The Dead Who Waited

Deacon did not sleep much after trying to kill his friends.

No one called it that.

Xil called it possession. Vegon preferred external control, though he had spent enough time explaining the distinction that Jandar finally threatened to possess him personally if he did not stop. Zook said almost nothing about it. He had cleaned the wound from Deacon's bolt, accepted Xil's healing and moved on as though being shot by a companion were merely another inconvenience of travel.

It made the memory of the great lizard harder to bear. They had nearly lost Xil to the animal’s jaws, and the six of them had fought together to bring it down. Now Deacon knew exactly how easily his own skills could be used against the people he had just helped keep alive.

Deacon remembered all of it.

That was the problem.

Whatever had entered him in the street had not driven him unconscious. It had pushed him aside.

He remembered lifting the crossbow.

Remembered Zook throwing the net.

Remembered the older instinct inside him judging distance and movement with the same calm precision he used against gnolls.

He remembered choosing a target.

The creature had owned his body.

The training had still been his.

Before dawn, he gave up pretending to sleep.

The upper room of the tower was quiet. A narrow opening where part of the wall had fallen away looked east across Oron. Mist filled the ruined streets below, pale beneath the first gray light.

Deacon sat with his back against the stone and checked his crossbow.

The mechanism was clean.

Of course it was.

He had cleaned it the night before.

He checked it again.

“You do know the thing didn't enter through there.”

Jandar's voice came from the opposite wall.

Deacon looked over.

The swashbuckler was awake, though only barely. His dark hair was flattened on one side and the moon-touched rapier rested across his legs.

“I know.”

“Then I assume you're punishing the crossbow for cooperating.”

Deacon went back to the mechanism.

Jandar watched him for a while.

“You missed me.”

“I remember.”

“Not something I say often.”

Deacon looked up.

Jandar's expression was easy, but not careless. There was a difference Deacon had learned to recognize.

“You didn't miss Zook,” Jandar continued.

“No.”

“He's fine.”

“I know.”

“Xil said so.”

“I heard him.”

Jandar nodded.

Then, because apparently he had decided silence was no longer useful, he said, “It wasn't you.”

Deacon's hands stopped.

“I know that too.”

“Do you?”

Deacon looked at him.

Jandar did not retreat from the question.

Deacon could have ended the conversation there. A look was usually enough. Most people understood when he did not want to talk.

Jandar had spent too much of his life around dangerous men to be discouraged by looks.

“I remember aiming,” Deacon said.

Jandar's expression changed slightly.

“Ah.”

“I remember thinking Zook was the easiest target.”

That sat between them.

Below, something moved through wet leaves, small enough that Zook probably would have known what it was from the sound alone.

Deacon continued because stopping now would not improve anything.

“I remember deciding to shoot Xil next because he could heal the others. I remember seeing Vegon behind him and knowing I could reach him before he finished a spell.”

Jandar was quiet.

“And me?”

“You were too close.”

Jandar considered that.

“So I was annoying even to the thing possessing you.”

Deacon stared at him.

Jandar smiled.

“Useful information.”

A laugh almost escaped Deacon.

Almost.

Jandar's smile faded.

“It knew what you knew.”

“Yes.”

“That is different from you deciding to do it.”

Deacon looked out through the broken wall.

He understood the distinction.

He simply did not like how little comfort it offered.

“It was inside my head.”

“And now it isn't.”

“You certain?”

“No.”

Deacon turned back.

Jandar shrugged.

“I assume Xil is.”

As if summoned by the insult, Xil spoke from the stairs.

“I am.”

The drow climbed into the room.

He had restored his hood, though in the dim tower there was little reason for it. His pale hair remained visible around his face.

Deacon frowned.

“How long have you been listening?”

“Long enough.”

“You people need louder footsteps.”

“I will consider it.”

Xil knelt in front of Deacon.

“May I?”

Deacon knew what he meant.

He nodded.

Xil placed two fingers against his forehead.

Divine magic came slowly.

The corrupted power trembled at the edge of Deacon's senses, a warmth that should have been clean but carried an underlying wrongness now familiar enough that none of them commented on it.

Xil's eyes closed.

He remained still for several breaths.

Then the magic faded.

“There is nothing in you.”

Jandar leaned against the wall.

“You should probably be more specific.”

Xil ignored him.

Deacon did not.

“That was your opportunity.”

“I know. I showed restraint.”

Xil looked directly at Deacon.

