Rise of the Dead Prince (9 page)

13
The Last Stage

I
t was on the morning after Prince Meier’s flight that a hideous report came from the south. More than this, it was bizarre. It was so odd, in fact, as to be unbelievable. King Ian, for one, certainly treated the news with great skepticism. For one, he was terribly distracted with everything else. He was furious and heartbroken at the news of his little brother’s disappearance, which in itself had become the greatest mystery in Targov. He had already ordered the castle grounds searched. No one found anything. What else could he do? For the time being, the news from the south had to take precedence. A king’s first duty was to the greater good of the people. The plague had robbed them all of the right to grieve, even, or perhaps even
especially,
the king. As for the news itself, the messenger had to repeat his message three times before King Ian was certain he had heard it right. He and the remaining ministers just sat, blinking in disbe
lief.

“The dead have risen, my lord, and they are wandering around the countryside as though they were alive,” he said. Yes, Ian had heard correctly. However, he was in no mood to be toyed with. First things first. Find the source of the incredulous
news.

“Who told you this, messenger?” he asked, scoffing. If this was someone’s idea of a joke, he was not amused. The messenger’s eyes grew
wide.

“I have seen it myself, Your Majesty. It’s the plague victims, sire. The ones who were not burned in the pyres or the wildfire now wander the Valahian plains in a daze. They do not seem to have minds. People have hailed them, but they do not answer. They simply walk. The people have fled the area in fear, my lord.” Ian was intrigued, but he knew there must be some simple explanation. Perhaps these poor souls had survived the plague after all. And from the sound of it, the plague had taken a serious toll on their minds. It was something that Ian would have to see into himself, but his duties kept him firmly in Targov. He couldn’t go out chasing such a story with the country in its present state. Valahia had very real problems. The dead walking around? Impossible, of co
urse.

It wasn’t until three more riders arrived with similar reports that Ian finally decided to go out himself and see what was happening. All the reports had come from areas where the dead outnumbered the living by a large amount, which was mostly in the south. The funeral pyres had not been made yet in these areas for purely logistical reasons. In other words, it was just like the first messenger had said. The people whose bodies had not yet been burned had, for some inexplicable reason, started walking around. And yes, the messengers were quite sure that these people were dead. They had already started to d
ecay.

Those who had not caught the plague were understandably fearful to be anywhere near these walking dead, moving or not. King Ian rode into the field that very afternoon to see this for himself. He did not have to go far. Just outside Targov, at the site of the great battle, there was a small group of people slowly walking across the field. Ian and his guards rode close to see them. Ian almost fell out of his saddle. It was true. These people were all clearly dead. The flesh on their faces had already turned green, and their eyes had gone milky. Even the horses were reluctant to go nearer. Ian, for the first time in years, felt a flutter of pure terror creep up his spine. It just couldn’t be true. But here it was, right in front of him. His course of action was clear. Wrapping an arrow in torch cloth, he dipped it in oil and lit it. He bid his guards do the
same.

“Rest in peace,” he said and fired. The corpses were soon ablaze, but still they walked forward at the same dazed pace. They did not cry out. The fire did not seem to offend them. It was only after the fire crept up to engulf them completely that they finally
fell.

“Monstrous!” exclaimed King Ian. “They must all be destroyed!” With that, Ian and his contingent rode back to Targov. Once there, he sent word in all directions. Those bold enough among the survivors must burn the walking dead where they stood. He sent the surviving troops that were fit for duty to rove the countryside to search out and destroy these abominations. By the time his messengers had dispersed, the reports came back that many citizens were already doing this. Then the next report came from the south. The dead were wandering south in droves. It was as though a bell had rung somewhere, and it was calling them all into the southern swamps. Why the south? Was it a coincidence that this is where the plague wind had come from? Ian didn’t think so. If he were still a prince, he would have taken the skirmishers out to deal with the dead
en masse
. As a king, he was far too busy with other matters to do this. Then the worst news
came.

