The Living Dead

17

With Mialee's body tied awkwardly to his back, Devis heaved himself and his precious cargo belly-first onto the xilo, keeping the elf woman's lifeless head from cracking against the living wood. Zalyn helped him ease the burden onto the hard surface of the wide lookout spot. He rolled into a crouch and peered over the elven village of Silatham.

The place was a wreck. At least, Devis assumed the inhabitants would think so. In truth, the place was so strange looking to the city-bred bard that he couldn't have said for certain whether it was in ruins or in perfect condition. But he was willing to bet the elves didn't normally burn house-sized fires in their residences just to keep warm, athel wood or no athel wood. The old trees that grew up through the base of the onion were covered in white athel houses that glowed with reflected firelight. Devis wonderd how long it would be before the whole place went up. Even dead, the wood looked to be resisting the flames. Most of what burned, he saw as he looked closer, were the Silath tree support structures, not athel, which just smoldered instead.

He soon spied one athel structure that was unmistakably important, the tallest in the village. Devis guessed that it led to storerooms of food, weapons, maybe even riches. No symbol adorned the outside of the structure, but Devis could feel the holiness of the tall, peaked building. It must have been a temple, and that was exactly what Mialee needed. High up the sides of the central Silath tree, which was no doubt dead athel stained brown, a few cozy residences or study rooms perched above the rest of the village.

Only after adjusting to the alien architecture did Devis realize that what he thought were rustling branches and drifting leaves were actually thousands of undead elves. They shambled about the bases of the trees, unseeing, uncaring, unaware of their condition.

The only structure that any of them were climbing was the temple tree at the center of the village. Dead elves climbed like rats up the rope ladders strung around the temple. Why they didn't go inside, Devis didn't know. Maybe that cleric Zalyn placed so much trust in actually was here and was somehow keeping the dead at bay.

Zalyn moved very slowly toward Devis to avoid making noise in what was left of her full battle dress, and the bard was impressed with the gnome's success. She had left all but the breastplate on the ground outside Silatham, wrapped in her cloak and stuffed behind a tree. The sacrifice would help them sneak into the place. Zalyn approached Mialee and crouched over the wizard's lifeless body. Devis left her alone with her rites, or whatever they were. Despite the destruction, there really seemed to be cause for hope. Mialee would be her old self again in no time, Devis was positive.

They had to get inside that central tree, Devis thought. That would mean getting past the zombies shuffling among the ruins and clinging to the rope ladders. If only Mialee weren't dead. He contemplated the big temple tree. Not every ladder had zombies on it, a few were clear. If he could get to an open ladder with Mialee…

. .. the weight of an adult elf tied to his back would get him killed and both of them devoured, or worse. Maybe Zalyn could turn enough of the things to clear a swath. Diir could help, too, if this really was his town.

Diir tapped the bard on the shoulder and pointed to their right at another xilo lookout. Devis saw a lithe figure, so still the half-elf had missed it before. The silent shape seemed to be watching the village below and the shuffling things that infested it. The bard had difficulty seeing the figure's face through the haze. Diir pointed out the shape to Hound-Eye and Zalyn. The foursome collectively squinted at the figure for a sign of movement.

The crouching form remained so completely motionless it could have been a stone gargoyle. It was, however, covered in pale armor that looked curiously familiar to the bard.

As he caught a glimpse of Diir from the corner of his eye, Devis nearly smacked himself on the forehead. The motionless figure was wearing the same peculiar style of armor as the taciturn elf. In fact, Diir perched on their xilo in a posture that was the mirror image of their crouching observer.

The bard could only believe that the figure was enjoying the show below. Or, he admitted grudgingly, it was an elf just like Diir, maybe with the same memory loss and only a homeward-turning compulsion to return to this place.

The four of them communicated through hushed whispers and gestures, and settled on trying to reach the figure, which still had not moved. If it turned out to be friendly, and it had a sword like Diir's, their chances for success would improve dramatically.

Unfortunately, Devis knew they were kidding themselves. It was ridiculous to assume weapons like that grew on trees, even in a place where houses did. If everyone in this place had a Diir-sword, Silatham wouldn't be burning. But still, the distant, crouching elf-please, the bard thought, let him be an elf, if he turns into a wight in front of my eyes I'm just going to jump to my death-was their best hope of figuring out what had happened to the village. Even with normal weapons, if the man was half the fighter Diir had proven himself to be, he would be a valuable ally.

The party silently elected Devis to approach the crouching figure. Hound-Eye would once have been a better choice, but his lame foot would be a liability now. Zalyn and Diir had to stay behind. The elf and that magic sword of his were the group's best hope for survival if Devis didn't make it back. The bard wasn't keen on leaving Mialee's body behind, but Zalyn assured him through hand signals that she would see nothing disturbed the dead girl. He spared Mialee's lifeless face one last glance and flipped a wave to the others, then set off over the xilo toward the still-unmoving figure.

To reach the xilo, he had to climb along the narrow, upraised lip of a drawbridge ramp. He hugged the wood as wind and heat caused the ramp to sway back and forth in its locks.

A shift in the breeze sent heat and smoke washing over him when he was halfway across. Lungs stinging, eyes streaming, the bard crawled blindly on. Devis felt the end of the drawbridge, then his right hand pressed down on something soft. The something squeaked. He squeezed his eyes open against the particle-filled air and saw that his hand rested on a rat. A dead rat, from the look of it. The thing had no eyes.

Yet it squirmed under his gloved palm and Devis saw that it was trying desperately to twist its tiny head around to bite him. Not dead-undead. The little zombie squeaked, and the squeek became a screech.

Devis did the first thing that popped into his head. He smashed the furry rat's body with his fist. With a pop, foul-smelling gore, fur, and flesh burst from the creature. Devis marveled at how much awful stuff had been inside the little body. His nose flared in disgust and he let the rat corpse drop to the ground.

Devis was nearly to the crouching man. The smoke was so thick that Devis couldn't see the man's position, however, and he decided that the smoke would conceal him just as well. After pulling himself off the ramp, he crouched and walked carefully through the haze to a point near where the elf should be, if it was indeed an elf.

The wind shifted and the smoke cleared. The crouching man was gone. Devis rocked onto his knees to look all around just as something heavy struck him across the back of the skull.