“The creature is gone.”

Deacon nodded.

That should have ended the matter.

It did not.

Xil seemed to understand.

“You are not responsible for what it did.”

“I shot Zook.”

“It shot Zook through you.”

“My hand.”

“Not your will.”

Deacon considered arguing.

Instead he looked toward the stairs.

“Where is he?”

“Outside.”

“Of course he is.”

The sun had barely risen and Zook had already left the safest structure they had found on the island.

That, at least, was normal.

Deacon stood.

Jandar followed.

“Good. I was beginning to worry we might discuss feelings.”

“We didn't.”

“Exactly.”

Zook had gone only as far as the street below.

The gnome crouched near the place where the creature had vanished, studying the soil and broken stone as though expecting possession to leave tracks.

Mills sat on a fallen section of wall nearby, holding his lute but not playing.

Vegon was examining the base of the tower.

Deacon came down the slope.

Zook glanced at him.

“Morning.”

Deacon stopped.

“Your side?”

“Fine.”

“Let me see.”

Zook looked offended.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because Xil already fixed it.”

“That isn't what I asked.”

“No.”

Deacon stared at him.

Zook stared back.

Jandar came down behind them and stepped carefully between the two lines of sight.

“This seems healthy.”

Zook stood.

“I'm fine.”

“I shot you.”

“Yes.”

Deacon waited.

Zook apparently considered the matter complete.

Deacon found that irritating.

“You don't care?”

Zook frowned.

“About being shot?”

“Yes.”

“I cared when it happened.”

Mills looked down at his lute.

Jandar covered his mouth.

Deacon ignored both of them.

Zook continued.

“You didn't shoot me.”

“I did.”

“The thing did.”

“With my crossbow.”

“Yes.”

“My hand.”

“Yes.”

“My—”

Zook sighed.

“Do you want me to be angry?”

The question stopped Deacon.

Zook's expression softened.

“I can be angry if it helps.”

Jandar lost the battle and laughed.

Deacon looked at him.

“Don't.”

“I tried.”

Zook adjusted the strap across his shoulder.

“You're you again.”

“That simple?”

“For now.”

Deacon studied him.

The gnome meant it.

Not forgiveness.

There was nothing to forgive.

Deacon had spent much of his life holding onto things precisely because forgetting them felt dangerous. A threat remembered could be prepared for. A mistake remembered did not need to be repeated.

Zook carried almost none of that weight.

Sometimes Deacon thought it made him careless.

Other times he wondered whether the gnome simply understood something Deacon did not.

Vegon saved him from having to decide.

“There is a lower level.”

Everyone looked toward the wizard.

Jandar frowned at the tower.

“We slept in it.”

“Yes.”

“And now you tell us there is more of it.”

“I discovered it this morning.”

“Before or after we slept above it?”

Vegon looked at him.

“Do you want the answer?”

Jandar considered.

“No.”

A narrow opening had been hidden behind fallen stone at the rear of the tower. Whatever door once covered it had rotted away, leaving steps descending beneath the foundation.

Zook crouched at the top.

“Tracks.”

Deacon moved beside him.

“Recent?”

“No.”

That was not reassuring.

“Creature?”

Zook ran his fingers along the edge of one mark.

“Could be.”

Jandar drew his rapier.

“I would like to formally recommend we leave the mysterious lower chamber alone.”

Mills stood behind him.

“I support this proposal.”

Vegon stared down the stairs.

“Noted.”

He started descending.

Jandar closed his eyes.

“Why do we pretend to vote?”

Deacon drew the crossbow.

“To make you feel included.”

They followed Vegon.

The stairs ended beneath the tower in a chamber older than the structure above it.

Deacon could tell even without Vegon's commentary.

The stonework changed halfway down. Rough mortar and uneven blocks gave way to fitted slabs, edges still sharp despite the damp. The lower chamber had not been built as part of the tower.

The tower had been built over it.

Xil created a small light.

It flickered once, dimmed, then steadied.

The room emerged.

Not large.

No treasure.

No altar.

Only walls covered in shallow carvings, most worn almost smooth by time.

Vegon approached the nearest.

“Writing?”

Xil asked.

“Some.”

“Can you read it?”

“No.”

Jandar leaned toward Deacon.

“He says that much faster now.”

Vegon heard him.

“That is because I have had recent practice.”

Mills moved toward another wall.

“These aren't letters.”

