Death’s Usher: Unhallowed Ground

Read Part One here

Read Part Two here

Read Part Three here

TRAVEL is an eye-opening, life-changing experience. That’s what merchants and adventurers at the Pit always told me. They wisely omitted how dull and draining it is. Maybe the merchants had wagons to pull them along, and the adventurers had horses. Ibnar and I only have our own two legs. As a patrolling Inquisitor, he’s used to covering long distances on foot, but I’m not. I’ve never been outside Milham’s Ford. I could cross the village in one trip, but this? This is a trek. A saga, even. I do my damnedest to keep up.

“How far to the nearest outpost?” I ask Ibnar, wiping a sheen of sweat off my forehead.

“Five more plow-turns,” he says, using a farmer’s measure. “You look like you’ve been ridden hard and put away wet. If you like, I could carry you, but don’t rely on me. We pull our own weight.”

“Right. I’ll keep walking. Your armor and pack are heavy enough as it is. All I want to do is sit.”

“There are some rocks over there in the tall grass. We might as well eat, too.”

As we rest on the rocks and dig into our iron rations, strips of tough beef and dried apricots, Ibnar mops his own brow. “The sun may be high, but we’re making good time. It also seems as if none of my peers are on our trail. Yet. Remember, you’re a convicted lawbreaker in my custody. The labor camps are only a day away, but great danger awaits there. I’ll have to think of an extremely good reason why I’m not dropping you off for a six-month stint.”

“Leave that to me. I’ve told so many fibs over the years that sometimes I start believing them. When your job is to put on a good show, no matter the audience, you learn to stretch the truth.”

“Smart girl.” He bites into a piece of jerky, sinking his teeth in but making little dent. He has to gnaw on it like a beaver before he can swallow. In my fangs, the meat shreds easily— Ibnar notices and grunts. Whether in approval or disapproval, I can’t tell.

We finish and continue on. The refreshment has done me much good, but soon I must stop and relieve myself. ‘Tis a consequence of eating mortal food when all I need is blood. My bladder and bowels are delicate. I hope they don’t fail me during a fight.
“Are you all right? You look a bit unsteady. Sip some water. You don’t want to get overheated.”

“Aye, aye.” I hope my new bodyguard doesn’t notice the hint of annoyance in my voice.

He does. “I’m only trying to keep us both safe and well. You don’t look like you’ve traveled much. That said, you must’ve heard the most interesting tales and rumors during your tenure at the Pit.”

I take a swig of water that’s grown hot in my canteen. At least it’s wet. “Most of them are about things that don’t concern us and people we don’t know. Would you like to hear a ballad?”

“Fine. But sing of battle. Victory. Not love. We need to quicken our pace.”

I proudly launch into all twelve verses of “Take Down the Troll.” Trolls are recognized as kith, but that doesn’t mean they get a warm welcome. They mostly do four things: eat, shit, fight, and fuck. The troll in the song is rare, a shaman who casts spells to heal his tribe and ward off invaders. He follows one of the Eld Gods: the Lord of Fear. That’s what he inspires in others until a brave band of swamp-clearers and mercenaries kills him with equal parts acid and fire. He melts into a pile of goo, which burns and dissolves until nothing is left of him. Ibnar sings along with me on the chorus that mentions the song’s title. I allow myself a small smile.

When my voice dies down, Ibnar wonders, “Why do we even call trolls kith? They’re brutes.”

“True. That doesn’t mean they’re not sentient. They have brains, as much as they don’t use them.”

“If I had my way, they’d all be wiped out. Ogres, too. All they want to do is eat the rest of us raw.”

As much as I hate to admit it, the thought of no more of these behemoths is quite appealing.

The sun sinks lower in the sky. We walk in silence until we reach a sign with four arrows.

The north one features a house. There must be an inn nearby, but we’re not turning around. The one pointing south features a rectangular object with…pages? Yes, this must be a “book.” It’s the symbol for Sundansa, the sages’ city. A deep gash runs through the picture. The arrow pointing east bears a carving of a merchant’s stall, and the west one? Another slashed picture. I lean in and look closer. More tombstones. “Ibnar? Why would someone deface a picture of a graveyard?”

