by Jamie K. Wilson

(this is a work in progress and will almost certainly have errors.)

Every stone, every rut, every broken cobblestone on the road to Elsmere dented Granzie’s behind as he rode pillion on Prince Reginald’s horse – just Reginald now, since his father had disinherited him. It had been a long five years for the two of them, Reginald scraping out a living as a hired sword and once in a great while pocketing a small purse at a tourney while Granzie did his best to care for his master. As a jouster, Reginald was just good enough to not lose his armor and horse to another, and wise enough to know when to quit.

Darkmire’s provocation, though, had interrupted their pointless wanderings. The dark mage had conquered Elsmere a year ago, killing Reginald's father and trapping his soul, then laying waste to the countryside and terrorizing the people with demons and unspeakable horrors. No one dared lift a finger to stop him, or so he'd been told by the few refugees who managed to flee Darkmire’s stay-put compulsion.

The raven on Reginald's shoulders flapped its wings and launched into the air, spiraling once around the riders before moving to the left and settling on a side road. Granzie gave it a dirty look, and it cocked its head, its rapid breath somehow disrespectful. The bird was the servant of Grizelda, the old tavernkeeper and the reason Reginald was returning to Elsmere, probably to his death.

"Last road, do you think?" The prince looked down at him.

Granzie shrugged. "Maybe. There are many roads in this wood."

"Let's hope the end is soon." The prince's face hardened. "She WILL be safe. I must see to that, at least."

"At the cost of your life? Of what remains of Elsmere?"

"At all costs. He will not have her."

Foolishness, Granzie thought. No woman was worth this, no matter her ebon hair and lush body. She had been the cause of Reginald's disinheritance, that woman, and Granzie suspected that the falling-out between Reginald and the king gave Darkmire the edge he needed to poison the king’s mind with whispers and dark thoughts. They turned down the side path. Reginald ducked errant branches with increasing frequency, at last dismounting and leading his stallion Pitch along the narrow path. Granzie simply moved up into the saddle, though he had to cling to the harness with his toes. There were advantages to being only half Reginald's height.

At last, the woods gave way to a clearing. In the center was a small cottage with a curl of smoke rising from the chimney. It looked abandoned otherwise. The raven launched, darting through a small window under the eaves. Reginald stopped. "At last."

Granzie shrugged. "Not impressive."

"She's in hiding."

"Nevertheless, one should have some comfort."

Reginald smiled, the easy and accustomed expression lighting his face. "I sensed no dark servants behind us, nor has the woods been affected by the ash of his rule. We may yet have time."

Granzie gathered his body together and leaped down lightly, his feet leaving no mark. His folk could jump fifteen feet straight up, and their light frames took little harm even in high falls. He busied himself unstrapping the saddle and harness from Pitch, and the prince lifted each piece away. They moved in practiced concert. Pitch was unburdened and ready to graze in less than a minute.

"There, old friend." Reginald patted Pitch's neck affectionately. "Eat now, for it may be a long time before your next good meal."

"Oats?"

"Not yet. We may need them later."

Granzie shook his head. He followed the young prince into the hovel. It was dark and smoky within, but Granzie's eyes adjusted quickly to such conditions. He spotted Grizelda in the corner and cried out in dismay. The old woman lay on a filthy cot in the corner, her breath labored and slow. Her skin was covered in scabs and mites, and a red gaping wound on her belly oozed pus and blood. "She is Darkmire's already!"

Grizelda cackled, though it was a wet and raspy sound compared to the laugh Granzie remembered. "I am my own. It is my power that prevents the life from leaving my body."

Reginald knelt by her side. "Grizelda. Where is Emmeline?" he said urgently, then passed a hand over his face. "Forgive me. What can I do to help you?" He looked helplessly at the open wound, which seemed to throb and pulse.

"There is nothing you can do. I enspelled myself to keep the life in my body until you arrived. I have only minutes now, so listen close and careful." She sat up slightly, gasping at the pain. "A pillow beneath my head, that I may talk more easily, if you please."