The dead were starting to attack. One villager had been chased and attacked while he was trying to light one of the dead with a torch. The man escaped the slow-moving creature, but it continued to follow him for some way before returning to the march south. Also, the dead had taken to gathering into large unmanageable groups. There were herds of hundreds, and even thousands, all moving south. It was as if something was guiding them. The soldiers would fire flaming arrows into the crowd, but the others moved forward, unfazed, no matter how many fell. It was like something out of a nightmare. There were simply too many of them to handle, especially with the population so depleted. The more the soldiers burned, the more there seemed to be. The grief-stricken masses were now forced to suffer yet another tragedy. The idea of losing a loved one, only to face them as a monster, was a fate more cruel than the plague itself. The nation was soon in total chaos. It was only Ian’s firm and swift responses that kept any sense of order among
them.

More bad news came. The soldiers, while burning a large group of the dead, inadvertently made a fire that had grown out of control. It was much like the fire that had ravaged the southern lands, only there was no fortunate wind change to help them this time. If left unchecked, the blaze would soon grow out of all their ability to put out. Ian recalled all available forces to focus on starving the blaze by making a huge burn circle around it. While the soldiers worked on containing the conflagration, the dead wandered the land unchalle
nged.

In those first few days following Ian’s coronation, he got very little sleep. He stayed up well into the night and woke well before dawn. As the days wore on, he began to grow ever more tired. There was simply too much for him to do. The process of spreading the resources evenly was already enough of a nightmare. Many people were going hungry. The thought of people starving after having survived a plague was more than he could bear. Seven out of his ten advisers and ministers had died of the plague. The remaining three were as overworked as the king was. Ian looked for replacements among the populace, but thus far, the other problems had taken priority. Valahia was on the path to utter
ruin.

Ian needed a mir
acle.

As if hearing the silent cries, something answered. It whispered of hope. As if seeing the invisible horrors, something appeared. It glimmered in the pitch. A pulse went out across the land. Help was on the way. And as was so often the case, it came in a way that no one would have expected. Something or someone was co
ming.

14
The Awakening

O
n the third day after Meier’s disappearance, as he lay in the brambles dead, something stirred. This something happened to be Meier. The afternoon sun was high and beating down, though Meier’s corpse lay in shadow of the high northern wall. He had fallen flat on his back and had died instantly. Now, oddly enough, he was waking up to a terrible pain. As his eyes slowly opened, the reason became clear. A raven was eating his hand. One could only imagine the bird’s alarm when Meier startled and shouted more than a few very nasty words at it. It flew away, cawing in sheer surprise. Meier was understandably confused. He no longer felt ill. He was no longer feverish, quite the opposite in fact. And then it hit him. He remembered everything. He was dead! And his malicious ghost family had killed him. But, he thought, if he had become a ghost, why was he still in his body? It was all a mystery. Meier tried to sit up but had difficulty. He was thoroughly buried in the briar patch. This explained why the birds hadn’t started eating his face yet. They simply couldn’t reac
h it.

Slowly, Meier made his way up out of the brambles. It was then that he got his second terrible shock. His left hand, wrist, and half of his forearm, was completely bone! The birds had eaten it all, leaving only the clean, white skeletal remains. Strangely enough, Meier still had full control of his bony fingers. Even stranger was the fact that he wasn’t bleeding. He clicked his fingertips together. Yes, he felt it. The only thing he couldn’t do was clap. Some magic was at work
here.

“Of course, it’s magic, you ninny,” he said to himself. “You’re a moving, talking corpse. This can’t be something that happens every day.” And of course, it wasn’t something that happened every day, at least, not like it had with him. Meier rose from the brambles and picked a few thorns out of his undead body. Again, he did not bleed. He stumbled through the thick brush, all the while fighting the snags in his already holey bedclothes. When he was finally free, he walked stiffly around the side of the castle. It took some time to work through the stiffness in his legs. Three days of lying in a briar patch did that to a person, especially a dead pe
rson.

As Meier stood with back to the wall, lost in his thoughts momentarily, the raven landed and perched on the brambles beside him. It tilted its blue-black head and cawed at him a
gain.

“Shoo, you terrible bird!” Meier said with genuine feeling. The bird fluttered but did not move. And then the raven
s
poke.

“Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot.” Meier yelped in surprise. Had a bird just talked to him? Great. So not only was he dead; he was also insane. The raven spoke again. “Let’s start again, shall we? For starters, greetings.” Meier slowly crept along the wall away from the talking bird. “If I had known you were just sleeping, I never would have eaten your hand. Besides, I didn’t know you had magic
…
” The bird conti
nued.