Deacon saw what he meant.

Figures had been carved between sections of text.

Soldiers.

Dozens of them.

Some carried shields. Others bows or spears. A few stood with hands raised beneath shapes that might have represented magic.

The carving continued around the room.

An army marching.

Then fighting.

Then dying.

The final section had been damaged, but enough remained to show five figures standing apart from the others.

Deacon looked at them.

Five.

He disliked the number immediately.

Zook noticed too.

“Hand?”

Vegon moved closer.

“Possibly.”

Jandar stared at the figures.

“Everyone needs to stop putting five people on old walls.”

Mills reached for his notebook.

Jandar pointed at him without turning.

“Not a word.”

Mills lowered it.

Deacon studied the carvings.

One figure held a staff.

Another carried a sword.

A smaller shape stood near one side, though erosion had taken most of its detail.

Nothing about them looked like the five people standing in the chamber now.

That helped.

Somewhat.

Xil examined the floor.

“These marks are newer.”

Deacon looked down.

Scratches covered several stones.

Not random.

Lines.

Symbols.

Perhaps attempts at writing.

Perhaps not.

One had been carved deeply enough that stone dust still remained in a nearby crack.

Zook crouched.

“How new?”

Xil touched it.

“Not today.”

“Helpful.”

“Newer than the walls.”

Vegon joined them.

“There are repeated forms.”

“Language?” Deacon asked.

“Maybe.”

Jandar sighed.

“We have found another thing nobody can read.”

“You say that as though literacy is the problem.”

“It has not helped us much.”

A sound moved through the room.

Deacon turned.

No one else did.

He held up one hand.

“What?”

Zook whispered.

Deacon listened.

There.

A voice.

Too distant to make out.

He looked toward the stairs.

Nothing.

Then another voice joined it.

And another.

His skin went cold.

Not because he recognized them.

Because he recognized the feeling.

The dream.

“Deacon?”

Xil had seen his face.

“Quiet.”

Everyone obeyed.

The voices grew clearer.

Still not words.

Dozens.

Perhaps more.

Speaking over one another.

Urgent.

Agitated.

Deacon stepped toward the far wall.

The sound followed.

Not from the wall.

From everywhere.

“I hear them.”

Xil moved closer.

“The spirits?”

Deacon nodded.

Jandar scanned the room.

“I hear nothing.”

“Neither do I,” Vegon said.

The voices pressed harder.

Deacon closed his eyes.

That was a mistake.

The chamber vanished.

For an instant he stood somewhere else.

Not physically.

He knew that.

His boots still touched stone.

He could still feel the crossbow in his hand.

Yet another place overlaid the room.

A field beneath a dark sky.

Men and women stood in ranks stretching farther than he could see.

Some wore armor styles he did not recognize. Others carried weapons that belonged in museums or tomb carvings.

Banners snapped above them.

Beyond the army, something burned.

Deacon opened his eyes.

The chamber returned.

He staggered.

Jandar caught his arm.

“Easy.”

“I saw something.”

“What?”

“Soldiers.”

The voices returned.

This time one rose above the others.

Not louder.

Closer.

Deacon turned toward the center of the chamber.

No one stood there.

Then the air changed.

Mist appeared inside the room.

Impossible.

It gathered in a shape taller than Deacon.

A man.

At first only an outline.

Then armor took form.

Not flesh.

Not entirely.

The figure remained translucent, edges moving like smoke beneath water, but Deacon could make out an older human face and the remains of a military cloak hanging from one shoulder.

Jandar drew his rapier.

The spirit looked at him.

“No,” Deacon said.

Jandar did not lower the weapon.

“It is a dead man.”

“Yes.”

“We have had mixed experiences.”

“He isn't attacking.”

“Yet.”

The spirit looked back to Deacon.

Its mouth moved.

Sound reached him from a great distance.

At last.

Deacon's hand tightened on the crossbow.

“You can hear me?”

The spirit's expression changed.

Relief.

That frightened Deacon more than anger would have.

You hear us.

The words were not truly sound. They seemed to form inside Deacon a heartbeat after the spirit spoke.

Xil stepped beside him.

“Can it understand us?”

Deacon looked at the spirit.

“Can you?”

The spirit turned toward Xil.

Then back.

Some.

Mills had gone completely still.

Vegon looked fascinated.

Of course he did.

Deacon kept his attention on the dead man.

“Who are you?”

For a moment the spirit seemed to struggle.

