Severed Souls (Sword of Truth 14)

Gerald had ventured to Saavedra once, when he was younger, but on the advice of those who knew the place he had made sure to stay well clear of the citadel. Those same people whispered frightening descriptions of Bishop Hannis Arc. There was nothing to be gained from tempting trouble, so he had heeded the advice.

He never found any work in Saavedra, but he had found a wife there. Being from a poor family with parents who could not adequately feed their children, she had cared more about having enough to eat than his occupation. Since it earned a living, she married him and they returned to Insley, and he to tending the graveyard in order to put food on the table.

She had long ago died when she had been with her first child. It seemed a lifetime ago. He never had another wife.

As he watched into the distance, watched all the people coming his way, Gerald had the decidedly uneasy feeling that it could be nothing other than trouble. He gave thought to running, but he was too old to run for far.

Besides, it was a crazy worry. What could they want with him? An old gravedigger was hardly worth ransom. He had nothing of value, really. The only thing he had of any worth at all were a few tools and a rickety handcart that reeked of the dead, so unless they wanted to haul corpses and dig them graves, his possessions weren’t worth much to anyone but him.

As he watched the vast numbers of figures spread out in the distance, his curiosity kept him rooted in place. Besides, where would he hide? The woods? There were things to fear in the woods that were likely worse than a lot of people passing through Insley.

The strangest thing, other than what looked like numbers in the thousands, was that the figures all appeared to be dressed in white. He assumed that, strange as it seemed, they must all be wearing white robes. As they got closer, and he squinted enough, he saw that he was wrong, they weren’t wearing robes. Most didn’t look to be wearing shirts or pants, either. They appeared not to be wearing much at all.

Their bodies, arms, and legs—even their heads—were a chalky whitish color, as if they had rubbed ash all over themselves. He had never seen such people in all his life. He couldn’t imagine the purpose of rubbing white ash on themselves.

In the center, though, in the lead, were several darker figures. The contrast against the flood of pale figures behind them was striking and made them stand out all the more.

The dirty haze that Gerald had seen at first seemed to be something that enveloped the throng, as if it were being dragged along with them, or created by them. As they got closer it was an ominous-looking murk, an atmosphere of threat, oddly enough like they were inside their own dreary day and bringing it along with them.

Strange greenish luminescence crackled from time to time within that gloomy murk.

Gerald reconsidered his decision not to run. He wanted to run, or at least walk away and maybe go visit the woods for a spell until all the people had gone on their way, but since the darker figures at the center were headed right toward him, he instinctively knew that running would be the wrong thing to do.

Running from a predator provoked them to chase.

Only then, with that thought, did he realize that he knew these were predators.

He decided that his best bet was to keep his wits about him, appear friendly, and maybe offer the approaching strangers any information they might want. He was obviously no threat to them, so his best chance was to be helpful and let them be on their way.

He knew well enough that folks kept you around if you were useful. Despite his having no real friends, and no one in Insley particularly holding any favor with him, they tolerated him with a brief smile and a passing nod because he was useful. He had survived a long time simply by being useful with onerous tasks.

He became more alarmed, though, when he saw that the darker figures at the lead were going to come marching with all those following them right across his carefully tended garden of the dead.

He could see that one of the darker figures had what looked like a faint, glowing, bluish green light about him—as if he were half man, half spirit. Beside him was a figure that was darker yet. That one wore heavy, black robes. From what Gerald could see of his hands and face, the man’s flesh appeared dark with tattoos of some sort. Following behind him was another person all in red. He knew well enough what that had to be.

Gerald swallowed when he saw that the eyes of the man in the dark robes were fixed on him, and those eyes were red.

As he strode at a steady, easy pace, the spirit man walked with his arms down, his palms out. It appeared that he was the source of the dark haze, that it was being pulled along by the man’s hands. It was like he was dragging the grim murk along behind him the way a boat dragged a wake along with it.

Gerald couldn’t imagine what he was, other than one of the rumored beings from out of the darkest depths of the woods.

Against all common sense, Gerald finally decided to run. But as much as he intended it, his feet seemed rooted in place as both dark figures continued walking right toward him. He didn’t know if it was something they were doing to him, some kind of magic, or if he was simply frozen in fright. Either way, he was unable to move and had no choice but to stay right where he was as he watched them coming.

As the darker figures entered the far side of his carefully groomed graveyard, with the mass of whitewashed figures dutifully following behind, Gerald could see the ground near them begin to move. It didn’t appear to be the feet of the strangers causing the mud and clumps of grasses to shake and shiver. It appeared to be moving of its own accord.

It was then that he realized that it was not the ground in general that was moving. It was only the ground over the graves that was joggling, as if the dead beneath were agitated and pushing up at the soil from below.

All across the graveyard, as the dark haze dragged by the spirit man passed across the ground, the dirt over a number of the newer graves it touched began to heave and quake all the more.

Gerald looked up from staring at the incomprehensible sight and found himself looking right into the eyes of the two men who had by then stopped not far away from him. He didn’t know which man looked more terrifying.

One of the two appeared to be a cadaver dressed in garments covered with dark stains that looked to be dried blood. Gerald had seen enough bloodstained clothes on corpses, but he had never had one of those corpses appear to be alive.

More frightening even than that, the cadaverous man had a bluish glow to him. To Gerald, it looked like nothing so much as a spirit in the same place as the corpse. At least a spirit as had been described to him—he had never actually seen a spirit himself. Until now.

Together, body and spirit, there was no doubt that the man was somehow alive and aware of everything about him. He looked out at the world both with the glowing eyes of the spirit and the eyes of the corpse beneath it. As cadaverous as the man’s body looked, there was no doubt that he was looking, seeing, and comprehending.

Gerald did not think for one moment that this was a good spirit.

There was no doubt that the other man, the one with the red eyes and black robes, was living flesh and blood. His flesh, though, rather than being dried and dead, was covered with tattoos of strange occult designs. They were beyond counting. Every inch of the man, every speck of skin, was covered in the dark designs.

For years, Gerald had heard the whispered descriptions. He knew without a doubt who this man had to be.

Behind him stood a tall woman with blond hair pulled back in a single braid. Although he had never seen one before, he knew by her hair, her tight red leather outfit, and the cold look in her icy blue eyes that she could be none other than one of the notorious Mord-Sith.

Behind the three, the sea of the nearly naked figures, their flesh smeared with ash or whitewash of some sort to make them look intimidating and frighteningly like ghost men, had come to a halt and now stood with grim expressions, watching from black painted eye sockets.

“I am Lord Arc,” the man in the dark robes sai

d. When he held a tattooed hand out to the side, Gerald could see that even the palm was tattooed. “This is the spirit king, Emperor Sulachan.”

Gerald had never heard of Emperor Sulachan.

“What is it you want?” he heard himself ask.

The spirit king’s thin lips widened with the slightest hint of a smile. “We have come for your dead.”

The sound of his voice sent pain tingling along Gerald’s flesh.

CHAPTER

7

“My dead?” Gerald asked.

The spirit king’s thin smile grew wider and his eyes more dangerous. “Yes, your dead. We have use of them. They are to become our dead.”

With that, he lifted his arms. Far and near the muddy dirt a number of the graves began to churn almost as if it were a thick stew coming to a boil.

At the same time, the bluish, spiritlike glow of the spirit king changed to a disturbing greenish luminescence.