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

onscalp and neck, the tiny ratlike beast which seemed to scuttle up his spine.

ParlDro stood and looked toward the sea of forest that flooded the valleys below.The moon was high, but there was scarcely any wind to bring the muted sounds ofthe woodland up to the ridge.

Thenhe heard the thin clear note, like that of a bird, or even of a reed pipe,piercing acutely as a needle through the shadow and the foliage a mile below.

Therewas nothing else, or nothing else he heard.

Thefire was almost dead. Dro killed it quickly and thoroughly with a couple ofblows.

Hepicked up Myal’s musical instrument, held it a moment, then, unwillingly, slungit across his own shoulders. Its touch, weight, shape and aura—of another man’sinner world?—disturbed him.

Abruptly,Dro spoke one foul obscenity to the night. Then he swung himself off the ridgeand onto the tricky ground that led almost vertically into the forest.Presently, in the bushes a couple of feet down the slope, he kicked againstsomething, glanced at it, and found Myal Lemyal’s body.

He waslame, and now he carried the dead weight of a nightmarish hell-harp on oneshoulder, the dead weight of a man over the other. The man, it was true, wasthin and therefore light to carry. Even so, it was nothing he would have wishedon himself.

Random,primitive tracks scattered through the forest, as if several balls of twine hadbeen dropped, allowed to roll at will and then metamorphosed into pathways. Thenight had added a second forest to the first, having planted quick seedlingsthere at dusk, which rapidly shot up into tall, thick-boled trees made entirelyof shadow, and which blocked every aisle and avenue.

Drohad gone by a dry watercourse, a chasm of moss and undergrowth where once therehad shimmered a pool. The place shimmered still, a psychic shimmer. The cry Drohad heard on the ridge had come from this spot.

Hebegan to follow a purely unphysical path, then. A kind of razor-edged blindbrilliance only he could see.

Themoon swung over and away behind him, barely noticed through the gloom and thefoliage. Once a fox ran across the invisible track, narrowing its eyes,bristling with fear at the vibrations of the deadalive, which painted the tipsof the grasses like fire.

Then,at last, the day began to come.

Withsick relief, and with anger, Parl Dro felt the clue fading out on the ground,the air.

Ahead,the night trees planted between the real ones began to crumble and dissolve.Pink dawn sprang through instead. The world opened out into great new spaces; ablade carved the wood, and everything of night was gone, including the vile andshrilling road to Ghyste Mortua the dead had left behind them.

Drocursed, the same curse as before. He eased the musician’s body off his back,and let it fall haphazardly, the musical instrument in its wake. Dro sat on afallen tree, and slowly stretched out before him the biting, howling, shriekingtorturer which his lame leg had become.

Hesat and watched the forest as it flushed and brightened. Birds dived in and outof pools of light. But his agony was so huge it had temporarily deafened him,and he had not, nor could not, hear their voices.

Neitherdid he hear the crackling sound the sled made. Or rather, he heard it, but didnot spontaneously react. When he finally convinced himself that someone wasnear, and he should care about the fact, he turned and found the woman standingten feet away, the rough-made sled, loaded with branches, attached to her handsby two fraying corded ropes. The young sun hit her squarely, and she, bycontrast, looked old as the hills. But, black-mantled and black-eyed, she mighthave been some ancient sister of his.

“Niceday,” she said, in a voice like a rusty bolt.

“Uh.”

Shedropped the ends of rope and walked over.

“Notfor you, though,” she said.

Shekneeled, rusty as her voice, on the earth before him, reached out and clampedher two withered hands on the blazing shrieking leg. Anyone but Dro would havecried out. She said to him, just as if he had, “Keep faith. You’ll see.”

Hesaw. The intolerable agony cut up through guts and ribs into his throat, andwent out. A slow cool warmth soaked from the old woman’s hands. She twisted andpummelled the muscles of his calf and the bones beneath. Great shocks of painwent off, and the cool warmth flowed in after them. He slumped back on the treeand started to go to sleep, but held himself just over the threshold intowaking. After a long wonderful time, her hands went away. She sat on theground, put off her hood and began to braid thin trails of dark gray hair.

“Tothank you is inadequate,” he said. “What fee do you usually ask?”

Shedarted a look at him.

“Threethirty-penny pieces.”

Hesmiled slightly. She was poor. Ninety pence was wealth to her, her face gonegreedy and feral thinking of it

“Idon’t imagine that’s enough.”

“It’senough. The cure won’t last.”

“Iknow.”

Hestarted to get coins out of his clothes to give her. His hands moved lazily andit was difficult to count.

Theleaves overhead had eyes of gold in them. He lay and looked back at them. Hedid not want to move ever again, and so eventually he sat up. The dull,bearable, normal pain woke in his leg. He had known it would. Though it hadseemed gone forever, no healer could rid him of that. He reached over and putfive thirty-pence pieces in her lap.

“Allright,” she said. “That’ll do.” She stared at Myal Lemyal’s body sprawling onthe grass. “Where were you taking him? Home, for burial?”

Drorecognised her dimly, part of the pattern of things. He had met representationsof the virgin and the nubile woman. Here was one of the crone. Maid of Vessels,Queen of Fires, and this one, Queen of Swords. Truly, a sister.

“Heisn’t,” said Dro quietly, “dead.”

“Helooks it. No breathing. No drum sound in the chest.”

“Hisheart beats. Once every few minutes.”

“WellI never,” said the crone-queen. She got up and went to Myal, bent, creaked,kneeled and stroked his hair. “Is it a trance you’re in, baby?” she asked Myalsoftly. “Poor baby. Hush-a-bye.” Then she drew her hand off Myal’s hair. “Now,”she said. “Now. There’s something—”

“GhysteMortua,” said Dro.

“Yes,yes.” She was impatient “And you are a ghost-killer, and this one