His outline flickered.

The other voices gathered behind him, filling the room with a pressure Deacon felt more than heard.

Then the name came.

Aaron.

A pause.

Aaron Silverhand.

Vegon inhaled sharply.

Deacon glanced toward him.

“You know it?”

“I know the name.”

The spirit reacted.

Not to Vegon's words.

To the recognition.

The outline strengthened.

Vegon stepped closer despite Jandar's immediate attempt to block him.

“Aaron Silverhand was a general during the last war.”

“How last?” Jandar asked.

Vegon ignored him.

“Before the Sundering.”

That silenced everyone.

Deacon looked back at the spirit.

Four centuries.

The dead man had been waiting four centuries for someone to hear him.

“Why me?”

Aaron's face tightened.

The answer came broken.

Waited.

The other voices surged.

Images flashed through Deacon again.

A battlefield.

Fire across the horizon.

A city falling.

Something enormous moving beyond smoke.

Then five figures.

Not clear enough to recognize.

Only the certainty of five standing where an army had failed.

Deacon nearly lost his footing.

Xil caught his shoulder.

“Stop if you need to.”

Deacon shook his head.

“How long?”

Aaron's form flickered.

Too long.

The reply carried more feeling than the words themselves.

Weariness.

Grief.

Anger worn smooth by time.

“Why can't you rest?”

The spirit looked toward the carved wall.

The army.

The dead.

Then toward the five eroded figures.

Not finished.

Deacon felt a chill unrelated to the room.

“What isn't finished?”

Aaron's face changed.

Fear.

Not for himself.

The voices behind him rose until Deacon could barely separate them.

They return.

The words came from more than Aaron.

Many voices.

Overlapping.

They return.

Vegon stared at Deacon.

“What did he say?”

Deacon repeated it.

No one made a joke.

“Who?” Jandar asked.

Deacon looked at the spirit.

“Who is returning?”

For several seconds nothing happened.

Then an image struck him with enough force that he dropped to one knee.

Dark towers.

Not one.

Many.

Armies beneath banners he did not recognize.

Creatures moving through broken cities.

Shapes in the sky.

And behind all of it, something larger.

Something hidden.

Deacon tried to focus.

The vision shattered.

He was back in the chamber, breathing hard.

Xil knelt beside him.

“What did you see?”

“I don't know.”

That answer angered him.

He knew how to describe enemies.

Numbers.

Weapons.

Distance.

Terrain.

He knew how to report facts.

This was not a fact.

It was fragments.

“War,” he said finally.

Aaron watched him.

“Is that what happened here?”

The spirit looked toward the walls.

After.

“After the war?”

A nod.

Vegon stepped closer.

“What happened to Oron?”

The spirit did not answer him.

Perhaps could not.

Deacon repeated the question.

Aaron's outline faded.

Then returned.

Fear.

Not enough.

“What fear?”

Another image.

People running through streets.

Ships leaving the harbor.

Doors abandoned open.

A woman pulling a child.

Soldiers looking toward the inland hills.

Then darkness.

Not night.

Something descending.

The vision ended.

Deacon opened his eyes.

“People fled.”

“From what?” Zook asked.

“I didn't see.”

Aaron's form had weakened.

Deacon could see the wall through him now.

The effort was costing the spirit something.

“Wait.”

Aaron looked at him.

“You said you've been waiting for heroes.”

The spirit's eyes moved past Deacon.

To the others.

Zook.

Jandar.

Vegon.

Xil.

Then back.

Yes.

Jandar shifted.

“I dislike where this is going.”

Deacon understood.

“The Hand?”

Aaron did not answer with words.

Instead he raised one translucent arm.

The faded carvings along the wall seemed to catch the ghostly light around him.

Five figures.

Five companions.

Deacon's mouth went dry.

“We are not them.”

Aaron's expression held something Deacon could not name.

Not disagreement.

Not exactly.

New.

One word.

Vegon whispered, “New Hand?”

The spirit turned toward him.

Then the form broke apart.

“Aaron.”

Deacon stepped forward.

The ghost scattered like smoke beneath wind.

The other voices disappeared with him.

Silence returned.

Real silence.

Deacon remained where he was.

Jandar slowly lowered his rapier.

Mills spoke first.

“Well.”

No one looked at him.

He tried again.

“I had something.”

“Don't,” four voices said.

Mills nodded.

“Fair.”

