They both turned, heeding the call before their lips met, though Griff’s heart was beating as though they had, clamoring inside his chest so hard it was making him dizzy. Maybe this was how he might go out after all—a heart attack, here and now, from the shock of one of his fantasies coming to life. If he was going to stay, he needed the lust and adoration that had been sparking in Mal’s eyes to be real, not just something painted from his wildest dreams.
Mal rubbed his tattoo again and swore under his breath, startling Griff from his thoughts.
While they were occupied, the entire flock had descended from the trees at the sight of that chest bursting open, like they had been waiting for this moment. Anticipating it.
Now the ravens were growing increasingly frantic in their digging near the chest. They seemed to have found some treasure of their own, beaks ravenously tearing at the earth to reveal more of whatever they were after: gray slime and bits of decayed cloth at first, and then slivers of red and white as strips of flesh were torn away from an unfortunate limb to offer glimpses of muscle and bone beneath. And at the end of that limb, almost touching the wooden lid of the chest that had fallen apart, the distinctly elongated shapes of finger bones began to appear amid the ravens’ frenzy.
The finger bones twitched.
Or, at least, Griff thought they had, though he hoped it was his imagination.
“Did you see—those bones, did they just—?” He wasn’t doing a very good job at voicing his suspicions, not with one of those damned ravens staring at him. A slippery piece of tendon dangled from its beak, and it kept on staring as it gulped down its meal.
“Either it’s the mushrooms I ate earlier, or those bones are twitchy,” Alys confirmed breathily.
In his periphery, he saw Mal moving quickly, grabbing the fancy goblet and the blue bottles before he started shoving as many coins as he could reach into his pockets despite his clumsy, bandaged hands.
“Help me, quick,” Mal urged the others as another bird hopped closer, now eyeing Griff’s bandaged leg with open curiosity, clicking its beak. Before Griff had time to react, Mal shooed the thing away with a forceful swing of his boot, roaring, “Fuck off!” as it took to the sky, cawing a reproach.
Griff was busy shoving coins into the pockets of his pants and cloak when he saw the finger bones start pulling themselves upout of the mud, revealing more of a skeletal arm. He nudged Mal and nodded in the hand’s direction.
There were several types of undead at the Shadow Queen’s command, and only some were named and known. The ghosts she managed to enslave were simply unlucky wandering souls; they could do little more than unsettle the living through the power of suggestion. Wraiths were stronger spirits, and thus more dangerous, able to move objects and grasp at clothing, even tear skin or crush bone. Revenants were more like living people, able to shamble around in their rotting or bony bodies and retain something of their personalities and ability to think for themselves. Ghouls were much the same, but feral, like wild animals always on the prowl, lacking a revenant’s sense of judgment or self-control.
Griff suspected the twitching hand belonged to one of the latter two creatures, but he didn’t want to stick around long enough to find out.
“Guys.” Alys pointed shakily at a puddle several feet beyond the chest. “There’s more.”
Griff glanced over sharply to see what she meant: more bony hands hastily clawing their way out of the earth. The birds had led them to a field of walking corpses that would tear them limb from limb if given half the chance; he had a gnawing suspicion, as he watched them attack the dirt with their beaks, that they were trying to dig the bones up faster.
Mal was already on his feet, coins spilling from his pockets, wincing at the pain in his hands as he grabbed hold of Griff and worked to get him upright too. “Money can buy a lot of things,” he panted, “but I’d rather not finance our funerals.”
The mule snorted and stamped its feet, clearly as eager to leave as the rest of them now that it had spotted the scrabbling hands.
Alys started to help Griff onto the restless beast’s back while a raven tugged at the loose end of his bandages.
Mal kicked it away, snarling with clear distaste at the feathers that littered the muddy ground even as his heavy pockets clinked with promise. “Come on,” he urged, “we need to get back to the path before whatever the hell is down there digs itself … out …”
But Griff was too slow to mount the mule. His hands were shaking too much to get a good grip for hauling himself over, even with Alys’s help. The mud was sucking too much at everyone’s feet, forcing them to stand their ground.
And now there were five revenants—five shambling, withered gray corpses of orcs with a greenish cast to their snakelike eyes—strung out in a line, reddish mud still crusted into every crack and crevice on their wrinkled, snarling faces, their teeth as sharp in death as they had been in life, even if a few were broken or altogether missing.
The mule whinnied and skittered backward, dragging Griff with it.
Alys drew her father’s sword.
Mal gave Griff and the beast a shove and shouted, “Run! Go, this—it’s my fault. I’ll handle it!” He nodded to Alys, who joined him in forming a barricade of sorts in front of Griff. Then he drew his hunting knife just as the undead orcs sprang after them with impressive speed for things long buried.
Chapter SixteenStay
Running certainly wasn’t Mal’s worst idea ever, but Griff couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not when Alys was fighting three on one, every orc taller and broader than she was, their surprisingly strong fists capably blocking each swing of her blade.
One orc soon had its decaying fingers tangled in her hair, jerking her head back roughly to expose her milky throat for its companions.
Griff didn’t have time to think as he grabbed his maul from his belt, ignoring the way his scar throbbed in a painful protest, and cleaved through the torso of one of the hungry revenants that hadn’t even bothered to glance his way. It was a bloodless blow, for which he was glad. But his relief that the creature couldn’t bite into Alys’s throat from on the ground was swiftly replaced by stunned horror as he realized both pieces of the body were writhing around in the mud and fallen coins, trying to piece themselves back together.
They were going to have to hack these things into little pieces to make them stop.
Alys flashed him a quick, startled look of thanks, adjusted her stance, and jabbed at the orc still tangled in her hair whilekicking out at its companion who stood there leering at her and licking its cracked lips. Or at least, she tried to—half of the orc on the ground was clinging fiercely to her legs.