He spits. “Unhallowed ground. That’s where we bury religious criminals and those who take their own lives. We needn’t bother to go there. Unless – yes. There might be a charnel house to rob.”
Why did I tell him I’d be his guide doing such disgusting and blasphemous work? Under the Law, the penalty for graverobbing is immediate death. Being an accomplice brings life at hard labor. If I help him, not only am I as evil as he is, but there’s a good reason for me to go to the camps.

“I’ll guide you through the dark and see if I can spot any outbuildings. If there are some, I’ll signal you and unlock their doors with one of my long fingernails. The middle one. If you need me to open a crypt or vault as well, I will, but that’s it. I won’t take anything from the dead. I’m here to save them, remember?” I brush off some imaginary dirt from my leather armor.

“Sanctimonious, aren’t we? Perhaps you’re a priest after all.”

“Ha! I don’t believe in the Eld Gods or the Law. I believe in the Scales and eternal balance.”

“What if it tips in our enemies’ favor? Will you have the guts to get into the fray alongside me?”

“I have my new dagger. I have my wits. I don’t have your strength or stamina. Still, I’ll fight.”

“Good. I don’t need an ally who flees from combat. We got lucky against the bandits.”

I grit my teeth. I long to stab the tip of the weapon he gave me right into his neck. Maybe when his blood is squirting out in steaming jets, he’ll stop belittling me. For the hundredth time on this long, stupid slog, I ask myself why we’re traveling together. The logical answer is that I need an Inquisitor on my side. One that executes brigands and other foes without hesitation. The other answer? On an uncomfortably primal level, we understand each other. We’re both dark. Which raises the question: how dark? How far am I willing to fall to be safe on this journey?

I should take the gold and run. I should go to the northern inn and hire a real mercenary. One who deals in cold, hard facts and cold, hard coin. One without a soul as venomous as a viper.

I do none of this, of course. I don’t want Ibnar turning on me and hunting me down. According to the Law of Death, he has a sacred duty to fight undead. I don’t want to be next on his kill list.

“See those trees?” He gestures to the side of the road. “We set up camp and rest for a few hours.”

“Agreed.”

Night falls. I sleep like a rock for as long as I can. No dreams come, which is just as well.

“Tenet?” I feel Ibnar shaking me awake. His hands are rough, as is his tone. “Get up. It’s time.”

Time to rob some graves. The truth is a slap of ice-cold water to the face. “No. I won’t do it.”

“All you have to do is guide me and unlock doors. The dirty work is mine alone.”

“So you say. Let’s rest until morning. I feel like a bag of mud that’s hit a hard stretch of pavement.”

“Five gold. I’ll give you half my share from the highwaymen if you come with me to the boneyard.”

This rouses me from my grogginess. “You’d better not be joking. Or lying.”

“I swear upon the Eleventh Hell, the Void itself. May it claim me early if I fail to keep my word.”

Shivers ripple through me. Only murderers and the most radical heretics make such a vow.

We shoulder our packs and bedrolls, then head toward the cemetery, its gouged sign meaning: unhallowed ground. What happens to the souls whose bodies aren’t granted a holy burial? We’re about to find out. When Ibnar and I enter through the disused, rusty gates, nothing greets us but the chirp of crickets and the distant hooting of an owl. No wailing ghosts. No hungry spirits. What if, upon the death of the unsanctified, their souls simply wink out? It’d be better than the Hells.

“We can still turn back,” I hiss to Ibnar. “Do you know what the penalty is for this crime?”

“Live burial. I’m not afraid. Nor should you be. What use do corpses have for money or goods?”

I spot a shed. “Follow me.” We reach it and find the door unlocked. A fecal stench engulfs us.

Ibnar gags. I breathe evenly and ask him, “An outhouse? What’s it doing here?”

“What better way to dishonor the unlawful dead than to dig a cesspit in their midst?”

We slam the door and look around for any more structures. There are none. “Let’s leave.”