Reginald found a cushion that was not too filthy, and Grizelda sighed as her head eased back on it. "Better. Some of the tea on the stove."

Granzie frowned - who had made the tea? But he scampered over and poured some. It was green wildwood tea, an excellent painkiller. He took the cracked cup and held it to the witch's lips. She drank greedily.

After a minute, the lines of pain and fatigue on her face eased. "Much better. You are too late, though. He has her already."

Reginald closed his eyes and tilted his head back. After a moment, he looked at her again. "How may I retrieve her?"

"A life for a life. He wants you."

"He wants the blood of the heir, you mean."

"Yes."

"It would be the death of Elsmere." His knuckles whitened where they had unconsciously clutched the hilt of his sword. "It would be the end of my home and all those within it."

Grizelda chuckled bitterly. "Aye, but that is already going to happen."

"What do you mean?"

"You last visited her a year ago, no?"

"I did. It was the last chance I had before the darkness fell."

"You left something behind you. She gave birth to your son three months gone."

Reginald's lips parted in shock. Granzie groaned. That was it, then.

In the few moments Grizelda had left to her, she explained what had happened. Emmeline had been deliriously happy about the child, thinking perhaps it would bring Reginald and his father together again, that the old king would be able to accept her, a commoner and daughter of a witch, as his daughter-in-law. But when he'd found out, a darkness had fallen over him, a rage. Darkmere had done his work well. The king's mind had already been poisoned, and the idea that his grandson and eventual heir was half-witch was too much. He had given the sorcerer a vial of his blood to curse the child, to eliminate its existence. Instead of destroying the child, Darkmere had used his black arts to cast a veil over the land and the mind of the king. He bled the old man to death slowly as he corrupted Elsmere.

Grizelda had taken Emneline and hidden her deep in the woods. But Darkmere was canny and wise, and he'd saved the final bit of the king's life for the spell to find the child's birth-blood. When the baby was born, the king was killed, and Darkmere's minions had come into the woods to take mother and child. Grizelda had been sore wounded, and had lain in agony for three months, using her arts to halt time for her dying body. She had sent the raven to fetch Reginald.

"The child does him no good. You are the king now. It is your blood that can transform the land."

Reginald passed a hand over his face. "You called me here, knowing. . . "

"That you will never leave? Yes. I will pay any price to have my daughter and grandson safe, unto every other life in Elsmere."

Granzie growled, a low catlike sound. "Wicked old woman."

She laughed, and blood appeared on her lips. "You must go to the palace in Hartshorn. There you will find your wife and child, and your blood will ransom them. I die happy." Her eyes closed, and the horrible pulsing of the wound ceased. The raven cawed once, a startled sound, and flew off; it was but an ordinary bird now.

They burned her body where it lay, setting fire to the dry thatch of the hut to prevent Darkmere from bringing one of his dark servants to life in her body. Once the entire hut was engulfed, Reginald saddled Pitch and they left.

The road to Hartshorn wound through darkening woods, then through fields of wheat that were twisted and rotting where they stood. Granzie wept to see it, for those fields should have been heavy with wheat at this time of year, and the farmers busy in the fields preparing for scythe-season. There was not a person to be seen. Occasionally a shadow flitted past, or a grunting thing would heave up out of a ditch and throw itself into the bushes with a crash, and Granzie shuddered, glad he could not see more than a glimpse. Reginald did not smile or speak. His face was fixed and hard. He kept Pitch moving at a steady trot, neither too fast nor too slow. What would be the point? The Bleak One knew they were coming. If he wanted them stopped, he would have done so by now.

After a day and a half of steady travel, with only a brief stop at an empty shepherd's cot to rest, they came over the gentle slope of Ambershade Hill and looked down into Hartshorn Valley, where the palace and capitol city lay. Reginald pulled Pitch up short, and Granzie cried out.

There was not a living soul there. He could feel it. No spark of life lay in that valley, save up in the castle, Everyone and everything was dead before them, and most of it corrupted by the Bleak One's magic.

"There were ten thousand people living in Hartshorn, Granzie. Ten thousand souls, all working and loving and living, when I left. For the love of heaven, what happened?"

