Never Trust a Dead Man Read Online Free
Author: Vivian Vande Velde
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,
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,
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