Never Trust a Dead Man (3 page)

Selwyn took short rapid breaths—inhaling the smells of ale, herbs, wood, and his own sweat—and by the time they reached the hills, he was light-headed, but not enough to be groggy and confused, which would have been a mercy. Hands dragged him up out of the wagon, then turned him around and sat him on the edge when it was obvious he couldn't stand on his own.

Anora was there, crying loudly. Selwyn had been aware of the noise in the background, along with the creaking of the wagon's wheels, the
clump-clump
of the horse's hooves on the path, and—above all—the beating of his own heart. Derian Miller had come, too, "To see the boy off," he'd said, obviously meaning Farold, not Selwyn.

But when Thorne asked, "Do you want to say anything ... before we lay him in?" Derian shook his head.

"Nothing to say," the miller said. "He was a good boy, with a lot of years ahead of him."

"Amen," murmured Linton, willing to take that as a prayer lest he, as another of the dead man's relatives, be asked to come up with a better one of his own.

"Amen," the rest of those assembled echoed.

Bowden, as headman, should have been there but wasn't. He had used the excuse of someone having to stay to watch over Selwyn's father, though more likely he simply didn't want to make the almost three-mile walk. Bowden was better at giving orders than at doing.

As usual, Thorne took over in Bowden's absence, having to be quick, to outtalk Linton. "Anybody want to say anything on Selwyn's behalf?" he asked.

People glanced at one another uncomfortably. Nobody looked directly at Selwyn.

Linton snorted.

Holt the blacksmith said, "He was a good boy, too, till this happened."

Linton snorted again.

What a glowing testimonial. What a moving summation of his life. Even about to die, Selwyn felt a pang of indignation. If he had been really dead rather than just condemned, would his friends have been able to come up with something?
Selwyn,
they might have said.... He came back to his own earlier eulogy for Farold:
Selwyn,
his friends might have said,
he wasn't as bad as a skunk dying under the porch.

The entryway to the burial caves was manmade: a barrow of heaped stones, blocked by a rock at least as big as Orik's wagon. It took four men, including Holt Blacksmith, to move it. Beyond lay the cave where people of Penryth had been buried for time out of memory.

A dusty, musty stench rolled out of the opening—not as bad, in the end, as Farold. But people tied cloths to cover their noses, which was not a good sign—definitely not a good sign—as two men bent to pick up Farold, and several others clustered around Selwyn, ready to guide, drag, or carry him into the barrow, whichever was necessary.

He would have walked—he wanted the men to be able to tell his family he had gone to his end with dignity—but he tried to pause for one last look at Anora, even though she was still hiding her face, crying, and they thought he was resisting. He was grabbed under each arm and pulled forward so quickly he couldn't get his feet properly under him, so that they dragged behind, and the more he struggled to right himself, the more everyone thought he was resisting.

Then they were going over the uneven ground at the entry of the barrow, and then they were heading down a steep, winding slope, the torches casting flickering shadows on the craggy walls and ceiling. The caves in these hills had been carved by nature; but men of long ago had smoothed some of the ways, though not by much. Several in the burial party stumbled or slid. And then—oh, then—the full stench of that whole villageful of dead bodies hit him. The most recent was Snell—a year dead in a hay-mowing accident with a scythe.

Bodies lay in niches or lined the walls, some set on top of one another. Wrappings had moldered or been chewed to rags, giving glimpses of withered brown flesh or bones.

For long, long minutes they walked down that corridor lined with the dead.

Selwyn heard a crunch and saw that Thorne, who held Farold's feet, had accidentally stepped on a piece of bone. Linton, who had hold of Farold's shoulders, kicked what remained toward the wall. Something dark and furry darted out of the way and disappeared into a crack. Even if Selwyn had been walking under his own power before, that would have been enough to turn his knees to water.

The corridor continued, curving beyond them, but Linton gasped, "Enough. God, enough." And even Thorne, who normally liked to contradict everything Linton suggested, agreed.

There was a niche cut into the wall that had a pile of cloth whose flatness attested to the body inside being no more than bone. "Move that one on top of this one over here," Thorne said.

