The first wave of the Dead that swept into Riverton found people asleep in their beds. The pickings were easy. River Folk were dragged out into the dark streets and set upon by their own aunts, uncles and grandparents. Tattered flesh and brittle bones grasped and tore. Teeth snapped and chewed. Screams were heard from the side of town nearest the wooded hill. Men rushed out of their homes, shrugging on their tunics and holding bared blades and lanterns. They expected to meet goblin raiders or perhaps a creature of the Deepwood let loose. They faced instead the horrors of the shambling Dead.

  The Dead, as individuals, were simple of mind and weak of body. They did not regret their losses however, and never fell reeling from pain. They were beaten down after they’d slain a dozen families, but then the second wave came. These did not shuffle down from the cemetery woods, but instead were made up of those the Dead had freshly killed. Only minutes after their eyes glazed over in death, their faces left frozen in expressions of horror and their throats ripped out, the Dead rose to assail the living.

  This second wave was worse than the first, as they were stronger and the flesh upon their bodies still operated as it should. Horrified to be facing a gargling throng of their Dead neighbors, the people fell back toward the High Street. There, they met the Riverton Militia, which had been called out and had formed barricades in the streets.

  The fighting went on for nearly two hours before the Dead were defeated. Much of the northern end of the town was burnt or ruined. Corpses, hewn and smoldering, lay everywhere. The first wave and its follow-up had been taken down, but at a tremendous cost among the Living. A ragged cheer went up from the survivors when the fighting stopped and no more whole Dead could be found.

  One question was on everyone’s lips, however: What was coming next?

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Storm of the Dead

  “It wasn’t your fault, Brand,” said Telyn.

  “You are too kind, my good wife,” Brand said. “But your words do not change the grim facts. I was sought out as the worst fool in Cymru. Worse, I proved myself to be just as great a fool as the Dead expected.”

  “They tricked us, that’s all.”

  “Yes, they did. Such circumstances are always the lot of the River Folk. Our short lives provide us innocence and ignorance both—mixed blessings indeed.”

  Telyn stopped asking about it, seeing he was in a foul mood. Brand was glad for her silence. He didn’t want to dwell upon how the Shining Lady had gotten the better of him. By promising to try to take the Black Jewel from her King, he had laid down a challenge and played directly into her hands. Now, if he won the contest he would have to control the Jewel or fall prey to it, most likely becoming her new consort. If he failed…things would be worse yet. The River Folk would be overwhelmed by the Dead.

  Puck helped them find the Faerie mound at the bottom of the abyss. It was a strange affair, having no earth or grass growing upon it. The mound was a cairn with grave-moss creeping over the tumbled black stones.

  They began circling the mound, and as they did so Puck walked with Brand and talked to him. “As I listened to your meeting with the Shining Lady,” Puck said. “I felt I had stepped into the middle of a conversation that was ongoing.”

  “Yes. In a way, you did just that. I’d dreamt of her, moments before. We’d fought in the dream. I wished to finish the conflict, to bring it to a conclusion.”

  Puck nodded. “The axe drove you to rashness.”

  “It did not!” shouted Brand, turning on the elf.

  The other raised one eyebrow at him. A tiny smirk played over the elf’s mouth. Brand struggled to ignore the other’s haughty air. Right then, he hated all elves, and would have been glad to sever all their necks with one mighty….

  Brand shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. “When I wield it often, it grips my mind as firmly as I grip its handle.”

  “What information was revealed to you in this dream you shared with the Dead?”

  “Any student of history knows the Dead rise across the world at random times. Now I believe the root cause to be the random whims of that witch.”

  “Interesting,” said Puck. “As another immortal I can vaguely understand her plight. You see, over time we all have a tendency to grow bored with our existences.”

  “But she tempts new males often enough and takes many lovers into her deathly embrace.”

  “Yes, but even that can grow repetitive…and I speak from experience.”

  Brand cast him a dark look, thinking again of what Telyn had said of once being stalked by this soft-spoken scoundrel.

