it wasn’t your face. Ho ho!” he replied merrily. Meier found it utterly unfunny. It brought another thing to
mind.

“Crocus,” he asked, “have you ever talked to a raven?” Crocus stopped laughing at once. His face changed to one of sheer wo
nder.

“Ages ago, my boy. Ages ago. It is
very
rare for a raven to talk to a human, even a wizard. They only do it under certain circumstances. Very haughty and reclusive creatures, ravens.” Meier sat for a minute in quiet contempla
tion.

“Well, this one ate my hand. He apologized. Well, I
think
it was a ‘he.’ The voice sounded male. What does it mean if it talked to me?” Crocus went to look at his books. He pulled one down and began to flip through the p
ages.

“Hmm, let’s see
…
here we are. ‘A raven will only deign to speak to a wizard if the wizard is found to be worthy. They also have been known to acknowledge a debt, although this is very rare. Once a raven is indebted to a human, it will pay that debt without fail.’ Ha! So there you have it, Meier. The raven feels responsible for your hand. How wonderful!” Crocus said, slamming the book closed. The gesture created a buffet of dust that filled the room and flew into Meier’s eyes. While he stood there rubbing them, he thought about what a raven’s debt might entail. Something else came to mind. Meier took a step
back.

“Do you know what this means for me? I mean how would a raven pay me back for my hand?” he asked. Crocus crossed the room to his window and opened it. He began looking outside as if hoping the raven would suddenly ap
pear.

“Well, I’m not sure, but undoubtedly the loss of a hand or at least the meat of one demands a heavy price. I wouldn’t be surprised if the raven feels bound to you for some time. He can be your eyes and ears, dear boy. That is very useful, especially given that you cannot go south yet. More than this, ravens are both knowledgeable and wise. It was a grand stroke of luck that you lost your hand to such a creature. You will see.” Meier nodded. Perhaps he would leave his window open as well. He just hoped the raven wouldn’t wake him by eating anything else off him. As for being a normal prince, that was a thing that vexed him well into the night. After he lay in bed for quite a while, he realized that he no longer required sleep. He wondered what other surprises lay in s
tore.

16
The Hunter and the Farmer

T
rent and Dor met under unusual circumstances. They were both survivors of the plague, and they lived in the southern wetlands or at least in sight of them. They had watched on in horror as the droves of walking dead had passed their respective villages. For all each man knew, he was the last human in the world. They had survived by constantly fighting and hiding like scared animals. Each man had lost his family and loved ones to the plague or the subsequent attacks from the dead. Each was essentially c
razy.

Trent fought with a hoe and a kitchen knife. He had been a farmer once. Dor fought with a bow and a long thick hatchet. He had been a hunter. Both men had become amazingly good at fighting and running, and all in a very short amount of time. For reasons unknown to them, neither man had seen fit to travel north to the capital. Surely, they thought, it must be worse there. Instead, as if by the hand of fate, they both traveled south at the same time. Though it was likely to be a suicide trip into the wetlands and then the swamp, neither man cared overmuch. Perhaps they just wanted to do as much as they could before they finally went down. Perhaps they wanted to test themselves. More than anything else, they were simply
drawn.
Neither would have had an answer if asked. In fact, neither man had said a word since it happened. There had been nothing to say, and no one to say it to. This is why when they met; they were both stricken dumb for well past the time that words would have normally been ne
eded.

It was in the forest, three hours past sunrise, that they ran into one another. At first they both had weapons at the ready. For them, noise meant trouble. When they saw that it was a man that was approaching, they stopped for a full minute at least. Neither could believe their eyes. Slowly, they walked toward each other. When they were within hailing distance, they both stopped, each waiting for the other to speak. At last, Trent broke the sil
ence.

“Hail, good hunter,” was all he said. He then wa
ited.

“Hail, good farmer,” replied Dor. Slowly, a smile crept on to each face, then a laugh, then a handshake. The two became instant friends. Just to see another living face was all they had needed. Somehow their burdens had been lifted, if only for a moment. From that second forward, their destinies were intertwined. When they learned of each other’s intentions to go south, an eerie silence followed. It surely
was
the hand of fate. And so they embarked on the foolhardy quest together, each determined to get to the bottom of it all. They did it for their lost friends and families, but more than this, they did it for themse
lves.

