"'Jez,' he said?"

The Inquisitor shuffled his papers and looked over.

"Yes, Magister," Barnabus replied dutifully,

Varus craned his neck over. "Twice now you've been mentioned."

The thin human woman shrugged. It was of no particular interest to her. She'd been keeping an eye on the swords trapped to the hilt of the court's guards. Jez reckoned there was only one way this farce of a trial would end. Being exposed as a witch would only hasten her demise. But it didn't seem like keeping silent would be an option forever.

Looked like the best she could hope for was to steal a sword and go down swinging. The only thing that stilled her were her travel companions. They didn't deserve a death like that. At least, not without the chance to agree to it. Jez clenched her fists and nodded.

"They knew me in those parts."

Varus steepled his fingers and studied the woman intently. "How so?"

"I traveled there often, on my routes. I was a healer, you see. Something of a physician."

"A witch, you mean."

The guards bristled. If she had a half chance to snag a blade back when they were relaxed, listening to the elf's account of his arrival in Haverton, that chance had faded away. They were certainly alert now. Jez took a deep breath.

"Some called me that, yes."

Tension filled the room, though the male elf was looking over, evidently baffled.

"I don't understand. She's a learned woman, yes? Shouldn't her testimony carry more weight? Jez has proven very insightful about th—"

"Perhaps the unbelievers of the Frontier tolerate witchcraft, but that is not the custom here." Varus glowered down at them. "Why, in my very court no fewer than a dozen witches have been executed for their crimes. The spreading of heresy, importation of abortifacients, distribution of controlled substances, wild talk of treason. Yes, you will be executed in due course. The manner as yet to be determined." Varus thumped his pointer finger on the lectern. "Yet I would still hear your words, witch. What brought you to Haverton on that night?"

"I hadn't arrived there until dawn," she muttered.

"What? Speak up!"

Jez twisted her mouth. The guards watched her, fingers clasped around the hilts of their swords. Butchery at their hands might be preferable to a quartering, if not a hanging. She didn't much fancy being burned or drowned.

The truth, then.

"It wasn't until dawn that I arrived in Haverton, on the night the dead rose to swarm their settlement. I was in a little village called Ashbry, near the edge of the dead lands around Izrum, as night fell..."

***

Jez breathed in the mingled scent of cardamom and cinnamon. Acquired at great expense, the spices made up her main defense against the mysterious plague that had been reported in the area over the past month. She crammed the bundle of spices into the end of her beaked helmet before sucking in her last breath of unfiltered air. Then she tugged the beaked mask over her head. Her vision was blurry, her breathing shallow, but she was ready.

Her right hand rose. For a fleeting instant she paused, clenched fist motionless. Exposure to the plague had often led to sickness, an overwhelming fever that could last for days. Most died by the fourth or fifth day, but a few lasted out the week before their fever broke. It was one of those exhausted survivors who had mentioned the Coopers, an older couple living on the edge of Ashbry. Nothing had been heard from them for the last two days.

Jez had really only been tolerated by the bulk of the Frontier settlers she met. Oh, a few had been grateful for her skills over the years. Healing to fix an old wound, herbs and treatment to end an unwanted pregnancy, advice and counseling that couldn't be found anywhere else. But all discreet. She carried the weight of whole villages' darkest secrets. Carried it all on her own. But private gratitude couldn't make up for the fact that she really wasn't one of them.

No, she was far too odd a woman, even for the Frontier.

Still, Jez felt she had duties of a sort. Even if she was the only one who felt that way. She was a healer. And despite the risks, the Coopers needed healing. And so her hand rapped against the wooden door. Again and again.

"Jez here. Do you need healing?"

The third time her fist hammered home, the door creaked open, slowly widening to reveal the room. Beams of light pierced through the gloom. Someone groaned, and what she had first taken to be a bundle of potatoes moved. Vomit stained the ground before her. Eyes slowly rose upward, bleary and bloodshot, but recognizable all the same.