Granzie shook his head, but he knew. The gnomes had served the Bleak One long ago in his stronghold, digging and harvesting fungus and sometimes killing and eating human intruders in their caverns. Over a century ago, his tribe had left, pledging allegiance to Reginald's great-grandfather after he'd done them a service. Since then, they had served the royal family, working as maids and cooks and grooms and sometimes pledging themselves to serve just one young knight, as Granzie had.

But they had not forgotten the dark old ways. The Bleak One depended on life to supply his powers, siphoned it out like a butterfly sipped nectar from flowers. For the lives of so many to have been snuffed out, the Bleak One had been busy indeed with his black arts.

"Look, d'you see movement down there? But I would swear there were no living things in the town."

Granzie shook his head. "There are no living things, there, young prince. Those that move are not alive."

The truth to his words became apparent as they rode into the near-silent town. On one side, a blacksmith worked on a wicked-looking sword blade, examining the edge with dead eyes as he lifted cherry-red metal not with tongs, but with the tattered remains of his own hands. On another side, soldiers garbed in shining armor stood, vacant sockets aligned perfectly with the helm's eyeslits. Everywhere, animated corpses moved and worked, all clearly engaged in preparations for war. There were no bakers or whores or washerwomen to be seen. There were no women or children or dogs. The dead did not need them.

"Dear heaven."

"Hush!" growled Granzie. "They are dead, but they hear. Draw as little of their attention as you can."

"They seem preoccupied."

"Do not assume."

Reginald nodded and urged Pitch onward. To the stallion's credit, though his eyes rolled and nostrils flared, he obeyed his master and picked through the rough unkempt streets, keeping well away from the dead. Granzie looked away from those wearing rags he recognized as castle livery; he wanted to see no one he knew. The dead ignored them.

At last, Pitch reached the castle, where the gates were flung wide open. A pair of sentries (Hart and Sarin, thought Granzie with a swallow) jerked to attention, their halberds straight up to the sky. Reginald drove the horse between them, and they dropped their halberds, then fell in behind him. In the courtyard, every soldier-skeleton stopped and came to attention, every rotting man-corpse staring at Reginald.

"Why are they doing that?" Reginald muttered to Granzie.

"You're their king. Your blood carries power."

Reginald frowned, but was silent. He rode Pitch up to the castle steps, then made to dismount. Granzie put his hand on the prince's arm. "No."

"What? Don't go in?"

"No, don't dismount. 'Tis only your blood keeps the dead host back. Once you are no longer touching Pitch, they'll tear him to shreds."

"Why?"

"The dead envy the living. It has always been so."

Reginald looked at Granzie with narrowed eyes. "You will tell me very soon how you come to know so much of the dead."

Granzie sighed and nodded. "So I will. But for now, ride Pitch into the castle. There's plenty of room."

Reginald nodded and kicked the horse forward. Pitch picked his way up the steps and, with a final heave, his hooves clattered onto the fine marble stone of the castle hall. Though he skittered a bit on the slick surface, he soon gained his balance and trotted on.

The castle's interior was quite different from its exterior. It was maintained in perfect shape. Where the town was muddy, walls grimed in dirt and the effluvience of the dead, the castle was sparkling clean, not a speck of dust marring any surface. Tapestries celebrating the royal family had been rolled up and tossed into a corner, but otherwise it looked no different than the day Granzie had followed his lord Reginald into exile, carrying what few belongings the king would allow them to take. The reason was soon evident. A group of gnomes appeared at Pitch's stirrup and bowed.

"Young lord, your mount will be safe with us."

Reginald looked at Granzie, who nodded. "Gnomes can't lie."

They dismounted and watched as the gnomes led Pitch down a hallway, stripping him and energetically beginning a rubdown as they moved. "He'll be fine. The Bleak One rides living mounts, so there will be a stable for the living well protected from the dead."

"Where to now?"

Granzie shrugged. "The throne room?"

