Gavotte of the Grave

[Allemande]

Closed to Amen
Slitting someone’s throat brought such sweet satisfaction. Something about the feeling of warm blood running through her fingers made her feel powerful and alive, when normally she felt dead. It was almost like dancing.

The old man collapsed at her feet, and Eva reflected on how simple that had been. She sighed. The gravekeeper was probably ninety years old, and he looked like some shriveled animal lying at her feet. Blood oozed out of his wrinkled neck and his limbs were distorted unnaturally. She felt guilty for a moment, but not for killing him. That hadn’t been a choice—he’d discovered her, and if she let him live he would let others know, and eventually she’d be hunted down just like she had been in every other town. It was a simple choice, his life or hers. No, she felt guilty because the killing had been so easy. The first time she’d killed someone her hands had shook and she’d been nervous for hours after. Now murder was just a habit.

The graveyard was dimly lit by a pale half-moon, enough so that she could make the silhouettes of bats clinging to a nearby tree. Something small nuzzled her ankle, and she looked down to find her pet. The bunny had died years earlier, and was now just the skeleton of a rabbit, but she thought he was cute nonetheless. She reached down and patted the little undead animal’s head.

The front of her fine white dress was now stained irreparably with dirt and blood. Before the gravekeeper had found her, she’d been digging for four hours, and her arms were tired. It wasn’t the sort of work she was cut out for. It was completely unfair. The first eighteen years of her life she’d been pampered in a noble, wealthy family, and now she was forced to do work for herself.

Well…sort of.

“What do you think, Bunbuns? Easier to have someone do our work for us?” she asked. The rabbit made no comment, but Eva gave a wicked half-smile.

She grabbed the gravekeeper’s hands and picked him up, facing her. He was like a ragdoll he was so light. She swung him around and began to dance amidst the crumbling graves. Three springing steps, then a momentary balance on one foot, and then she spun her partner around in a graceful twirl. Her dress spun around her as she danced. At first she was simply dragging the body about, but as she danced, that began to change. The corpse stopped dragging its feet and began to step with her. An eerie musical harmony that only Eva could hear began to play throughout the graveyard. It was the Allemande, the song and dance through which she could bring back the dead. After a few minutes, the corpse was keeping pace with her and dancing along.

She let go of its hands and stopped dancing, and the music faded. The recently deceased gravekeeper, however, remained standing. His back was slouched and his eyes were dull and half closed, but he was supporting his own weight. Eva retrieved a shovel she had propped against a tree and shoved it in his hand.

“Dig,” she said, and she pointed at a spot in the ground next to a particularly large grave. “If you find anything other than dirt, stop digging and let me know.”

The zombie didn’t respond, but it took the shovel and began to dig. Its movements were awkward and slow, and it would have been more efficient to do the job herself, but Eva didn’t care. Manual labor was not her thing. Her family had hired people to do that sort of thing her whole life, what was the difference now? Sure, she was grave-robbing, and the “servant” was an undead minion but…basically the same, right? Kind of. Some of the commoners her parents had hired acted like zombies, anyway.

She lay against a nearby gnarled oak tree and watched the monster she’d created go about its work. Occasionally it dug up some trinket or rock, and she walked over, examined it, and tossed it aside. When it had emptied that grave, she directed it to another.

This graveyard was…interesting. She’d seen many graveyards in her time, but never one quite like this. Its name was Sad Hill Cemetery, and it served the nearby town of Stumbleroot, which stood just inside the Brokenthorn Forest. At first she’d only found the usual sorts of things—recently deceased people, wooden coffins, whatever—but the deeper she went into the cemetery, the older and stranger the graves became. Some of the graves were simply ancient and had some bizarre artifacts inside them. None of them had anything of value…yet. There was another thing, though….

The graves in the older part of the cemetery had all kinds of objects in them but not a single body. She couldn’t fathom why this would be. There was only one logical reason, which wasn’t that logical at all. At some point, another necromancer had been here. That was why she continued to dig—in hopes of finding out just what had happened here, and perhaps to find something that would confirm her suspicions.

The other mystery of this graveyard was the mausoleum. It was a large stone building sealed shut. She’d tried hard to break in, but huge locks covered the doors and entry seemed utterly impossible. She had a strong feeling that the answers to all her questions would be in that mausoleum…but how to get in?

She snapped out of her reverie and noticed that the glow of the sun was beginning in the east. She probably only had half an hour more before the sun rose and the Allemande’s spell would be broken…and she’d need to get some rest. She snapped her fingers and had the gravekeeper follow her to his little hut at the edge of the graveyard. The gravekeeper’s (former) house was locked, but she took the key from his pocket and let them both in. The house was dirty and cramped, but it had a bed, and that was good enough for Eva. She had the corpse lay on the floor, locked the door behind them, lay in the bed of the man she’d recently killed and instantly fell asleep. Performing the Allemande took a lot out of her, and it’d be nighttime once more before she awoke again.

Outside, dawn broke and the world was flooded once more with daylight.

[Amen]

Marcus sighed and crouched beneath the broad boughs of an oak tree. The morning sun was gentle yet on the island of Scara Brae, and dew glistened on the oak’s leaves. In front of the paladin lay a scene, a story written on the earth itself, but he could not himself decipher it. He turned his head to the right and squinted against the light, looking out over the sleepy landscape Stumbleroot presented. His thighs began to ache, and so he stood up and once again turned his attention to the vast network of tracks that ran between the defiled graves of the Sad Hill Cemetery.

He was still considering the scene when Constable Rike approached him, having just come from where the rest of the Stumbleroot police were investigating other exhumed gravesites. “So, Master Book,” Rike said, “any luck? What’ve you got there?”

Marcus grunted, as he did when he felt like thinking and not much like talking. “Tracks,” he eventually said, and he pointed.

This piqued Rike’s interest, and he came around to look over the scene from Marcus’ vantage point. The grass beneath the oak was patchy and thin as a direct result of the tree’s roots, which ate up every bit of water and earthy nutrients and left precious little for smaller plant life. The grey ground was very dry and hard-packed beneath the oak, and it would not present usable tracks. It did, however, present an excellent canvas – whoever had been here had walked in and around the moister soil of open graves, and had tracked that soil to the hard earth beneath the tree.

“I’m no man tracker,” Marcus said.

“Lucky for you, I am,” Rike said with a grin, but without looking up from the tracks. “The spoor is…very strange. It looks like there were two people here, and they were close to one another. Perhaps there was a struggle?”

Rike approached the tracks, and chose one set. He carefully began to follow them, playing the part of one of the night’s actors in slow motion. Marcus watched him curiously, and eventually the other investigators gathered around to watch as well. Though Rike affected a struggle, the path he followed suggested no style of battle they had ever seen before.

“Rike,” the senior officer finally said, “are you dancing at a scene of grave robbery?”

Rike stood bolt upright and stepped away from the tracks, clearing his throat and shaking his head. His cheeks burned red. The other officers began to snicker, but Marcus expressed no amusement. In fact, his eyes hadn’t left the tracks.

Before Rike could explain, the paladin spoke: “He wasn’t, but whoever did this was.”

Now, the Stumbleroot police force was not well-acquainted with the Brotherhood, but they knew enough not to doubt one of their paladins. Their faces grew sober when they considered the implications. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” the senior officer said. “Devils dancing in the moonlight, in our cemetery? Here?”

“No,” Marcus said, “I’ve never known devils to dance. Witches are said to revel, though. The second set of tracks is a good deal smaller than the first, and narrower. I suspect they were made by soft shoes, the kind they make for ladies. Maybe there was a witch here last night.”

“Now hold on,” Rike said. “How can we be sure it was a witch, and not some deranged but otherwise harmless woman?”

Marcus looked surprised for a moment, and then checked himself. He was not accustomed to working with non-paladins. “I can sense her,” he explained. “She used black magic here last night; it’s still hanging around like a fog. And besides, witch or no she committed murder. You’re standing in dried blood.”

While the mortified constable wiped his boots off in a nearby patch of taller grass, Marcus turned to the senior officer. “When you summoned me this morning, I was told none of the recent corpses were disturbed, and many of the wooden coffins were left unopened. Is that true?”

“That is true,” the officer said. “That’s why we called on you. It’s fortunate you were here, paladin.”

Marcus grunted, falling into thought once again. He was a squire and separated from his mentor – in fact, he had intended to leave Stumbleroot this very morning and continue on to the coast where they were to reunite and continue on their way off the island of Scara Brae. He could not, however, leave a hunt unfinished. Mentor or no, he was obligated to hunt the iniquitous until death – his or this witch’s.

“The hunt is on,” the paladin muttered, and he let the thrill of it run up his spine.

“Sir?”

“A lot of work was done here,” Marcus said. “Whether she did the work herself or summoned up something terrible to do it for her she’ll be exhausted, so we have time. I doubt she’ll return to the cemetery after making such a mess of it, but it’d be best if you left a patrol here tonight. If there’s a dedicated groundskeeper you ought to send a man to him and see if he’s seen or heard anything strange over the course of the last week. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to take Constable Rike with me back into town.”

“May I ask why, sir?” the senior officer said.

“Right now I’m operating on the assumption that the iniquitous is a visitor here,” Marcus said. “Considering the mess she made here, I don’t think she’s very cautious. Maybe she’s bold enough to just stay at the inn.”

Marcus paused.

“I’m speaking as if we’re sure it’s a woman, or a witch,” he said. “Your men should operate under the assumption that we could be dealing with anything, however. The female tracks could have been those of the victim, or it could be something that can choose whatever shape suits it best. Your men need to be extremely cautious, and report anything even remotely out of place to me. Do you understand?”

“Implicitly,” the officer said. “Whatever it is, we’ll find it.”

[Allemande]

6 PM – The Gravekeeper’s Cabin

“Oh sod it, he’s probably just asleep, Ben,” Constable Leroy said.

Ben Rike shook his head and sighed. Leroy, his partner, was always the lazier of the two. “Captain Clayworth insists that we contact the gravekeeper before nightfall. Mister Book seemed to agree.”

“Mister Book? Mister Book? Since when did he become Mister Book? Tell me this, since when do we all trust the first odd-looking foreigner to walk into town? I thought we were policemen.”

Rike shook his head. “Listen Thom, I spoke to him and I sure as hell believe he’s a paladin.”

