D&D 02-The Living Dead Page 4

  A stone was a stone. Devis sang softly and imagined shattering deknae.

  "Shaddup!" a deep voice boomed from one of the other cells. The voice belonged to an unseen half-orc. A cacophony of other voices shouted out support for either Devis's song or the silence of the jailhouse.

  Devis continued his tune, blocking out the little arguments and petty exchanges that flew back and forth across the cells between the pro-music and anti-music factions. He didn't really expect the spell to open the lock on his first try, but he made the attempt anyway.

  The arguments and chatter ceased abruptly as the door to the dungeon squealed open above them. Devis lowered his song to a subvocalization, keeping the energy of the magic going but without giving away what he was doing to the guards he heard stumbling down the stone steps. From the sound of the approaching guards, Devis could tell they were carrying a third person—a person not moving under his own power, if the sound of two dragged feet thumping against the steps was any indication. Devis held the magic ready.

  The guards stopped, to Devis's surprise, right outside his cell. The stocky dwarves had an elf propped up between them, and the slender figure's bare, blond hair hung in his face as the man's head lolled over to one side. The style of his battered leather armor looked positively antique and bore savage gouges that looked to the bard like claw marks from a very large dog, or maybe a wolf. The leather armor was spattered with dark swaths—probably blood—and the pair of scabbards hitched to the elf's weapon belt hung empty. One of the elf's guards left the unconscious man with his partner, then stepped forward to unlock the barred door.

  Devis let his song rise in volume, feeling a familiar, invisible aura of magical energy. He had to time the release of the spell perfectly. If he failed, he would get another beating, but if he succeeded, he might get out of this pit. The lead guard fumbled with the keys. The elf prisoner lolled back over to one side as the dwarf holding him struggled to balance the taller man's weight. Devis saw immediately that he had been wrong about the armored elf.

  He wasn't unconscious at all. The elf briefly made eye contact with the bard.

  The dwarf with the keys dropped the entire ring on the floor and cursed. As the guard stooped to pick them up, Devis shot a look at the "unconscious prisoner" in an effort to let him know that if he meant to try anything, now would be the time.

  Devis sang, loud and clear. He heard the deknae lock vibrate with the notes, and then it shattered.

  Devis charged the door, which swung open in a cloud of sparkling black shards that had once been the stone lock. The lead dwarf barely got his head raised when Devis released the spell, and the heavy bars of the door hit the dwarf full in the face. Blood spouted from his broken nose, and he toppled backward.

  The armored elf flipped his guard into the air with a jerk and flopped the dwarf onto his back. Before Devis could say a word, the elf produced a gleaming short sword from behind his back—the bard glimpsed some very old Elvish script on the blade—and raised the weapon over the cowering guard.

  "No!" the bard cried, grabbing the elf's wrist with both hands and keeping the sword in the air. "We don't need a murder charge on our heads. We can get out without killing anybody."

  The seething elf turned and met Devis's gaze. The bard didn't flinch. "Look—" he realized he had no idea what to call the man, but pressed on anyway, "—friend, I don't know you, but here we are." The dwarf on the ground whimpered, pinned by the armored elf's knees. "It's time to go.

  "Am I wrong? Are you a murderer?" Devis asked the elf. The other man shook his head. "No kill dwarf," Devis offered.

  "Yes," the elf said, a veneer of sanity returning to his face. "No kill," he added in a peculiar accent Devis couldn't quite place.

  The dwarf on the ground struggled, and the elf brought the pommel down hard across the guard's jaw. The dwarf fell silent, still breathing.

  "See how easy that was?" Devis asked.

  He collected the guards' weapons, but had one leftover axe.

  Devis carried the axe down the cell block until he found a familiar voice. He tossed the axe onto the floor in front of the burly half-orc.

  "Can you chop your way out?"

  "Shaddup, bard," the half-orc growled, but he quickly snapped up the axe.

  Devis dashed back to his new ally and the unconscious guards. Devis briefly considered stealing a pair of boots, but the guard's footwear would not have fit Mialee, let alone him. With the elf's help, he pulled the inert guards into his cell and closed the door with its shattered lock.