Trent was a tall and heavily muscled man, with a blond beard and hair to match. The years of hard labor had toned his body to near perfection, such that when he took off his shirt, it was more like a statue than a man. In great contrast, Dor was a small man, shorter than average and light of frame. His hair was long and dark, and it trailed down his back. He tied his hair at the back of his skull to keep the front locks from his eyes. His eyes were sharp and black, and he was pale complexioned, possibly from the lack of decent food over the past weeks. Trent was hearty and brown, and once he set out with his companion, he quickly shared the food that he had salvaged. Dor’s village had been hit by the great fire, whereas Trent’s had not. Having not spoken to anyone for such a long time, the men made up for lost time by talking about anything and almost everything. They walked ever south, moving through the wetlands very slowly. They were ever cautious, for the dead had taken to attacking anything living that moved, even animals. Once they had seen a human, they would chase them relentlessly. The only defense was to strike a blow to the head with force. Only then would the dead rest in p
eace.

The men were forced to fight many times as they traveled. Fortunately, they had not run into any large groups. They fought back to back. As for the quieter parts of their journey, it was not unlike a normal recreational trip across the land. The wetlands were deceptively beautiful. If the men so pretended, they could see the whole of the place with new eyes. Often they joked about taking a hike and camping in the woods, as though it were a vacation from the world. In a manner of speaking, it was very much like a vacation, but then they would be attacked and brought back to the harsh reality of the world as it had become. As for sleeping, neither man did very much of that. They took shifts throughout the night, and only made fire during the daytime. Even so, a campfire was like a beacon that drew the dead to them. They had to quickly heat their food and cook their meat and then run to escape the coming horde. They always left the fire still burning, the better to draw them to
it
instead of them. The thought of the fire spreading was of little concern given the dampness of the soil in the deep south of Val
ahia.

What was odd about the wetlands was that there seemed to be dead stationed at every turn and at set distances. These were like sentries. When Trent and Dor got close enough to be seen, the sentry would howl out to the others, and then they would be attacked by several all at once. Whether more would follow was something that the two men never waited to find out. They would simply lay the few that charged them to rest and then run as fast as they could to the nearest cover. Luckily, each man was in excellent physical condition. Had they not been, they would probably have long since been killed, most likely becoming sentries themselves, for they had learned in their travels that even the dead that had not been taken by the plague were rising as
well.

After they had traveled for four careful days, they came at last to the swamps of Arnovo. They had left Valahia behind and were now on foreign soil. Whatever happened now, it seemed that the journey was nearing an end. Just what they were looking for, neither of them knew. They only knew that they must keep going. They would keep going until the bitter end, and chances were that it would a very bitter end indeed. Already the canopy of trees was blocking out the sun, making the world dark even in the daytime. The sentries became more frequent as well, so much that Trent and Dor did more hiding and running than anything else. Dor had started to use his hunter’s stealth more and more. He would sneak up on a sentry as quietly as he could manage. He would then line up from the shadows; and maybe, just maybe, he would score a perfect shot and avoid the sentry’s alarm. These instances were rare however, and the reason was two
fold.

For starters, the dead had exceptional senses considering their condition. Trampling through the mud and muck made too much noise, so it was very hard to sneak up on them. Last, because of the first reason, Dor was often forced to make hopelessly difficult shots, based on the fact they had to stop so far away to avoid detection. His marksmanship was good, but not quite that good. He hit one in every five targets that way. The rest were shots from middle range against running targets. These he hit every time as though his life depended on it, which of course it did. Trent on the other hand was strictly melee. He would swing his bladed hoe in wide arcs, mowing through the dead as though they were weeds in the f
ield.

That night when the men camped, they risked building a low fire. The nights were getting colder, despite it being the warm season. Something was in the air, and they both fel
t it.

