The middle of the chamber was occupied by rows of wooden tables, each with a small workbench beside it. Most of the tables were bare, but corpses were laid out on a few of them, bearing similar wounds to those the three had seen in the charnel heap above ground.
Tarrel examined the nearest workbench. It bore a clay pot of dried earth, a large inkwell, a selection of iron needles, and a parchment scroll. Unrolling the scroll, he found a schematic diagram of a humanoid body, covered with glyphs and mystical patterns.
“What do you make of this?” he asked, holding up the scroll.
Brey came over to him and looked at the patterns. “The zombies that captured us were tattooed,” she said. “The patterns look similar.” Tarrel pulled a small sack from a pocket inside his coat, and dropped the scroll into it.
The workbench was fitted with two drawers. In one, Tarrel found a number of black, glassy stones; in the other, a lot of short bones that he recognized as finger-bones. He put a couple of each in his sack.
“Look at this,” called Mordan. He was standing at the far side of the chamber, where a series of stone vats stood against the wall. Each was the size and shape of a sarcophagus, and each had a thick layer of foul-smelling sludge at the bottom. Three of the vats contained bodies, almost unrecognizable beneath the muck that coated them.
Roughly in the middle of the row of vats, a set of sturdy wooden shelves stood against the wall, crowded with jars and bottles of all shapes and sizes. Tarrel examined them, noting down the writing on their labels. Finding a long-handled iron spoon, he carefully ladled some of the sludge from the nearest vat into an empty jar, stoppered it tightly, and dropped it into his sack.
“Alchemy,” he said at last. “I’d guess they were working on ways to make the zombies tougher—maybe slower to decay, as well. The other things are probably spell ingredients. I know a couple of experts in Sharn who can tell for sure.”
Two doors led deeper into the complex. Listening at one, Tarrel gestured the other two to silence.
“I hear it,” said Brey. “It sounds like chanting.”
Tarrel put his sack down and pulled his mirror from a pocket inside his coat, holding it in one hand as he opened the door a crack. They all winced at the slight creak it made, but the chanting continued unbroken. Sticking the mirror through the crack, Tarrel cast a rapid glance over the room beyond. Then he withdrew the mirror and put it away.
“Looks like some kind of ritual,” he whispered. “They haven’t heard us.”
The chant repeated over and over, a guttural drone with no beginning and no end. Tarrel listened intently. “That’s elven,” he whispered at last.
Mordan looked at him questioningly. “Doesn’t sound like Valenar,” he commented.
“It’s not,” said Tarrel. “I think it’s Aereni—maybe an archaic form. Something about peace in pain, life in death, birth in”—he searched for a word in the common tongue—“in dying. Something like that.”
“How many of them?” whispered Brey.
“Three,” Tarrel replied, “plus some kind of sacrificial victim.” He drew his orange-tipped wand and looked at the others.
“Ready?” he asked. When they nodded, he kicked the door open.
Brey leaped into the room, sticking to the ceiling like a spider. Mordan dove in, rolling to his feet with his rapier drawn. Tarrel stood in the doorway, holding his wand in both hands.
“Anglau men hethluc guelltho,” the chant continued without a break.
In the center of the room, the dead body of an elf hung from its hands, which were nailed to an upright post of black wood. Dried blood stained the post, running down to a brownish puddle at the base. In front of the post, with their backs to the doorway, three zombies stood before a lectern of carved bone, chanting tirelessly. They did not even look around as the three entered.
The fight was over quickly. The zombies maintained their chant until the first of them was attacked, and two were destroyed before they had time to react—one by the searing light from Tarrel’s wand, and another by Mordan’s enchanted rapier. Brey felled the third as it turned toward her, crushing its chest with a stamp of her foot. The three looked nervously up at the inert figure on the post, but it did not move.
Having retrieved his sack from beside the door, Tarrel examined the book that rested on the lectern.
“Instructions for the ritual,” he said after a few moments. “The chant’s in here—apparently the one on the post is supposed to cross over from life into undeath.”
“Doesn’t look like it worked,” said Mordan, looking up at the motionless elf corpse. Are you saying he was alive when they nailed him up there?”
“Most likely they nailed him to the pole before they raised it,” answered Tarrel. “See how loose it is in its socket? It was probably made to be taken up and down.”
Mordan winced. “Bad way to die.”
“Something doesn’t add up, though,” said Tarrel. “I think the zombies were just providing the chant. There should have been someone else to conduct the ritual.” He added the book to his sack, which didn’t appear to be getting any more full.
Brey laughed. “He probably ran like the rest when the accident happened,” she said. “I bet they’ve been chanting here ever since, just because nobody told them to stop. Just like that thing outside, collecting the dead.”
“Let’s get him down,” said Tarrel. “I’d like to take a look.”
Somewhat reluctantly, Brey and Mordan held the elf’s legs while Tarrel climbed up the pole and pulled out the nails with a pair of pliers.
“Look at these,” he said, dropping to the floor. He held out his hand, and the others could see the arcane symbols carved into the heads of the nails. Reaching inside his coat, he pulled out a small lens and peered through it at the nails.
“Some kind of enchantment,” he said, dropping the nails into his sack. He bent over the body.
“No wounds other than the nail-holes in the hands.” he muttered, half to himself. “The shoulders have dislocated, probably because of hanging there for so long. I’d say when he died, there was no one around to complete the ritual and bring him back.”
Mordan came back into the chamber from a short side-passage.
“All clear here,” he called out. “A lot of small rooms with desks and supplies. Looks like some kind of living quarters, except there are no beds.”
“Zombies don’t need to sleep,” Brey pointed out, “and whatever this one was supposed to become, that probably doesn’t need to sleep either. Dravuliel had a whole crowd of them as servants and assistants—all elves, and all undead. They were smarter than zombies, though—just as if they were still alive. A lot of them could cast spells.”
Tarrel looked up. “Not zombies and not vampires,” he said. “Could he have found a way to make wights?”
Brey shook her head.
“I don’t think so,” she replied. “They were smarter than wights, too. Maybe they were some kind of lich.”
Tarrel shook his head in puzzlement. “Another question for the experts,” he said. He looked down at the body for a long moment.
“You’re not going to put that in your sack?” asked Brey.
Tarrel grinned and shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Too big. I’m just making sure there’s nothing I’ve missed.”
“Look at this,” called Mordan from across the room. He had pulled back a tattered hanging to reveal a large and solid-looking door. Prominent among the carvings was a large elven rune.