The two walked down well-remembered corridors, passing guest rooms and pantries. The castle looked as if its inhabitants were out for lunch or a celebration, due back at any moment. In one tidy room, bright clothes lay out for a young lord; in another, twenty pewter place-settings neatly decorated the table. Reginald shook his head. "Does the Bleak One have human followers?"

"No, my prince. Gnomes are creatures of habit. For over a century they have served your family in this way. It will be long before they cease preparing these halls for you, though all herein be dead."

"You said you'd tell me how you knew so much about the dead."

Granzie stopped. "Pause a moment and let me explain. It may save your life, Selene willing." He pulled the prince into a small sitting room and hopped into a chair, his legs barely reaching the edge of the seat. "As I said, gnomes are creatures of habit."

"Yes."

"We have served your family for a century and more. However, for a millennium before that we served the Bleak One. Your grandfather freed us, but he did not erase our memories."

"But gnomes only live, what, fifty years?"

"No, my lord. We live sometimes to be three hundred and more. My own sire is two hundred and fifty seven years of age."

"What? Why did you lie about that?"

"Gnomes cannot lie. We can, however, ignore misapprehensions. A palace mage some years ago claimed that gnomes could only live to be fifty. We did not correct him. As most of us are interchangeable in your eyes, you failed to notice servitors who lived much longer. We took care to switch out those few you did remember before they had served more than forty years, and allowed you to think those servitors were dead."

"Why would you do that? Why did YOU not tell me? How old are you?"

"Sire, I am only forty-three, and your own pledged servant. I would never deceive you willingly. Had you asked me directly what the gnomes wanted or were, I would have told you willingly. I was bound not to speak of my own accord, however, by the geis cast by our own king and ruler."

"Who would that be?"

Granzie sighed and braced himself. "Your grandfather did not free us. He only thought he did, and for that we feel kindly toward him. Our first loyalty as a people has always been to the Bleak One."

"No!"

"Hush! or our quest will be over before 'tis fairly begun. The Bleak One has plotted your kingdom's destruction for over a hundred years. Your grandfather did take a great deal of his power from him, though. Only in your father's lifetime was he able to gather enough magic and blood to recover his physical form. He inhabited the body of Darkmire, whispered lies into the man's ear promising untold power and wealth for nothing but his cooperation. Darkmire had power and wits, but he was a fool nevertheless. He allowed the Bleak One into his body, and the evil one consumed his soul."

Reginald sighed heavily. Granzie watched him closely, but could not discern his emotion. That was troubling, for he thought he well understood his master. At last, Reginald looked up at him. " I suppose I must trust you, for you are my only ally. But Granzie, after this you are freed of your service. I never wish to see you again."

Granzie nodded, though he wanted to weep. It was no more than he expected.

"What must I do?"

The throne room was the first part of the castle that smelled of death, and for good reason. The Bleak One, wearing Darkmire’s body, sat on Reginald's father's throne, the animated corpses of Reginald's parents crouched before him to support his feet. Reginald growled low and quiet, and Granzie clutched at his hand in warning. Several other dead servitors, once the king's royal council, wandered about the room doing menial or meaningless tasks. Beside the Bleak One on a little stool, dressed in rags, Emmeline sat nursing a babe.

Though the girl still had her black hair and white skin, she had lost weight, and the bloom in her cheeks was gone. Granzie suspected she ate only for the sake of the babe in her arms, a fat little fellow with thick dark hair. Above her, the Bleak One grinned at them both. He looked well enough. He had fattened up Darkmire's body and grown a beard. He looked -- jolly.

"Please, my guests! Come in, come in. I have been expecting you for a while now."

"I am not your guest, Bleak One. I am the rightful ruler here. If anything, you are my future prisoner."

That caught him off guard, Granzie thought. The Bleak One stared at them for a second, then tossed his head back and guffawed. "Oh, humor! I had almost forgot it. This one--" he poked Emmeline roughly "--has neither wit nor humor in her. I have been bored these three months awaiting you. She doesn't even cry when I punish her."

Reginald's teeth ground, and Granzie touched his arm. "I am taking her and the babe with me. I have no further business with you."

