told him. “That’s not what bothers me. My worry is that it could set fire to everything if we make it suspicious. We really need a specialist in elementalism to deal with that thing. It frightens me.”
“Me, too. And we’re trying to capture its master. Does that make us crazy or desperate?”
“I think it’s either desperate or too old to care.”
“You could be right. But, on the subject of an elementalist, do you think we could sound out someone in Arondael?”
“Not without risking the whole operation.” Tyrecan sighed. “I say we get Rakal to call it back and put it away; he’s got servants enough.”
“I doubt that. I saw what it did to that cavern-village under the Klastok peaks in the north. It took days before it aired out enough to send in looters. And that valley, the one with the galgar farms? Is anything growing there, yet?”
“I see your point.”
“I’m just saying we need something to keep it in before we have Keria send for it,” Hagus insisted. “Something with spells to block its ability to communicate as well as to hide it. I , for one, don’t want an undead king showing up unexpectedly.”
“Isn’t that what we’re trying to do?”
“Not right now. Eventually, ‘his majesty’ wants a face-to-face encounter with the monster, but I’m still not convinced that’s the best course.”
“He says he’s the only one who can capture it,” Tyrecan argued. “I’m not sure I fully agree, though.”
“Oh?” Hagus asked, arching an eyebrow.
“I don’t see how a sick old man stands a chance against something like him. Maybe he just wants to die, but I’ve given up trying to figure out what the prince really wants. I don’t trust him.”
“Neither do I, but I’m also too old to care,” Hagus remarked.
“Point taken. But the monster might fix that sooner than we expect,” Tyrecan pointed out.
“Just keep track of him. We don’t need surprises.”
Day Two
I waited out my sunrise transformation in the throne room. It’s never pleasant to go from alive to undead, or vice-versa. I sweat a reeking foulness that reminds me of sickbeds, gym socks, and clogged toilets. Of the two, undead-to-alive is worse; midway through the process, I have to breathe. I hate it.
It’s even worse when I’ve had to heal a lot of injuries overnight; my vampire regeneration apparently produces extra-awful byproducts. At a guess, filling out the mass of a quasi-skeletal me required a lot of tissue growth. I reeked . I felt not just filthy, but slimy.
Is this why the undead are considered “unclean”? Is it because we’re just unnaturally filthy? Or is it merely justification for a case of religious prejudice?
Another cleaning spell took care of the worst of it. I decided, right then, to find a bath. Somewhere in this whole mountain, there must be a spring or something. If nothing else, I could rinse in the lake or a canal, but a place this huge and complicated damned well ought to have a bathroom! Someone, please tell me I dreamed a bathroom into the mountain.
On the other hand, this place was huge and complicated. Finding it could be a problem.
Well, I could try asking the mountain. It would take a while—talking to my gigantic pet rock is always a slow process—but the sooner I got started, the sooner I’d be done with it. I didn’t like the idea; I felt as though there was something I should be doing. What that might be was a mystery, but I blame it on a really long nap. I’ve been asleep for ages; now I’m awake and ready to go out and do things and have no idea what to do.
At least, I think that’s what it is.
I sat on the throne: a solid, massive sculpture, done in a dragon’s-head theme. The throne was really the dragon’s neck, coming out high on the wall and snaking down, with the space between the back-swept horns acting as a footrest. The head was large enough that I could use the snout as a seat, but the contours would be impossibly uncomfortable. On
“Me, too. And we’re trying to capture its master. Does that make us crazy or desperate?”
“I think it’s either desperate or too old to care.”
“You could be right. But, on the subject of an elementalist, do you think we could sound out someone in Arondael?”
“Not without risking the whole operation.” Tyrecan sighed. “I say we get Rakal to call it back and put it away; he’s got servants enough.”
“I doubt that. I saw what it did to that cavern-village under the Klastok peaks in the north. It took days before it aired out enough to send in looters. And that valley, the one with the galgar farms? Is anything growing there, yet?”
“I see your point.”
“I’m just saying we need something to keep it in before we have Keria send for it,” Hagus insisted. “Something with spells to block its ability to communicate as well as to hide it. I , for one, don’t want an undead king showing up unexpectedly.”
“Isn’t that what we’re trying to do?”
“Not right now. Eventually, ‘his majesty’ wants a face-to-face encounter with the monster, but I’m still not convinced that’s the best course.”
“He says he’s the only one who can capture it,” Tyrecan argued. “I’m not sure I fully agree, though.”
“Oh?” Hagus asked, arching an eyebrow.
“I don’t see how a sick old man stands a chance against something like him. Maybe he just wants to die, but I’ve given up trying to figure out what the prince really wants. I don’t trust him.”
“Neither do I, but I’m also too old to care,” Hagus remarked.
“Point taken. But the monster might fix that sooner than we expect,” Tyrecan pointed out.
“Just keep track of him. We don’t need surprises.”
Day Two
I waited out my sunrise transformation in the throne room. It’s never pleasant to go from alive to undead, or vice-versa. I sweat a reeking foulness that reminds me of sickbeds, gym socks, and clogged toilets. Of the two, undead-to-alive is worse; midway through the process, I have to breathe. I hate it.
It’s even worse when I’ve had to heal a lot of injuries overnight; my vampire regeneration apparently produces extra-awful byproducts. At a guess, filling out the mass of a quasi-skeletal me required a lot of tissue growth. I reeked . I felt not just filthy, but slimy.
Is this why the undead are considered “unclean”? Is it because we’re just unnaturally filthy? Or is it merely justification for a case of religious prejudice?
Another cleaning spell took care of the worst of it. I decided, right then, to find a bath. Somewhere in this whole mountain, there must be a spring or something. If nothing else, I could rinse in the lake or a canal, but a place this huge and complicated damned well ought to have a bathroom! Someone, please tell me I dreamed a bathroom into the mountain.
On the other hand, this place was huge and complicated. Finding it could be a problem.
Well, I could try asking the mountain. It would take a while—talking to my gigantic pet rock is always a slow process—but the sooner I got started, the sooner I’d be done with it. I didn’t like the idea; I felt as though there was something I should be doing. What that might be was a mystery, but I blame it on a really long nap. I’ve been asleep for ages; now I’m awake and ready to go out and do things and have no idea what to do.
At least, I think that’s what it is.
I sat on the throne: a solid, massive sculpture, done in a dragon’s-head theme. The throne was really the dragon’s neck, coming out high on the wall and snaking down, with the space between the back-swept horns acting as a footrest. The head was large enough that I could use the snout as a seat, but the contours would be impossibly uncomfortable. On
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