"Mrs. Cooper?"

The old woman tried to sputter a response. Thin tendrils of drool hung from chapped lips. Jez stepped inside, careful of where she placed her leather boots, and knelt down. "Water?" She asked, opening an old canteen and passing it over. The old woman drank thirstily, then feebly offered it back. Jez shook her leather-gauntleted hands. "Keep it." She scanned the dimly lit cabin. "Your husband?"

Mrs. Cooper winced, closing her bloodstained, reddened eyes. Jez had the sense she was all cried out. "Back there," she rasped. "He... he's dead," she added, as if still in disbelief.

"Alright Mrs. Cooper, now what I'm going to do is I'm going to check on your husband," she said in a calm voice as she stepped over broken pottery and a cracked empty pitcher. Two legs stuck out from behind the family's kitchen table. Jez slid a chair aside and approached. "Not that I don't believe you, but I just want to be sure..."

Mr. Cooper lay on his back, a stale crust of bread clutched tight in his left hand. His chin was flecked with gray stubble and dried blood. Sightless eyes stared upward. He's been a charming man in life, Jez recalled. He'd often chat with the stable owner and had a keen interest in horses, although as a poor family of sustenance farmers on the edge of town purchasing a horse of their own had never been a likely option.

Even that dream was denied him now.

Jez pressed two fingers to the side of his throat to confirm his death. She waited a few long moments. Even through the leather of her protective gauntlet she should have detected a heartbeat.

Instead there was nothing.

Letting out a breath and taking in the mingled fragrances of the spices crammed down her helmet's beak, the young witch closed Mr. Cooper's eyelids. A sheet had fallen from their bedside, and Jez covered him with it, providing the dead man a thin veneer of dignity. Then she turned her attention back to Mrs. Cooper. Alert now, she was grimacing as she took a seat on a fallen stool. Sweat beaded her brow.

"How long has it been since you both came down with this illness?"

The older woman fumbled for a kerchief, bringing it to her nose and dabbing it gingerly. "Oh, it must have been three days ago by now. Bert thought he must have caught something from a stableboy. Little Errin was sniffling, he said. Gods, I hope—"

A loud cracking noise echoed around them. Mrs. Cooper blinked in surprise, half rising before falling back to her seat.

"What was that?"

"Not sure..."

Jez backed away, pushing the door open. To the south, Ashbry seemed much as it had been before. The village was quiet, but even the epidemic hadn't erased its charm. Its thatched roofs were covered with snow, the main road bearing hardly any tracks, and there was no sign of life. Glancing north, Jez sucked in another breath as she saw a spreading thundercloud. It was unnatural in appearance, with bulging purple clouds that swelled as if heavy with moisture, and a series of quick flashes cut through the sky.

Storms were not uncommon in the Frontier, though Jez had never seen one form so quickly, especially one moving so rapidly and appearing in the clear blue sky. The first rumbling of thunder echoed across the expanse. She bit her lip in thought. Even over the filtered, warm air and spices there came the gentle scent of rain. She turned back to the house.

"Mrs. Cooper, we've got to get you—"

The older woman cried out as a flash of motion darted across the room. Jez paused for an instant—then stormed in, pulling the door wide open. To her disbelief, Bert seemed to have not only risen but also launched himself on top of his wife. It seemed, oddly, as though they were in a passionate embrace. Then Bert wrenched his head to the side, a spurt of blood spattering the floor, and Jez realized Mrs. Cooper's throat had been torn open as if by some wild animal. Her eyes stared upward, mouth twitching.

Jez must have stammered something then, must have done something to draw the attention of whatever possessed Bert Cooper. The man rose, turning to look at Jez with a blank expression. Blood trickled down his mouth, dribbling from his chin. Yet he was without shame. Without any emotion whatsoever.

"Gods, what have you done?" Jez murmured.