"I think not. You may choose, prince. Your life, or your son’s. I am not picky."

"You must fight me first."

The Bleak One tilted his head. "What a brash young fellow you are. Your blood will be tasty." He placed his feet on the ground, and waved carelessly toward the rotting courtiers. They shambled between the prince and Emmeline. The king and queen rose and drew wicked-looking swords, holding one on either side of the girl. She looked up at Reginald. Her eyes, Granzie thought, were filled with despair.

"I cannot touch you, nor can I touch your son, without your consent. But her, I can touch. Your son has no other means of life beyond her. Without his mother, a sucking babe will starve. I will happily let you leave with the babe, but not with his mother, and you will find no living nurse in this land. You have ten seconds to decide. Your life, or his."

Reginald did not hesitate. "Allow me twelve hours to take my leave of my wife and son. Half a day. No more."

The Bleak one thought a moment, then nodded. "That is fair. But I will make my mark first."

Granzie gasped. He covered his mouth as quick as possible, but the Bleak One had heard him already.

"Granzie! My lad! You still serve Reginald. Brave one. I take it your plan had not accounted for this? Well, and that is fine. You cannot break the bargain this way. Please, explain to the prince."

Granzie turned to Reginald miserably. "I am sorry. I am a fool, my lord. The Bleak One's mark on your skin is a sigil that will drain your blood and life and feed it into him. No cure exists." He hesitated.

Reginald frowned, then nodded, glancing toward the still-sucking babe. "So be it. Care for my son as you have cared for me. Nay, better. I bind you to always tell him the whole truth, my dying wish."

Granzie bowed. Reginald stepped toward the Bleak One, and the dead parted before him.

When it was done, Reginald lay on a couch at the side of the room, gasping in pain. Still, he smiled as he touched the faces of his wife and son, wiping away the tears flowing down Emmeline's face. "You must live for me. The babe will be king, and thus beyond his reach - and so long as you touch him, you are safe."

She nodded, then sobbed.

Granzie turned away from the piteous sight. He had work to do, and not much time. He scurried out of the throne room into the hall, in search of a face he was certain he'd seen.

He was right. Papa sat in the corner of a kitchen, his wizened face damp as he stirred a pot of stew. He nodded when he saw Granzie. "My son! I knew you would return."

"Aye, and I am sickened, Papa. We were treated well, had a home and a purpose and -- and cheese."

"Cheese. Let us never forget cheese." The two were silent a moment. "Still, tradition is tradition, and we were never unpledged to the Bleak One."

"I am. I am unpledged as of now." In a sudden fury, Granzie held up his wrist and tore into it with sharp little teeth, rending flesh so that it bled profusely. He held his arm over the fire, where the blood dripped in. "By blood and fire, I declare I am pledged to Prince Reginald and his family, for now and forevermore. I renounce the Bleak One, and I renounce his protection."

Nothing happened, no fire or earthquake or lightning. "I renounce him," he whispered.

"So you do. If you leave now, the dead will tear you apart. Tell me, what is it you want of me?"

"A healing. A life for a life. My life for my lord's."

"Ah. The tansy elixir, then. That will heal him, but not save him."

"You leave the saving up to me."

The old gnome nodded sadly. "Fine. Tansy leaf, right there on the shelf. Still growing on the vine. Three plump juicy leaves. Place them in your mouth and chew them well. Not a word once they are in your mouth. You follow everything I tell you to the letter, boy."

Granzie nodded, and reached for the tansy.

The other ingredients his father directed him to were less appetizing. Into his mouth with the tansy went some ash from the fire, a chicken dropping, a bit of pepper. He had to dash into the yard to snatch a mushroom from a grave in the courtyard, and ran when the dead took notice of him and lumbered in his direction. He minced the mushroom fine, then blended it with some manroot and yarrow. At last his father nodded and said, "Spit."

Granzie spit the thoroughly macerated and disgusting concoction from his mouth into the cup.

"Do you truly love your lord?"

