Dream Magic by B. V. Larson Page A

the bargain, and neither was mine.”
    A charcoal-colored hooked finger beckoned him closer, and odd gurgles emanated from the monster’s throat.
    Trev was curious, having never heard the dying words of a thinking being before. He inched closer.
    Claw-like, the midnight-black hand shot out and gripped his ankle. Trev instantly attempted to bound away. He leapt into the air like a rabbit with its foot caught in a snare, but the simulacrum held fast with its dying strength, and Trev was brought down to earth again.
    The assassin had lost his blade when he fell and was not in any condition to seek it, so Shadgol did the only thing he could—he pulled Trev’s dagger from his own eye socket and stabbed at the scrambling half-elf.
    Trev had never been so close to death as he was now, with the exception of the moments he’d faced King Arawn of the Dead. He knew this, and he knew he’d played the fool in this exchange from the beginning. He could have simply run away, but he had not done so. Like all his kind, his weakness was his curiosity. It hadn’t been good enough to escape death—he’d given in to the urge to toy with his attacker.
    Telling himself to forget about such recriminations until later—if there was a later— Trev did what was necessary. He knelt and gripped the hand that held his dagger, pinning it to the dirt and stones. It was like grappling with a snake. When at last he had his dagger free from the charcoal fingers, he reversed it and plunged the point into the body of his foe again and again.
    Gore as black as oil showered him, but still the thing kept fighting with a horrible vigor. When as last Shadgoal relaxed in death, Trev had no idea how many times he’d driven the knife deep, feeling it scrape on bone as often as not.
    Sides heaving, he stood at last and escaped a grasping web of fingers which had grown rubbery in death. He staggered away, sickened and unable to think of anything other than flight.
    He ran then, into the pink light of dawn. He ran all the way to the great stone gates of Snowdon.
    There, he waited on the doorstep of the Kindred. When the sun finally rose into the sky , the stone gates opened and he was admitted into the Earthlight.
     

Chapter Five
    The Troll
     
    After the disaster years back when Morcant Drake had herded the Dead of Riverton down from Cemetery Hill, there had been a lull in burials up there. Burning the dead rather than burying them was even considered by the town council seriously. But old traditions die hard, and it was always difficult to deny a grieving family their solace when they were in an emotional state. They did not want to speak of burning their loved ones, it was not their way.
    Some clans, such as the Rabing Clan itself, often buried people by dumping them into the Berrywine River. Most clans preferred internment. After a year or so of haggling about the subject, the burials continued. In time, they came to use the cemetery again, believing it safe to do so.
    Since the original grave tenders had been among the first victims of the Storm of the Dead, respectable people applicants for the newly reopened job were few and hard to come by. When the subject of graveyard digging arose, even the bravest men looked at their feet. Thus it was months before a new grave digger was hired, during which the Riverton Constabulary filled the role as part of an emergency effort.
    The new man was far from the best of his kind. Rather than a gentle soul who cared for and respected his tenants, Slet of the Silure clan was a man who couldn’t get a job doing anything else. He was not a drunkard, but little else could be said for him in a positive vein.
    Before the Storm of the Dead, he’d been a mean, pe tty little man who’d helped his grandfather old Tad Silure by gathering and creating fake wards from the shores of the Berrywine. They’d made a modest income preying upon the fears of local folk who were trying to protect their families from the depredations of