Shadow Magic (20 page)

Jemma sniffed. “Yes, young master. Those weren’t even a year old and still fit our Henry.”

“What job did your dad do?” Thorn crouched down and examined the damp earth.

“Mason. He helped build the west wall of the kitchens at Castle Gloom. Lord Shadow said they was the—”

“He ever drop a stone on his foot?” said Thorn. “Say, on his left one?”

“Why, yes, he did, young master. Lost his big toe.”

Thorn called Wayland over and pointed at the patch of earth in the lantern light. At the footprint he’d found. “There’s only four toe prints on this left foot.”

Wayland scowled. “They’re heading off to those woods.”

Thorn nodded.

Wayland’s hand tightened around his sword hilt. “At times like these, the sensible thing would be to wait until daylight.”

Thorn really wanted to agree. Empty graves. Footprints of dead men. He glanced up at the sky. The clouds were fat and black. “There’ll be a downpour in an hour. Whatever prints we have now will be washed away. How big’s the woods?”

“Big.”

Thorn peered into the black wall of trees. He had no choice. “Then we’d better go find Jemma’s dad right now.”

W
ayland handed Thorn a sword as they reached the edge of the woods. “You know how to handle one of these?”

It wasn’t a proper knight’s weapon, the blade little more than a foot long. Thorn did a practice swing. It felt clumsy. “Not really. Swordsmanship is for the older squires.”

“It’s simple. Just push that end”—he tapped the tip—“into your enemy as hard as you can. Repeat until they stop moving.” He signaled to his men. “Spread out, but stay within sight!” The men raised their lanterns in acknowledgement and, with swords at the ready, went in.

This was worse than that wolf hunt he and his dad had gone on last lambing season. The local farmer had put a bounty on the wolf that killed half his flock, and Thorn’s dad had gone after it.

But you can second-guess a wolf.

Thorn tightened his grip on his sword and followed Wayland.

More footprints joined up with the mason’s, another five pairs. They dragged and stumbled and hadn’t tried to cover their tracks.

The drizzle got heavier. Large raindrops fell and splashed upon the leaves, and soon rivulets of muddy water were running between their feet.

For the first time in his life, Thorn felt uneasy in the woods. It didn’t smell right. Even the sounds were wrong. He glanced at Wayland. The captain’s jaw was rock hard with tension.

Thorn stumbled over a twisted root and a branch slapped his face. What was he doing? Dad would be furious, him trampling around a wood like a city-born lummox!

Wayland seized his shoulder.

A figure stood among the trees, not more than ten yards away.

Wayland took the lantern from Thorn and stepped closer. “Identify yourself!”

Thorn’s lips were parchment dry, yet his hands were sweaty. He stayed where he was. It was dark and the rain fell, but his hearing sharpened and he could identify more smells now.

Rain. Damp earth. Rotting wood and moldy leaves and the perfume of burning lantern oil.

“Didn’t you hear me?” said Wayland. “Identify yourself!”

The man moved. He seemed to glide through the net of twigs and birch trees as if it was broad daylight. His steps were firm and sure. His clothing was well made and practical. A leather tunic, a heavy wool coat, thick breeches, and good waxed boots.

Wayland raised the lantern higher. “This is your last—”

Scars covered the man’s face. Thick stitches crisscrossed deep grooves in his broken skin. The mouth was a twisted slash, its edges sewn up badly so it rose to one ear.

His eyes were two empty holes.

Wayland gasped and swung his sword at him.

The scarred man grabbed it. The shining steel began to rust, and in seconds, it crumbled to nothing.

Shouts burst out from the surrounding darkness. In the spots of lantern light farther along, Thorn glimpsed the soldiers fighting with strange, white-limbed creatures.

A foul, dead stench filled the air.

Leaves rustled and another figure, crooked-limbed and pale, pushed through the foliage toward him. This creature’s legs moved stiffly, and his head was bent at an odd angle. His eyes were covered in gray film, his mouth hung stupid and slack. He turned toward Thorn and hissed with quiet fury.

“Get back, boy!” shouted Wayland. “Get back! It’s a zombie!”

The scarred man was still there, but instead of attacking, he folded his arms and watched.

Wayland crashed the lantern down on the zombie’s head, shattering its skull. The creature merely snarled, then grabbed hold of Wayland and beat his head against a tree trunk. Wayland moaned and slumped to the ground.

Then the zombie turned his sights on Thorn again. Thorn heard screams and cries from afar. The other soldiers were busy with their own zombies.

Thorn shook from head to toe. His heart raced. He’d hunted wolves. Tracked bears. Even chased down a wild boar, but nothing,
nothing
came close to the terror he felt now. He couldn’t take his eyes from it and every part of him wanted to run, but he stood frozen; fear had robbed his legs of all movement.

Thorn stuck his sword out in front of him. “Stay back.”

The scarred man chuckled but did not move from his spot.

Oil spilled from Wayland’s lantern, burned on the leaves, and flames splashed onto the zombie’s arm, but the creature ignored them. His beard crinkled and smoked.