“Wait. There’s a mound of fresh dirt to the left. A new grave, and it stinks to the Hells. That means there’s a fresh body that hasn’t been properly interred. You can turn away now if you wish.”

“No, I don’t ‘wish’. I’ll keep on the lookout for anyone who might pass by.”

Ibnar nods and digs with his sword. I can’t believe he’s doing this. Has he no shame at all?

“Unbelievable,” he murmurs when he uncovers the cadaver. “Look, Lyli. A surprise for you.”

I blink at the sound of my alias, remember it, then gasp. He’s holding up a musical instrument.

“A lute? By the Hells! Inquisitors must have executed him and tossed him in this grave with all his gear, but why do that to a mere bard? We’re not witches or blasphemers or death knights.”

“Why do you assume we put him to death? Maybe he offed himself due to unrequited love.”

“I don’t think so. See how his fingers are curled into claws? He hung on to this with all his strength. He didn’t want to die. I can’t blame him, but why is there a huge hole where his stomach should be?” I tremble, take the lute, and sense something strange – smell something strange, too.

“Ibnar? This lute has been painted red with blood, and its strings are made from kith guts.”

“How do you know?”

“Being descended from vampires means that death comes as second nature to you: its cycles, its signs, and the reek of decay. I smell blood and intestinal odors, however faint, on the instrument.”

“Who would ever think to craft such a thing?”

“Beats me. Maybe the bard was a serial killer?” The full impact of what I’m doing arrives with a mouthful of vomit. I can’t hold it back. My black blood sizzles on the ground, and steam rises off of it. A spirit creeps out of the earth: a bright and necrotic green one, meaning an envious one, but it’s also tainted with blue-black Void energy that swirls through it in dark ribbons. It speaks:

“Who dares disturb me?”

“Freeze,” I tell Ibnar. “Just because you can’t see angry ghosts doesn’t mean they can’t hurt you.”

“Indeed,” sneers the shade. “Who are you, little cousin? Who are you, filthy graverobber?”

“My name is Tenetrilaiova. This is an Inquisitor who wants to make sure you’re properly buried.”

“Liar! Your name may be true, but I can see the thief’s soul quite clearly. His golden-green greed and ambition shine like the sun in the midst of this dark cemetery. Why do you interrupt my rest?”

“We didn’t mean to. We were just wondering how and why you got dumped here.”

“Hmph! Return my lute to my grave and depart, or I’ll kill both of you.”

I take a deep breath. “What if I told you I’m an usher for the dead? I can bring you rest.”

“Hmm…” The ghost stretches the word out to three syllables. “Where is the mighty Dragon?”

“Dragon? Wait, you mean – I mean, it’s in the Void. Trapped there by the Master Inquisitor. He’s assigned me the duty of shepherding souls. I’ll take you to your final destination, wherever it is.”

“To one of the Hells! That’s where I’ll be going! That’s where everyone goes in due time.”

Truly? That’s what I want to ask, but what falls out of my mouth is, “What did you do?”

“I eviscerated my greatest rival and used his intestines to make the strings for my magnum opus: my great work. I also painted it with his blood. The lute you hold is carved of wood from a sacred grove, corrupted by my crimes. For them, I was gutted in turn by an Inquisitor. As for you, cousin? If you do not give back my most prized possession, I’ll call upon my fellow apparitions. We’ll feast.”

“Won’t you do that anyway? Besides, I’m a bard. I think I’ll keep it. It’s magnificent.”

“ARISE!” The ghost’s voice rings out, setting my teeth on edge. Ibnar raises his sword and shield, but to him, they’re aiming at nothing. “Come to me, unholy phantoms, and tear them apart!”

Ibnar can’t see the multitude of multicolored souls leaping out of the unconsecrated earth and swarming around us in a monstrous cloud. Many of them weep, though others gnash their teeth. The weight of their sins and the burning sting of their collective pain wash over me in a nauseating wave. I stagger backward, almost falling on my tailbone but keeping my balance at the last second.

“ATTACK!”

The spirits charge. A flash of intuition comes. I strum the lute once, loud and hard.