Vegon spent the next hour examining every mark in the chamber.

He learned almost nothing.

This affected him poorly.

“The carving predates the tower,” he said for the third time.

Jandar sat on one of the lower steps.

“Yes.”

“The tower may have been built to mark or protect this chamber.”

“Yes.”

“The later markings could have been made by survivors.”

“Yes.”

Vegon looked at him.

“You are not listening.”

“I am. You keep saying things we already know.”

Vegon turned away.

Deacon sat against the wall where Aaron had appeared.

He could still feel the spirits.

Faintly.

Not voices now.

Presence.

As if the dead had withdrawn rather than left.

Xil joined him.

“Do you believe him?”

“Which part?”

“That they have waited.”

Deacon looked around the chamber.

“I don't know why a dead man would lie about being dead.”

“That wasn't what I meant.”

Deacon knew.

He looked toward the carving of the five figures.

“No.”

Xil waited.

Deacon sighed.

“I don't believe we're the Hand.”

“Neither do I.”

That surprised him.

Xil continued.

“I believe the dead think we matter.”

“That is not better.”

“No.”

Across the room, Jandar was explaining to Mills why The Five the Dead Were Waiting For was an unacceptable song title.

Zook had wandered halfway up the stairs, more interested in what might be happening outside than in arguments about prophecy.

Vegon was still studying the walls.

Deacon watched them.

The original Hand had become a story.

Heroes from before the world broke.

Five people invoked whenever someone wanted to make an old prophecy sound important.

Deacon had never cared much for stories.

Stories became cleaner as they aged.

Battles did not.

Soldiers panicked.

Plans failed.

People died badly and for poor reasons.

Heroes bled like everyone else.

If Aaron Silverhand had truly fought beside the original Hand, then the man had known them before anyone turned them into legend.

And he had looked at Deacon's companions as though he recognized something.

Deacon disliked that most of all.

“What do we do with this?” he asked.

Xil followed his gaze.

“The same thing we do with everything else.”

“Which is?”

“Continue until we understand it.”

Deacon grunted.

“That sounds like Vegon.”

“I spend too much time around him.”

“Apparently.”

They left the chamber shortly before noon.

Zook led them north through the ruins.

Nothing attacked.

That became suspicious after the first hour.

The city changed as they moved inland. Homes gave way to broader stone buildings, many built around old courtyards choked with growth. Statues stood without heads. A dry fountain occupied the center of one square, its basin filled with leaves and black rainwater.

Mills found an inscription on its base.

Vegon could not read that either.

Jandar took unreasonable pleasure in this.

They stopped near midday.

Deacon ate without tasting much.

The spirits remained at the edge of his awareness.

Whenever he looked too long at certain ruins, he imagined movement where there was none.

Not enemies.

People.

A city layered beneath the one around him.

Children running across streets now split by roots.

Merchants opening shutters.

Soldiers passing beneath banners.

Oron before the silence.

He did not know whether the images came from Aaron or his own mind.

That was becoming an important distinction.

Zook sat beside him.

“Still hearing them?”

“Not words.”

“That's good.”

“Is it?”

Zook thought.

“No.”

Deacon appreciated the correction.

They ate in silence.

After several minutes, Zook said, “You know you can tell us if it gets worse.”

Deacon looked at him.

“I know.”

“You won't.”

“No.”

Zook nodded as though confirming something expected.

“Then we'll notice.”

Deacon almost smiled.

“You people are irritating.”

“Jandar more than me.”

“Usually.”

From across the square, Jandar called, “I heard that.”

“Good.”

Mills laughed.

For a few minutes, Oron felt less empty.

Then Deacon heard the dead again.

One whisper.

Not Aaron.

Too faint to understand.

He turned toward the northern road.

Mist moved between the ruins.

Something stood there.

A figure.

Gone almost as soon as he saw it.

Not threatening.

Waiting.

Deacon stood.

The others noticed.

“What?” Jandar asked.

Deacon stared into the mist.

The whisper came once more.

This time he understood one word.

Come.

He picked up his crossbow.

“The dead want us to keep moving.”

Jandar stared at him.

“That is a sentence I preferred never hearing.”

Zook was already on his feet.

Vegon gathered his things.

Xil looked north.

Mills slowly closed his notebook.

Deacon stepped onto the old road.

Four hundred years of silence stretched ahead of them.

Somewhere within it, the dead were waiting.

This time, Deacon intended to find out why.