Clayworth laughed. “Well good for you, Ben, but it seems to me just a bit of an odd coincidence that the man walks into town one day, and all this weird stuff starts happening right after, huh?”

Rike had, in fact, thought of this, but dismissed the possibility out of hand. They had no reason to distrust the large paladin. “Why wouldn’t he be a paladin? He sure seemed to know a lot about finding demons and witches and the like,” he said.

“Mhmmm,” Clayworth said knowingly. “And who else do you suppose would know a lot about demons? A warlock, mayhap? I’m not the only one who’s suspicious of that man, trust me. But never mind, we’ve got to head back, or my wife’ll have my head when I miss dinner.”

Rike looked at the gravekeeper’s door for one more moment, and gave up. They’d tried to peer in the windows, but it was too dark in the cabin to see anything. The old man probably was just asleep. As far as Rike knew, he was just an old drunkard surviving on a government contract by virtue of being some famous person’s great-nephew or something. He’d probably be useless anyway.

“Fine,” Rike said. “Let’s just go.”

9 PM – The Same

The first thing Eva saw when she awoke was the already mottled face of the gravekeeper’s corpse. Other people her age (or older) would have screamed or been disturbed at the glassy-eyed visage, but Eva just sighed. She was waking up in the presence of corpses with disturbing frequency lately.

The gravekeeper’s house was outfitted with enough supplies for her to make herself a good meal, and she ate heartily. Performing the Allemande took a lot out of her—there was no way she’d be dancing that tune again tonight.

What was she going to do next? This house wouldn’t be safe lodging anymore, probably. She had to find somewhere else to stay, but where? She could go into town, she supposed. Stumbleroot was a fairly large and prosperous town, far from the dirty hovel she’d expected from the name. Most of the logging activity that went on in Brokenthorn Forest, illicit or otherwise, passed through Stumbleroot on its way to the city of Scara Brae. She spent some time looting the house for supplies, and she stumbled upon a small object that made her squeal with glee. That ought to take care of some of her problems, anyway.

She tucked the gravekeeper into his bed and pulled the blankets up to his nose. At least he’d give the appearance of being asleep to anyone who walked in. Eva tried not to stay in any place for too long. She’d been hopping from town to town in the few months since she’d ran away from home, sleeping in graveyards and mausoleums, robbing graves for money or just flat out stealing food. It wasn’t a comfortable one, but it was a freedom of sorts.

She opened the door silently and walked into the night. The darkness was comforting; she welcomed it like a baby swaddled in cloth.

“An’ then I say, that’s what a frog’s got such a long tongue fer! Eh? Eh?” came a loud voice. There was a guffaw of laughter, and Eva nearly leapt out of her own skin. There were people here! Did they know she was here? She swung her head wildly, but could make out little in the dark. It was a cloudy night, and there was barely any light in the graveyard tonight. At the top of the “sad hill” that the graveyard was centered around, however, there were three silhouettes: the tall oak tree that sat right at the top of the hill and two figures who stood pacing about it. Eva wondered who would be spending time at a graveyard at ten o’clock at night, other than her. Could just be stupid kids on a dare, of course…but no reason to figure that out just now. They were in her graveyard, and presented a threat to her, so they’d have to be dealt with.

She paused for a moment. When had she started thinking of the graveyard as hers? She really ought to be moving on tonight, but something about her just…didn’t want to. She had a very strong sense that she was supposed to be here, at least for now. There was something she was supposed to do, or find, or…something. She couldn’t move on just yet.

The intruders at the top of the hill were a problem. They were still chattering on and laughing at eachother’s stupid jokes, but neither of them managed to sound quite as carefree as they perhaps hoped. There was a hysterical edge to each of their laughter, as though they were trying to cover up how terrified they were by laughing even harder. Eva smiled grimly. They should well be terrified.

She began to do a quick jig in the dirt outside the gravekeeper’s house. The jig turned into a hopping, skipping sort of dance—the Saltarello. The two figures at the top of the hill suddenly became illuminated as a bright red network of veins and arteries and flowing blood. She could smell it. She danced franticly, her soft ballet shoes pattering on the compacted dirt. The figures at the top of the hill didn’t notice her, and continued their laughter, but something about it became even more frantic.

Eva thrust a hand towards the figure on the left, and he collapsed. The laughter in his throat turned to screams of agony.

“I’m on fire! I’m on fire!” he said. Eva grinned. The man’s blood now had the sensation of boiling. It wasn’t physically harmful, but he was in enormous pain. His comrade bent down and put his hands on his friend’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked, but as the words escaped his mouth, Eva’s dance took on a different, more chaotic tune. She thrust her hands forward and made a vice with her fingers. The man on top reached his hands forward and grabbed his friend’s neck, and began to strangle him. The dancing continued, faster and faster, the energy of the Saltarello possessing the blood in the man’s body and allowing Eva to use him as a tool for murder. The man on the ground, blood still boiling, was unable to fight back. Only moments later, the man on the ground was dead, and his friend relaxed his grip around his neck. Eva stopped dancing.

“Will? Wiliam?” the man who Eva had just been possessing cried out. He was sobbing. “Oh gods, I didn’t, I didn’t mean to…I mean, what, what’ve I done?” The man fled the scene, and Eva watched as his silhouette exited the graveyard towards town. That was one problem dealt with.

She felt a momentary pang of sadness for whoever she’d just used to commit murder, but that went away after just a moment. It was for her own self-preservation, after all, wasn’t it? It couldn’t be wrong then. Same as with the gravekeeper. The whole damn world was against her, so what was she supposed to do? Just like a stray dog that people kicked and poked with sticks all the time, she could only be expected to bite back every once in a while.

She wandered up to the corpse on the hill and examined it. He was dressed in a rough uniform, with a copper badge on his right breast. Someone from the local police, in other words. If there were police stationed in the graveyard, that meant someone had found the graves she’d been digging up…which meant she really ought to be leaving this town. She had no reason to stay here. Except…she didn’t want to go.

She stuck a hand in the pocket of her dress and clasped the cold iron object there. Well, maybe she could have some safety.

She walked down to the south side of the hill, where the large mausoleum stood. She stared at it for awhile. It seemed odd, and very incongruous with the rest of the somewhat poor surroundings. It was clearly ancient, and locked up very tight. Once there had been a name written in gothic script over the door, but time and rain had faded the stone and it was unreadable. A padlock covered the door, but there was a single sigil visible right in the center: a number 5. Five? Five what? It didn’t matter.

She pulled the key from her pocket and unlocked the mausoleum door. As she suspected, it fit. The key had been deep within the gravekeeper’s sidetable drawer. It didn’t look like he’d ever touched it.

She opened the door slowly, heart pounding, and stepped inside. It took her eyes a moment to adjust, but she quickly became accustomed to the gloom. She was used to spending time in the darkness at this point. When she finally could make out the contents of the room, she sighed.

There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was a square, empty stone room. She could not have been more disappointed. So much for answers…

On the other hand, this would make a great place to hide. She’d only been awake for a few hours, but she hadn’t quite recovered from the Allemande, and after dancing the Saltarello she was dead tired.

Dead tired. Ha. Haha. Very funny.

She closed the door of the mausoleum behind her and was now in total darkness. Her small bag of possessions made a decent pillow, and she lay down in a corner and fell asleep almost instantly.

[Amen]

There was a stately grandfather clock in the common room of the Stumbleroot hotel, which had just finished ringing ten as Constable Rike mounted the stairs to the second floor rooms. He had been told that Marcus Book was in the room directly above the common room by request, so that his window would overlook the street. Rike could scarcely understand what tactical benefits there were to such a vantage point, and he was considering that point when he knocked on the door marked twenty-eight.

The door opened after a very brief pause, and Book stood inside. “Constable Rike,” he said. “Pardon my state of undress, please come in.”

Marcus spoke the pleasantries hardly, and it was clear to the constable that the feeling of hospitality wasn’t really there – Rike was welcome, to be sure, but the paladin was just saying what needed to be said to get down to business.

“No need to apologize, Mister Book, I wouldn’t normally call on anyone this late at night, but I reckoned you’d want to be informed of our progress on the graveyard case.”

The paladin’s room was sparse and small. The narrow bed was under the window, which overlooked the street as advertised, and there was a writing desk opposite the foot of the bed. A small wooden chair was wedged between the bed and the desk, allowing very little space for an adult to sit comfortably and write, but apparently that’s what Marcus had been doing. The room was very well-lit by a lantern, which was on the window sill, and three candles positioned about the room: one on the empty cupboard (its doors were open to show naked shelves), one on the corner of the desk, and one perched atop an ornate chest on the floor to the left of the door. The chest was not a natural feature of the room: its lid was emblazoned with a large red iron cross, the symbol of the Brotherhood.

Marcus himself was naked from the waist up, and was now returning to his writing desk, where a half-written letter waited for him. “I’m keeping my mentor appraised,” he explained. “If I die in the course of the hunt, it’ll be her job to finish it. Anything I learn will be helpful to her.”

Bit morbid, Rike thought, but didn’t say as much.

Instead he said, “You keep yourself busy, sir. I could see the light from you window from way down the street.”

Marcus grunted, glancing around the room. “I don’t like the dark, for obvious reasons,” he said. “I had a close call in Salvar recently. Don’t sleep well without a candle or the stars or a full moon. Anyway, you didn’t come here to talk about my work ethic or my phobias. What’d you discover today? Did the groundskeeper have anything interesting to say?”

Rike shifted his weight and cleared his throat. “No, sir, we weren’t able to speak to him, in fact. Another constable and I were sent to his house on the edge of the cemetery this evening and there was no answer. He’s probably out for the evening; there are some popular taverns on that side of Stumbleroot, especially among the old-timers. There are guards posted in the cemetery tonight, with orders to speak to him if they see him, and I’m under orders to try again tomorrow morning.”

Marcus stared at the constable for a long moment, which made Rike uncomfortable. There was nothing in the paladin’s bearing to suggest anger, but his eyes were severe and unnerving. The other constables had noticed it as well: it always seemed like there was some wicked glint in Marcus’ eye. Even now it was there, almost mistakable for the reflection of candlelight except that it was the wrong color, and reflected too intensely.

“I’ll accompany you,” Marcus said at last, flatly and without so much as blinking. “A witness would be very helpful. Were your coworkers able to find any other leads?”