They shriek. The bard’s soul recoils, as do the others. They float an inch or two backward. I strum again. Their screaming grows louder. Over and over, I pummel them with pure sound.

Ibnar claps his hands over his ears. “Stop! You’ll wake the dead!”

“I already have.” With a final dissonant chord, I watch the bard’s vengeful spirit lift his hands.

“I surrender! Any more of that cacophony and I’ll disintegrate. Let me come with you. Please.”

“As long as you promise to behave. You and all your friends. Do us no harm, and I’ll carry you.”

“I swear upon myself. A clever trick, using my own invention against me. Don’t do it again.”

“I won’t. I’ll protect you as long as you protect me. That’s my calling.” A question forms on the tip of my tongue, but I’ve forgotten what I want to ask this spirit. I kneel and bare my shoulders.

“I’ll remain in my lute, if you please. I’m Bernardo Alivanti, court bard. If any of my compatriots or undead strangers attack you, call upon me, and I’ll deter them. Strum my magnum opus as hard and fast as you can. That will signal me to emerge and possess your enemies’ minds.”

“What if they have no minds, like skeletons?”

“Then I’ll shatter them. I was a killer in life, and I remain so in death. That’s my punishment.”

“Why shouldn’t I disintegrate you right now, Bernardo? You won’t go to the Hells if I do that.”

“Your calling, Tenetrilaiova. You’re not here to destroy us. You’re here to redeem us.”

“As much and as far as I can. Redemption is a personal matter. You’ll have to work it out yourself.”

“I know. All I ask is one chance. I’m desperate, lonely, and hungry. I yearn for your help.”

“I can’t help with the ‘hunger’ part, but the other two? Easy. Everyone needs allies.”

“Still talking to spirits?” Ibnar asks. “Take the lute or leave it. I don’t care, but let’s go.”

“Does this count toward your quota?”

“It should. I’m the one who dug the body up. Three more graves, and I’m in the clear.”

“Fool.” Bernardo hocks a spectral glob of spit onto the cold ground. “He knows not what he does.”

“Isn’t there anyone innocent around? Someone who was buried here by mistake?”

Silence. Then I hear a chittering at my feet. A rat has come up to me. It’s glowing blue-black.

“What in the Hells?”

A voice in my mind: *Sister. You are undead. Rat is too. Rat cold. So cold. Can rat climb leg?*

A talking undead rat? The sight of Orukin, Great-Grandmother, and the souls didn’t faze me, but now I’m absolutely stupefied. All I can do is stare for a long moment. Then, out of nowhere, I nod.

“Is that a rat climbing up your leg?” asks Ibnar. “Quick! Stab it with your dagger before it bites!”

*Please. No kill rat. Rat help. Bite bad guy over there.*

I shake my head. “NO BITING.” The rat pauses, then clambers up to a pocket in my leather armor. Before I can say another word, he crawls inside and nestles in. He feels like a furry chunk of ice.

“If you don’t want to kill it, then I will.” Ibnar advances, but I hold up a hand to stop him.

“No. He’s undead, just like me. All he wants is a warm body to curl up against.”

“And infect.”

“You forget: Void magic heals us. We’re both attuned to negative energy. I’m keeping it.”

What am I saying? Have I gone mad? Is the rodent another vampire in disguise?

*Not vampire. Just rat who came to graveyard looking for scraps. Found lots of dead bad guys. When rat tried to eat one, rat caught Void-disease. Rat not hurt you. Rat be friends. Please?*

“As long as you don’t bite either me or him.” I gesture to Ibnar. “Come with me. You’ll be warm.”

“You can’t be serious. If that thing shits in your pocket or makes you sick, don’t blame me.”

“Who said I would, Ibnar? This is none of your business. Lost souls are lost souls, even if one of them is a Void-infected vermin. Who knows? Maybe in Sudansa, I can find a cure for him.”

*Rat not sick. Rat fine. Void-magic makes me strong. Rat bite bad guys when we fight.*

“Good. You need another name than ‘rat.’ I think I’ll call you Blight. Like a sickness or plague.”