  “Occasionally, however,” Puck went on, “as the centuries pass, she must yearn for more than a chance meeting. She seeks to take a new mate.”

  “Rather like you with that girl Mari, right?” Brand asked.

  Puck appeared annoyed. “I do not take my vows to my wife so lightly.”

  “Good,” Brand said, deciding to drop the topic. “In the case of the Shining Lady, she sought the greatest fool in the land. She found me, and tempted me into challenging the old King.”

  “Lucky you,” Puck said, chuckling.

  “Not so lucky for the rest of the world, if I should fail.”

  Puck pointed then, and Brand followed his direction. Together, they walked out upon a large mound. Brand knew it well. He recognized the freshly stacked brick walls that stood nearby. They were back at Castle Rabing.

  The sun had set and the skies were purple. Brand found to his surprise the mound was covered in fresh-dug holes and crawled with dead-things. More thronged the swamp nearby. More still scrabbled at his walls, seeking a way past them.

  “They walk already,” Brand said, drawing the axe from his back. The evening air hummed with the power of it. “There must be hundreds of them.”

  Puck drew his weapon as well, and as Telyn and Kaavi came into this world a pace or two after them they startled and pulled out their knives.

  “We must win through, but to where?” asked Puck.

  Brand looked toward Castle Rabing. Years of work and most of his fortune was tied up in that place of cold stone. “Follow me,” he said, and he set off toward the small gatehouse he’d come to call the Fae Gate.

  The Dead fell before him as wheat falls before the reaper. He cut a broad swath through them, but did not take the time to stop and chop them to bits nor to light them on fire.

  The job was only half-done, and the next wave of shambling dead picked up the squirming chunks of their comrades and carried them. Brand saw severed limbs with fingers that still grasped and skulls with champing teeth. If they caught up with them all at once, they could bear him down to the ground by sheer weight.

  “Even the strongest man can’t stand in the midst of the River’s flood undaunted,” Brand said. “We must run for the walls!”

  The party followed him closely, working their blades with efficiency. Every lip was curled save for Brand’s. He was delighted to reave through a massed enemy with his axe. It had been a long time since he’d faced so many. His voice soon rent the air with a fine, booming battle song. It was so loud it was as if a giant sang, and he himself recognized few of the foreign words that tumbled from his grinning mouth.

  The Dead came, and they fell. He advanced and the others, increasingly fearful as they came to understand the sheer numbers that sought to bring them down, hugged as close behind him as they dared. They feared to come too close. As it was, upon his backswing they were often forced to duck or dodge the flashing blades of the axe. Heedless of them, himself or the hungers of the Dead, Brand waded through the enemy at a steady pace. Within minutes, they’d reached the gatehouse.

  Unsurprisingly, the grate was done and the oaken double doors were spiked shut. His men had wisely sealed this entrance. It would be a pity to destroy their efforts, but he had no choice.

  He struck with the axe and it bit through iron braces, wood and nails. The doors shivered, and took two more blows before they burst apart to show the white wood inside. Brand kicked the rest of the doors down—but found a portcullis behind the doors.

  He gave an inarticulate cry of rage. “Raise this grate before I have to tear it down!” he roared.

  There was no response. No one manned the top of his wall. Brand turned toward the following horde. They gathered numbers now, those he had chopped down having communicated like a swarm of ants somehow with the others. They all came at once, sensing fresh Life.

  “Cover your eyes!” he shouted, and after a momentary pause he beamed into the mass of enemy with his axe. A bright ray of sunlight shone, burning away flesh and bone. The enemy hissed and writhed. The mass of them, like a cresting wave, fell over the reeling front ranks. For a few seconds, they were slowed and staggered.

  Brand turned to the portcullis. It was not bolted down, but merely dropped there. Perhaps it had been beyond the simple minds of the Dead to grab it in unison and lift it up. Brand did so now, with a single arm. He roared and heaved. Puck came forward to help, but thought the better of it. Brand’s face rippled with red rage. His jowls ran with strings of saliva and blood. His arm strained and his back was bent unnaturally.

