Dafydd’s claim that two Druids had left the Silver Stallion in recent weeks came back to me. Apparently they’d both met their end here. But how? I didn’t want to be Druid number three and I was operating on too little information. I backed out the door, grabbed the Druid lying there by his tunic, and dragged him outside with me for a proper investigation. The chapel was simply too creepy; someone had lit those candles recently, and I doubted the dead men were responsible.
I knelt beside the Druid in the rain. He had no visible head wounds—not even bruising. A purpling of the skin low on the right side of his throat, however, made me look for more; on the left side were four more marks. This Druid had been choked to death by a single large hand. Perhaps it had been gauntleted—but that hardly mattered. I’m sure the Druid hadn’t meekly accepted his strangulation. He must have fought back but it had done him no good. There was enormous strength behind those telltale bruises.
My hand trailed up to my neck and I speculated on how much protection the chain mail would offer against a hand like that. Probably very little.
I wondered if the Druid on the altar had been killed the same way. It was probably safe to investigate since the owner of the giant hand was obviously not in the chapel at present.
Stepping back inside, I noticed most of the candles around the altar had been snuffed out, presumably by the wind circulating through. The only illumination now came from the pillar of wan light cast by the open door, largely occluded by my own shadow, and a single candle in front of the altar. I was halfway to the altar when the strangeness of it upset me. If the wind had snuffed the candles, the one that was still burning would have been the first one to blow out. So what had put them out…?
Movement drew my eye to the lower right corner of the altar. A huge disembodied black hand and forearm crawled toward the final candle using its fingers. The hand was an unnatural carbon black, scarred and pitted like volcanic rock. It pinched out the candle with its thumb and forefinger, and then I lost it in my own shadow.
It had no trouble finding me, however, as I backstepped. It scrabbled inhumanly fast across the floor and gripped my leg, not to halt my progress but rather to climb up one finger at a time. I hurriedly swiped at it with my left hand to knock it off, but it must have been waiting for just such a reaction, for it somehow caught my fingers, spasmed, and flipped itself onto my forearm, now much closer to my throat. It knew which direction that lay, for it immediately began to inch its way up my arm with ropelike finger movements.
My panicked brain suggested that I cut off my own arm with Fragarach to prevent the hand’s advance. Its enchanted blade would slice through armor as easily as skin. But after my logic had its say in the next fraction of a second, I thought of something else. “Freagroidh tú!” I said, pointing my sword at the hand and activating the primary enchantment, which would force the target to tell the truth. But I didn’t want to talk to the hand; I wanted the secondary effect, which prevented the target from moving more than a few inches from the point of the sword while under interrogation. Move the point, and you effectively move the target. I directed the point at the floor in front of me, and the hand was yanked magically from my arm and placed under firm control a comfortable distance away. I watched it writhe and struggle to break free of the spell for a few seconds while I caught my breath and tried to slow down my heartbeat. It was too repulsive to bear for long, however, and I began to saw off the digits, starting with the thumb. Once disconnected from the palm, they ceased moving. The arm still tried to attack me with all five fingers missing, so I stabbed it through the back of the hand and it finally slumped inert on the floor.
Before I could sigh in relief, the Druid on the altar stirred and sat up, vacant eyes swiveling to face me. His feet slapped the cold stone as he advanced, sword raised. His movements lacked grace and his jaw hung slack.
It was evidence—if the hand hadn’t provided enough—that I was dealing with a true necromancer, and I’m not ashamed to say I turned and ran out of there, calling for Apple Jack to meet me at the gate. The other Druid was on his feet outside and managed to trip me as I passed. Mud and turf rippled all around; the dead were rising from their graves. A heavy hand closed around my leg; I swung Fragarach behind me and the grip fell away. I scrambled for purchase in the mud and tore down the path toward the gate as fists erupted from the graves nearby.
<I told you we should have run, but no, you don’t have any horse sense.>
Yes, well, you might find me more willing to listen from now on.