The Chaos Curse (8 page)

Slowly, Thobicus turned his head about to see Kierkan Rufo sitting up in his casket, his grotesque smile wide.

“You do not like my new playthings?” the vampire asked.

Thobicus did not understand. He looked closer at the nearest man, Fester Rumpol, and realized that Rumpol’s throat was still ragged from Rufo’s raking and tearing. The man could not possibly be breathing, Thobicus realized; the man was still dead.

Thobicus sprang from his perch, flying the ten feet to land with catlike grace on the stone floor. Bron Turman, near where he landed, reached out with a stiff arm and grasped him tightly.

“Tell him to let you go,” Rufo said casually, but his patient facade went away immediately, replaced by a judgmental, even dangerous expression. “Take control of him!”

Without saying a word, Thobicus steeled his gaze and mentally ordered Turman to let go-and the dean was relieved indeed when the man released him and stepped back, standing quietly to the side.

“Zombies,” Thobicus breathed, understanding that Rufo had animated the torn corpses into undead, unthinking servants, among the lowest forms in the hierarchy of the netherworld.

“Those who submit will know an intelligent existence, as you have come to know,” Rufo declared in an imposing voice. “Those who choose to die in the favor of their god shall become unwitting servants, unthinking zombies, to their ultimate torment!”

As if on cue, Banner appeared from around the corner, smiling at Thobicus. Banner had submitted, had denied his god in the face of Kierkan Rufo.

“Greetings, Thobicus,” the man said, and when Banner opened his mouth, Thobicus realized that he, like Rufo, sported a pair of fangs.

“You are a vampire,” the dean whispered, stating the obvious.

“As are you,” Banner replied.

Thobicus looked to Rufo skeptically, then, following another mental command, reached up to feel inside his own mouth, to feel his own set of fangs.

“We are both vampires,” Banner continued, “and with Kierkan Rufo, we are three.”

“Not quite,” Rufo interjected. Both men regarded him curiously, Banner’s eyes full of suspicion, Dean Thobicus too wrapped up in confusion.

“You are not yet fully in the realm of vampires,” Rufo explained, and he knew that he was speaking the truth, though where he had gained such an understanding of this undead state, he did not know. It was the knowledge imparted by the chaos curse, he figured.

“You promised me that I would be a vampire,” Banner said. “That was our deal.”

Rufo held up a hand to calm him. “And so you shall be,” he assured the man, “in time.”

“You rose into full power soon after your death,” Banner complained.

Rufo smiled and considered the chaos curse, swirling inside of him, the potion that had imparted such strength and understanding. But I had an advantage, fool Banner, Rufo thought. To Banner he only repeated his promise of, “In time.”

Rufo turned to the confused Thobicus. “This very night you will suffer the blood thirst,” he explained into the dean’s wide-eyed stare. “And you will seek out one of the lesser priests and feed. I grant you this, but be warned. If ever you hold a thought against me, I will deny you your victims. There is no greater torment than denial of the blood thirst-this you will believe when the hunger comes to you.”

Dean Thobicus’s mind whirled at the unexpected news. He had become a vampire!

“This very night,” Rufo said again, as if in answer to the dean’s silent exclamation. “And be warned that the sun tomorrow and forever after will be your enemy. Seek a dark spot to sleep after you have fed, Thobicus.”

The dean’s breath came in short gasps, and when he realized that fact, he seriously wondered if this would be the last day he would ever draw breath.

“Have you done as I instructed?” Rufo asked him.

He looked up at the vampire, startled by the unexpected change in subject. He collected his wits quickly.

“The five Oghmans are on the road to Carradoon,” Thobicus answered. “They wanted to wait until morning and complained that they would have only a short hour or two of light before they had to stop and set up camp.”

“But you convinced them,” Rufo reasoned.

“I sent them,” Thobicus corrected, as defiant a tone as he had ever used against the vampire. “But I do not understand the value in allowing them out of the library. If Druzil is at work…”

A sharp pain in Thobicus’s head cut the statement short, nearly knocking the dean from his feet.

“You question me?” Rufo asked.

Thobicus found he was on his knees, clutching his temples. He thought his head would explode, but then, as abruptly as it had started, the pain ceased. It took him a long moment to muster the courage to look up at Kierkan Rufo again, and when he did, he found the vampire at ease, Banner comfortably at his side.