“Not that I’m aware of, sorry,” Rike said, unsure exactly what he was sorry for. He knew, logically, that Book was meant to be helping the Stumbleroot police with their investigation, but in the paladin’s presence Rike couldn’t help but feel as though they were helping him. “I confess, my superiors asked me to report to you before I end my shift tonight. They’re curious if you made any headway.”

Marcus seemed to think a moment, and then shook his head. “Very little,” he said. “I spoke to a number of innkeepers, and I asked around in other businesses travelers frequent – restaurants, bars, and the like - but I seem to be the strangest person in town at the moment. There was one thing I thought odd, though.”

“What’s that, Mister Book?”

“I spoke to a few older gentlemen in the course of the day, and they seem to get pretty worked up when they hear about grave-robbers on Sad Hill,” Marcus said.

“Well, most of the dug up graves were on the older side of the cemetery,” Rike said. “Of course, the graves there are really old, it’s not like anybody alive today has a pa buried on that side. The older folks in Stumbleroot are very conservative, you know, maybe they just take offense at it.”

Marcus sat back in his chair and nodded thoughtfully. “I noticed that side of the graveyard was pretty big for the size of Stumbleroot, especially if it’s as old as you say. Was there a battle fought nearby, maybe? That would explain the number of graves, and their offense.”

“Not sure,” Rike said, “I was never one for history. Definitely not around here, I can tell you. Stumbleroot isn’t the most exciting place, contrary to what you might think thanks to all this business.”

Marcus grunted. “Feels like another dead end. I shouldn’t keep you from your bed, Constable. Hopefully the groundskeeper will have something to say about the whole thing. What time should I meet you to talk to him?”

“My shift starts at nine,” Rike said. “Sleep well, Mister Book.”

The paladin grunted once more, already turning back to his unfinished letter, and Rike turned to let himself out. The door was half open when he paused, and then he turned with a thoughtful look on his face. “You know,” he said, “I remember my great granddad mentioning some troubles they had here in Stumbleroot, back in his day. Maybe there was a battle nearby back when.”

Marcus looked up from his letter with a pensive look on his face, and then nodded. “Thank you, Constable. Maybe I’ll look into that after we talk to the groundskeeper.”

Rike smiled and nodded once, said his goodnights, and then left and closed the door behind him.

[Allemande]

A loud crashing awoke Eva from her sound sleep. She opened her eyes blearily and experienced that moment of confusion common to everyone waking up in a strange place: where am I? For a brief moment she felt the soft down mattress beneath her and the warm comfort of her parent’s mansion—but this was an illusion. Only the cold harsh stone of the mausoleum supported her.

She sat up and looked around for the source of the noise, and her eyes widened in surprise and fear. It was no longer dark in the room, for one thing. A dull red light suffused the walls and allowed her to dimly see exactly what had changed while she slept.

A stairway had appeared in the center of the room. It was broad enough for three men to stand abreast, and it looked tall enough for her to walk down comfortably.

On the first step, a short phrase was engraved. THE END IS NOT THE END, it said.

She couldn’t see what lay in the murky depths, but something drew her towards the stairs. That something wasn’t anything as complicated as a magical compulsion. No, it was something far more powerful and natural than that: simple curiosity.

Curiosity killed the cat, Eva thought grimly as she stepped down the stairs. But satisfaction brought him back…

The stairs went down for some time. As she went down, the red light coming from the walls grew stronger and stronger. When the stairs ended, they turned into a long, straight hallway, the end of which she couldn’t see. She kept walking. The hallway was lined with large shelves, and a decaying body or skeleton sat on each shelf. She realized without much surprise that these were catacombs, maybe extending all the way under the town of Stumbleroot. Corridors extended in every direction, making a massive spiderweb of hallways and bodies. Where had all these come from? They were all ancient, and most of them clad in the garb of warriors, complete with weapons and armor.

The red light in the walls began to pulsate. How long she’d been walking she couldn’t say—without sun or moon for reference, time became strange—as it was in all underground places.

Some instinct made Eva stop walking and turn back in the direction she had come from. This place was a maze—it would be very easy to get lost here, and perhaps never find one’s way out. To wander among the corpses forever in the dark, and eventually to become one of them…Eva was comfortable with the idea of death, but such an idea horrified her. Curious though she was, now wasn’t the time to get lost underground without food or water or supplies. She ran back the way she came, through corridors and up stairs, and found her way to the small square room she’d started in. She panted from exertion.

Cracking the door open revealed that it was still daytime outside. She sealed herself back in and munched on some bread and drank a sip from the canteen in her pack. The obvious thing to do was to explore the catacombs some more, but before she could do that she would have to be ready. They seemed well lit enough—by some magical source—but she would need some way to find her way back. She find herself thinking of the story about the two children who get lost in the woods and find their way home with a trail of breadcrumbs. Something like that, maybe, or a map would be helpful…or even just some more information.

Eva sat back and lightly napped, waiting for night to fall once more. In the meantime, maybe those pursuing her would forget all about it, or assume that she’d moved on. And once night fell, she just might be making a visit to the local library…

[Amen]

Marcus’ eyes snapped open and gleamed in the washed-out darkness of early morning. A thrill filled his chest, fueled by the adrenaline rush that seemed to reach throughout his body from his spine. His sword was in his hand before even he was aware of it, and he was out of bed in a flurry of tensed limbs. He had made it a habit to sleep without sheets – it was better to be cold in the night than tangled in fabric and helpless when they finally caught up with you.

The candles were spent, now just misshapen puddles of wax in smudged glass dishes, and he had extinguished the lantern before going to sleep. The very first light of the dawn was in the room through the window, though, blanketing everything in blue-grey shadows. With that barest light, Marcus could see that the door was closed and the room empty, and so he threw his back against the wall to the left of the door and lifted his sword to the ready.

Then, and only then, did he consider what had awakened him: an insistent pounding at the door. The sound repeated, sending a fresh burst of adrenaline through the paladin’s system, and all at once he considered options from throwing open the door and immediately stabbing into the hallway to escaping through the window. Somewhere in the process of considering a plan of attack, it fortunately occurred to him that the iniquitous are rarely nice enough to knock before committing murder.

“What?” Marcus called, and his voice sounded tense and raw and unsure.

“There’s been a murder, Mister Book,” someone replied from the other side. “Your presence is requested by the captain.”

Marcus glanced around the room, momentarily confused, and then cleared his throat. “I’ll meet you in the common room in ten minutes,” he said, sounding only a little less insecure than he was.

“Very good,” the voice said, and then fading footfalls announced the departure of the visitor.

Marcus exhaled heavily and turned, pressing his forehead against the cool wood of the wall, and he gently hugged the frigid steel of his sword against the exposed flesh of his chest and willed his heart to slow.

***

The morning was chilly and the sun was slow to fully rise, thanks in large part to thick clouds about the horizon. There were a great many officers gathered around, but they didn’t talk much. They parted reluctantly to allow Marcus through their number, until at last he stood over the body. Someone had covered the victim with a thin sheet, and the paladin waited for someone else to uncover the face to avoid offending anyone in the assembled crowd.

The corpse was, after all, that of another guardsman. For the Stumbleroot police, this investigation had just become very personal.

“Who was he?” Marcus said, without looking at anyone in particular.

“Will Rowe,” someone said, and it sounded like they were standing behind his left shoulder. He glanced back, but did not recognize the speaker. “He was one of the guards left here overnight.”

“There were others?” Marcus said. “Where’s Captain Clayworth?”

The question had to be repeated a few times before Marcus was, at last, guided to where the captain stood. Marcus’ first impression of Clayworth had painted him a hard man, simple, maybe a little dull – a hard-ass. It impressed him that the captain had somewhat misty eyes now, and he gave orders quietly but boldly. The man was both in mourning and doing his duty, but he let neither interfere with the other.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the paladin said, after a moment spent finding the right words. “I understand Officer Rowe was posted here last night?”

“Correct,” Clayworth said, and dismissed the officer he’d been talking to. “It was Rowe and Pick here last night. Their shift was supposed to end…well, three hours ago now. When the next shift came to relieve them, they found Will.”

“What about the other guard? Pick, you said?”

Clayworth sighed. “We can’t find him, I’ve got people combing every inch of this damn graveyard but he’s just not here. I just sent a couple of people to his house.”

Marcus hung his head for a moment, willing himself not to express frustration. The men assembled here had lost a friend and were trying to find out why, but the squire was hoping for leads: he had something, someone to hunt, and nothing to go on. Dead men told him nothing.

The paladin put his hands on his hips and scanned the throng of men that milled around their fallen comrade, and then he considered the cemetery around them. Another tall oak loomed over the deceased, and beyond it Marcus could see the oak under which they’d found the tracks – the likely site of another unsolved murder. In the opposite direction the hill dipped, but just over that dip the paladin saw something that caught his attention.

“Is that a house?”

Clayworth glanced up at Marcus, and then followed his gaze. “Oh,” he said. “Yeah, that’s the groundskeeper’s house, I think. There’s still no answer at his door. Useless old bastar…Mister Book?”

Marcus waved back at Clayworth, attempting to be polite and knowing he was being dismissive. He figured Clayworth would know it, too, but didn’t much care. He was crossing the graveyard in long strides, which took up right up the groundskeeper’s house – which really was more of a shack than anything. He did not pause at the door, but hoisted up one boot mid-step and leaned into a hard kick. The door snapped open violently, spitting a cloud of splinters into the air from the jamb.

The paladin entered the shack with his hand raised over one shoulder, wrapped around the hilt of his sword, which was strapped to his back. The interior was dark, thanks in large part to a thick layer of grime on the windows. It was fortunately cramped, and so it did not take long for Marcus’ eyes to fall on the old man apparently fast asleep in bed.

The first of the officers to follow the paladin into the shack glanced about, and then followed his gaze to the groundskeeper. “He slept through that racket? He’s dead drunk!”

Marcus snorted despite himself, and then quickly wiped the wide smile off his face and cleared his throat. “Just dead, I think,” he said. He tugged the sheets down, revealing that the grave-keeper was in fact still in his work clothes and, more importantly, that his throat was open and caked with dried gore.

The squire sighed and glanced around the shack, then turned to leave. “Whoever did this was here,” he said. “There’s a cloud of old black magic just outside the hut. Another dead man, another dead end. If the other night watchman is alive, we need to find him. Now.”

