Chapter 9
Night was old by the time all of the camp had made the five-mile trip to its next location. (Jorn saw to it that Big Terl found himself on latrine duty both places, filling in and digging out.) The atrium was left with a few bits of glass, some ashes, and two bodies under canvas that lay on a tall stack of wood.
Jorn Raveloe stood with a jar of corn oil in his hands, facing the front of the atrium across the wood pile. The Priest held a torch. Blitzen Harryranks and a few others stood in the atrium's doorway. Dumb Zig and his ghoul stood quiet for once, watching.
The Elf nodded, without looking at the bandit. Jorn poured the oil over the bodies, careful not to get any on his hands. The Elf stepped forward and thrust the torch into the wood.
Flames licked up toward the pale moon. Priest watched the fire burn until there was no longer any possibility of the dead being raised. Jorn did not understand the prayers he spoke, but he hoped it did some good to the ones who could no longer hear it. Or maybe they can. Who knows how all this Light stuff actually works?
It was probably not as long as it seemed. Jorn kept his eyes away from the flame, wishing to keep his night vision.
"We better go," Jorn said quietly. "The Forsaken will come to see what's burning. We don't wanna get caught here with one door."
"Yes." Priest shook himself, then turned to limp around the burn pile toward the doorway. Jorn followed him, looking around warily. Blitzen also seemed on edge, spinning his staff end-over-end in his bony hands as he peered into the shadows.
"Anybody see anything?" Jorn asked as he came up to the group in the doorway.
"Izzy does," Zig said. The ghoul sat very still, only his head moving as he scanned the doorways and broken walls of the old street.
"Bet there's a shade," Sid the Enforcer said. "I'll bet it's watching to see where we go."
"Ssssshaaaade," the ghoul muttered.
"Where is it?" Jorn asked, dropping his voice to what he hoped was below the shade's hearing.
Izzy sat on his haunches, and one foreclaw suddenly lifted and pointed off to the left. Almost instantly, three spears converged on one point in midair.
They did not seem to hit anything. But all present heard the despairing howl as the shade evaporated.
"Good boy," Zig whispered. He rummaged in his belt pouch with one hand and came up with a treat for the ghoul. The three assassins went to retrieve their spears, footsteps soft and wary as they watched their surroundings.
"Okay, listen up," Jorn said quietly, when they were back. "Don't look at me, keep an eye open for whatever's out there. We're gonna go on a little tour of the ruins, 'cause I don't want to bring down any Undeads on the camp. Get me?"
Various nods greeted this remark. A rough formation coalesced around Jorn, with the dark wizard and Zig at the back, Norry and Sid at the front, and the two axe-wielding bandits split up to right and left of the Bandit Lord. They spread out slightly as Jorn gestured them across the street. He motioned the Priest to stick close.
Have to try and block for him whenever we stop, 'cause he can't shadowmeld, Jorn thought. The others must be thinking similarly, because when they first paused it was close to a wall. Jorn maneuvered the Elf between him and the surface, his large shadow hiding the other man's small one.
Priest managed to move fairly quietly. When they paused again, Jorn noticed he'd put canvas over the end of his staff. It made almost no noise on the pavings of broken Dalaran.
The group zigzagged through the ruined city for long minutes. Jorn occasionally gave directions with simple hand signals. He had learned them from his father, who had probably learned them from his father. Giving directions verbally on a night trip was a good way not to stay a bandit for long.
Then Norry pulled up sharply at an intersection of two streets, backing away from the open pavement. The group scrambled silently into cover around the base of a fallen statue on the corner. Jorn ended up lying almost flat behind the torso of what was probably meant to be a heroic human figure. Priest lay on his left, Blitzen on his right.
Jorn began calling up mana as he listened. Not gonna get caught like last time.
Heavy footsteps sounded in the breathless silence. Then he caught the smell. From the corner of his eye, he saw Blitzen wrinkle his nose. Abominations.
Many more footsteps, some of them lighter and faster. Ghouls and crypt fiends. No telling how many, cause they don't walk regular. Jorn listened closely, but heard no thwap-thwap of gargoyle wings.
Then he swore under his breath as the sound came closer. Behind the footsteps came the creak and clatter of what could only be a pair of meat wagons. Two wagons means two necromancers, or more. Sounds like they picked up the same trick as Priest, 'cause I don't hear any sticks tapping. It was equally possible that they carried the new shorter staves, which did not touch the ground at all.
Another big party. He lay very still as the Undead began to pass their hiding place, listening to his heart beat and breathing shallowly. If there were no gargoyles, there was a good chance they would be passed over. Ghouls might pick up their scent, but the wind was blowing toward them, which was how he had picked up the stench of the abominations. Now he could smell mana as well, the sharp, metallic stink of the dark magic of the Undead. Necromancers, for sure. Maybe a banshee or so, too.
Musta caught the shade on his way back to report. This was typical of Forsaken tactics, and the group did seem to be traveling toward the now-vacant atrium. If a scout don't come back, send a bigger group. Makes plenty of sense, if you don't care how many bodies you lose.
The sound died gradually away. After a minute or so, Norry the assassin cautiously raised his head. He waved a hand at the rest of the party, and they began to move on again.
Jorn glanced at the Elf next to him as they crept on through the ageless night. Priest's pale face was composed in the thin light from the moon and stars. He's got to be getting pretty numb, by now, Jorn thought. At least he's not panicking.
As he had this thought, he realized he had not even considered that the Elf might give their position away. Jorn had the feeling Priest was not the type to panic. Be a basketcase long before this, otherwise. Maybe he is, for an Elf. It's hard to tell with them.
The bandits, the wizard and the Elf crept along beside the dark street. The track of black blood from the Undead traveled beside them for some hundred yards, the constant thin drip from abominations that were made in haste and poorly stitched.
Then they rounded the corner at the end of the block and ran straight into another group of Undead.
The two parties, each shocked by the other's soft approach, stared at one another for a second. Jorn, with the absolute stark clarity of one who knows something extremely bad is about to happen, counted six ghouls, two crypt fiends, a banshee, and one hovering gargoyle. Ten of them. Nine of us. If we can trust Zig's ghoul.
Then the banshee hissed, "Die!" and swooped forward. Jorn threw up his shield, drew his sword, and swept soundlessly into the fray.