“So it might,” Shayleigh was quick to reply, fixing the wizard with a cool stare. “We do not know if the ore-kin we sent scrambling into the mountains will return to Shilmista once the trails are clear!’

No gain, Danica decided. Dorigen was merely continuing her acceptance of guilt.

Dorigen did not back away from the accusing look. “If they do,” she said, her chin held high, “I will demand that part of my penance be that I fight on the side of the elves in that conflict.”

Well said, Danica thought. “If the elves would have her,” the monk quickly put in, drawing Shayleigh’s attention to her disarming smile before the suspicious elf could reply.

“We would be foolish to refuse,” Shayleigh answered. She looked back to the quiet night and the distant flickers. “It is likely the ore-kin will enlist the aid of trolls.” In her own way, the elf had, for the first time, agreed with the decision to return Dorigen to the library and argue for a positive judgment, rather than one of punishment. Shayleigh had made no moves against Dorigen since the wizard’s surrender in Castle Trinity, but neither had she befriended her. Shilmista was the elf’s home, after all, and Dorigen had been instrumental in bringing ruin to the forest’s northern reaches.

Behind Shayleigh’s back, Danica and Dorigen exchanged hopeful nods. If King Elbereth and the elves could forgive Dorigen’s crimes, then the library’s claims against her would seem almost trivial.

“If it was earlier, I would suggest we go down to that light,” Danica remarked. “I could do with a bit of good food, and maybe a taste of wine.”

“I’d settle for ale,” Dorigen said, to which Shayleigh promptly spun about and gave the wizard a sour look.

“Wine,” the elf agreed, and it seemed to Dorigen and Danica as if the whole atmosphere of the encampment had suddenly changed, lightened, as if Shayleigh had come to terms with Dorigen’s past and was now a true ally. The two women went to their bedrolls then, taking comfort in the knowledge that the alert elf was guarding over them.

Shayleigh remained where she was, standing quietly and watching the flicker of the distant campfire. Her second guess as to its origin had been correct; a group of priests was making its way down to Carradoon-a group of Oghman priests, sent out by Dean Thobicus.

Like Danica, Shayleigh wished the night was earlier, that they might have hiked the couple of miles down to the group.

Kierkan Rufo, approaching the flickering fire from another trail, would have been pleasantly surprised if they had.

He dreamed of towering spires stretching three hundred feet into the air. He dreamed of all the folk of Carradoon, and all the elves of Shilmista, congregating before the cathedral, come to worship and to find inspiration in its massive windows and walls that were, in truth, works of art.

The nave dwarfed the individual. The arching ceiling soared a hundred feet from the stone floor. Graceful walls were lined by corridors housing statues of the worthy priests of both Deneir and Oghma who had gone before. Avery Schell was there, as was Pertelope, there for all time, and at the end of the high walkway was an empty pedestal, awaiting the statue that would be most fitting in this tribute to Deneir.

The statue of Cadderly.

He dreamed of conducting a service in that cathedral, of Brother Chaunticleer’s a cappella gift to the brother gods, Oghma and Deneir, the talented tenor’s voice echoing about the graceful walls like the songs of the heavens themselves.

Then Cadderly saw himself, wearing the sash of the library’s dean, leading the service, with Danica sitting proudly by his side.

He was a hundred years old, withered and worn and near death.

The shocking image shook Cadderly from his slumber, and his eyes opened wide to take in the starry sky. He closed his eyes quickly and tried to recapture that last fleeting glimpse, to learn why it might be so startling. Cadderly could only hope that the new library would be constructed before he reached his hundredth year, even if construction began in full this very summer and Ivan and Pikel delivered a thousand dwarves to help with the work.

Cadderly, so filled with divine faith, certainly did not fear his death. Then why had he awakened, and why was his forehead cold with sweat?

He looked back into the dream, forced the image to linger. Even though it was clear, it took Cadderly time to discern what might be out of place.

It was he, the old dean of the library. He looked as if he had lived a century or more, but Danica, sitting beside him, seemed no older than she was now, barely in her twenties.

Cadderly let go the surreal scene and looked up at the stars, reminding himself that it had been just a dream. The Bouldershoulders’ wild snoring-Ivan snorting and Pikel whistling in response-calmed him somewhat, told him that all was as it should be.

Still, many hours passed before Cadderly found his slumber again, and that image of an old, dying priest leading a service in the cathedral went into his dreams with him.

