“Instructions for the ritual,” he said after a few moments. “The chant’s in here—apparently the one on the post is supposed to cross over from life into undeath.”
“Doesn’t look like it worked,” said Mordan, looking up at the motionless elf corpse. Are you saying he was alive when they nailed him up there?”
“Most likely they nailed him to the pole before they raised it,” answered Tarrel. “See how loose it is in its socket? It was probably made to be taken up and down.”
Mordan winced. “Bad way to die.”
“Something doesn’t add up, though,” said Tarrel. “I think the zombies were just providing the chant. There should have been someone else to conduct the ritual.” He added the book to his sack, which didn’t appear to be getting any more full.
Brey laughed. “He probably ran like the rest when the accident happened,” she said. “I bet they’ve been chanting here ever since, just because nobody told them to stop. Just like that thing outside, collecting the dead.”
“Let’s get him down,” said Tarrel. “I’d like to take a look.”
Somewhat reluctantly, Brey and Mordan held the elf’s legs while Tarrel climbed up the pole and pulled out the nails with a pair of pliers.
“Look at these,” he said, dropping to the floor. He held out his hand, and the others could see the arcane symbols carved into the heads of the nails. Reaching inside his coat, he pulled out a small lens and peered through it at the nails.
“Some kind of enchantment,” he said, dropping the nails into his sack. He bent over the body.
“No wounds other than the nail-holes in the hands.” he muttered, half to himself. “The shoulders have dislocated, probably because of hanging there for so long. I’d say when he died, there was no one around to complete the ritual and bring him back.”
Mordan came back into the chamber from a short side-passage.
“All clear here,” he called out. “A lot of small rooms with desks and supplies. Looks like some kind of living quarters, except there are no beds.”
“Zombies don’t need to sleep,” Brey pointed out, “and whatever this one was supposed to become, that probably doesn’t need to sleep either. Dravuliel had a whole crowd of them as servants and assistants—all elves, and all undead. They were smarter than zombies, though—just as if they were still alive. A lot of them could cast spells.”
Tarrel looked up. “Not zombies and not vampires,” he said. “Could he have found a way to make wights?”
Brey shook her head.
“I don’t think so,” she replied. “They were smarter than wights, too. Maybe they were some kind of lich.”
Tarrel shook his head in puzzlement. “Another question for the experts,” he said. He looked down at the body for a long moment.
“You’re not going to put that in your sack?” asked Brey.
Tarrel grinned and shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Too big. I’m just making sure there’s nothing I’ve missed.”
“Look at this,” called Mordan from across the room. He had pulled back a tattered hanging to reveal a large and solid-looking door. Prominent among the carvings was a large elven rune.
“Interesting,” commented Tarrel. “My Aereni’s kind of rusty, but I think that says ‘Master.’ Wait!”
His warning came too late. Mordan swung the door open, took half a pace into the passage beyond—and stopped in midstride. Brey and Tarrel stared for a few moments, but he didn’t move. He didn’t even look as though he was breathing.
“It’s probably trapped.” Tarrel finished tonelessly, looking at Brey with a gesture of despair. Standing as far from the doorway as she could, she grabbed Mordan by the neck and dragged him back into the room. He was as stiff as a statue. She laid him down on the stone floor; his forward foot stuck incongruously into the air, frozen before he could finish his step.
Tarrel examined him, then breathed a sigh of relief.
“Looks like he’s only paralyzed,” he said. “With luck, he’ll come round in a minute or two.” He searched the ground just beyond the doorway, and held up a pinch of dirt between finger and thumb.
“This was on the floor,” he said, “marking out some kind of glyph until our brilliant colleague disturbed it.” Brey was looking down at Mordan in concern.
“Are you sure he’ll snap out of it by himself?”
“Not completely sure,” said Tarrel, “but most magical paralysis doesn’t last too long. I’ll give him till I’ve looked over those rooms he found down the passage. If he isn’t moving by then, I’ve got a scroll that ought to fix him up.”
“You seem to know a lot about magic,” said Brey. “Did you train as a wizard?”
“No,” Tarrel replied, “but I’ve made a study of scrolls and things. If I can figure out how something works, I can usually use it.”
“Like the wand?” Brey asked. Tarrel trotted off to examine the rooms Mordan had found earlier.
As Tarrel had predicted, Mordan’s paralysis did not last long. After a minute or so his heel dropped to the floor. He blinked and sat up, surprised to find himself prone.
“What happened?” he asked Brey.
“According to Tarrel, you walked into a trap,” she replied. “Next time, be more careful—you could have been killed!”
