The Captain of Corpses stopped pacing for a moment and cast a critical eye over Mordan and Tarrel.
“And these two?” he asked.
“They are independent consultants,” the gnome replied, “assisting the Ministry with the investigation. There is one other—a young lady, formerly of the army of Thrane—who is resting at the moment. Your troops may have mentioned her in their reports.”
“Ripping off heads and throwing horses to the ground?” said the Captain. “Yes, they mentioned her. They said she’s a vampire.”
“Quite so,” said Haldin. “A most unfortunate victim of illegal experimentation, as my associate from Breland pointed out. As you can appreciate, it is absolutely vital that these miscreants are found and brought to account—not only for their deeds here, but also in the interests of maintaining the peace between Karrnath and Thrane. This matter must be handled with great care or it could result in a serious international incident.”
The Captain thought about this for a while.
“I can’t spare any troops,” he said, “if that’s what you’re driving at.”
“Not at all, my dear Captain,” replied Haldin. “The Ministry would not dream of further draining your resources at this most unfortunate time. All we ask is to impose upon your hospitality for another day or two—perhaps less. With the help of your troops, my associates managed to capture one of last night’s attackers, and we wish to question him. We shall, of course, be happy to share all relevant information with you.”
“Are you sure you’re really a gnome?” Tarrel asked later. “I thought sharing information for nothing was against your principles.”
“Quite sure, my dear Tarrel,” Haldin chuckled. “Although I begin to wonder whether you are really a Medani inquisitive. Surely you noticed how I limited the offer to relevant information?”
“Without defining what is and isn’t relevant,” Tarrel said. “You’ll have to excuse me; I had a long night.”
They made their way across the courtyard, where burial details were taking away the bodies of the slain. Carts piled with the dead—attacker and defender alike—were being loaded onto carts drawn by skeletal horses. From the fort they went to the lightning rail station, where they were stacked like cordwood in covered, windowless carts painted black and bearing the insignia of the fort. Normally used for moving active zombies rather than corpses, they would convey the dead to Atur, along with a request for replacement zombies and bone knights.
Mordan saw two troopers picking up the body of his brother, and he wandered over to watch. Gali’s eyes were closed, and he looked almost peaceful. One arm hung over the edge of the cart, and Mordan folded it across his chest.
“Have you decided what you’ll tell your family yet?”
Mordan jumped. He hadn’t heard Tarrel approaching.
He shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Have you decided what you’ll tell your client?”
“Why?” asked the Brelander. “So we can tell the same story? Don’t worry. My guess is, your government will want to keep this very quiet. It might be easiest to let the family go on thinking that he died in Cyre.”
Still looking at Gali’s body, Mordan made no reply.
Haldin came over to them. “I’d like to examine this one,” he said to the soldiers. They hesitated for a moment, and then unloaded Gali’s body from the cart. Following the gnome, they laid him on a bunk in the barracks. Dismissing the soldiers with a gesture, Haldin began to examine the body.
“Interesting,” he said. “Have you seen tattoos like these before?”
Mordan didn’t answer, but Tarrel pulled out the diagram he had taken from the workroom beneath the ruined fort. Haldin took it eagerly.
“Fascinating,” he said. “You found this in the Mournland, I take it?”
“That’s right,” said Tarrel. “There were a few works in progress, too. Brey said the spell-casting zombies that captured her were tattooed as well.”
“Ah,” said Haldin, “of course!”
Tarrel looked at him quizzically.
“It’s a process known as spellstitching,” Haldin explained. “The tattoos are patterns of magical energy. I’ve never seen an actual example before.”
“So that’s how he was able to kill all those troops when they tried to help me?” asked Mordan.
Haldin shook his head. “No,” he replied. “Spellstitching is limited in its effects. That spell was far too powerful. He must have had some other source of magic.”
“He must have had another source of strength, too,” observed Tarrel. “He was a lot harder to kill than the other wights.”
“I have a theory about that,” said Haldin, “although it doesn’t explain everything.”
“Care to share it?” asked Tarrel with a wry smile.
Haldin grinned broadly. “What are you offering in return?” he asked.
“Stop it,” said Mordan. “This isn’t a game. That’s my brother there, and I want to know what happened to him. Haldin, you offered me an exchange of information—let’s exchange. Maybe you can make some sense of what we found in the Mournland. Tarrel, what do you say?”
“Brey should be in on this too,” said the Brelander. “She actually saw them in action.”
“Agreed,” said Mordan. “We’ll ask her when she gets up tonight.”
“I shall look forward to it,” said Haldin. “Meanwhile, let’s see what our captive can tell us.”
“You go ahead,” said Mordan. “I’m going to stay here for a while.”
Tarrel and Haldin left him to his musings.
They found the captured wight in the same cell they had occupied only a few hours before. Tarrel’s half-elf guards stood on either side of the door, out of reach of the creature’s hands. Both wore field dressings over a number of minor wounds.
As the gnome and the Brelander approached the cell, the wight hurled itself at the door, reaching out through the bars with a bony arm, its eyes blazing with hate. Tarrel backed away, but Haldin stood just a couple of inches outside its reach. A few minutes went by, with the wight frantically trying to reach the gnome, and the gnome holding his ground with an imperturbable smile. Eventually, the wight gave up.
“That’s better,” said Haldin, as if congratulating a small child on its manners. “Now, I have some questions I’d like you to answer. Truthfully, if you please.”
“Why?” snarled the wight. “You’ll destroy me whatever I say!”
Haldin held up an admonitory finger. “Perhaps,” he said, “or perhaps I’ll recommend that you be sent to the Ministry for further study and evaluation. There might yet be a place for you in the army of Karrnath.”
The wight considered this. Seeing its indecision, Haldin reached into a belt pouch, bringing out something that looked like a severed finger. The wight looked at it curiously, and Haldin moved it in a complex pattern, muttering under his breath.
“Now,” he said amicably, “I’m sure we can come to a suitable arrangement. I am willing to believe that you were not a willing participant in the things that were done to you, and neither, perhaps, were any of the Vedykar Lancers. You did your duty and were betrayed by those you were assigned to protect. Am I right?”
There was a pause. The wight searched his face, meeting nothing but a sympathetic smile.
“What do you want to know?” it rasped.
“There,” Haldin beamed. “You see, this doesn’t have to be difficult or unpleasant. First, let us introduce ourselves. My name is Garro Haldin—what is yours?”
“Rochus Gaebler.”
“Very good.” said Haldin. “I am pleased to meet you. Now, why don’t you tell me everything that happened to you after you were assigned to Unit 61?”
“Well,” said Haldin, after night had fallen and Brey had joined them, “it seems that Dravuliel is a very gifted necromancer indeed. I’m not surprised that he decided to leave the employment of the Ministry and set out on his own account. The accident involving the gateway to Mabar, ironically enough, provided him with an ideal pretext.”