  The portcullis rolled upward. The others rushed past him, flinching from the axe which lusted for their flesh and blood. When the last of them had slipped under the iron grate, Brand propped it up with the axe, then slipped through and yanked it free again. The heavy weight crushed down, snapping spines and pinning skeletal limbs.

  Brand watched the Dead writhe and hiss with idiot malice. He laughed at them. It was a full sound, a belly-laugh of disdain.

  They had won through to the castle.

  * * *

  Morcant was not surprised when his King came to speak with him. The event was almost unprecedented, but he was not capable of an emotion such as surprise. Whatever happened to him simply was.

  King Arawn of the Dead cursed and mumbled as he pressed his way through a throng of the rambling Dead. These were the lowest form of his subjects, and he detested them for their witless behavior. He finally found Morcant, working his spade on his hands and knees. The shovel had broken at the handle, and the sharp hardwood shaft tore at the meat of his dead hands. His hands had worn down to bone now, with only scraps of flesh clinging to the palms and fingers. Morcant kept working to dig the next grave, but his efforts had been slowed by the broken shovel.

  “Here, oaf!” the Dead King said, thrusting a fresh shovel into the remains of Morcant’s hands. “Find a fresh tool when your old one breaks!”

  Morcant took the shovel without comment. He stood up on creaking knees and went back to digging.

  Arawn eyed him with more affection. “Big, strong, and hard-working. Not one of those yappy, half-aware dead-things, either. You’re a dumb beast, but a faithful one.”

  Morcant didn’t even look up. He hadn’t been told to.

  “Morcant, there is going to be a slight change of plan. The first wave did well, parts of Riverton are already alight. But I want you to hold back the next wave. Don’t release the next herd until dawn. At that point, I want you to send them all at once. I’ll coordinate with the other shepherds. We’ll overrun the Living here, at their stronghold.”

  Morcant never looked up. He still hadn’t been told to.

  “Yes,” Arawn laughed. “That’s right, keep digging. There’s a good, stout soldier!”

  The King watched him, but after a short time he became displeased. “You can’t possibly open all these graves by sun-up. Hmm.”

  Morcant was aware, even though he did not turn his head, of a new sensation of power. This power drew his attention, however. With slow fascination he finally stopped digging and looked up.

  The King of the Dead stood with his silver rod in the midst of the graveyard. He held the Black Jewel overhead and from it darkness emanated. It was similar to light, in that it affected the vision of all who saw it, but it was an unlight. Rather than emitting radiance, it devoured it.

  The Dead that milled about on the graveyard grasses shuffled forward, hearing their King’s call. They stood raptly, and then moved off toward the caretaker’s shack. There, they grabbed up every tool old Daz had collected over his long years. Some were broken, some were rakes or scythes. Once they had an implement in hand, they shuffled to find an undisturbed grave and began to dig. There weren’t enough tools to go around, and those of the Dead who had nothing but empty hands formed claws with their finger bones and tore into the earth on their knees alongside the rest. A score of graves grew dark as soil flew.

  King Arawn turned back to Morcant. “There you are!” he said. “You’ll have your army soon enough now, my shepherd.”

  The Black Jewel was lowered and stopped influencing the Dead it mastered, like a full moon setting over the sea.

  Morcant took up his spade again and began to dig.

  * * *

  Brand was fuming in the cool night air. He couldn’t believe it. The Kindred workmen had abandoned their tasks days ago and taken their wagon-train homeward toward the Black Mountains.

  “Cowards!” he shouted.

  The surviving River Folk in the encampment cast fearful glances toward him and wore haunted faces. They’d already been under assault by the Dead. They yearned to do nothing other than leave themselves.