  The ring of steel on stone rebounded down the cell block. The half-orc had accepted the challenge.

  Devis and the mystery elf dashed up the stairs.

  The cacophony at the town lockup was still ringing in the distance as the two escapees stepped from one of a thousand dark alleyways crisscrossing the south side of Dogmar.

  The elf sniffed the air, then took off at a brisk walk down the muddy street. The rain had finally settled into a light drizzle, but Devis couldn't bring himself to believe the elf was really planning to follow his nose. Still, they had to go somewhere.

  "So, what's your name?" Devis asked as he caught up to the quiet elf.

  "Don't know," the elf replied.

  "Really. That can't be easy. I've got to have something to call you." Devis considered. "You're as silent as stone. How about 'Diir'?"

  "Diir," the elf said," 'Stone.' Yes."

  "Great! See, we're already getting along famously," Devis said. "So what brings you into the good graces of Constable Muhn, Diir?"

  "Mialee," the elf replied.

  "Ah. I've never been to—Mialee?" Devis pulled in front of the armored elf and stopped him with a finger to the chest. "How do you know Mialee?"

  The elf looked past Devis down the street as he answered, "Find Mialee. Old man said so."

  "How do you know she's here?" Devis asked. He looked back over his shoulder. "And what old man, exactly?" he added. Mialee had been waiting for an old elf.

  "Old elf. Got hurt," the elf replied as he maneuvered around Devis and continued walking.

  Devis pressed two fingers to his temple and vowed to go easy on Gurgitt's house ale from now on. And to have more respect for jailhouse coincidences.

  "I can help you find Mialee," Devis said, catching up to the elf. "We'll need to find her quickly. That riot can't last much longer, and we're wanted men. This way." Devis angled the quiet elf in the direction of the Silver Goblet. "Keep an eye out for town guardsmen the farther north we get."

  "Wrong way," the elf said.

  "You'll end up too far north if you go that way."

  "It's the wrong way," Diir insisted.

  "All right, look. If I'm wrong, we'll only have gone maybe a half hour out of our way," Devis said. "Lead," said the elf.

  "Right," the bard acknowledged. "It's not far."

  The rain had just begun to let up when Mialee arrived at the Temple of the Protector.

  The entire structure looked like the stump of a single, enormous tree, but the elf woman could spot the seams where wood had been expertly worked together while still alive to give the illusion of a solid surface. The wide doors swung outward as she walked up white stone steps. Torches adorning the carved walls beckoned invitingly, as did the blast of warmth.

  "It seems we've come at a bad time, Mialee," Biksel said from above.

  Mialee stepped between the doors into the cozy torchlight and saw what her familiar meant. The temple appeared empty.

  Mialee moved on cat feet through the torchlit space. She opened her hands to let the injured bird take in the surroundings. If the raven was what she suspected....

  The bird chirped weakly, but did not speak.

  The doors swung shut behind them with a creak.

  A crash and several thumps rang from above, falling steadily downward. She spied an archway cut into the wood that led up a spiral staircase. As she watched, a small figure in blue robes tumbled to a stop at the bottom of the stairs.<
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  "Welcome, pilgrims!" a high-pitched voice squealed from the resulting pile of blue robes at the foot of the steps. The figure struggled to her feet, shifting a large leather bag on her hip that clanked with the sound of glass on glass. Mialee noted with surprise that she was looking at a grinning gnome woman who wore the full vestment of a cleric of Corellon Larethian, the Protector.

  "With all due respect," Biksel said to the gnome, "the only true clerics of the Protector are elves."

  "Biksel," Mialee snapped, then bowed slightly to the gnome. "I am Mialee. I need your help."

  The cleric seemed taken aback by her bluntness, or perhaps by the fact that Mialee did not question why a gnome was the only denizen of an elven temple.

  "Uh, all right," the gnome said. "You came to the right place! I am Zalyn, cleric of the Protector. I see you are bleeding." The gnome fumbled around in her oversized leather bag and produced a small vial.

  Mialee blinked, then remembered that she was wet, bloody, and naked. "No, not me," she corrected, and shoved the wounded raven's tiny body under the cleric's nose. "This is...well, I'm not sure who she is."

