My neighbor across the table fascinatingly depicted the mischief and tricks that Uncle Gordon got into when he was young. I experienced difficulty meshing those adventures with the image of the bilious and pedantic alchemist.
“By the way, why was the coffin closed?” I wondered.
A neighbor hissed: “He passed away suddenly, on the street. Animals ate his body a little.”
It was strange. Around Uncle’s home there were always ward-off spells that turned small animals away—the alchemist did not like his furry neighbors.
“Where did he die?”
“He was found behind his garage.”
It was sounding stranger and stranger. What would he have been doing there?
The gathering was over before the darkness fell; the villagers used to spend their nights at home in Krauhard. That is another local exotic feature: all drink, but virtually without getting drunk. Or next day there would be a new funeral. Generally, thoughts about eternal rest are very sobering. Wives were slowly taking home their swaying husbands; my neighbor across the table was given a ride in a wheelbarrow. I managed to stay up until the end without falling under the bench and soiling myself with salad from head to toe; aside from me, the only two sober were Joe and the village elder, a very proper man for Krauhard. Of course, others started asking us for help. Catching that moment, I pretended that I was going to pee and quietly hid behind the outbuildings. I didn’t want to be covered with puke! Another half an hour to make sure that I escaped the dubious honor, I decided to spend on something useful. I took a walk to the place of Uncle’s sudden death to check the condition of his ward-off spells.
My head was pleasantly spinning. The houses on the other side of the valley were bathed in sunlight, but the northern slope was cold and quite dark. There were no bushes around; otherwise, I would have gotten lost in them. To find out where exactly Uncle died was impossible—all the rocks looked the same, and, indeed, I did not feel any spells. Why was that so? Perhaps, the disappearance of the spells was the reason the old man had climbed there; usually, he did not show any passion for mounting.
I decided to walk up the hill a bit further and look for seals, the round granite washers that usually serve as anchors for household magic. Guess why they are granite, but not lead, glass, or gold? I didn’t know until Mr. Rakshat explained: that way they won’t be stolen. Though the best materials to absorb a curse are silver and copper. The rough rock washers showed up almost immediately; each of them carried a ward-off rune meaning, in theory, that no any filthy animal, real or supernatural, could come close to the dwelling of the alchemist and desecrate his corpse. I had found the only explanation—the contour wasn’t closed. The seals were set quite frequently, so that the theft of one or two washers would not affect the performance of the runes. I felt an urge to check the entire perimeter, but common sense suggested choosing another day for the investigation.
For example, a day when there would be more time before sunset, because overly self-confident dark magicians do not last long in Krauhard. And I needed to be sober, too…
I sighed, pondering how fast city life had weaned me from cautiousness, and started slowly making way back. A warm bed was already dancing before my eyes; if I sang Joe a story about poor me, tired from the trip to Krauhard, he would surely agree to give me a ride home in his carriage. A wheelbarrow would suit me fine as well… Having almost reached Uncle’s home, I came across two strange guys, poking around some junk machinery under the awning. But the excess of food eaten and drink imbibed did not permit me to understand what they were doing and why their faces looked unfamiliar. A lot of people had gathered for the funeral—maybe these guys were the guests of some villagers? Muttering, “Excuse me, dudes,” I passed them, but as soon as the strangers got behind me, something stung my side. What the hell…? My legs gave way, weak-willed corpse collapsed—not on the ground, but into the clutching hands of that duo. I was quickly pulled behind the garage.
“Well?” one of them asked tensely.
“Nothing,” the other said, thoroughly searching my pockets.
“Damn! What was he looking for here?”
“F*ck knows. What should we do? Two corpses in the same place would be suspicious; we don’t want cops’ attention.”
The first one thought for a moment. “Drop him into a gully,” he made a decision. “They’ll think he was drunk.”
All my sensibilities howled in protest: the mountain’s slope was cleaved through by the gully right behind Uncle’s property, which was kind of a canyon in miniature, all in narrow cracks and wet boulders. If I fell into it, my bones would be broken, and people would find me by smell a few days later. Alas, despite the roaring power of my Source, my muscles were limp and motionless, and I wasn’t able to concentrate on spellcasting. Another mess I got myself into!
Max came to my aid: it raised voice. The growling of the zombie-dog was as music to me. I do not know what those two had managed to descry, but in a moment only a quickly subsiding sound of footsteps reminded of their existence. I lay there, slowly grasping the horror of my situation. I couldn’t send Max for help; anyone in Krauhard would immediately recognize the zombie in it. What the drunken bums were capable of doing with the dog, I was afraid to think of. My only option was to wait for the poison’s action to end. I hoped I would be all right. Dark magicians are surprisingly overconfident! I mentally ordered Max to watch for the two strangers and prepared to wait.
Minutes dragged on slowly. It was getting dark, or maybe darkness was just growing in my eyes. I was running out of breath; all the power of my Source was not enough to drive away the nasty, pulling cold that was getting closer and closer to my heart. And then I realized that Uncle Gordon died exactly like that—alone on the cold rocks, knowing that his murder would be declared death from senile weakness. The two strangers were the cause of his death. To kill them! But while I lay here, they would be far away, and Max seemed not to hear me.
The cold escalated into a dull ache, and fear of suffocation started pestering me. How soon would they notice that I was missing? Joe, perhaps, decided that I had gone home on foot. It would take a while until they figured out that I wasn’t there… Logic dictated that they would begin worrying only in the morning; a dark magician was more likely to survive at night than drunken rescuers.
I tried not to panic and think optimistically. To recall my job, focus on my plans for the future (I had so many of them!), focus on my eccentric family that couldn’t manage without the help of the pragmatic dark mage. The rustle of blood in my ears lulled so sweetly… but I needed to stay awake. Stop! Since when did blood rustle?!
I made an incredible effort to turn my eyes, dried out from not blinking, and noticed that something flickered on the edge of the cleft, vaguely resembling a pile of foliage whipped by the wind.
It couldn’t be worse.
Meeting a creature from the other world was the last thing that I needed now, precisely at this moment. Indeed, Rustle did not forget the heart it had heard. It came after me, but I was so young yet! On the other hand, to recall my life before dying wouldn’t take much time; I didn’t live long. First of all, I shouldn’t show the creature my fear. If my illegal practice had taught me anything, it was the conventional wisdom that the undead learned about its adversary’s power by how fearless the adversary was. Maybe it came after me to avenge its deceased comrades? What nonsense got into my head… I was not going to surrender without a fight, but my power, suppressed by the poison, would be enough for just a friendly slap. The monster would guzzle me, no question, and maybe choke as well. I would torture it with heartburn!