His left hand had been chewed off.
Roaring with both pain and rage, he fought his way through the remaining corpses and ran down the street, through the rain, gritting his teeth against the pain. Blood spouted from the stump of his left wrist. As he ran, he tucked his sword beneath his arm and unfastened his sword belt with his one remaining hand. He shook it hard until the scabbard fell free, then bound it around his arm tightly, making an improvised tourniquet. He twisted it tight, pulling it with his teeth, and then made it fast. His head was swimming. His vision blurred. And, through the rain, he saw more undead stumbling down the street toward him.
Nibenay was gone. Whatever he might have done to help him, there was no possibility of it now. With his left hand gone, the ring was gone, and the magical link was broken. Valsavis stood there in the pouring rain, breathing hard, righting back the pain, struggling to keep from passing out, and as the walking corpses shambled toward him, he suddenly realized that he had never in his life felt more alive.
His right hand grasped his sword hilt. It felt familiar, natural in his grasp, like an extension of his arm. As the rain came down, soaking him through to the skin, plastering his long, gray hair to his face and running through his beard, reviving him, he threw back his head and screamed in defiance of the death that was lurching toward him. This was the measure of a man, this was the fitting way to die, not with a wheezing, old man’s death rattle in a lonely bed, but with a scream of rage and bloodlust. And holding his sword before him, he charged.
Sorak plowed like a juggernaut through the advancing corpses, swinging Galdra to the left and right. It cut through them effortlessly, and they fell, never to move again, the spell of the enchanted blade more powerful than the ancient curse that animated them. And if Sorak had paused in his plunge through them, he might have heard them sigh with relief as the rain washed away the living death to which they had been condemned.
Ryana clutched Kara’s arm, holding her sword in her other hand, glancing around quickly to the left and right, ready to strike out at any corpse that came too near. But something strange was happening. The undead that had been lurching toward her and Kara suddenly turned and started shambling toward Sorak, their arms outstretched, not in a threatening manner, but almost in a pleading one, as if they were beseeching mercy. And she suddenly realized what they were doing.
Having seen Galdra release the others from the spell, these mindless corpses, driven by some fragment of an instinct left over from the days when they were still alive as men, now sought release from living death as well. They were no longer attacking, but instead, they approached Sorak and simply stood there, waiting for him to cut them down. Galdra flashed in the driving rain, again and again and again, and still more of them came, waiting their turns patiently, holding their arms out to him in supplication.
Ryana and Kara both stood leaning on each other in the rain, holding their breath, unable to tear their eyes away from the surreal spectacle. The undead were simply ignoring them, brushing right past them as they moved toward Sorak, then stopped and simply awaited their turn to be struck down, once and forever.
“Ryana!” Sorak cried out in exasperation. “I can’t go on! There are too many of them!”
“Cut your way through!” she called to him. “We’ll follow!”
Sorak plunged ahead, mowing his way through the corpses blocking his path, and Ryana ran with Kara, hard on his heels. As they broke through and continued down the street, they heard the tormented wailing of the undead rising behind them. “Which way?” cried Sorak. “To the left!” Kara called out. “Straight down to the end of the street! You will see a tower!”
They continued on, Sorak cutting down the undead that came into their path. Ryana felt bony fingers clutching at her shoulder, and she turned and swung out with her sword, cutting off the arm that reached for her. It fell to the ground and wriggled like a worm as the corpse continued to stumble after her, holding out its remaining arm, fingers like talons reaching out and grasping vainly at the air.
Ryana felt a momentary pang of regret that she could not free the doomed soul from its torment, but then she thought of all the others it must have killed horribly over the years, and that drove all pity from her mind. If not for Galdra, they too, would have been food for the undead of Bodach.
The rain started to let up as the storm passed over them. Ahead, at the far end of the street, Ryana could make out a tall, stone tower standing at the edge of the city, beside the rotted docks jutting out into the silt. At one time, in an earlier age, it must have been an observation tower, or perhaps a lighthouse to guide ships in to the docks when the silt basins were still full of water.
They ran toward the tower as the rain slacked off to a mere drizzle. Their feet splashed through the street as they ran, and now there were no more undead before them. They heard the wailing behind them, but the tower was merely a short sprint away now. They reached it and plunged inside.
There was no door in the frame, for it had long since rotted away. There was only an open archway, leading into a circular chamber on the ground floor, and a long, spiral flight of stone steps going up.
“We can try to make our stand here,” Sorak said, breathing heavily with his exertions as he looked around quickly, satisfying himself that the place was empty. “There is no door, but perhaps we may block off the entryway.” He glanced toward the stairs leading to the upper floors. “There may be more of them up there.”
“No,” said Kara with certainty. “We shall be safe here. They shall not come in.”
Ryana and Sorak both looked at her. “Why?” asked Sorak, looking puzzled.
“Because they know not to,” Kara said. “We can rest here a moment and catch our breath.”
“And then what?” Sorak asked.
“And then we go up,” said Kara.
Sorak glanced uneasily toward the stairs. “Why?” he asked her. “Why do the undead know not to come in here? What is up there, Kara?”
“The true treasure of Bodach,” Kara replied.
Sorak glanced out the arched doorway, toward the street. Perhaps thirty or forty undead simply stood there, roughly twenty yards away. They came no closer. The rain had stopped now as the storm moved on, and moonlight reflected off the street. Then, as Sorak and Ryana watched, the corpses slowly shambled away into the shadows.
“I do not understand,” said Sorak. “They welcomed their final death from Galdra, and yet they seem to fear this tower. What is it about this place? Why do they keep away from it?”
“You will know the answer to that at the top of the tower,” Kara replied evasively.
Sorak stood, dripping, at the foot of the stairs, gazing up. “Well, I do not relish the climb after all we have been through, but I have waited long enough for answers,” he said. He glanced at Kara. “Will you lead the way, or shall I?”
“Go on,” she said. “I will follow.” Sorak stared at her uncertainly for a moment, then started to climb the stairs. Ryana beckoned Kara to go next. Glancing out the entryway, Ryana took a deep breath, felt the familiar heft of her sword in her hand, and followed after Kara and Sorak.
They climbed for a long time. The tower had several levels. The floors on most of them had long since rotted away. Only bits and pieces of the wood remained. Cool air came in through narrow windows in the walls as they climbed. The stone steps were ancient and worn in the centers by the tread of countless feet over the ages. How long had it been, Ryana wondered, since anyone had come this way? Hundreds of years? A thousand? More? And what would they find at the top? How could there even be a top level if all the floors had collapsed centuries ago?