[Allemande]

The setting sun painted the evening with purples and reds when Eva emerged from the mausoleum. She hadn’t meant to leave again until night, but she’d grown impatient of waiting and napping in the cold stone crypt. Even Eva, who had danced with death uncountable times, found her skin crawling from spending too much time in that building. Something about it radiated evil and malice. She shuddered.

The locals had posted two guardsmen in the cemetery once again, and Eva snorted. They were sitting at the top of the hill and facing away from her—it wouldn’t surprise her if one of them had snuck in a bottle of whisky just to pass the time. Ah, incompetency, the best friend of a criminal. Eva snuck through the back of the graveyard and onto the road towards town.

She never realized that she had left the door to the mausoleum wide open. Not until too late.

The dirt path was almost deserted at this time of day. The few farmers walking back to their homesteads after a day at the market gave her odd looks, but none said anything. Eva realized that her once pure white dress was now a tattered mess. It was a shame, the dress had been expensive, but what was she to expect after wearing it for weeks on end? Somehow she would have to get a replacement if she wanted to blend into polite society once more.

The outer skirts of Stumbleroot were a strange interspersing of small farmholds and estates of the wealthy. Eva walked past one such estate and peered in the wrought iron gate. It wasn’t all that different from the home she’d grown up in, before her necromancy had been discovered and she became an outcast. Crickets chirped at the side of the road; their melancholy singing lulled her into a daze. She opened the gate and let herself in, then walked down the short cobbled path to the house itself.

The house (more like a small mansion) was painted a tasteful shade of blue, and had prim white trim and perennials growing in pots outside each window. Eva crouched down so that she wouldn’t be visible, and peered in the windows one by one. Only one, the dining room, had lights on and people inside it. There was a family: father, mother, daughter about Eva’s age. The mother was a slim and worried looking woman who reminded Eva of a rodent. The father, similarly, was slender and ratlike, with thin wire-rimmed glasses. He cleared his throat every few seconds. She took an instant dislike to both of them. The daughter, on the other hand, was beautiful, with shocking green eyes and red hair. Her demeanor was gentle and polite. She seemed out of place compared to the vermin she kept company with.

Eva watched them eat dinner. She had no idea what she was doing here—she ought to be walking to town before it got too dark, and then trying to find out more about that mausoleum—but instead she found herself drawn to this family. The dinner they ate seemed like a feast, although it was the sort of fare Eva would have eaten every night once upon a time, and her mouth watered. Eventually a servant came in and cleared up their dinner, and the family dispersed to their separate rooms.

The daughter’s room was on the first floor, Eva discovered, as she followed the girl around the outside of the house. The girl sat on her bed and began to read quietly (so gentle she seemed! so peaceful!) and Eva watched her hesitantly for a minute, and then rapped twice on her window.

The girl sat bolt upright and looked at Eva. For a moment it seemed as though she was going to shriek, but instead she opened the window and let Eva in.

“Who are you?” the girl asked.

“I’m Eva,” Eva said. They both spoke in hushed tones.

“I’m Anya, Anya Jefferson. Pleased to meet you,” the girl said automatically.

Eva stared at her as though she’d just discovered a cow with five legs. “Right,” she said. “Pleased to meet you too.”

“Did you run away from home?” Anya said. Her tone was cautious but trusting. You would have to be trusting to let a stranger into your house at nighttime. Or just very naïve. Anya seemed to be both.

Eva nodded. “A few months ago. How did you know?”

Anya gestured to Eva’s dress. “That’s a lovely dress but it’s terribly dirty. And normally strange girls don’t come knocking at my window at nine o’clock at night.” She smiled sardonically.

“True,” Eva said, and she smiled back. It was her first genuine smile in a long time. “Your family reminds me of mine.”

“Do they?” Anya said. A shadow fell across her face. “I suppose you came here for help? Food and stuff?”

Eva nodded. “I guess so.”

Suddenly Anya looked cheery again. “Excellent! Oh wow, this is just like an adventure! Hold on, I’ll be right back.” She left for a few minutes and returned with a bulging sack. Eva sifted through it and found plenty of food and a full canteen of water. It was good stuff that wouldn’t perish and should last her awhile. The girl had shown good sense—Eva was impressed.

“Where’d you get the canteen?” Eva asked.

“Oh, my father used to be an adventurer back in the day; I just took it from his supply of stuff. He’s a guardsman now—I doubt he’ll ever miss it. And if he does, he won’t blame it on me, I think.”

“Good,” Eva said. She was momentarily struck by the enormous kindness this strange girl was doing her, and for no apparent reason at all. “Um, there was another thing…”

“You want a new dress, don’t you?” Anya said, grinning. Eva nodded.

“If it’s not too much trouble, anyway.”

“No it’s not, I’m glad to help,” Anya said, and she sounded genuine. “You have no idea how long it’s been since anything exciting happened to me. Hmmm, we’re both about the same size. Hold on!” She began to unlace the dress she was wearing, a gorgeous, fluffy sunflower colored dress. “My parents have this thing about my never having to wear the same dress twice, so they’ll never notice it’s gone.”

Eva was stunned. “How is your family so rich if your father’s just a guard?”

Anya shrugged. “He made a ton of money adventuring way back when I guess, but he retired.” She finished pulling the dress off and handed it to Eva. Eva, however, wasn’t paying attention to the dress. Anya’s body was covered in dark bruises and welts.

Eva looked at her sharply. “How did that happen?”

“I fell down some stairs,” Anya said, laughing awkwardly. “I’m very clumsy.”

“Yeah, sure,” Eva said, as she pulled the new dress over her head. Clumsy. “Why would you lie to me?”

“I don’t even know you,” Anya said.

“Exactly.”

Anya sighed. “My father….drinks. Some. And he has a temper, and I mess things up a lot. That’s all there is to it. It’s not a big deal.”

“I’ll kill him,” Eva said. Her voice was without emotion, but she clenched her fists. “If you want me to, I will.”

“No! Don’t!” Anya said frantically.

“You’ve been considering running away lately, haven’t you?” Eva said, understanding dawning. It all made sense now: the girl’s friendliness and helpfulness, all of it. “That’s why you helped me.”

Anya nodded. “Look, you’ve got to go, if my parents came in now…”

“I’d be fine,” Eva said.

“There might be trouble for me.”

“Alright.” Eva grabbed her new bag of supplies and started to climb out the window she’d come in through, but the other girl stopped her.

“Wait,” Anya said. She grabbed Eva’s arm and then kissed her on the lips. It was a short but sweet kiss, and for both it was their first.

“Thank you,” Eva said, and she meant it. There was a tear at the corner of her eye. It had been so long since she’d experienced anything pure, anything good. Perhaps not since she’d been a very small child. She looked once more at the red-haired girl, and then she dropped out of the low window and walked into the night and the darkness once more.

[Amen]

It was well into the evening by the time they found Jon Pick in a poor watering hole, nowhere near his house. Marcus had followed the investigators eagerly, silently, but they could feel his impatience and they were motivated by it. They’d gone first to Pick’s house, where his young wife burst into tears and became inconsolable and unintelligible, and so it took far too long for them to find out that Jon had never returned home from his shift. After that it was a long list of family and acquaintances that had to be visited, and the investigators were as new to it as Book: if this had been any other missing person, they would not have been so thorough.

It didn’t help that the police force was stretched thin. A large majority of the force was involved in transporting William Rowe’s body from where it was found, and then combing the large graveyard a second time for evidence of Pick, or what was left of him. When it became apparent that they would find nothing there, a small contingent of their number came back to town to assist with the hunt there, while a larger portion extended out into the countryside on horseback.

Finally, word came that the lost watchman been discovered in a drunken stupor, and the wandering officers were recalled from all the far corners of Stumbleroot.

Marcus was further frustrated when he was not permitted to speak to Pick for a long time while his fellows ensured he was alright, and he was given time to sober up. Book's impatience began to put him at odds with the police, who began to wonder at his eccentricities, and the rumors about him began to spread afresh.

***

Finally, the paladin took a seat across from Jon Pick. The watchman was undeniably the most miserable person Marcus had ever met, with the beginnings of an unkempt beard, hair sodden with grease, and bloodshot eyes ringed in what looked to be puffy bruises. It was his sincere urge to slap the man, but a tense handful of guardsmen surrounded them and it was no secret that their intent was to protect their fellow.

“Mister Pick,” Book said, “we need to know what happened in the graveyard last night. You must remember something.”

“No,” Pick said stubbornly and without lifting his eyes.

The urge to slap was overwhelming now.

“Your friend is dead,” Marcus said coldly, “and if you don’t tell me what happened, we may never catch the person who did it.”

The paladin didn’t actually believe this to be true. He wouldn’t stop until he found the black magician, and he was already considering the possibility of waiting to interrogate Pick at a later date, when he could get him away from his protectors. Though he did so reluctantly, he was already considering the viability of torture when Jon’s mouth twisted up and he began to blubber, and tears formed quick-moving rivulets on his face.

“You already caught ‘im,” Jon wept, “I did it! I choked him, I did!”

A low, uncomfortable murmur went through the assembled officers, and some of their number began to argue that the interview was over, that their friend needed more time to sober up. The sharp look Marcus cast in their direction gave them pause, but only just so – he was running out of time.

“Why?” the squire said.

“I dun’ know!” Pick wailed. “’e fell over cryin’ and screamin’, sayin’ he was afire, but he wasn’t, and ‘en before I know it I’m on him chokin’ ‘im, and ‘en he’s dead! I din’t mean to!”

The words fell out of him in a rush, mangled by snot and his bawling, but Marcus got the gist of it. He sat back in his chair.

“You don’t mean that,” another officer said. “You’ve just had too much to drink. You didn’t kill Will, Jon, you were friends.”

“He meant exactly what he said,” Marcus said. “But you’re right, it wasn’t his fault. He was made to do this.”

“And how would you know that?” a third officer said hotly. “Maybe you were there, eh? Maybe you know that ‘cause you did it!”

“Stand down, Jefferson,” Clayworth shouted, suddenly standing in the doorway. “You’re relieved for the night. Go home. The rest of you, get Jon back to his wife.”

Marcus watched impassively as the officers followed their orders, helping Pick out of his chair and guiding him through the door. He had more questions, needed more answers, but knew that he would get nothing more of any value from the watchman. He was no closer to his prey, but at the very least it seemed he was no farther – his gut told him that the black magician hadn’t left Stumbleroot.

“I think it would be best if you left as well, Book,” the captain said. “This is a matter for Jon’s family now.”