  "The poor thing." The cleric tucked the potion away and extended her cupped hands. Mialee gently slid the battered bird into Zalyn's palms.

  The gnome spoke in Elvish and raised cupped hands toward the large silver crescent. A moment passed, and she lowered her hands. "It worked!" the cleric whispered.

  In the gnome's palms sat a completely healthy raven, dozing peacefully. "She'll need a few minutes to wake up, I'd guess," Zalyn whispered as Mialee took the raven into her hands. The cleric examined the elf woman. "Sure I can't help you? That's a nasty wound on your forehead. And, well, isn't it cold out there? I'm sure I have a spare robe somewhere." The gnome dashed back up the spiral staircase.

  The elf woman was staring at the sleeping bird. She made a mental promise to spend a week studying divine magic after she got to the bottom of Favrid's disappearance.

  "Mialee," Biksel squawked, "our charge has recovered. However, you must attend to yourself. You're shivering."

  Zalyn reappeared at the bottom of the stairs, holding up a golden robe that dragged on the wooden steps. "I believe this should fit you, friend Mialee," the cleric offered.

  Even though the robe dragged on the floor as Zalyn held it up, Mialee could see it was still very small. The wizard was tall for an elf. Were there no spare elf-sized clothes in this elven temple? Still, it beat the nothing she was wearing at the moment.

  The fabric felt strange, but immediately warmed her skin.

  "And now for your forehead. Let's see...." Zalyn fumbled in her large bag and produced a scroll. Her mouth moved silently as she went over whatever incantation was written on the document.

  Satisfied, Zalyn rolled up the scroll and stowed it in her shoulder bag. "Mialee, if you please," she beckoned. Mialee leaned down so the gnome could reach her injured forehead.

  Zalyn whispered another prayer and pressed her palms on either side of the wizard's temple. Mialee waited for the familiar warm tingle of magical healing. And waited.

  Nothing happened. The elf waited, and the gnome whispered another soft prayer.

  After a full minute, Mialee pulled back. Zalyn shook her head and stared at her hands, then looked intently at Mialee's wound again. She muttered another prayer and thrust the silver crescent around her neck at the elf woman.

  Mialee felt a single drop of blood run down between her eyes and onto the tip of her nose. "I don't think it's working," she said.

  "I don't understand." The gnome's voice was tinged with frustration. She held the holy crescent in both hands and intoned loudly, "By the power of Corellon Larethian, this wound is healed!"

  Mialee touched her forehead. Her fingers came away sticky and red. She sighed. "Zalyn, please. I'll be OK. Maybe a potion?"

  "Yes, of course," Zalyn replied. Disappointment covered her face like a mask, but the gnome produced a tiny vial and handed it to Mialee. "Drink this. Normally, I'd recommend a topical salve, I guess, but..."

  Mialee snatched the vial, popped the seal, and quaffed the potion before Zalyn could finish. The elf woman felt a tingle on her forehead and wiped her brow with the back of her arm. She gently touched the spot where the raven had collided with her. The skin felt solid.

  "Thanks," Mialee said. She threw a glance at the tiny raven slumbering under the icon of the Protector. "How long will we have to wait?"

  "I can't say for sure," Zalyn said. "I've never seen something that took such a beating and lived. And a good thing it did, too."

  "What do you mean?" Biksel interrupted.

  "I think she means that she hasn't yet learned to raise the dead," Mialee said. "Would that be correct, Zalyn?"

  "Er, yes," the gnome said sheepishly.

  "Why are you the only one in this temple?" Biksel asked.

  "The others left. A week ago," Zalyn said. "They headed south."

  "Why not you?" Mialee said.

  "They didn't need me. 'We've got plenty of rations, and we'll be back by sundown,' the master said. 'You keep watch here. We've no need for a cook,' he said. Happens all the time, frankly."

  "You're the cook?" Biksel and Mialee asked simultaneously.

  "Not just a cook!" Zalyn objected defiantly. "I study, I learn, I follow the Protector!" The gnome turned her gaze to the floor. "Between meals. But you saw it; I can summon the healing magic."

  As if in support, a faint but healthy squawk came from the raven on the pedestal.

