Black wizards - Douglas Niles [59]
The skeletons were gradually cleaned, as a succession of rainstorms washed the dirt from their white bones. Like the zombies, some of the bare skeletons carried weapons or wore tattered bits of rusty armor. But they had no flesh to be scraped away by thorns. Empty eye sockets stared ahead as the unearthly force stumbled forward.
The army moved without rest, for the undead suffered no fatigue, nor did they feel the need to sleep. And in Hobarth's case, the Heart of Kazgoroth had become his sustenance.
The army marched, and the ground beneath it blackened and died. It left a swath of death running up the valley from Freeman's Down, across the high pass, and finally streaking down the mountain slopes, into Myrloch Vale.
The vanguard of the army, twoscore ghastly figures that had once been Northmen, shuffled into a shallow pond. Flies buzzed around the zombies, landing and feeding greedily, but the creatures took no note. Some lumbered forward, their faces so covered with flies that they appeared to grow black, buzzing beards.
As the undead feet slurped into the mud of the pond, the water grew stagnant and black. Thin wisps of pungent steam rose into the air with each footstep, and fish floated, belly up, to the surface. These first zombies crossed the waist-deep water and trudged through the muddy shore on the far side. They moved into a field, bright with flowers, and the petals fell like snowflakes. As more of the army crossed the field, more of it died; the force left a muddy wasteland of death in its wake.
One zombie, who had nearly lost her leg to a Northman battle-ax, suddenly collapsed as that leg gave way beneath it. Those behind, the bodies of friends and foes alike, trudged mindlessly over the twitching corpse, trampling it into the mud until only a clasping, clenching hand could be seen above the ground.
The animals of the vale sensed the approaching horror and fled upon hoof, paw, or wing. The army marched through a lifeless forest.
Soon, now, Hobarth dreamed, the girl would be his.
* * * * *
Tristan and Daryth stood to either side of the door. Pontswain, still manacled, sat upon a mattress facing the door. He nodded at the other two and they understood; he would try to distract whoever it was that tried to enter their cell. The faint sounds of the picklock indicated a thief of considerable skill – there was no wasted motion or clumsy probing. Or an assassin, trained at the Academy of Stealth, thought Tristan. In a moment the lock released.
The men held their breath, tension rising as they waited to see who was breaking into their cell. With a low creak, the door began to slide open. Daryth moved like a striking snake, reaching through the widening crack to grasp at the shirt of whoever stood outside.
But his hand closed upon air. Stunned, he pulled the door open to reveal the intruder, but they saw no one standing in the hallway – until they looked down.
"Pawldo!" cried the prince, reaching down to clasp his friend warmly. "How did you get here?"
"You'd never believe it if I told you," replied the halfling in a tense whisper. He threw an anxious look over his shoulder. "Come on, now, we've gotta move!"
"Just a minute!" said Daryth, passing Pawldo to look cautiously into the hall. He darted back to Pontswain and slipped the wire probe into one manacle. After a moment's hesitation, Pawldo joined him and worked on the other.
"Thanks," the lord said, briskly rubbing his wrists.
"Let's go!" hissed Pawldo, turning to the door.
Tristan sensed a note of panic in Pawldo's voice. "What do you mean? What do you know?"
"Assassins!" Pawldo whispered. "They're here to kill you! In this building – maybe coming up the stairs right now!"
"Wait!" cried Tristan. "I've got to find the Sword of Cymrych Hugh. I can't leave without it!"
Pawldo looked like he wanted to argue, but he finally turned with a sigh of exasperation. "All right, I've got an idea where they might be keeping it. They've got an ogre on guard outside one of the rooms downstairs."
"Damn!" cursed Tristan.