“Of course,” Marcus said, rising out of his chair. He had the distinct impression that Clayworth hadn’t meant Pick’s blood relations when he spoke of family.

***

It was some hours later when Marcus Book lifted his eyes and discovered a regal building before him. Night had long since fallen, but he needed to think, and he found that walking and solitude were conducive to contemplation. Without realizing it, he had wandered the streets until he came to a stop at Stumbleroot’s library. It was an impressive structure, connected at the back to the small monastery-university. Judging by the fine architecture, the town’s forefathers had clearly and wisely seen the value in readily-available knowledge and learning.

And lantern light from the windows suggested that it was fortunately still open and occupied.

The paladin ascended the broad stone steps and tried the door, which was indeed still unlocked. As he entered, a diminutive monk seated at a desk immediately to the left of the doorway rose from his seat and smiled. He was very nearly hidden behind a wall of tomes, and so Marcus was mildly startled.

“Apologies,” the monk whispered with a chuckle, “I didn’t mean to scare you. Welcome. Is there anything I can help you find tonight?”

Book cleared his throat and relaxed, and responded with the volume of his voice lowered to match the monk’s. “I’m curious about the town’s history,” he said. “I’m interested in any books or records about Stumbleroot dating back fifty years, preferably more.”

The monk raised his eyebrows and said, “A popular subject lately, it seems. You’ll find what you’re looking for there, in the back right corner of the library. If you need to access the archives you’ll need to ask another monk for assistance, but the secondary-source histories should be more than sufficient.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Popular? Someone else has been here looking for the same thing?”

“Oh yes,” the monk said, “a young lady, in fact. It’s good to see the nobility taking an interest in history, though I worry about her being out so late.”

“When?”

“Oh, not long ago. An hour at most? I didn’t see her leave; maybe she’s still back there.”

Marcus growled and turned away from the monk, and without another word he crept into the library and toward the section the librarian had indicated, hand on the hilt of his sword.

[Allemande]

Libraries, Eva had always found, were remarkably similar to graveyards. They were filled with dead things, generally deserted, and above all else silent. As such, she felt equally at home in both. The dry smell of fading paper and the dull light of of the oily lamps that illuminated the stone walls comforted her.

The librarian was a short, fat, and above all else stupid man who had been remarkably easy to fool. He’d been suspicious of Eva being out at this time of night, but she’d explained to him that she’d just been suffering the worst insomnia lately, and she was just so interested in the history she’d been studying with her tutor lately, and if she was awake anyway she might as well be reading, and of course her parents were fine with this…and so on and so forth. In the end she’d completely won the monk over, of course—he’d even provided her with a blanket and some warm milk and told her that she was welcome to sleep in the library if she felt too tired to walk home so late. She thanked the old fool and went to her studies amidst the dusty old stacks.

She lay her head on the desk, pulled the blanket around her, and considered taking up the librarian’s offer of sleep. So far her studies had been completely unsuccessful. It wasn’t thanks to her reading abilities, either. Most people would have been intimidated by the surprisingly huge volumes of Scara Brae history, but Eva had always been an avid reader. As a child she'd gone through a phase where she read the encyclopedia page for every deadly poison known to man. She was able to leaf through and find the passages pertinent to Stumbleroot just fine. Or rather…she wasn’t. She could find where the passages about Stumbleroot ought to be, anyway, but every one had been ripped out—every trace of the town had been surgically removed from the history books like a cancerous growth. Who had removed the passages? Why? Stumbleroot was, surprisingly, mentioned quite a bit, so it must have taken quite a bit of effort to remove every mention.

Hours poring over book after book, and only more questions. She picked up a book from the pile at random with the intention of throwing it across the room, and then laughed when she saw the title.

“A Childe’s Book of Fairie Tales,” was written on the cover in a flowing and supposedly romantic script. The monk must have snuck it in with her other books when she’d asked him for help reaching the higher shelves.

Amused, and slightly irritated at being condescended to, she opened the book and leafed through its pages. It was the usual dull fare. Cinder Girl and the Glass Shoe, Little Red Cap, The Story of the Three Bears…stuff any child had heard a thousand time. Eva had been very fond of fairy tales as a child. Not the cleaned up, censored version that most adults presented to their kids, but the original versions, which were usually rather grim and morbid.

There was one fairy tale in the book that she hadn’t heard, simply titled “THE FIRST GAVOTTE.” She’d never heard of it. The first page had a very detailed map of Stumbleroot on it, and the page after that depicted a dancing skeleton.

Suddenly, Eva was completely awake. She read the story, eyes widening with each sentence. The book told of a time in a town called Bumbleboot—she snorted at the obvious pun—“long long ago, before you were even born!” when an unnamed villain had summoned undead with some kind of magical staff with a ruby on the end of it. A brave paladin named Angelo fought him back with the help of the townsfolk, and ever since then a dance known as the Gavotte had been performed every year to commemorate the paladin’s victory and ensure that the necromancer didn’t return to haunt the town once more. Eva eagerly turned the pages. Whoever had torn apart the history books evidently hadn’t thought to check something as simple as the children’s section! There were more pages detailing the battle between the paladin and the necromancer, which she read eagerly—

“I know what you are, witch.”

Eva spun around in her chair and found herself looking up into the face of a tall and intimidating man with golden tinged eyes. He'd managed to sneak up behind her in her excitement The man was pointing a sword at her. Gods above, why did this always happen to her? She considered denying everything, but something about the man’s demeanor told her that it would be useless.

“Really?” she asked, trying to buy herself time. She gave her most winsome smile. “How’s that?”

“I can smell you,” the man said. He was probably a paladin or cleric of some sort…oh, how tiresome. The problem was, in the library, she had no escape routes. She was literally up against a wall. There was no room or time for her to dance, and so things looked bad indeed.

“I’m sure that will hold up in a court of law,” Eva said sardonically. “’Oh fellas! I just saw this gal, I smelt her and I just knew she’d been digging up graves at Sad Hill, I just knew it—”

“I never said anything about digging up graves at Sad Hill,” the paladin said. Oops. His tone of voice didn’t change, but anger flared up in the man’s eyes like wildfire. “And the only court of law I need is my sword.”

“Really? Because there’s a whole other court of law that might frown on heavily armed men attacking unarmed girls in libraries in the middle of night.”

“I don’t answer to you or any other but to the Source and the members of the Brotherhood,” the paladin said. Eva had to resist the temptation to smile. He was playing right into her hands. He could have had her dead five minutes ago, but the longer this conversation went on, the higher the likelihood that circumstances would change in her favor.

“Oh, the religious sort, are you? How…predictable. What did you say your name was again?”

“Marcus Book, not that it’s any of your business. Now—”

“Pleased to meet you, I’m Eva!” she said in an obviously mocking tone of voice.

‘Marcus’ was clearly finished with this conversation. He raised his sword and Eva cringed and prepared to try and dodge away. She screamed and it was completely genuine. Before the paladin could finish his blow, however footsteps and voices interrupted him.

“Hey! Hey, that’s the man!” someone shouted. The librarian and a small cluster of town guards ran around the corner. Two guards immediately seized Marcus, who looked too surprised to bother resisting.

“You did good in calling us,” one of the guards said. He was a tall man with stubble and a gruff voice. Typical captain of the guard type. “This man is one of the prime suspects in the recent grave robbing cases, as well as in the murders of William Rowe and James Roque, both public servants. He’s also accused with impersonating a paladin and even suspected of necromancy, a capital crime. It seems we’ve caught him red handed. Disarm him, men.”

The guards did just that.

“You don’t understand,” Marcus said. His tone of voice was frantic. “This woman’s a necromancer! She’s bewitched you all—”

“Please take him away!” Eva shouted. “H-h-he, he said…” she burst into tears. The monk walked over and patted her on the shoulder.

“Now now,” he soothed. “You don’t have to say anything, you’re safe now.”

The guard who’d spoken earlier walked over to her. “Let the girl speak,” he said. “As a first hand witness, her testimony could be vital to this case.”

“Don’t listen to her!” Marcus said. No one paid any attention to him.

Eva sniffled and looked up at the guard with big watery eyes. “H-he said he was going to kill me! And then he’d…” She burst into tears again. It took a full minute for the monk to console her into speaking again. When she spoke again, she did so in hushed tones. “He said he was going to turn me into a zombie!”

The guards and monk were silent, clearly stunned. The captain, however, looked completely unsurprised.

Inside, she could not have been happier, but she gave no sign of it. This was just another performance. She’d been dancing on stages her whole life; this scene in the library was just one more show to put on before the crowd, with the paladin and guards as unwitting actors. There’d be no applause today, but seeing the paladin dangling at the end of a rope would be enough recognition for her.

“Come on, I’ll take you home,” the librarian said gently. Eva nodded and followed him out of the building.

Exit stage left.

Bunnying (http://laughingsquid.com/wp-content/uploads/2006/01/bunnies_cups.jpg)of Marcus approved, of course.

[Amen]

“We ought to have known just from looking at him, you know,” one of the guards was saying.

Marcus was seated in the back of a horse-drawn cart, his wrists manacled behind him and attached by a chain to the seat of the cart. He’d never been arrested before, and he found it more than a little frustrating to watch the library gradually shrink into the distance before the cart turned. It didn’t help that his back was pressed to the seat of the cart, on which the arresting officers sat and spoke of him as if he weren’t there.

“How’s that?” the second responded to the first.

“Well, he doesn’t look like a paladin, see? He doesn’t have any armor on. He’s dressed like a tramp, and look at this sword, eh? It’s a big dull lump of iron. Heavy, too. A real paladin would have a right fancy blade,” the first explained.

Book growled.

“Quiet back there,” the first guard said, elbowing the back of his seat.

***

Marcus found himself in a cell in the Stumbleroot police office. There were three cells in a row, just three, and each housed a drunk or two each as a nightly fact. The paladin was a special prisoner, though, so he was made to occupy the middle cell by himself, and the extra drunks were moved to the adjoining cells. This meant that the cell on the right had three people in it, but one of them was too far gone to make a stink.

He paced the length of the cell door from one side to the other, over and over, like a captive lion. Every so often he would pause and consider a few rusty sections in the bars, but he never acted on it: as much as he wanted to, the Brotherhood would frown on any action taken that would further deteriorate their relationship with the Stumbleroot governance. If the paladin went too far, they would disavow any knowledge of him in order to preserve their own good standing.

