Page 67 of Wizards & Weavers
The colossus must have dislodged more icicles from the ceiling in the heat of battle, so many of them falling and piercing the ground like great, frozen thorns. Rubble and debris traced a path toward the new crevice, strewn haphazardly across the cavern floor.
Some of the icy coffins had been crushed in the fight, too. Pieces of ancient skeleton and chunks of ice lay scattered where the elemental had stomped on them.
It seemed silly, feeling sorry for these long-dead strangers, but Braiden couldn’t help himself. These were people of Aidun, once, perhaps even from a time when Aidun wasn’t called Aidun. It wasn’t right to desecrate or disturb the dead.
And the dead seemed to agree.
A large piece of bone clattered of its own accord. More rattling sounds followed as a series of smaller bones wriggled in grisly procession from under a pile of broken ice.
Braiden yelped. Elyssandra shrieked. This was no trick of the light, no horrible prank pulled by anyone in their party. Braiden would have known to look out for a strong gust of wind, the howl of a conjured gale. Still he looked to Augustin for an answer, frowning in accusation.
The wizard held up his hands. “This isn’t me. Look. This isn’t my magic.”
And Augustin was telling the truth. Braiden didn’t know everything about the various schools of magic, but Granny Bethilda had given him hints of what to look out for.
Fire magic was easy enough to identify, the practice of pyromancy filled with flashy flames and explosions. Ice magic was easy, too — just look for telltale signs of frost and an unnatural chill in the air.
But the eerie light that drew pieces of a skeleton together like a marionette’s strings, the sickly tendrils that bound the bones into a singular shape? This was the ghastly green of necromancy, the dark and horrifying magic of the dead.
Faster and faster the magic spun, the pile of bones swirling and stitching in a hideous vortex of ancient ivory and ghostly green.
“Ybura preserve us,” Braiden stammered. “It’s one of the undead.”
Elyssandra grabbed a handful of Braiden’s sweater and twisted, pulling against him for comfort. If she pulled any tighter, she would hopelessly stretch the sweater out forever. Augustin waved his fingers, crafting a cautious spell, his teeth clenched as he beheld the bizarre resurrection.
Warren gripped his staff in both hands, keeping the bravest face of them all. He bore the ideal weapon for fighting the undead, after all, perfect for breaking skulls and cracking bone.
The skeleton leapt to its feet with a screech. It whirled in a terrified circle, the sightless sockets that once held its eyes burning with motes of pale greenish light.
“Where?” the skeleton shouted. “The undead? Where?”
The hairs on Braiden’s body bristled, his nerves slowly fraying. Elyssandra kept pulling on his sweater. That was starting to fray, too. Did this creature simply have a twisted sense of humor? Didn’t it know?
“We have to get out of here,” the skeleton shouted. “I didn’t sign up to fight zombies and ghosties. Look at me. My hands are shaking.”
The skeleton lifted fleshless fingers to its face, its bony knuckles knick-knocking with genuine terror. And then it finally understood. Its cry of horror curdled Braiden’s blood.
“I’m dead!” the skeleton wailed. “Oh, merciless gods, to condemn me to an afterlife as nothing but a pile of bones. But if I’m dead, and this is what lies beyond the veil — why do you have skin and meat?”
The skeleton was speaking to everyone in the cavern, but a building horror in Braiden’s gut told him that the twin specks of ghostly flame in its eye sockets were focused on him. The skeleton reached out its bony hand. It hobbled forward on creaky, frost-encrusted feet.
“Give me some of your skin,” it rasped.
A fresh wave of terror ripped through Braiden’s body. He stumbled backward, knocking against Elyssandra. She let go of his sweater and hurried to the back of the group with a frightened yelp.
“You don’t need all of your flesh. Gimme.”
Card No. 37, the one about shoelaces. This shambling, rickety thing didn’t have any shoelaces, but that didn’t matter. There was plenty enough to entangle. Braiden swallowed hard, forcing himself to concentrate, and flung out a panicked snarl of a spell.
Glowing threads and ribbons exploded from his fingers, snagging the jagged bits of the skeleton’s outstretched hands, its ribs, its feet. Braiden didn’t even have to call on Card No. 37’s recommended knots.
The skeleton sabotaged itself, tripping clumsily in a mess of string. It slipped on a patch of ice, toppled off balance, then went rattling and crashing to the floor.
Augustin clapped Braiden on the shoulder. “Well done, weaver. A gust of wind might have smashed and scattered the miserable thing to pieces. Better that we have a chance to question it.”
“Please don’t kill me,” the skeleton whimpered, its skull rolling about until it could look into their faces. “I panicked, okay? You try waking up dead. It’s fine. You can keep your skin. I just — I’m just going to lie here for a bit.”
Warren pointed the tip of his staff at the skeleton’s skull. Standing that way, Braiden couldn’t help noticing how this was an echo of how they’d met the burrowfolk to begin with, Elyssandra standing over him with her spear pointed at his throat.
