Previously: Freelance historian Esmiralda and her companions--Merrick, a member of the Ministry of Human Preservation (MOHP), Broo-Fang Tane, an Optimist Monk, and Seymuhr, a brutish but somewhat dim-witted warrior called the Skullsquasher, have received a final clue in their search for the undead witch Abilene, who once served the ancient pirate Harfigorn. They follow the Trail of the Dead to uproot her evil, once and for all...
Seymuhr lead the way in a slight crouch, a mace in each hand. Then went Baram, her short, thing sword was still in its sheath, but like Merrick she leaned on a thick staff that was just as much a weapon as it was a walking stick. Her brown hair was pulled back over her ears and tied with a thin strip of leather. Her ears twitched like a hound's at every sound. Merrick and I followed, while Tane brought up the rear, moving quickly and silently as he scanned the forest on either side and behind us.
The village quickly disappeared from view and the trees closed in. We walked in a bizarre, bright twilight--all gloom about our legs and shoulders, yet bright above the canopy of twisted trees.
"For a Trail of the...Dead, it's actually...quite....pleasant," Tane said. I glanced back, surprised to see him beaming. "We had a name....for this...at...the...Temple of the Sun," he went on.
"Foolhardy?"
Tane gave me a bland, humorless look. "No. A walk through...na...ture. It is a blessing of the soul, a way to...return to pu...ri...ty."
"Ah. I see. And if at the end of that casual stroll, you and four companions fight a horde of walking corpses and a witch who has somehow avoided death for a thousand years? Do they have a name for that?"
"In...deed they do. Foolhardy."
"I thought as much. The universal language."
Ahead, Baram hissed in warning. She had stopped, her left hand held up, and pointed ahead. Down the thin trail, two shambling forms moved. Vaguely man-like, but shrunken and stooped, they shuffled toward us. Seymuhr strolled forward. He twirled each mace before lifting them to an attack position.
I heard a rasp and a snarl beside me and jumped away from it. A shambling, rotting thing had somehow appeared nearby and I narrowly avoided its gnarled grasp. It had been a man once. Its head lilted on a broken neck and its long hair hung in thick, dirt-caked ropes. A bone jutted from its shoulder, yellowed with age and chipped. It tottered toward me and I fumbled for my blade. I felt so slow, like my fingers belonged to someone else. It was close. Rot filled my nostrils, earthy and sweet. Its jaws opened, sending a long, fat insect scurrying toward the darkness near the back of its throat.
With a throaty, high-pitched shout, Tane was in the air. His sandaled foot crashed into the soft skull of the creature, breaking it free. It toppled as my blade came loose. Tane had already recovered. His fists raised, he crouched beside me as the forest came alive with more shuffling, rotting shapes. I heard Baram grunt as she fought off the unliving adversaries that reached for her. Merrick's sword landed in the skull of another. Beyond the trees, more shapes moved, lurching toward us on unsteady, broken limbs. The soft rasp that emanated from ruined throats grew to a crescendo as the rotting things moved inexorably closer.
My heart raced. I could see no escape.
We were surrounded.
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