Marcus didn’t blame them for this: the important part was killing the witch, and making sure Stumbleroot could never house another one. If that meant the sacrifice of one unproven squire, well, that was a fine price to pay.

Still, his own pride was wounded and his quarry taken from him. He wished he’d just run her through on sight, but something had given him pause. She wasn’t hideous, for one, and her fear made her seem too much like any other young girl. He hesitated, this was undeniable, but the question of why remained. It wasn’t self-doubt, of that he was sure: she was a witch. Black magic hung on her despite her dainty dress and big blue eyes.

Book sighed when he heard approaching footsteps, paused his pacing, and leaned against the cell doors with his arms hung over a shoulder-height horizontal bar connecting the vertical bars of the cage. Clayworth entered, looking grim and disappointed.

“Open the door,” Marcus said evenly. It was an order, but there wasn’t any threat in it. This was Marcus trying to be diplomatic.

“I can’t do that, Mister Book,” Clayworth said. “If that’s even who you are, I don’t know what to believe anymore. The evidence is against you.”

“Did you think your witch would be ugly, and stand out? If it were so simple, there would be no need for people like me. That was your witch; it was her magic that led to the deaths of your people.”

“It wasn’t magic that killed them!” Clayworth shouted. “It was blades and strong hands. And it’s not just the girl, though that was the final straw. We had a long talk with Pick tonight, and we’ve come to agree that he couldn’t have killed anyone; it’s not in his character. You did these crimes, Book. I don’t know why and I don’t care, but you’ll pay for it. Our instincts were right from the beginning: none of this happened before you got here.”

Marcus sneered openly before he could contain it: Clayworth had proven himself sentimental and weak, and the paladin was too angry to hide his disgust as he normally managed in polite company. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t about to start somewhere,” the squire said, “I follow rumors, tales, and trails the iniquitous leave behind. Of course it coincided with my arrival, I was following it. And it would have been over and done with if not for your ignorant meddling. Another minute and the witch would be dead, and in eight hours I would have been on my way and off this godforsaken island.”

Marcus turned away from Clayworth and began pacing again, his eyes glinting in the shadows of his cell.

“It would be easier on all of us if you’d just confess,” the captain said. “But it’s not necessary. Stumbleroot takes cases of witchcraft very seriously, and the evidence against you is damning. Under our law, there will be a three day period before you’ll be executed for necromancy, murder, and subversion of the law.”

“No trial? How modern.”

“Expediency is important. The faster you hang, the fewer opportunities you have to ply your black trade.”

“This will end one of three ways,” Marcus said, still pacing. “One, she’ll finish what she started while I’m stuck in here. I don’t know what she intends, but you and everyone you know will likely die. Two, you let me out of here and I stop her, and we go our separate ways. Three, I remain trapped here, she moves on, and you execute me. Then my mentor will come looking for answers, and she’ll tear your town to shreds.”

“Threats won’t help your case, sir. I believe these events will stop now that you’re behind bars, and if they don’t I’ll have to assume your influence does not require freedom and I’ll merely have to execute you sooner. And I have no doubt that you have accomplices, perhaps even teachers, but I assure you they’ll soon hang. I have no fear of this ‘mentor,’ whoever the witch may be.”

The paladin’s shoulders tensed, but he resisted the urge to strangle Clayworth through the bars. He didn’t actually believe that Anya would kill anyone to avenge him, but it irked him to have her spoken ill of.

“Go away,” he said at last.

Clayworth sighed. “I will, but I’ll be back tomorrow to ask for your confession again. Consider it. This will be a great deal less painful for you if you’d just repent.”

Book scoffed, and that was the end of their exchange.

[Allemande]

4:30 AM

By the time Eva ditched the librarian and made her way back to the graveyard, it was nearly dawn. Oddly enough, Sad Hill cemetery was deserted once again. Evidently the guards no longer saw any need to watch over the place, now that the culprit was found. Eva smiled. It’s notable to say that she never once felt guilt for the situation she’d put the paladin in back in the library. He was about to kill her, so why should she? Maybe if he’d been a bit more personable the townspeople wouldn’t have been so quick to book him, hmmm? It could not be thought of as her fault, in any way shape or form.

Her only regret was that she hadn’t thought or had the chance to grab the book of “Fairie Tales” on her way back. Oh well. She’d read what she needed to read and got the information she needed to get. The catacombs beneath Stumbleroot were clearly the tomb of some sort of ancient necromancer, and that explained everything. Well, almost everything. Why had all traces of the battle she assumed had happened been removed from the history books? Maybe the town was ashamed of its history, but that seemed…well, kind of important.

Whatever. It didn’t matter. What Eva was interested in now was the scepter. Whatever inaccuracies may have been in the child-simplified tale, something told her that that part was true. If she could get her hands on such an artifact…she might not have to worry about finding food to eat or a place to sleep ever again. In fact, she might be able to exert some control, at least over this sleepy little forest town.

For the first time in her life, but not the last, the lust for power filled Eva’s heart.

And if the scepter did exist—which it must, it must—then where would it be but sealed up in the necromancer’s tomb?

She let herself into the mausoleum, eager to descend into the catacombs below, but found that the stairway had vanished. Frustrating. It didn’t matter much, though, she was tired. It had been a long time, and it was probably better to get some rest before descending into those dark depths once again. She curled up in a corner and fell asleep within minutes.


* * *

5 PM

Eva awoke once again to the sound of shifting stone. She sat up bolt upright, well rested, and immediately charged down the stairs in excitement. The red glow suffused the walls once more. The catacombs were cold as a corpse’s blood, and her footsteps echoed across the flagstones and were magnified to give the impression of a hundred people stalking down the dusty corridors.

Before, she’d been afraid of getting lost, but she was no more. This time, everything felt…right. She felt as though she belonged here, as if she’d stalked these corridors a thousand times and knew every nook and cranny. It was a peculiar feeling, almost like repeated déjà vu. She supposed that she ought to be creeped out, but she wasn’t in the slightest.

She made her way deeper and deeper into the catacombs. She supposed that she must be deep beneath the center of the town of Stumbleroot by now. The hallways were no longer lined with corpses, but instead with arcane carvings and runes and pictures.

Without warning, she stepped into a huge round room with a great domed ceiling. It was lit by a scattering of candelabras, each candle with a magical glowing green flame in the center. In the center of the room sat a single unassuming gray sarcophagus.

Heart pounding, Eva walked towards the tomb of the necromancer that had once held this town under his dominion.

[Allemande]

The lid of the sarcophagus slid off with surprising ease. It was light as a feather. Eva’s hand shook, but she knew there was no going back now. Hell, she couldn’t go back even if she wanted to (and maybe she did). She felt compelled towards the coffin and the body that lay within.

The skeleton in the sarcophagus was dusty and almost mummified. Its bones were brown with age, and the tattered remains of once rich fabrics hung around it. Eva stared into the abysses of its eyes for a long time. As with all skeletons, its mouth was turned up into a perpetual grin. Eva knew that grin well. Death is such a nice place, that grin said. Care to join us?

Clasped in one of the skeleton’s hands was a wooden staff with a glass orb at the end. It was nowhere near the golden, ruby-tipped scepter the “Faerie Tales” book had described. In fact, it looked altogether unremarkable, like a child’s plaything that had accidentally been sealed in a tomb with this ancient evil.

Once the idea occurred to her, there was no longer any choice. She’d lost all free will from that moment, as assuredly as a puppet as soon as its strings are tied with the final knot. It wasn’t ancient magic that controlled her at this point—that would come later—it was simple curiosity. The same bastard Curiosity that killed the cat.

But it was Satisfaction who brought him back.

Eva grasped the skeleton’s dry hands and pulled it out of the sarcophagus. It followed her, still grinning. And she began to dance.

The Allemande contained all the sincerity and somber beauty of a funeral. She danced with the skeleton across the crypt and in between the candelabras. Three steps, spin on the ball of one foot, three more steps, twirl…and so on. At first the dead necromancer was just dragging her down, but it began to step along with her, until they were dancing side-by-side. An eerie aria began to play from somewhere in the rafters to accompany their dance. Eva realized that the wooden staff was still clasped in the skeleton’s hands, and that the glass orb at its end was now glowing crimson red, the same shade of red that suffused the walls.

The walls that…weren’t there anymore. Eva swung her head around in shock, but it was true—the walls of the crypt had faded away into blackness. They kept dancing, but they were now in a void. That void, however, began to fill. First grass appeared beneath their feet, then a blue sky and sun over their heads, and then buildings around them. Eva realized that they were in the town of Stumbleroot, or some primitive version thereof.

“Stumbleroot?” the skeleton said. ‘No, back then, back now, the town didn’t have any such foolish name as Bumbleboot or Stumbleroot or whatever you wish to call it. Then we had a dignified name! Although I can’t seem to recall what it was…”

Eva realized with horror that the skeleton was talking to her. That had never happened before, in all the times she’d danced the Allemande. The corpses she “brought back” were only superficially revived—none of them showed sentience of any sort.

They continued to dance, and more and more details of the surrounding scene filled in. Now there were people, running and screaming and fighting, and most of the buildings were on fire.

“That’s because they were really dead,” the skeleton chattered. “It’s much harder to actually bring someone back to life than it is to just animate a corpse. Don’t you know that, girl? What kind of necromancer are you?”

“And I suppose you aren’t dead? You look awfully dead to me,” Eva said. They twirled once more and continued their dance.

The skeleton laughed somehow (a disturbing sound) and looked down at his body. “Appearances are deceiving, my girl! Watch!”

Eva did watch, and as she did, muscles began to grow on the skeleton’s bones. Then veins and arteries, until he was a red and meaty monstrosity—she had to resist the urge to puke for a moment. It was only a moment though, as the skeleton (now a body) grew skin, and hair, and eyes and lips and everything. After only a minute, a fully alive and fleshed out human danced with her instead of a skeleton.

He was a tall man with blonde hair and blue eyes much like Eva’s. He was muscular and had a strong and noble jaw, and Eva objectively supposed that he was handsome, although she wasn’t attracted to him. Still, it was much better dancing with a real human than with a corpse. Maybe. She wasn’t sure yet if she should be afraid.

All around them, Stumbleroot burned. Eva realized that they were standing in the midst of a battlefield. Skeletons and zombies and walking corpses fought with armored knights. Mages threw fireballs and rangers shot arrows, but nothing seemed to stop the army of undead. Every time a living human died, he rose again and joined the horde of reanimated warriors.

