Kill the Dead by Tanith Lee (beach read book txt) 📕

name of the town had been Tulotef. It stood on the side of atall hill, above a valley where a wide river ended in a curious star-shaped lakewith four subsidiary stretching channels. Forest bloomed over the uplands.Distant crags, pale as winter, towered from the trees. The ways to Tulotef werelimited and occult. It was, besides, a town good to itself alone. Other townsit had greeted with swords and fusillades; retaliatory armies came to have theboiling juice of almonds and olives dashed on their heads. The walls ofTulotef, sloping, slaty, crenellated, might be opened only voluntarily and onlywhere there were gates. Those within were declared to be witches. From thehighest to the lowest, all had some smattering of spells, and many, a largecompendium. That was the legend. The vernacular said: When we dance inTulotef. Which meant: Never. Then something did get into Tulotef,something did bring it down, towers, roofs, walls, gates. One summer night,there was an earth-tremor, not in itself unheard of, nor in itself disastrous.But there was, so the tale went, a fault that ran around the upper gallery ofthe hill on the side of which Tulotef was built. Unseen, the fault had lain inwait, weathering the sun, the snow, the wind, and all the shocks of the earth,for hundreds of years, like a dragon under water. Then came this ultimatetremor, slight in itself, which sliced through the last hair-fine joists thatremained to hold the hill. Not long past midnight, when the town was loud withbells and processions and feasts for some occasion sacred to itself, thewatchmen spied a vast black bird that lifted from the hilltop, spreadingenormous wings.

To picture the moment was not hard. The sudden cessation of allsound, the lifted heads, raised faces, pointing hands, all in the glitter oflamps and candles, the dying notes of bells, the sparkle of ornaments and eyes.Then the gigantic thunder, the unconscionable geographic growl, as the top ofthe hill snapped off, disintegrated, burst. A rain of particles, boulders,rubble crashed on Tulotef. Onto the screaming faces, dainty fires. Then theinexorable tons of granite and stone and streaming earth itself, marched downthe hill against the city. It was the last army. It gushed like a tidal waveagainst the walls and broke them, the gates and splintered them. It rolledthrough the town and the town was gone, its life crushed and its fires put out.And then, a huge burial mound, the town itself began to move. It slipped fromits foundations, and fell away down the hill into the star-shaped lake.

Not one living thing survived.

And yet, if the legend were a fact, all had survived. In a way.Now the spot was called Ghyste Mortua, for on particular nights the dead cameback to the void where Tulotef had been, some thousands of witch-gifted,hating, evil ghosts. And in the lake below, held pristine and inviolate, theirlinkage to the world, every link they could desire; their treasures, theirbones, the bricks and mortar of their town.

They abducted the living, enticed the living, fed from them, slewthem. They tore up graves, they worked spells. The very land stank ofwickedness.

If any of it was true.

“I know this,” said the red-haired woman, “whoever goes that way,never comes back.”

“Rather stupid to go there, then,” remarked Myal. His handstrembled, though it was really only what he had heard before.

“Parl Dro is going there. And you.”

“Me? You’re joking. I wouldn’t be seen dead there. Oh. What I mean is—’’

“It’s a compulsion. I know. I’ve seen it before. There’s always areason you find for yourself, an excuse—a legend to prove or disprove, a battle to engage, a poemor a song to create—but it’s the place itself,issuing a challenge. A war game. It used to call armies to fight it. Now itcalls certain men. At certain times. Certain women, too.”

“You’re not–” said Myal.

“Not me.”

Myal pulled the musical instrument to him by the sling and put hisarms around the wooden body.

“I knew,” she said, “he would leave today, before he knew it. Andyou’ll leave tomorrow. You owe him a debt, don’t you? He paid the priests foryour care.”

“I owe him a knife in the ribs,” said Myal.

The woman laughed. Myal glanced at her in astonishment.

“Rest well,” she said. “Tomorrow at first light I’ll bring you ahorse. Not one of the priests’ horses, but my own. I’ll set you on the way aswell; I know the start of it. You’d probably find him anyhow, but to be sure.If you give the horse her head, you’ll catch up to him before tomorrow’ssunset.”

“I can’t afford a horse,” said Myal.

“I’m not selling a horse. When you reach him, you must let hergraze a while, then turn her and send her back to me. She knows the way, too.”

“I can’t afford to hire a horse, either,” said Myal pompously. Heheld the instrument as tightly as if someone were trying to drag it away fromhim. His arms quivered with the tension.

“No fee, no hire. A loan.”

“What’s the snag?”

“You’re very suspicious.”

“I’ve learned to be.”

“Then unlearn it.”

She smiled at him. Her smile was like a ray of sun. She went out.

He lay stiff as a knotted twig, for about an hour, terrified ofeverything, and of himself. Then the terror went off. Securely alone, hebragged to himself. The woman liked him after all. She wanted to help himbecause she fancied him. As for Dro, who could be so useful being so famous,Myal could get around him. As for Ghyste Mortua, that was just a wild romanticfantasy, the sort a minstrel had to have, had to pretend to believe in. And thewonderful song he would make of the ghostly town, its shrivelled towers, thegreenish fireflies spinning in its endless dusks–the song was alreadypartly formed in his head, his fingers. The quest was all he needed. To travelhopefully. Certainly, not to arrive.

He dozed, and woke at early evening to the priests’ supper bell.No one had bothered to bring him anything to eat, but he felt fine. Fit andself- assured.

He swaggered over to the refectory and strode in on long, reasonablysteady legs.

The priests looked up nervously, their pudgy faces bulging withfood.

Myal