“What are you talking about?” asked Meier, still overcome by surp
rise.

“In my defense, I wasn’t the only one who ate some of your hand,” said the
bird.

“Why does
that
matter?” yelled M
eier.

“I don’t know. I suppose that was a bit silly of me to say. Anyway
…
I
apologize
,” replied the raven. The difficulty of the statement belied his tone. Meier took a deep breath and closed his
eyes.

“I don’t
believe
in talking birds,” he told himself. The raven cocked its head at him again then c
awed.

“What a terribly odd thing to say. Next you’ll be telling me the dead don’t rise. You’re a strange one.” Meier found himself drawn into the odd conversation. Could this be
real?

“I’ve gone mad, you see. I’m dead, yet walking around, and now I’m talking to a bird,” said Meier tiredly. The raven cawed again and fluttered its w
ings.

“Why do you keep doing that?” asked Meier. The raven sto
pped.

“Sorry, it’s just that you’re humorous. I can’t help laughing. I meant no offense,” answered the r
aven.

“How is it that I can understand you?” asked Meier. The raven cawed again, but this time stifled it
self.

“You’ve got magic, of course. No one understands ravens unless they’ve got magic. I guess you could say we’re
…
misunderstood.” The raven cawed again. Meier was confused. “I assume you didn’t get my joke. ‘Misunderstood’ can mean two things in this context. It’s a pun. We ravens love puns.” The raven laughed. Meier was not amused, although it had been a clever pun, he supposed. The raven clicked again. “Idiomatic versus literal
…
it’s all right there. Maybe it’s too highbrow,” said the bird, somewhat disappointed. Meier didn’t laugh. “Probably too soon,” said the raven qui
etly.

“Very well,” sighed Meier in resignation, “I’m talking to a raven. I guess stranger things have happened recently. So what shall I call you, Mr. Raven?” The bird laughed again, albeit bri
efly.

“No need for the ‘Mr.’ Just ‘Raven’ will do. We’re an informal breed. It’s a sign of our magnanimity, really. We’re also superior to you in every conceivable way, but now is hardly the time to explain that,” responded the raven. Meier thought that was odd, but amidst other recent events, it paled in notability. Meier just shook his head slig
htly.

“So you don’t have names of your own?” asked Meier. Another caw foll
owed.

“Of course, we do, you
…
” There was a sudden harhness in the bird’s voice. Meier was sure some kind of rebuke would follow. The pause alluded to a certain difficulty that the raven was having in forming sentences. With a sigh, the bird went on. “It’s just that the minor inflections in the word ‘raven’ are too subtle for humans, even those with magic, to hear. You hear ‘Raven,’ because there is no adequate translation. Among ourselves, we hear our own perfectly distinct names. The details are complex and tiresome
…
So what’s
your
name then?” asked Raven with a head
tilt.

“Meier, I think. Anyway, how did you know I had magic?” Raven tilted his black head to the other side. He bli
nked.

“Well
…
maybe you hit your head. All I know is that dead people don’t talk unless they have magic,” said the raven. “In any case, you are clearly in a state of mental incapacitation. It would be rude of me to witness it further,” Raven said, unable to fully hide the subtle disdain in his voice. “So I’d better
fly
,” he said airily. “There are plenty of other people out there to eat today. I need to get there before those brutish vultures get all the good ones.
So,
” Raven said carefully, “no inimical feelings about your hand?” Meier looked at his skeletal
hand.

“Well
…
I, uh, I guess not,” said Meier, looking through the bones of his hand, still in a
daze.

“That’s good then. You
are
a gracious one. I’ve got to ‘hand’ it to you.
HAHA
!” The bird laughed but then grew somber again. Meier narrowed his eyes. “Definitely too soon,” said Raven with a kind of nervous coughing croak sound. “I suppose I’ll see you soon, wizard.” With that, Raven flew away in a black flu
tter.

Stranger and stranger,
thought the addled M
eier.

