The Charnel Prince by Greg Keyes

looked down.
    Newland was moon-frosted to the horizon, but just below them, the wall cast a shadow down the embanked dike it stood upon. Torches burned there, flames straight and unwavering in the windless dark. Five men stripped to their waists were working at a stone section of the dam, hacking away with picks. Another five or six looked on—it was hard to tell exactly how many.
    “Why is that one section made of stone?”
    “It’s a cap. Most of the dyke is banked earth. It would take too long to dig through it if the king
needed
to have Newland flooded, as has happened now and then. But it’s never been done at royal behest without warning to the low-dwellers.”
    “But won’t they be drowned when they cut through?”
    “Nay. They’re digging a narrow hole, see? The water will come out in a jet and tear the hole bigger as it goes, but it’ll give them time to move.”
    “Who do you think it is?”
    “Saints know.”
    “Well, what can we do?”
    “I’m thinking.”
    Leoff strained his eyes to understand more of the scene. There was a pattern down there. What was it?
    He settled his mind. There was the landscape, and the dike. They were like the staff that music was written on. Then there were the men digging, like the melody line, and the men silently standing guard, like the low throbbing bass notes of a pavane.
    And that was all . . .
    “No,” he whispered.
    “Eh?”
    Leoff pointed. “Look, there are dead down there, too.”
    “Not surprising. Anyone alive would try to stop ’em.” The windsmith squinted. “Right, see? They came around from the gate and attacked ’em from behind.”
    “But see how they’re lying, in a sort of arc? As if something simply struck them down when they got too close.”
    Gilmer shook his head. “Aens’t you ever seen battle? If they formed their line there, that’s where they’d fall.”
    “But I don’t see any signs of a fight. We haven’t seen any signs of battle
anywhere
in town, yet everyone is dead.”
    “Auy. I noticed that,” Gilmer said dryly.
    “So they form an arc. Look to the center of the arc.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “A lantern casts light in a circle, yes? Pretend where the corpses are is the edge of a circle of light. Now look for the lantern.”
    With a skeptical grunt, Gilmer did that. After a moment, he whispered, “There
is
something. Some sort of box or crate with a cloak over it.”
    “I’m willing to bet that it’s what struck down the people of Broogh. If we go down there—if they see us at all—they’ll turn it on us.”
    “Turn
what
on us?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t have any idea. But it’s covered up, and there has to be some reason. Something tells me we can’t do anything as long as they have that.”
    Gilmer was silent for a long moment. “You may be right,” he said, “but if you’re wrong . . .”
    “I don’t believe I am.”
    Gilmer nodded solemnly and peered back down. “It aens’t far from the wall, is it?”
    “Not too. What do you have in mind?”
    “Follow me.”
    The little man gingerly searched the guardsmen for weapons, but found their scabbards empty—small wonder, considering the cost of a good sword. Then he guided Leoff along the top of the wall to a small storehouse. They had to step over six dead bodies along the way.
    Gilmer opened the door, stepped into shadow, and stepped out again, grunting. He held a rock the size of Leoff’s head. “Help me with this.”
    The two of them wrestled the stone to the parapet.
    “Reckon we can toss it out far enough?” Gilmer asked.
    “There’s a slope,” Leoff replied. “Even if we miss, it will roll.”
    “Might not destroy that shinecrafting box, then. We’ll have to heave together.”
    Leoff nodded and put both hands on the stone. When they had it aimed, Gilmer said very softly, “On three. One, two—”
    “Hey! Hey there!” A shout went up, farther along the wall, not far from them at all.
    “Go!” Gilmer shouted.
    They