The man Eva was dancing with laughed. “Wasn’t it glorious, what I was doing?”

“Maybe,” Eva said. She still wasn’t sure what to make of all this, but there was no choice but to continue dancing now. Her limbs moved without her own control.

“Maybe? Why so hesitant? I’m just like you, little Eva. We’re two peas in a pod,” the man gave her a fatherly smile.

“I never tried to take over a town,” Eva pointed out. “Or killed innocent people.”

“The only reason you haven’t attempted the first is that you’re not yet powerful enough. And as for the second, really? What capital crime did the old gravekeeper commit, or the two guards whose lives you destroyed, other than being in your way?”

Eva was silent. The dance slowed down, and the scene of the Stumbleroot a hundred years ago burning faded away. Once again they were back in the crypt. The man, however, did not go back to being a skeleton. He was as fleshy and real as herself now. Did she do that? Did she really do that?

“Oh, don’t give yourself all the credit, girl,” the necromancer said. “Or any credit, really. You were just a conduit. Anyone with a bit of necromantic potential would have done, I just needed to use your silly dance as a channel to use my own power to bring myself back to life.”

“Who are you?” Eva asked. “What’s your name?”

The necromancer laughed. “You know what’s funny? I can’t even remember anymore. It’s been so long! But it doesn’t matter. All you need to know, girl, is that I’m your villain.”

Then the necromancer pulled out his glass-tipped wand, pointed it at Eva, and jerked to the left. She went flying against the stone wall as if she’d been thrown by a giant, and hit her head against the stones. She fell to the ground and was knocked unconscious immediately.

The necromancer surveyed her with pity. The poor girl had some potential, actually. He couldn’t have competition or distractions about just now, but maybe he’d make her his apprentice later on or something. Assuming that she survived in this crypt until the end of his return, that was, and if not he could just bring her back. For now he had more important things to worry about.

He felt as though he’d just been born again, and was filled with all the vigor and wild energy of a child. He raised his head to the sky and shouted wildly. “I'M BACK!”

The funny thing about necromancers is that they never really die.

[Amen]

Marcus sat on his cot, staring intently at a large patch of rust coloring a joining section of prison bar. It was late, he guessed, closer to morning than midnight, and the rust offered temptation that was increasingly difficult to resist. For hours now, he had imagined himself kicking at that rusty bar until it gave way, and then he would attempt to squeeze through the gap. It would be a tight fit, especially for him, but he thought he could do it.

It would be noisy, of course. There were a few guardsmen left in the station over night, one not far from the cells, and he would surely call for help before attempting to apprehend a paladin. Or a known witch, if that’s what this particular man believed. Marcus would have to fight his way out, barehanded.

He’d probably die in the attempt, but he imagined it being a moderately glorious death. He looked into the air contemplatively and bent the corners of his lips down, and nodded appreciatively – it would be a daring escape or a fine end.

When he was satisfied that this was true, Marcus leaned forward and prepared to launch himself forward, lift his leg, and then bring his boot down on the rust. The first try might not do it, he figured, but two or three more kicks ought to be sufficient. He hoisted himself up and took three long, determined strides, and then brought his boot up.

At that moment, the outer gate to the cell block rattled, and Book tensed and retracted his leg quickly, clenching his teeth. That would have been disastrous.

Now, there were windows opposite the three cells, all securely barred and facing the street, where a single street lamp burned. This provided some small measure of illumination in the hall – enough that Marcus could see the figure of a man approaching without being capable of identifying him. So, the paladin watched silently, and something in his visitor’s furtive manner gave him pause.

When the man inched closer, Book could see that he was dressed as a guard and cradled something to his chest. “Constable Rike?”

Rike gasped and leapt a full foot in the air, nearly collapsing against the far wall, and then he began to cuss passionately under his breath. “For gods’ sake!” he cursed.

“Sorry,” Marcus whispered, “I forget that I see better in the dark than you.”

Rike held up a hand and shook his head as he struggled to calm down, which he finally did with a huge sigh. Rubbing his chest over his heart, the constable inched over to the cell. “No need to apologize, Mister Book. And I think just ‘Ben’ would be appropriate at the moment, I’m not exactly here on official business.”

The constable peered into the cell with narrowed eyes, but it was so dark that he could identify Marcus Book only by a large, man-shaped dark spot amidst the gloom; though on closer inspection Rike could see a pair of glowing sparks hovering in the dark where the squire’s head should be. For a moment, he felt doubt.

“Well, Ben,” Book said, “what brings you here at three in the morning?”

“Closer to four, really,” Rike whispered. “I don’t believe you’re a witch, Mister Book. I brought you this.”

The guardsman extended the bundle he was carrying, which Marcus accepted through the bars. The item was wrapped in a thin white towel, which the paladin gently lifted to reveal a loaf of bread.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not very hungry,” Marcus said with a sigh.

“Don’t turn it away, Mister Book,” Ben said. “It’s more important to you than you realize, just don’t share the hard part with anyone else.”

The constable gave a pointed glance to the snoring drunks in the next cell over.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m not supposed to be here and it would be best if I weren’t seen.”

And before the paladin could say anything, Rike turned and hurried away again. Now completely perplexed, Marcus went about unwrapping the towel entirely to fully reveal the loaf. He was hungry, despite what he’d said, and when he went to tear a bit from the corner of the loaf he found that the top had already been cut so that it formed a long cap. He lifted this cap off, and revealed that the loaf had been hollowed out, and something shiny rested on the fluffy bed.

A key.

Marcus smiled and removed the key, and then took a great bite out of Rike’s gift as he reached through the bars to undo the cell lock.

***

The night air of Stumbleroot was chilly and sweet, even outside the damnable police station, and Marcus took a long moment to stop and breathe it in. He had never been so happy to just go where he pleased, and though he’d always favored the nighttime for its solitude and silence it had never seemed quite this inviting.

Once he was armed with the key, his escape had been a simple thing. The same key unlocked the cell door and the outer cell, and the guardsman on duty had been fast asleep on the far side of the room. Marcus had simply returned the key to its traditional place on a notch in the wall, and then climbed out an open window to avoid any other guardsman.

It was Marcus’ turn to be startled now, as Rike hissed at him from around a corner, and the paladin joined him there. The two crouched conspiratorially in the dark, and Rike stared at the paladin for a long moment.

“What?” Marcus whispered.

“Sorry,” Rike said, “I was waiting to see if you were going to turn me into a frog or…well, you know.”

“I thought you didn’t think I was a witch.”

“Well, I was pretty sure, but you can never be too careful,” Rike said defensively.

Marcus grunted. “I need my sword, where is it?”

“Still in the station, locked away I’m afraid,” Rike said. “I’m sorry, Mister Book, but there’s no chance we’re getting into the lockup.”

The paladin paused in thought. “Did they move my chest?”

“Your-?”

“My chest, the one in my room!”

“Oh,” the constable said. “No, nobody’s been there as far as I know. I wouldn’t go back there, though, that’s the first place they’ll look when they discover you’ve escaped.”

“It can’t be helped,” Book said, “I need a weapon. How long do I have before they start to miss me?”

“Two or three hours at best. They come in ‘round seven to let the regulars out.”

“That’s plenty of time,” Marcus said. “I need a place to stay, though. I obviously can’t get around during the day anymore.”

“Right,” Ben said, and produced a key. “Here. I live on Roper Street, it’s two over to the east from main, number fourteen. You can stay there during the day; nobody should think to check there for you.”

Marcus paused, considering the risk the constable was taking for him. He eyed Rike, suspicious at first, and then…well, he found it difficult to assign a word to it. Was he touched?

“Thank you,” the paladin said at last, and the words tasted strange.

“It wasn’t right, what Jefferson put them up to. He’s wrong, but he’s got Clayworth and enough of the others thinking he’s right. Your eyes and those drawings on your arm - sorry sir, I couldn’t help but notice them when I visited you a few nights ago – well, you strike us as being strange, and there’s clearly a bit of magic about you, and we just don’t trust magic around here. But I know you’re not a witch, it just doesn’t add up. Now, the sun’s coming and you’ve got work to do, eh?”

Marcus nodded, and at that turned to leave.

“Marcus,” Rike said, and the paladin turned to peer at him over one shoulder. “Good luck.”

***

Book’s first stop was his rooms in the Stumbleroot hotel. His key had been confiscated, so he had little choice but to force the lock. This was louder than he would have hoped, and so he worked fast.

The chest emblazoned with the scarlet iron cross was where he’d left it, and he knelt before it and pressed his palm against a broad plate on the front of it. There was no visible means of opening the chest: it responded when a paladin channeled the Source into it, as Marcus did now, and then the lock unclasped.

Inside were many esoteric items, almost all of which belonged to the squire’s mentor. One, however, was technically his to claim. It was a flanged mace of ornate design, which he fastened to his hip with his belt before closing the chest again.

***

The horizon was brightening when the paladin arrived at the library for the second time. He made no attempt to be careful or quiet now: he chose a side door and kicked it open at the jamb – his favorite way to open doors – and hurried into the shadowy library while removing his jacket. Once his arms were uncovered, he allowed the Source to flow through the tattoos on his left arm, which caused them to illuminate with a bright golden glow.

He returned to where he had encountered the pretty young necromancer, and quickly began looking at the books spread out where she’d been sitting. The topmost book seemed to be an anthology of children’s stories, and his first instinct was to discard it. The strangeness of the book’s presence occurred to him, however – a necromancer reading fairy tales – and so he tossed it into a pile of books he supposed the young woman had found useful.

Marcus gathered these books up under one arm and left. He decided he would spend the day at Rike’s flat going through the collected books in the hopes of gleaning the witch’s intentions, and hopefully learn enough to come up with a plan of action by nightfall.


The mace mentioned in this post was earned here (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=20573&page=2).

[Allemande]

“I ought to just kill you now, but seeing as I’m working overtime anyway I figure I don’t have to.”

Eva opened her eyes, pulled herself out of sleep and stared into the face of a red-haired and smug-faced woman.

“Wha…?” Eva said, still in the dizzy realm of not-fully-awake. She sat up and took note of her surroundings. She appeared to be in some sort of small, dark, damp cell illuminated by the same red glow that illuminated all of the catacombs. The wall to her left was all bars, and a skeletal guard with a sword stood outside, watching her dispassionately.