Two of the five Oghmans sat awake, chatting quietly and keeping a halfhearted watch on the dark trees surrounding their encampment as the darkest hours of the night passed. None in the group was really afraid of trouble this far south in the mountains. The trails between Carradoon and the Edificant Library were well traveled, and these were powerful clerics-behind Bron Turman, the most powerful of the Oghman order at the library. They had lined the perimeter of their camp with wards that would not only alert them of the presence of monsters, but would send jolts of lightning into the creatures, probably destroying them before they ever crossed into the opening.

So these two Oghmans were awake more to enjoy the night than to guard the camp, and their eyes were more often on each other, or on the fire, than on the dark and ominous trees.

Kierkan Rufo was in those trees, along with Druzil, watching the priests’ movements and listening to the rhythmic snoring of the other three, fast asleep.

Rufo nodded and began his steady approach, but Druzil, still in many ways the wiser of the two, scanned the camp’s perimeter, his knowing eyes looking for the revealing emanations of magic.

He kicked off the ground and flapped his wings to land hard against Rufo’s shoulder. “It is guarded,” he whispered into the vampire’s ear. “All the way around.”

Rufo nodded again, as though he had suspected that all along. He jerked suddenly, throwing Druzil from his shoulder and lifting his black robes high into the air about him. As the material descended, Rufo’s corporeal form seemed to melt away. As a bat, Rufo zipped up into the treetops, Druzil following closely.

“Did they think to guard from above?” the vampire bat asked the imp in a voice so high-pitched that it hurt Druzil’s ears, and though Rufo had spoken loudly, the men on the ground could not even hear the sound.

The two picked their way down the branches. Rufo noticed that Druzil had turned invisible, as was the imp’s way, but the vampire was surprised-pleasantly so-to learn that he could still see the imp’s vague outline. Another benefit of this undead state, Rufo decided. One of many, many benefits. A few moments later, the vampire was hanging upside down from the lowest branch over the encampment, barely fifteen feet above the heads of the two seated guards. Rufo had thought to swoop right down on them, but paused, wondering if something valuable might be gained from their conversation.

“Bron Turman’s going to be surprised when we walk unannounced into Carradoon,” one of them was saying.

“His own fault,” answered the other. “His rank does not give him the privilege of rewriting the Oghman orders without consulting the other leaders.”

Rufo was impressed at how resourceful a liar Dean Thobicus could be. With all the strange goings-on, the Oghmans had been on the alert back at the library. Only the dean’s hint that something was indeed amiss, instead of simply telling them that everything was all right, had brought them out here.

“If that is what Bron Turman is doing in Carradoon,” the first priest remarked, his tone full of doubt.

The other nodded in agreement.

“I am not convinced of Dean Thobicus’s words,” the first went on. “Not even his motives. He is frightened of Cadderly’s return-in that, I agree with Bron Turman’s assessment.”

“Do you believe Dean Thobicus wanted all the Oghmans out of the library so we would not interfere with his plans for his own order?” the other asked, to which the first only shrugged.

Rufo nearly squealed aloud at the irony of that question. If only these two knew the truth of the “order” to which they were unintentionally referring!

The ruse had worked, of that much the vampire was now certain. Almost all of the leading Deneirians were dead or undead and under his control, and now the Oghmans were divided and off their guard.

One of the priests gave a great yawn, though a moment before he had seemed perfectly alert. The other followed suit, overcome by a sudden compulsion to lie down and sleep.

“The night grows long,” the first remarked, and, without even moving toward his bedroll, he slipped down to the ground and closed his eyes.

The other Oghman thought the movement somewhat silly, until it struck him as suspiciously odd that his friend should fall so quickly into slumber. He fought against that compulsion, that little suggestion in the back of his mind that sleep would be a good thing. He opened his eyes wide and vigorously shook his head. He even reached down, hoisted a waterskin, and poured the fluid over his face.

When the man tossed his head back to wet his face a second time, he was stopped by the image of a black-robed man standing on a branch fifteen feet above him.

Rufo fell down atop him with catlike grace. The vampire grabbed the man’s chin and the hair on the back of his head as he opened his mouth to scream, tugging so fiercely that the man’s head turned around on his shoulders with a sickening crack of bone.

The vampire stood straight, eyeing the other four, all sleeping. He would wake them one by one and give them a chance to forsake their god, a chance to kneel before him, the personification of Tuanta Quiro Miancay.