Worms had been at him. They writhed within tears in his flesh and were big, fat, and white from good feeding on the dead meat. Where the skin was missing, Thorn stared at the exposed muscles, still moving, active though the heart was cold and unbeating.

Thorn gritted his teeth. He tightened his grip on his sword hilt, using both hands to hold it steady. Run or fight, that’s what it came down to. And it was too late to run.

Then Thorn noticed that the zombie was barefoot. And he had only four toes on his left foot.

“You must be Jemma’s dad,” said Thorn. “She’s real upset.”

If he’d thought that mentioning Jemma’s name might spark some faded memory, Thorn was sorely disappointed. The zombie stomped closer, getting faster, and with a hungry red fire glowing in his eyes. He reached out with his dirty, broken nails, opened his mouth, and let out a ragged scream.

Thorn thrust the sword in.

The steel went in straight and true, burying itself up to the hilt in the zombie’s chest.

The undead thing merely swung its arm and swatted Thorn off his feet.

His head swam. Blinking away tears, he could only look up, dizzy and helpless, as the zombie, sword still jutting from his chest, reached down. He wrapped its bony figures around Thorn’s neck and
squeezed
.

Thorn fought. He kicked and punched as his breath hissed out between clenched teeth. He stared at the deep, evil eyes of the undead thing and felt its stinking, cold breath on his face. Blood pounded behind Thorn’s forehead.

His chest burned as the air left it. The zombie lifted him so that Thorn dangled, his toes barely touching the ground. How could the zombie be so strong? Thorn grabbed the sword hilt and twisted it in deeper. It made no difference. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the scarred man, saw the interest he took in the zombie’s work. He nodded with approval as Thorn’s life began to leave him.

Desperately, Thorn dug his nails into the zombie’s face. Skin flaked off and old, thick black blood oozed from the gashes.

Darkness fell as Thorn’s senses abandoned him. He couldn’t breathe.

I’m gonna die….

Thorn clenched his fist for one last punch. His vision was clouding over, but he concentrated on tightening his fingers and putting the last of his strength into one final blow. Slowly, arms aching, he raised his fist….

It didn’t land, but something else did.

The zombie was ripped away from Thorn.

Thorn dropped to his knees, gasping. Air, clean and sharp, raced down his throat.

Hades pinned the zombie facedown on the ground. The undead thing thrashed its arms, but Hades’s claws were deep in its back.

Hades sniffed his prey.

“Don’t…don’t just play with it….” Thorn rasped, the inside of his throat feeling as if it had been scoured with sandpaper.

Hades snapped his jaws over the zombie’s head and tore it clean off.

The body went limp.

Hades spat the head out.

“So there
are
things you won’t eat.” Thorn crawled to his feet, but it was hard work. He was nearly dead with exhaustion and every limb trembled.

The scarred man stared at Thorn and the monster beside him. He flexed his fingers.

“Try it,” whispered Thorn, his throat too painful for anything louder. “Hades is still hungry. Aren’t you, boy?”

Hades hissed in agreement.

The scarred man held out his arms and began
peeling
the shadows around him as though he was collecting blackberries. He pinched them from branches and off the ground, gathering them about him in a ribbon.

He spun the blackness around him. His limbs disappeared, his body and, last of all, his hideous, scarred face.

And then he was gone, vanished into the shadows.

Thorn hugged the bat. He could barely stand and hung on the bat’s neck, burying his fingers in deep. Hades didn’t seem bothered. He lowered his wings, enclosing Thorn in their folds. Both hearts, of monster and boy, beat together.

Thorn pressed his face into the beast’s wet, smelly fur. “Good boy, Hades. Good boy.”

“T
ell me about the scarred man,” said Tyburn. “Again.”

Lily watched Thorn as he tried to explain, for the umpteenth time, what had happened at Graven the day before. The poor boy could barely stand, and the purple bruises around his neck looked horrible.

When she’d seen him come into the study, all battered and bruised, she’d almost jumped up to hug him, but she’d forced herself to stay seated at her desk. She was Lady Shadow, and such things weren’t allowed, especially with Tyburn and her uncle present.

It was hard being this Lady Shadow.

Zombies. They had zombies in Gehenna. She wasn’t sure if she was excited or scared. Probably both.

“It was dark,” replied Thorn, sounding more than weary. “The flesh, I mean. Really deformed. I couldn’t see his eyes. I’m not sure he had any. There were just holes. And the scars were deeper than just into the flesh. It looked like they went into the bone.”

Lily spoke. “And what happened to the zombies?”

“When the scarred man disappeared, they just fell down. Proper dead this time,” said Thorn. “Wayland ordered ’em all burned.”

“Then Wayland did right,” said Tyburn. “If they were undead, it’s the only way to make sure they won’t come back.”

“If?”
Pan cut in. “How can we have zombies? Just think it through. Iblis tried to raise one and failed. The effort almost broke him; he was comatose for a week.”

“What about our Immortals? And old One-Eyed Ron?” said Lily. “They were all zombies.”

“And all created by your great-great-grandfather,” answered Uncle Pan. “Since then, we’ve only had the power to maintain them, not raise any new ones. Now you’re talking about six. Six! All up and dancing the jig in some field!”