The other woman in the cell was a tall, muscular woman with a network of scars on her face. Her eyes were a beautiful shade of gold, but her expression was harsh.

“Who are you?” Eva asked.

“Angela, paladin of the Fifth Order,” the woman said. She was pacing from one end of the cell to the other. “And what are you called, little necromancer?”

“Eva Williams,” Eva replied automatically.

“And what exactly do you have to do with all this? You’re Xander’s new lackey or something?”

Eva at first was confused. “Xander? Who’s…” then she realized what the paladin was talking about, and shook her head vehemently. “No, definitely not! He tried to kill me!”

“Really? Interesting. That explains why we’ve been locked up. And Xander’s just what he calls himself. His name used to be Alexander, but I guess that wasn’t sinister enough or something.” The woman rolled her eyes. “One thing about Xander is, he’s horribly uncreative. Anyway, are you going to help me break out of here or what?”

“Wait, first, how did you get here?” Eva asked. She was incredibly confused. The last thing she remembered was dancing with the necromancer in the crypt, and next thing she knew she was waking up in some kind of prison-cell with a paladin?

Angela laughed heartily. “It’s a funny story, actually. Xander tried to bring me back to life to make me corpse into one of his minions, but it turns out that bringing powerful paladin’s back to life isn’t such a great idea. I rebelled of course, and almost killed the bastard, but he was armed and I wasn’t. So he defeated me and I ended up thrown in here. He said he’d deal with ‘breaking my will’ later or somesuch.”

“I see,” Eva said. “So you’re the paladin from the story, then? But he was a man.”

“Yeah, I believe it,” Angela said. She looked irritated, but then again, she always looked irritated. “Who do you suppose writes this history books? Men. And who do you suppose they want in the history books? Here's a hint: it's not strong women.”

“Men,” Eva replied, laughing a bit.

“Absolutely. That’s why I think I like you, girl. You might be a servant of the eternal darkness and doomed to burn in hell forever—”

Eva gulped.

“—but you’re a far sight better than most of the other necromancer’s I’ve met. The men are all intolerably arrogant, and the women are just sluts who like revealing black lace and spikes a bit too much. At least you have class. That’s good, don’t lose that.”

“Um…I won’t?” Eva said. She wasn’t sure how to react to the strange woman at all. The paladin seemed to be switching between complimenting her fashion and threatening to kill her. For someone who was technically undead, Angela seemed to be filled with massive amount of energy. Eva wondered if all powerful light warriors were this way—filled with more life and power than they knew what to do with.

“Alright, so,” Angela said, abruptly changing the subject. “Do you know how to use any weapons?”

Eva shook her head. She had that ceremonial dagger in the folds of her dress, but she wasn’t nearly skilled enough with it to be any good in a fight.

Angela scratched her chin. “Well I’m assuming you can dispel undead, right? Maybe even convert them?”

Eva shook her head again. She wasn’t even sure she knew what either of those meant. She’d had no formal training as a necromancer or a magician. All her skill boiled down to natural talent and instinct—everything she knew had been self-taught.

“What? What kind of a necromancer are you?” Angela scoffed.

“Not much of one, apparently,” Eva said. “Why does this matter anyway?”

“Well, I can probably break the bars on this cell, but I’d like someone to cover my back if we’re going to fight out way out of the catacombs.”Angela continued pacing, quicker and quicker. Eva just sat and watched, bemused. “Xander’s probably revived most of the undead by now, and he’ll be marching on Stumbleroot soon enough. If we’re lucky we could reach him and stop this invasion before it begins.”

“Um, maybe I’ll just wait here,” Eva said. “It’s not really my business, so…”

Angela laughed harshly. “If you wait here, he’ll make you his minion. Now I don’t know about you, but I find the concept of losing all free will to be somewhat unappealing. So are you going to help me or what?”

Eva thought for a moment and saw that she really had no choice. She didn’t care much for the fate of Stumbleroot, but being killed and turned into a zombie did sound unappealing. She’d done that to plenty of people, of course, but they had deserved it, right? “Fine,” she said. “But I’m not sure what I can do to help.”

Angela was silent and thought for a moment. “Well, when I fight undead, I infuse them with light from the Source and they disintegrate. That probably wouldn’t work for you, but I’ve learned a thing or two about necromancy over the years. Undead are inherently fragile creatures. If you overload one with dark magic, it might end up having the same effect as the Source’s light. There’s plenty of necromantic energy down here, you ought to be able to channel some of that.”

“And how do I do that?” Eva asked.

“I don’t know!” Angela said. “Most magicians have some specific method, you know. Magic words, runes, written spells, that sort of thing?”

“I dance,” Eva said simply.

Angela looked at her strangely for a moment. “Well then dance, girl. Dance!” She walked over to the cell’s door and gave it one humungous kick. The rusty and ancient thing flew off its hinges. The paladin rushed into the hallway, killed the skeleton guard with a lash of bright white flame, and ran off.

Eva had to sprint to catch up. The two ran through the catacomb hallways, and it wasn’t long before they had a whole trail of undead chasing after them. “But I don’t know what steps to use!” she wailed.

“Figure it out!”

[Amen]

Flat number fourteen on Roper Street was…modest. Constable Benjamin Rike kept the place in fine order, but there wasn’t much challenge in it. The whole thing consisted of three rooms, but only technically: the kitchen and what might have passed for a bedroom were delineated poorly, and Rike had made no effort to emphasize where one began and the other ended. Marcus suspected that the man sat down on the edge of his bed to eat, if he ever did eat at home.

The paladin had attempted to sleep when he first arrived, but rest was elusive. Every guard in Stumbleroot had an eye out for Marcus Book, and he was depending on one of them for safety. Even if not for the high-stress situation the squire found himself in, he doubted sleep would have come easy – the flat was small, stuffy, and hot, and there was nothing about it that conferred a sense of home. Even a hotel room would have been preferable to this.

So, Marcus spent his time painstakingly examining each of the books he’d stolen from the library. He started with the book of fables, and the significance of The First Gavotte was not lost on him. Indeed, said significance only grew as the vandalism in the rest of the pilfered books was discovered. This was troubling.

Marcus submitted to meditation three times throughout the course of the day, since sleep would not come, but he was always careful to remove himself from that state of being before the trance grew too deep. If Rike entered, he might have been in great danger, and the squire did not want to hurt his only ally.

Not long after the third and last ritual, the constable did at last return home. The fading light that streamed in from the single window painted everything in dull sepia tones, and revealed great clouds of dust motes. Marcus concealed himself poorly in the bathroom doorway when the doorknob rattled, and did not emerge from there until Rike fully entered the flat and closed the door behind him.

“What happened?” the paladin said, remaining in the doorway because the ‘living room’ would be cramped with both of them standing in it.

“Clayworth is furious,” Rike said. “I’m not sure if breaking out was the best idea. If he suspected you for a witch before, well, now he’s sure of it. He even said you had a witchy accent, once.”

“Not a fan of Salvar, I guess,” Marcus said flatly. “Anyway, he didn’t leave me much choice, and you did the right thing. It was either break out and make myself look guilty or die for something I didn’t do.”

“I know,” Rike said. “It’s just been a long day. Every guardsman is expected to pull double shifts until you’re caught. My feet are killing me. What’s all this? Are these books from the library? Was that you?”

“I didn’t have a choice; I needed to know what she learned.”

“I hope it was worth it, you made a monk cry,” Rike said.

Marcus grinned wide, and quickly tried to contain himself when he realized the constable didn’t find it as amusing.

“Well,” Book said after clearing his throat, “I learned some things. Somebody doesn’t want anybody learning about Stumbleroot’s history, for one. All of these books have large sections cut out of them.”

“Why would she do that?”

“She didn’t,” the paladin said. “She wouldn’t have had time. Somebody took a razorblade to these pages; it would have taken hours for each book. They missed that book of fables there, though. Here, look at this story. Do you recognize it?”

Rike grunted, flipping quickly through the pages. “Creepy. It doesn’t ring any bells. Been a long time since anybody tried to tell me a tale, though, and I wasn’t much for them as a child. What about this paladin fellow? A friend of yours, maybe?”

Marcus shook his head. “I’ve never heard of any ‘Angelo,’ certainly not in my order. We’re taught a great deal about paladins in history, even those that didn’t come from the Brotherhood, so either nobody ever learned of his exploits or it’s a lie. It is a children’s story.”

“You must think there’s some truth to it, though.”

Book shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. We’re learning about a lot of possibilities, but getting very few answers. Maybe the storybook was passed over because it didn’t have anything to do with whatever is being covered up, or maybe it was passed over because it’s a storybook. Impossible to say when we don’t know what’s hidden or why.”

“So we’re no closer to the witch than we were before,” Ben said with a sigh.

“I don’t know,” Marcus said. “Our first clue was that somebody was dancing at the scene of a grave robbery, and our self-admitted witch was reading a children’s story about a dance said to ward off a necromancer. Can’t be a coincidence.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“As soon as the sun sets, I’m going back to the cemetery. All the murders happened there, and I never felt right about the place.”

“What about me?” the constable said.

“You’re going to tell me about patrol routes for night watchmen,” Marcus said, “and then you’re going to get some sleep. You have a double shift tomorrow, after all.”

***

Marcus ascended Sad Hill under the cover of dark. The evening was fresh - the horizon still showed traces of lavender - but the paladin could not abide another hour of inaction. Rike had argued feebly, infirm in his belief that he should accompany the squire, and ultimately agreed to remain behind and get some rest in case Book needed help again later. After all, the night watchmen were out in force, and highly motivated.

Armed with basic knowledge about the common patrol routes and habits of the guardsmen, it wasn’t difficult to escape Stumbleroot. From there, it was a matter of traveling near, but not on, the common road to the cemetery.

Once amidst the gravestones, Marcus began to feel uneasy. What he once took for the natural creepiness of graveyards was now amplified, not just by the cover of night, but by something more elusive. The earth itself seemed somehow polluted by the death it housed, and every grave felt like a vent spewing the subtle odor of black magic. The paladin retrieved his mace from its place on his belt, and began to creep from one oak to the next, watching both for guards and evidence of his witch.

Something was indefinably wrong, though. He was not intimately familiar with the girl’s particular brand of iniquity, but what he sensed now felt somehow different – more sinister.

And – though perhaps it was his imagination – the intangible malevolence seemed to be spreading.