  "Mialee," the bird said. Its voice was surprisingly soothing. "You are Mialee?"

  The elf woman nodded as the bird settled into a perch on the edge of the pedestal. The raven cocked an eye at Mialee's familiar. "And you must be Biksel. Favrid warned me about you. You're rather arrogant, he says."

  "Typical," Biksel sniffed.

  "Favrid?" Mialee interjected. "Are you his new familiar? Where is he? He was supposed to meet me days ago!"

  "I am Favrid's fourth familiar. He summoned me into his service ten years ago, after the death of Ama, my predecessor. I am called Darji," the smaller raven said.

  "Where is Favrid, Darji?" Biksel said impatiently.

  Darji shuddered. "A bad place," she managed, "but he must be alive."

  Mialee opened her mouth to ask another question when they all heard the crash of breaking glass from up the spiral staircase.

  "What the—?" Mialee managed.

  Darji leaped into the air from the pedestal and started circling the inside of the temple. "I'm sorry," she squawked as she spun overhead, "but I think they've found me."

  Zalyn screamed as a dozen flapping shapes with hollow black eye sockets and white-tufted necks exploded from the archway and filled the room with acrid stench. Darkness enveloped Mialee as the torchlight guttered out.

  "Not much better," Devis said, examining his attire. "But it beats the alternative."

  Money was in short supply for the two fugitives, but Devis had scrounged enough for a tunic, pants, and boots. He regretted giving up a weapon in his current situation, but had to admit it was a pretty good deal. He had been able to get a few pieces of gold for the dwarven axe. Neither he nor Diir wanted to part with the crossbows; Devis because he was actually a decent shot with the weapon, Diir for his own, undisclosed reasons.

  The money was enough to buy the clothes and one other item besides. The bard absently struck a ringing chord on his cheap, used lute.

  It, too, beat the alternative.

  The rain had stopped completely, and the clouds had finally broken to let beams of warm sunlight cut the morning chill in the autumn air. Devis noodled an old favorite on the lute as he walked along.

  The telltale sign of the Silver Goblet appeared as they rounded a bend in the street. "No sign of the town guard," Devis said, not really expecting an answer.

  Diir sniffed the air and nodded.

  "Glad you agree," Devis said. "Now let's find out what you and my friend Mialee have in common, shall we?"r />
  They emerged from the Silver Goblet ten minutes later.

  Devis couldn't understand it. Gurgitt had been more than happy to let him into Mialee's room, especially after Devis charmed the innkeeper with a song-spell and one of their precious gold pieces. What they found only baffled Devis further.

  It might have all made perfect sense to Diir, but the elf didn't say so. He simply insisted that Mialee was not in the room—which was obvious—and that Devis should follow him.

  They'd found the door to Mialee's room wide open, as were the shutters on her window. Devis's clothing and gear were still scattered across the floor, along with his equipment and all of the gold he'd won from Muhn, which he was glad to recover. The bard also retrieved his thick leather vest and trusty long sword, which now hung from his belt. But strangely, all of Mialee's things were still there, too, including her rapier, wand, spellbook, and magical components.

  She'd simply disappeared. The bird was gone, too. Fortunately, nothing indicated another wight attack, which was a relief. But had Muhn succeeded in capturing the girl?

  Devis swung the lute around to his back and pulled the small leather pouch from his belt. Mialee had insisted that the pockets on the pouch held birdseed, but Devis knew enough about wizards to realize that was a bald-faced he. He hadn't had time to grab anything else except a papyrus scroll that confirmed Mialee's story about her missing teacher.

  Diir broke into a jog as they neared the northern edge of Dogmar, and Devis had to run to keep up. The elf was leading them to a large, wooden building of undeniable elven manufacture, all curved, golden timber and smooth, polished surfaces. A silver crescent four times as tall as Devis crowned the three-story structure.

  "The Temple of the Protector?" he exclaimed. "She's that hung over?"

  "Inside," Diir replied.

  "Maybe you should go first."

  Before Diir could move, the doors swung open and a dozen flapping shapes poured out of the open doors. Vultures, Devis realized, but unlike any he'd ever seen.