Bert lurched forward, and that shocked her into movement. Vacant though his eyes were, he moved like a predator, clutching for her throat. She kicked him in the stomach and drew a knife. This time she didn't hesitate. The Bert Cooper she had known was already dead. She lashed forward and sliced through her attacker's throat. Her breathing filled the leather hood as she stepped back and examined him, slumped against the door. A few paces away, his wife was beginning to twitch on the ground, spittle building around her lips.

Jez strode forward, hauling Bert aside, then slammed the door shut. She grabbed his body once again, dragging his frail body over to keep the door shut. All the while, her mind was struggling with what she had just seen.

Could the infection have reanimated the dead? He didn't even react when I inspected the body. It was only when the storm began...

Jez felt a prickling on the back of her neck as another low roll of thunder echoed in the distance. It felt as though she were being watched. She spun around, grimacing as she saw movement beside a toppled-over wheelbarrow. The bodies had been taken midway to the cemetery, or so the tavern keeper had said, before he'd given up on the effort. Now two were lurching forward, a third struggling to her feet. Then the first resurrected body darted forward as if picking up energy.

Jez felt a pang of regret at leaving her staff inside the tavern. Instead she drew a second long dagger and held her ground as the zombie surged forward. Then she sidestepped to her left, slashing with both knives, then jabbing one into where the body's right kidney would be. She ripped it out, just in time to face the second charging zombie. This one was shorter—a girl, her clothes tattered and body pale—and this time she slammed both knives into the undead girl's skull. As she wrenched it loose, one fell to clatter on the cobblestones.

Jez twisted, backing away from the two remaining zombies. The one she'd cut pieces into had shrugged them off, lumbering around to face her again. Clenching her knife in the right hand, she decided to risk the exposure.

They know me as a witch already, and besides, I doubt anyone is watching.

Calling upon the forbidden power, magic emanated out from her extended left palm. Then cobblestones shot upward, a barrage slamming into both zombies from below. As they stumbled forward, Jez charged toward them, dispatching both with quick slices to the skull. Her boot caught the edge of her fallen knife, and she carefully snatched it up as well. Her breathing filled the interior of her leather hood.

The street was empty.

Jez bent down, wiping her blades on the ragged tunic of one of the fallen zombies. She was careful not to get the blood on her gloved hands and breathed lightly until she rose. The leather hood kept her from taking in the foul odors that could spread the infection, but more than a few physikers theorized that a plague could be spread by fluid as well. She wasn't about to take that chance.

Jez hurried across the street to the tavern where a few panicked survivors had gathered. She had first met with them earlier in the day and treated their superficial wounds. Frightened eyes stared out the window as she rapped her gloved knuckles against the door. Something clanged behind it, scraping against the ground. A long moment passed. She glanced behind her, staring at the silent village. Evening was coming and the little houses, normally lit by candles, were dark and quiet.

The door scraped open.

"Were they alright?" the tavern keeper, Paul Fowler, asked hoarsely.

Jez shook her head, the beak wobbling from side to side. She closed her eyes, took in a deep breath, and wrenched her leather hood free. They deserved to see her face-to-face, at least. Besides, the tavern held no peculiar odors. The stench of day-old sweat, horse manure, and spilled ale was a familiar one. She adjusted the hood, putting it in the crook of one arm, her long black hair spilling loose.

The others gathered round: three children, a young couple, the tavern keeper and his wife, an elderly seamstress and a stableboy. Jez opened her mouth, but the words wouldn't come out. She had no idea how to explain how she'd seen a man, confirmed to be dead, somehow rise to his feet and attack.

"They're dead, then?" Gert prompted. "Thought so," he added after she nodded. "This plague is worse than any I've ever seen."

"We need to leave," Jez managed. "Now."

"Just after you left, we talked it over," Paul said, clutching his wife tight. He fixed Jez with a stern gaze. "It's decided. We've got a wagon, the horses to haul it, and no desire to see what became of those sickened by plague. We're in."