Creeping along the wall of the castle like a spider, Meier found a water trough near the small corral at the front corner of the castle. Luckily, no one was around. He took this chance to clean himself up a little. Then he caught his own reflection. Meier gasped in horror. He looked ghastly! His eyes were even more sunken than they usually were, and he had dark circles beneath them. His skin had turned a sort of bluish white or perhaps more blue than white. He couldn’t tell solely by the water’s dark reflection. He leaned in close. His eyes were a bit glazed over. Meier blinked. They were still purple. In fact, if anything, they were an even brighter purple. Meier suddenly laughed. “Of course, you look terrible! You’re dead!” he said, speaking to himself. “Although
…
for a dead person
…
you look pretty good,” he said, examining his reflection. Meier smiled. At least he had not gone all rotten. That would have been depressing. Reality returned with a sigh and a slump. All mirth f
aded.

The next conundrum came to mind. How could he get to Ian and Crocus without scaring the pants off everyone? After all, he had a bone hand. If nothing else, this one feature was bound to frighten someone. Maybe he could strip down to his underwear, wrap his face and arm, and just run straight through. Yes, that might work! Well
…
except for the fact that there were guards at several points on the way. If he wanted to get past the guards, he’d have to show his face and declare his identity. Meier sighed. It was a problem, no doubt about it. Besides, it had to be common knowledge that he was missing. People would definitely notice a missing prince wandering around barefoot in his nightclothes. Oh, and with a skeletal hand. Yes, they would notice
him.

Meier finally decided that there was no way around it. He tore large strips from the bottom of his nightshirt and wrapped his left hand up. He made a real mess of the operation but finally managed it before the rips in the clothing reached his thigh. That took care of one problem. There was no avoiding the rest. He had to walk straight through the courtyard and hope that not too many people took notice. As one could imagine, this part did not go to plan. Meier walked into view. Practically, every head turned. He just smiled at them and waved. He walked up to the guards at the
gate.

“Hello, gentlemen,” he said casually and went to wal
k by.

“My lord!” they practically screamed at him. “You’re back!” Meier tried to cover his face somewhat, hoping against hope that his deathly pallor would not alarm them; It was impossible, of co
urse.

“Well, uh, yes
…
I was in the bushes, you see, but I’m back now. And boy, am I hungry. Now if you please
…
,” Meier said in a desultory ma
nner.

“But you’ve been missing for three days, sir!” the one guard said. This was a surprise to Meier. He was not aware that he’d been dead for three days. Meanwhile, the guards were exchanging panicked looks. It was about to get dangerous. Meier acted qui
ckly.

“Well, three days is a long time! Yes, it sure is a long
…
time. That explains my terrible hunger I think. So if you would be so kind as to, uh, let me through. I mean, look at me. I’m clearly sick. And
…
I’m in my pajamas here. Help me out,” said Meier, leaning in close and taking a conspiratorial tone. This worked perfe
ctly.

“Uh yes, sir! Please let us know if you need any, uh, help.
Sir!”

Meier passed through the gate and made a straight line for the east wing where his quarters were. On the way, he passed an old woman carrying a basket of vegetables. He smiled at her and kept walking. Sadly, she screamed and dropped her basket. This drew the attention of anyone who wasn’t already staring. Meier just smiled and waved, then kept on walking. Somehow he knew he’d never make it. He was just too dead-looking. Once inside the castle, he broke into a run. Best not to give them time to chase him. Not that they
would,
but Meier was not quite thinking clearly. Being newly dead could do that to a person. He ran to his room. All his clothing and other items were there. Good. They had not announced him dead and had not followed the tradition of burning his belongings yet. Meier quickly washed up and dressed. He wore long sleeves, of course, and his long black gloves to cover the bone hand. He combed his hair, but had no mirror to look in. If only Crocus had stolen a different mirror! Oh well, he thought, it was probably for the best that he couldn’t see how dead he looked. Thus dressed and as ready as he would ever be, he sighed and collected him
self.

“This is going to be a disaster, isn’t it?” he asked his wall. With a head full of scrambled scenarios, Meier set out for the throne room. News traveled fast, however, and Ian came running down the hall and caught him hal
fway.

“Meier!” he said, embracing his brother with tears in his eyes. Meier was taken completely by surprise. Ian had not so much as blinked at Meier’s appearance. His happiness overshadowed his obvious list of pertinent questions. Meier smiled at him but then sighed. He had a lot of explaining t
o do.

“I can’t explain everything, Ian,” he said, still in Ian’s firm embrace. “But first
…
do you want the good news or the bad
news?”