The Dark Before Dawn

[Warpath]

Flint woke, as he had for months, with the memory of tonics and antiseptics in his nose.

But he wasn't in Radasanth anymore. The wind didn't carry the cries of the sick and dying. The air wasn't heavy here, wasn't laden with hushed misery. This wasn't the library: Petru wasn't shuffling sleepless in the adjoining room, Rosie wasn't sniffling somewhere, and there was no hint of Agnie's incessant questions from the garden.

The worst was already over. This was what came after.

Every fiber of his being told him to go back to sleep. Melancholy was seductive. Instead he forced himself out of bed and chased away all thought with press-ups, hundreds of them, and then thousands, and then tens of thousands and more. By the time he emerged from his den there was a sheen of sweat on his back and the sun was breaking over the horizon, sending shafts of light through the mists and high branches overhead.

Roxanna met him on the thin stone path down to the fort proper, where the loggers and laborers were beginning to stir and shout. She saluted, and then fell into lockstep beside him and began relating the night's report with clipped efficiency. She did not stop when Flint paused beside a barrel of water and scooped a ladleful into his mouth, and then another. Finally she paused and he glanced at her, and grunted for her to continue.

"For someone who rises before dawn every day," she said instead, "you are not much of a morning person."

He grunted again, hooked the ladle's arm over the edge of the barrel, and returned the lid. He turned to continue his walk into the fort, but Roxanna pressed her palm to his chest and resisted him. He looked down at her.

"I know this disease you suffer from," she said quietly, with intensity in her eyes. "You know it too, and the cure. You need to talk to someone, as I talked to you."

Flint searched her face for a long moment. "Have you not heard?" he said. "I am immune to disease."

"Not this one," she said. "Not grief."

Flint tilted his head down at her with a stern look, and then he stepped past her and walked on. With a sigh, she followed.

[Vega]

"Please," Iarion said. "Come inside. Sit down."

Susperiel shook her head and smiled for him, gracious but strained, placing one hand lightly upon his forearm. "I can't, Lord Barathor. Please forgive me, but I can only stop a moment. You know I wouldn't normally shirk my manners - it's all we have left - but I want to get back through the Snow Quarter before nightfall, that I might spend the evening with Cederil's family."

Iarion's brow furrowed, and he nodded. "Of course. Trade your horse out for one of mine, it'll be safer. But my lady, why are you flying through the quarters in such a hurry? You should have sent a bird."

"I worry what would happen if it were intercepted. No, it's safer to speak in person..."

"I don't know if I should be worried or intrigued, Susperiel," Iarion said cautiously. "Are you sure you won't sit down? What's all this about?"

Susperiel shook her head again. "We few closer to the university have begun holding much more regular meetings to exchange information with the preservers," she said, "and to begin small restoration programs. The idea is to start at the university and work our way outward in waves."

"Seems reasonable."

She nodded. "But the question of labor comes up often, obviously. And that of safety as well. Who knows how many ghouls and shamblers are trapped in these old ruins, just waiting to get turned loose?"

Iarion's face went rigid, but Susperiel didn't seem to notice. She went on speaking: "Lord Derimbor, I think you know him? He's an older gentleman, a scholar. Over the last few weeks he has grown very concerned over this news from the north - the imperials returning from some island, and bringing Salvarmen with them." She shook her head. "He's a purist, Iarion, and he lost more than some in the War. I'm rambling, forgive me."

Iarion shook his head, placing one hand lightly on Susperiel's upper arm. "Not at all, my lady, but I confess you've lost me. What, exactly, has you concerned?"

"You must understand, these meetings, it's all just talk for now. We're exploring options, yes? Three weeks ago I suggested the notion that we reach out to the imperials and their allies. They have resources, if nothing else - manpower, and mercenaries, even if they are human. Some were perceptive to the notion, but Derimbor exploded, accusing me of all sorts of things." She shook her head, pausing to remember it. "In any case, I let the matter rest, but yesterday he proposed his own solution and I..."

She bit her lower lip. "Iarion, he's talking about death songs. He wants to experiment on the ghouls, to turn them into soldiers and labor. He's calling them untapped resources, talking about...garrisons and defenses, as if the imperials are planning on marching down here to take the city. I tried to tell him, there's nothing left to take..."

She scoffed, shaking her head as if to clear it. "The maddest thing, Iarion, is that some of our number were listening to him. They considered it. They want to talk about...about necromancy. We need to put a stop to these notions now."