Two who had helped drag in Selwyn moved to make room for Farold, but the ancient cloth disintegrated in their hands, spilling brittle bones that shattered and scattered on the ground.

Thorne gestured that it didn't matter, that they should just keep moving, and that moving fast would be best of all. He and Linton laid Farold down in the dusty niche.

"What about him?" Linton asked with a jerk of his head in Selwyn's direction.

"Sit him down," Thorne ordered.

Someone pushed Selwyn's legs out from under him, sitting him down hard in the grit of the cave floor.

Thorne took a length of rope he'd had looped around his belt, and he tied Selwyn's ankles together loosely. Then Thorne took out his dagger.

"What are you doing?" asked Raedan.

Selwyn hadn't even realized he was there, until he heard his voice.
Don't stop him,
he thought, wanting to warn Raedan's good intentions away. If Thorne was willing to speed Selwyn's death, that could only be easier.

But Thorne said, "I'm going to cut away a bit at the rope around his wrists."

"Why?" Linton demanded.

"I'm not going to leave him tied up like this, unable to move for days."

"Why not?"

"If you don't know, I can't explain." Thorne sawed at the rope, just enough to weaken it, just enough so that Selwyn would have to work to get it off and so wouldn't be able to follow the burial party on their way out, just enough to salve Thorne's conscience.

Linton said, "Yeah, well, first thing he's going to do is take off his gag, and then we'll have to listen to him bellowing all the way back."

"Then we'll have to move out of here fast," Thorne said. "We won't be able to hear him with the rock back in place." Immediately he started back the way they'd come, those with the torches lighting the way.

Raedan paused just long enough to rest his hand on Selwyn's shoulder, then scrambled to catch up.

Linton's voice came back, whining to Thorne, "I'm going to tell Bowden."

Selwyn worked to break loose the remaining strands of rope. He couldn't escape, he knew that. But he was frantic to get closer to the entry, where the air was fresher, where there wasn't such a sense of the dead eagerly waiting for him to join them.

The glow of the torches grew smaller and fainter, and then disappeared entirely. He was in total blackness—absolutely no different from having his eyes closed. But all about him there were noises: drips and rustlings and scratchings.
Vermin
, he told himself, not an angry spirit come back to demand, "What have you done to my bones?"

He thought he heard the hollow echo of the rock rolling back over the entrance. Or maybe not. He
was
deep in the cave.

His former friends and neighbors were probably halfway down the hill before Selwyn, twisting and tugging, managed to snap the rope where Thorne had weakened it. As Linton had warned, the first thing he did was to remove the gag. He had told himself he'd be brave. He knew it was useless—even if the villagers could hear him, which they could not—but he couldn't help himself. He yelled and screamed for them to come back.

Eventually, long after his voice gave out, he was able to pick loose the knots that bound his ankles. He stood, slowly, his hands outstretched in the darkness. He shuffled forward a careful step. His hand touched something cobwebby and dusty that would have better remained untouched. To the right seemed clear. But somehow one of the broken bones was under his foot, and his leg slid out from under him. He put his hands out to break his fall and landed on one of the bodies.

Cloth and bones caved in under the pressure of his outflung hands, sending up a cloud of acrid dust. Still on his knees, Selwyn backed away hurriedly, trying desperately not to inhale. But now something was tangled up around his left ankle. His own rope? Or one that had held a corpse's blanket? Or a corpse itself?

Selwyn brushed at his ankle and stood, smacking his head. That must be where ceiling curved down into wall, which meant he needed to take a step backward. But in that direction was another body. To the left, and he banged his shin against a rocky outcropping. Once again he fell—once again on a body. This one held up under his weight. Which was a good indication it was Farold.

Selwyn let himself sink back down to the floor. He wouldn't be able to find the entry, anyway. Better to be still. Then, if some angry spirit
did
come to accuse him, he would be able to say, "It wasn't me who disturbed your rest Go haunt those who are still alive."