*Rat like name. Blight it is. We go now. Nothing more here except stink of death and shit.*

“It’s settled then. Ibnar? Let’s return to camp and rest till dawn. No more time to waste.”

We move out and do just that. When the sun rises, Blight is still with me. He’s warm now. With a new lute and a new companion, the day seems much less dreadful. In fact, I welcome it. As for Ibnar? He awakens with a sore head and a sore temper. He barks at me to pack up our gear like I’m a servant. When I protest, he threatens to spear Blight on the end of his sword. Bastard. The only good thing about him is that he keeps his word and pays me the five gold he promised.

Ibnar says that instead of heading south immediately, we should go east toward the merchant’s stall, as shown on the signpost. We need to buy healing draughts for him and poison for both of us, as well as Blight. One kith’s lethal concoction is another kith’s salvation. When the merchant raises an eyebrow at this request, I tell her we need it for a rat infestation. She says she doesn’t have any. I suspect she’s fibbing – selling poison without an apothecary’s permit gets you killed in this realm. As does almost any other crime. The Lex Mortis is not what you’d call lenient. Ibnar gets his potion vials and wound salves, but I leave disappointed: no negative energy elixirs.

“Oh well,” I tell Ibnar once we’re headed west, then south again. “You can’t win ‘em all. I hope our visit to the labor camps will go our way. We might even bypass them completely.”

“No, we won’t. They’re the last major landmark on the road to Sudansa. I haven’t only patrolled Milham’s Ford. I was once assigned a prisoner – a courier for an infamous necromancer – who’d been sentenced to ten years. He kept whining about how he didn’t know his master’s true art; he didn’t read the messages he carried; he had no idea about underground contacts. Lies, lies, and more lies. He’s fortunate I didn’t execute him for aiding and abetting a practitioner of dark magic. I handed him over to the work foremen with a great sense of accomplishment. I should do the same to you, but I’ll delay. I’m curious to see where this mission of yours will lead both of us.”

“Me too. That can’t be the only reason you agreed to come with me, though.”

“Correct. My other motives shall remain my own.”

I knew he’d say that. I’ve known dozens of men like him, but none of them quite so…intense.

We trudge along. Blight stays secure in my pocket, emerging only when he needs to leave a pile of droppings in the grass by the side of the road. Which is odd, because he doesn’t eat. Maybe the Void magic with which he’s been infected has removed his need to do so. How convenient.

Behind us, I hear the stamp of horses’ hooves and the rumbling of wagon wheels. We move over to the side of the road to let them pass. They stop right where we are. Bright banners and streamers decorate the wagon, as does a picture of several corked vials. A man’s blustering voice rings out: “Come one, come all! Behold my Wonder Wagon! I have scrolls, potions, dried herbs, ointments and salves. As long as you’ve got the gold, I’ve got the goods. Step right up!”

I lean in and whisper in Ibnar’s ear: “Let’s hear him out. He might have negative energy potions.”

“Of the watered-down variety. Let’s not waste our time. He’s a charlatan.”

“A what?”

“A pretender? Sir, surely you jest!” The peddler’s face turns red. “I’m a most honest merchant.”

“Then let’s see your wares. Bring them out so I can inspect every last ‘wonder’ you have.”

The potion-seller motions to two dwarves, who do just as Ibnar says. Like everyone does.

Ibnar picks up each vial, uncorks it, sniffs it, and reseals it. “These seem to be full-potency. As an Inquisitor, ‘tis my duty to crack down on so-called ‘magical’ trinkets and other items. Let me see the merchandise you sell to discriminating buyers, out of reach of common kith. Now.”

The peddler opens his vest, which is filled with sealed flasks bearing the skull-and-crossbones.

“Poison. This earns you a hemlock draught of your own, but I’ll spare your life if you’ll give us all.”

“Give? I sell – ”

“Immediately.” My bodyguard presses his sword to the peddler’s neck. “Or I take your head. Hand the vials to my assistant here. She’ll properly dispose of them.” He does. “Good day, swindler.”

The Wonder Wagon speeds off so fast that its wheels leave dust in their wake.

Credit: Tenet