Iarion nodded, giving her upper arm a reassuring squeeze. "You were right to come, Susperiel. Now listen. I know something of the Derimbor family, we Barathors shared much with them. I will invite the Lord Derimbor here and speak to him about this. He'll listen to me, our families suffered in similar ways and he'll know we've much in common. We'll nip this in the bud, so to speak. But you go on to the Cederil stead and get settled in for the night, let him know all you told me. Stay there for a few days, perhaps, and I'll be in touch."

"I don't know, Iarion...you didn't see him..."

"Of course you're right," Iarion said softly. "But I must try. Have faith. If I feel that I can't sway his opinions, I'll meet up with you and we'll call a council together, and put this to rest with the others. Trust me."

She smiled wanly. "Of course I trust you, Iarion." She nodded. "Very well. I'll go on to Cederil's and wait for your word."

"Good. Do you need my help in the stables or..."

"No," she said, "no, don't trouble yourself, I know my way around. The sooner you get your message out, the better."

"At once, then," he said.

[Vega]

Iarion watched her from a high window as she led her horse around back to the stables, and then he went to his father's desk. There wasn't much paper left, and it needed a good dusting-off, but it didn't get enough use to justify replenishing the stores. The ink was tougher, but he still had some. Thus he wrote his letter:

Lord Derimbor,

I hope my correspondence finds you well, and I am regretful that we have not had more opportunity to speak before now. This humble letter is meant to rectify that failing immediately. In the Days Before our families were close, as I recall, and I see no sensible reason that it should not be so now. It is essential, after all, that we think about the furtherance of our people's every possible good fortune when times are as dark as these, at any cost. How else can we hope for our future to have any light in it at all?

Please see fit to visit my familial manse at your earliest possible convenience. In my experience, the way has become surpassingly safe. In fact, a mutual acquaintance of ours recently made the trip in speed and without incident. Though she only stayed for a very short time before continuing on her way to the Cederil homestead, she impressed upon me a very interesting notion you shared in one of the inner city meetings, as I understand it.

My Lord Derimbor, I must speak to you in private about these designs.

Your Friend,

Iarion Barathor

Iarion folded the letter and dripped wax upon it. His father's signet ring he wore on a chain around his neck, and he pulled it free to press and seal the letter. Moments later he was in the aerie, which was not nearly as robust as it once had been but a few faithful birds had returned in the many months since the Corpse War. He chose the biggest and fastest one, and whispered to it in elfish its destination. He spoke it twice so he was sure it understood, and then he turned it loose with the letter double tied to its ankle and clutched in its considerable talons.

Susperiel had been right. It was dangerous to send such things, but not as dangerous as carrying out the full conversation by letter.

When the bird was out of sight, Iarion quit the aerie and peered from his window out at the stables. Susperiel was already gone, her horse in place of his. He stepped up to a front window to be sure, and saw no sign of her. So he went down and out through the back, onto the grounds. First he settled the lady's horse, and then he crossed the grounds to the crypts.

He hesitated at the door to the mausoleum, as he always did, but he spurred himself forward. The door was still sealed, and he glanced over his shoulder before undoing the chains that bound it closed, using a key he kept against his skin at all times. When the door was unlocked he slipped inside and hurried it closed, locked it from the other side, and listened.

Silence.

Satisfied, he sang a light verse, and a multitude of enchanted candles leapt to light throughout the chamber. Iarion turned and regarded his work: the countless notes arrayed over a number of sealed sarcophagi, the drawings and diagrams of bodily ley lines compared to anatomy, the fine cutting tools, linens, and stitching. And the bodies.

And the makeshift cage he approached now, singing a darker song under his breath. There was a figure inside, and as he sang it shuddered and convulsed. "Rise," he said at last, and the ghoul stumbled with great difficulty to its feet and shuffled forward to the bars, where it stopped and stared at him with dull, empty eyes. Its arms had been removed at the shoulders, and its jaw was bolted closed, but what truly made it docile was the enthrallment it was under. It was watching the elf not out of hunger, but in want of orders.

"We have work to do," he told the monster, doing little to keep the disdain out of his voice. "We'll have a guest soon, and I think he'd very much like to meet you."

It was hours later before he emerged from the mausoleum, and the sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon. He sealed it with as much care as he'd opened it, and he paused at the door to look out over the grounds with a careful, critical eye. He was looking for living guests or scavengers, not shamblers, but the latter is what he got.

He only got a glimpse of it as it approached the manor from the front, slow and unsteady, almost unsure or confused. It was damaged, then. Iarion pulled the drum-hammer off his back and stalked around the side of the manor slowly, silently, wondering at the chances of taking the thing undamaged. He couldn't believe his luck - another viable specimen now, when his need was at its greatest? It seemed too good to be true.

And that thought was at the forefront of his mind as he crept up behind the creature.