Selwyn breathed through his mouth in an attempt to get away from the smell of all those dead people. But that made him sure he could taste them in the back of his throat, which was even worse.

He tried to compose himself for death, even though he knew it would be a long time coming. God knew he hadn't killed Farold, but there were other matters that weighed on Selwyn's soul and needed praying over. Like drinking too much ale that day two weeks ago, and egging Farold on to a fight, which was surely wrong—as well as foolish. Selwyn prayed to be forgiven for that, even though he felt that multiple bruises and public humiliation were surely atonement enough for that particular sin.

With his forehead on his upraised knees and his hands clasped around his legs, he also prayed for the peaceful repose of those around him. He mentally emphasized the word
peaceful.

There was a crawly sensation on his neck that he told himself was his own mind playing tricks because he couldn't see, or maybe a drop of sweat. But it was distracting, and this was a time for wholehearted attention, and a drop of sweat was a matter over which he had control. He brushed at his neck and knocked loose something many-legged and wriggly. At least, he thought he'd knocked it loose.

He hoped he'd knocked it loose.

He beat at his chest and arms and those parts of his back he could reach.

Maybe,
he told himself,
it will be easier to concentrate on prayer ... later.

The hours dragged on. Scurrying animals rustled about doing ... he could only guess, and he didn't like to. So far, anyway, they seemed timid and scurried away when he flapped his arms or moved his legs or yelled at them to leave him be. Which was better behavior than he got from the noiseless insects that periodically crawled over him.

He heard bats—at least he hoped they were bats, and not restless souls. For why would ghosts who haunted these caves need to wait till actual night, when it was always night this deep in the cavern? Whatever they were—
Bats,
he told himself,
definitely bats
—there were a lot of them, fluttering their leathery wings, squeaking. He ducked and covered his head, having heard of bats getting caught in people's hair. These were cleverer than that. They swooped down and by him, missing his head by what felt like the span of only two or three fingers. They must have a means to the outside. He tried to follow them, and once more bruised his head and shins in the dark, and in the end the bats went on without him.

Hours later they returned, which meant it must be close to dawn outside. He waited, but the blackness around him did not lessen. Nor did the cold. He was so thirsty, his throat felt closed in upon itself.

The cold, at least, there was a solution for, with all those blanket-wrapped corpses near by. He preferred to stay cold.

"Peace," he assured the dead through chattering teeth. "I'll take nothing of yours."

Eventually there came a stirring that might have been the bats, though—all things considered—he wouldn't have thought it was night again already.

No, it wasn't the bats;
they
were overhead. This was something moving along the floor, at a distance but coming closer. Something that scattered pebbles as it approached. A big something. His disgust and fear of the insects and rats dissolved at the thought of bigger predators. He had wanted a quicker death than starving or freezing or lack of water, but here something was going to jump out of the darkness at him and rip out his throat, and he wouldn't even know what it was while it was killing him.

This was what he got for not praying while he'd had a chance. He tried to make up for lost time with sincerity.

Bear, wolf, one of the big cats? Or—an even more distracting thought—a dead creature, jealous of the air he still breathed, the blood flowing through his veins?

Let it be quick,
he prayed. And lastly, desperately:
I'm sorry for everything.

There was, incredibly, a faint glow that grew brighter as the sounds of approach drew nearer. A torch? Had the villagers relented?

Suddenly Selwyn realized what had happened: They had discovered the true murderer. They had seen what an awful mistake they had made and were coming to release him, no doubt hoping desperately that they weren't too late.

Except...

Except if that were the case, wouldn't they be calling out to him, reassuring him that his rescue was at hand? Wouldn't they be eager to let him know they were coming?

This didn't sound like a crowd. This sounded like one. And not likely his father, escaped from Bowden, nor Raedan or Merton feeling sorry enough to come back for him. Any one of them, too, would be calling out.

There definitely was a light; he could see the glow reflecting off the walls of the cavern. That eliminated an animal, come to eat him, which would have been his second choice after rescue. Did spirits glow? The light was just distinct enough to give him his bearings, to show him that whatever was approaching was coming from deeper within the burial cavern.