  Brand and the rest stood in his headquarters tent, the very spot he’d left just days ago to go on a fool’s errand. Right here, Grasty had pretended not to want to go. Brand had to wonder just how long the foreman had been in the employ of the enemy. He soon had another thought: what if all the Kindred were allies of the Dead? What if they’d bought their skins with promises of treachery? What if they planned foul deeds in the night against the River Folk whose gold they’d taken?

  He read Gudrin’s note aloud with gritted teeth:

  To Brand, Lord of Castle Rabing and Champion of the Haven:

  I write to you as the monarch of the Kindred. We are of a single mind, and all that is written here is thus written from the hearts of all the Kindred. Firstly, we apologize to the River Folk. We will not be there in the coming dark times to stand at your side. I have decreed that all Kindred withdraw, including those who serve you as workers, Brand. We regret this, but we must follow the wisdom of our ancestors and retreat into our mountains. When the Storm of Dead passes, we will return and help you rebuild.

  There is a sickness in my lands, which you may or may not encounter in yours. The Dead that rise not from clean corpses, but from things such as the abominations created by Oberon’s Blood Magic during the war, are foul indeed. Hopefully, you will not encounter such terrors.

  Know that the Storm will pass, as it always does. Some of the Living will survive to begin again. Our folk are not like yours, we procreate far more slowly. Take heart! Your losses will be great, but in a century or so the River Folk will be as numerous as you are now!

  Your friend and ally,

  -Gudrin

  P.S. Look for the Dead Shepherds. Without them, the Dead will not know their purpose.

  The axe quivered in Brand’s hand as he finished reading the letter. He raised it suddenly and brought it down with a resounding crack and flash. To the others, it was as if a lightning bolt had struck inside the tent. The heavy oak table split and the axehead stuck in the massive block of wood. Brand cursed and tugged at it.

  Telyn put a hand on his elbow. “Brand, perhaps you’d best leave it there for a moment. None can pull it from the table save for you. It is safe there.”

  Brand stopped and looked at her. His mouth hung open and his eyes were wide and blazing. Slowly, he nodded. He pried his fingers from the haft and staggered, free of its influence.

  Corbin pressed a chair at the back of his legs and Brand sank gratefully into it.

  “I need a drink,” Brand croaked. They brought him both ale and tea, not knowing which he wanted. But by the time they pressed the mugs into his fingers, he had already fallen into a deep slumber.

  * * *

  Brand awakened with a start. He thought he might have met the Dead again in his dreams…no, he could not remember. Like dewdrops under a blazing sun, the memory of his dreams faded away. He looked first for the axe and saw it, still thrusting up from the center of the table where he’d buried the head. Others lay about the place here and there, sleeping.

  He stood up and grabbed the mugs of tea and ale they’d brought him over an hour ago. He drained both, gulping, then went outside to relieve himself. He heard sweet music outside, and went to find the source. He found Puck, gently piping alongside the stream.

  “Don’t think you’ll pipe your way into my head, elf,” he said.

  “Where is your axe, axeman?”

  “Buried in the table. I will have to take it up and draw upon its power to free it. Once I do so, I’m liable to perform…rashly.”

  Puck chuckled. He nodded. “Best to make your plans before you grasp that haft again.”

  “Exactly. What are you doing out here if not coaxing maidens?”

  “I’m soothing another creature.”

  “What creature?” Brand asked curiously. He gazed this way and that, but saw nothing other than the stream, the thick reeds and a grove of willow trees.

  “Shhh!” whispered Puck. “Take care not to wake him. He is my nephew.”

  Brand still saw nothing. “Your nephew? Is Kaavi then….”

  “No,” Puck said, “it is not her child. Let me introduce you.”

  Puck made a flourish with his hands and long fingers. He pointed toward the willows, where a small glimmering figure now walked toward them. Brand turned his head to gaze at her. She was indeed an elf maid. A small one. He thought perhaps he had seen her before…then he knew.

  “Tegan?” he asked. “I’d thought you’d left the Haven.”

  “I was expelled, axeman,” she said.

  “By whom?”

  “Thilfox Drake.”

  “Thilfox? He is a just man. What was your crime?”