Blood and Honor

The evening fog was rolling in off the river, and Mordan began to worry about finding the half-ruined warehouse that Tarrel had described. A bank of especially thick fog was moving steadily toward him along the waterfront, so thick it obscured all vision. Everything was quiet.

As he walked. Mordan tried to put himself in Hintram’s shoes, to anticipate what he would do next. If the authorities in Karrlakton were onto his weapon-smuggling scheme, he might leave town and try his luck somewhere else. But there was still the question of his business with Dabo. Whatever it was, it might be enough to keep him here, at least until it was concluded.

A rat skittered out of the fog, almost running into his feet. Mordan knew the waterfront rats, and they were usually quite fearless. What had panicked this one? He stopped and listened, scanning the fog for any sign of danger, but there was nothing—except a smell.

It was vaguely familiar, but Mordan couldn’t place it. Blindly, he took a few steps into the fog, and the smell became stronger. Then he saw a vague shape, half-hidden in the mist: a horse, harnessed to a wagon that was still invisible in the fog. It was coming toward him, but it made no sound. The horse’s hooves, the wheels of the cart he supposed it was pulling, even the sound of the river—all were gone. There was complete silence.

Mordan backed out of the mist, and as he did so the sound of the river returned. He had experienced silence spells before, fighting the Valenar elves with the Company of the Skull. Casting the spell on an arrow and shooting it into the midst of the enemy—or even better, into the body of the enemy commander—was a favorite ambush technique. It prevented orders from being heard, and the hapless victims of the ambush couldn’t hear their attackers coming. He had seen inexperienced troops massacred in the ensuing confusion.

As he stood back, the patch of dense fog rolled slowly by him, and he guessed that it, too, was magical rather than natural. Someone wanted to make sure they were neither seen nor heard. Mordan watched the fog recede, and then walked toward its center.

Again, all sound ceased, and the fog became so dense he couldn’t even see his own feet. Moving cautiously forward, he began to make out a shape—the back of a covered wagon. As he got closer, he realized it was the same one he and Tarrel had watched Hintram drive up to Falko’s warehouse that morning, carrying the stolen swords. This delivery, Mordan guessed, was probably for Dabo.

He undid the back flap of the canvas wagon cover and pulled himself inside, moving carefully. He might not have to worry about noise, but the driver would still notice a sudden jolt. Securing the flap behind him, he peered through the dimness to see what the wagon was carrying. The fog was as thick inside the cart as outside, and the canvas blocked whatever little light came in from outside. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he suddenly remembered why the smell was familiar.

All around him, standing close together and rocking slightly with the motion of the cart, were a dozen zombies.

Interlude

Olarune 18, 999 YK

“Master, I have news.”

The old, white-haired elf on the carved throne leaned forward a little.

“We intercepted a communication to the Ministry of the Dead from their office in Karrlakton,” the messenger continued. “Two enquiries have been made about Unit 61 in that city. One was by an arms dealer, now deceased under unclear circumstances, and the other by a female vampire, who apparently questioned a Ministry clerk under magical domination. Both had a copy of the unit badge and suspected a link with the Ministry, but apparently they knew little else. The message from the Ministry branch office notes that Unit 61 is officially posted as missing, and asks for instructions. That is all.”

The messenger winked out of existence, and the elf sat back, absently stroking the skull at the end of the left arm-rest. His silver-blue, almost colorless eyes half-closed in thought.

After a moment, he turned to the pallid, robed lackey who stood by his side.

“Tell Rolund I wish to see him,” he said.

A few minutes later, the lackey returned with another. This individual was tall and wiry, with fierce eyes and features that had once been human. On the shoulder of his worn and besmirched uniform was a patch bearing the image of a skull and the number 61. He made a brief obeisance before the throne.

“Rolund,” said the elf, “I have work for you. There is a vampire loose in Karrlakton—one of ours, if I’m not mistaken. Female for certain; I suspect she may possibly be a Thrane with red hair. Her activities are becoming inconvenient. I want you to find her, observe until you have identified all her associates—and then destroy them all. Take Aeren, and leave immediately.”

“With pleasure, master,” the creature’s voice was like the grating of a mausoleum door.

“Oh—and Rolund?”

The figure stopped and looked questioningly back at the elf.