“D’you reckon we could smoke some of this here for the road ahead?” Trent asked in his thick southern Valahian accent. It was the same dialect that Dor used as well. The men had taken to eating snakes and other low forms of life. Dor had managed to kill an alligator as well, for he had heard that the tails were good eating. He was not used to swamp living, so his guess was as good as
any.

“It couldn’t hurt to try,” Dor replied, taking another bite of snake
meat.

“You know, I never reckoned snake would be so tasty,” said Trent, taking a bite as
well.

“It beats lizards and frogs, that’s for sure,” said Dor, smiling. Trent laughed but then remembered himself and quieted
down.

“You said it, brother,” he said softy, “although I like me a big ol’ bullfrog like the one from back yonder.” He carefully kept his voice down, pointing in direction they had come from. They were deep in the swamp now, with sentries every half mile o
r so.

“What do
you
reckon is controllin’ ’em?” Dor asked casually. The men had discussed it before, but never in detail. In truth, the reasons behind it all did not overly matter to them. They moved forward like men possessed with a single-minded d
rive.

“I’ve been thinkin’ on that more and more as we run into ’em. I had it in my head that we might go around. Of course, I was plainly wrong about that. As for what’s controlling ’em, I reckon it has to be magic, some kind of magic. Yeah, that’s what I figure,” said Trent, nodding. This time, it was Dor who laughed and then had to butto
n up.

“You believe in magic, son? Shoot, I’ve not heard about that stuff since I was a young boy. Back then, I believed in any old thing. But not now. No, sir,” he said with a slap to his knee. Trent just smiled at him and took another bite of snake off the mossy
fire.

“Well,” he said, “if you had told me that the dead would rise up and go bitin’ on folks last month, I woulda got the doctor and told him you’d been out in the sun too long. Either that, or ate the wrong kind of mushroom.” This time, they both lau
ghed.

“I reckon you got a point there, Trent,” said Dor. “I expect, with all that’s happened, anything must be possible. Magic, dragons, demons, you name it. Somethin’s controllin’ them though, that much we know.” The men nodded a
gain.

“They’re gettin’ to act like soldiers more and more,” said Trent. “Like some general is ordering them about. I tell you what
…
if they get too much more like soldiers, we’re going be lookin’ at an army soon,” he finished, shaking his
head.

“Suits me fine,” said Dor. There was a full minute of silence following the comment. Neither man had any illusions about how their trip would end. They kept on going an
yway.

“I reckon we’ll get a lot more of ’em before they get us, Dor,” said Trent, patting his companion on the shoulder with his thick, muscled
arm.

“I ain’t got a solitary doubt about it, brother. I got a feelin’ we’re goin’ to be at this for a good while yet,” answered Dor. Neither man had talked this much all at once since they started. In that time, they had become fast friends, but there were still some subjects were inherently taboo. For example, neither man asked about the other’s family. It would have been rude to bring up the painful past. There were still a few questions that had not been asked how
ever.

“Hey, Dor,” said Trent, “why’re you doin’ all this?” The big man thought he knew the answer, and what’s more, he somehow believed that his own answer would be the same. Dor mulled the question over in his mind. After a short while, he had an an
swer.

“I expect half of it’s payback for what I lost. If I ever find who’s responsible, I intend to put an
end
to them right there, clean and cool.” Dor pulled his bowstring back and pantomimed a shot. His brief smile faded, and after a somber pause, he went on. “The other half is in the work we been doin’ laying these folks to rest. I reckon the more dead I put down, it’s all the more of ’em that ain’t in limbo. It feels like
…
I’m settin’ ’em
free
. I can’t think of how else to say it.” Trent sat by stoically and listened. He felt a great surge of emotion, but he fought it back. He wasn’t ready to feel
yet.

“You said it all, brother,” said Trent quietly. “You said it
all.”

Nothing else was said that night. They put out the fire, hoping it hadn’t been seen by the dead. They must not have, for no one came looking for them. They both slept peacefully in shifts that night, knowing they hadn’t been seen by soul. In this assumption, they were wrong. That night, they were seen by not only one but also two pairs of eyes, one of which was a rav
en’s.