"I do." Granzie nodded vigorously, then stirred the lumpy mixture with a finger. A glow started at the center of the liquid, then moved outward, and Granzie moved quickly. He opened the fresh scab on his wrist again with his teeth, and let the blood run down into the cup. "I am pledged his servant body and soul, and I will give all to him." The light brightened and flashed. At the end, a sparkling clear liquid filled the cup no more than half-way. It would be enough.

The old gnome watched, then sighed heavily. "I will mourn you, boy, for you were the best of my children."

"All of them?" Granzie had somewhere around three hundred brothers and sisters.

"Aye." He looked up at the sky. "Time's running short. The moon drops from the sky. By my count, your lord has until daybreak."

Granzie nodded and took the cup, covering it carefully with a lid. He would need to move quickly. He trotted down the corridors to the outside of the throne room, then gauged his route. He'd carefully chosen the entrance closest to the prince and furthest from the Bleak One. No one took notice of him. He closed his eyes, said a quick prayer, then dashed across the room to the couch.

Dead courtiers' heads looked up, their eyes glowing, as they smelled his unpledged blood. They moved quickly, almost too quickly. He dashed around them, dodged one, cried out in pain as the sharp claws of another dug into his flesh. Glancing up, he saw the dead thing licking his blood from its fingers.

He dove before his lord, touching him, and held up the cup. "Drink, my prince!"

"Granzie?"

"Drink! Please, trust me."

The prince, though reclining and weak, managed to take the cup from his hands before the dead pulled him away. He paid them no mind, but watched the prince. "Drink!"

Reginald raised the cup to his lips, lifted the lid, and drank. A slow glow rose up in his body as he drank, lighting him from the inside with a clear white light. It flashed, and where it touched the dead, they crumbled to dust. He rose from his couch.

Bleeding and torn, Granzie watched smiling as the prince stood and advanced on the Bleak One. Then the scene faded from his eyes, and everything went black. He was back in the Underground, kneeling before a throne he well knew, if only in his dreams.

"Traitor. You will not escape so easily."

Pain. Burning. Bleeding. Pain again. Granzie hardly remembered his own name any more. The heavy manacles that bound him to the throne of bone were too heavy, forcing his shoulders down when he stood. Not that standing was better than sitting or lying, it's just that the Bleak One demanded it, and what the Bleak One had demanded, Granzie gave.

Body and soul, he'd said. The binding spell in the tanzy elixir had taken his life and given it to Reginald, and the gnomish part of his spirit was immune to the Bleak One. It gave the prince a fighting chance, and since the Bleak One was once more pouting on his dark throne he had clearly taken it.

Not that it was a comfort to Granzie, not when he was forced to sit on the chair of nails for the Bleak One's amusement or kneel as his footstool for hours on end. Who would have thought a soul could feel such pain? But he did. And for years, the Bleak One had made sure he felt as much pain as possible.

Or perhaps centuries. Maybe days. Granzie was not sure anymore.

Today, he was to be boiled in a pot at the Bleak One's fireside. He sighed as he mounted the stool, looking down. The pot was filled with blood. Over it, the Bleak One smiled.

Then his smile vanished. Something changed. The halls lit with a white light, and demons shrieked. Granzie turned as well as he could with the manacles on his wrist, then sat down to watch. Two white-clad knights fought in tandem, destroying demons and imps and spirits alike as they fought their way toward the bone throne. They were like dancers, moving in perfect harmony, swords flashing. Slowly, they drove toward the Bleak One himself. One reached him, thrust a blade toward his face. The Bleak One screeched and fled.

The other knight struck down at the chains of Granzie's manacles. The blade bit through them like butter, and at its touch the heavy iron melted away, leaving Granzie unburdened. He looked down at his wrists in disbelief.

"Good fight, Father," said the knight whose bright blade had such an effect on the Bleak One. "But now we have to chase him down."

"Not today. We have what we came for."

Granzie shrank away from them when the two knights approached. What fresh hell, he wondered. But then one of them flipped up his faceplate. The face was older, the hair grayer, but there was no mistaking it.

"My prince? Reginald?"

"King Reginald now. Come, old friend. It's time to go home."

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