"Not all of us."

The words were spoken by a tall young man with black hair, his arm resting across his younger partner. She nodded, brushing back a few stray strands of her coppery blonde hair.

"I know my parents are dead," she said quickly, as if trying to outrun her own thoughts, "but my family's been here three generations. Butch and I are staying."

"That is not a good idea," Jez said, as the rest of the room sprang into motion. They hadn't brought much with them, but the others joined in with the tavern keeper to haul barrels into the wagon. From the looks of it, they'd given up arguing. The young pair pursed their lips, glancing at each other, seeming to take courage in their shared obstinacy. Jez tried to recall if she'd helped the young woman, but her memory was turning up blank. "Don't rightly know how to say this," Jez began haltingly, "but if death weren't enough, it looks like the bodies are coming back to some twisted kind of life. Had to hack my way past a pair of walking corpses... Ashbry is dead and gone."

Butch squeezed his lover tight and stared back at Jez, his expression dark. "Not to us it ain't."

"The dead... walking?" she asked, then gritted her teeth. "No. You must be mistaken."

Jez sighed, pulling her leather hood back on. She snatched up the staff she'd left resting on the empty bar. There wasn't time to argue the point. Based on how quickly the others were moving, Jez had the distinct sense that they'd only barely waited for her to return.

"Suit yourself," she said, voice muffled under the hood as she hurried to the back of the stable. Horses whickered, and crates slammed against each other, glass bottles clinking together. The last of the group was hauled up, though a pair of others were leading their horses across the street. Jez soon saw why. A wagon lay abandoned beside a storehouse, and they were hurriedly attaching the horses to the nearly empty wagon. Flies buzzed around a corpse not two paces away, but they paid it no heed.

Jez's eyes widened.

The corpse twitched, a low rasp escaping from its mouth as it slowly rose to its feet. Unblinking eyes twitched over toward Jez. Its face waxy, with blood staining its chin, the corpse's right hand lifted up toward her. A shriek sounded from behind them and the nearby pair swore in shock.

"Levin? By the gods, he's been dead three days..."

Before the body could so much as stagger forward, Jez snapped the staff upward, a curl of magical energy already drifting at the end. She'd found the ancient charred staff the better part of a decade ago, not long after discovering her own latent powers. For years she'd hidden them as best she could.

Yet now?

The prejudice against magic hardly seemed to matter at all. Standing in the middle of the street, lit by the setting sun and watched by the survivors of Ashbry, Jez let loose a blast of scouring earth magic. Rocks materialized before her, streaming forward as if thrown at great speed, and they tore away chunks of rotting flesh as they slammed into the risen dead. With a sickening crack, the man once known as Levin fell back, skull smashed in by a rock almost double its size.

Jez lowered her staff, smoke drifting from the top. Her beaked hood tilted toward the two hesitant survivors beside her. "Get them strapped on!" she hissed. "Let's go!"

"The witch is right," Paul Fowler said, snapping his reins down. The horses of his wagon trotted forward, fresh horseshoes clattering on the cobblestones. He tilted his wide-brimmed hat low and met her gaze. "We ride hell for leather as far away as we can."

Jez let out a long breath.

Fine, then, so I'm a witch. You all said it under your breaths anyhow. It's long past time I stopped pretending otherwise.

"Um... Jez."

She turned over to see that the horses were attached to the wagon. One of the survivors had settled into place, reading to spur them onward, and the other had clambered over to reach down with a gloved hand. Jez turned and accepted it, hauling herself up onto the wagon.

"Up ahead," someone called out nervously as the two wagons began picking up steam. "Blocking the road..."

"I see it," Paul growled back. He glared into the distance as they turned onto the main road. Jez's wagon turned as well, and she caught a glimpse of perhaps a dozen shambling forms in the center of the road. They rasped and began staggering forward, even as more forced open the doors of their houses, toppling to their feet in excitement and rising back up.

Jez took in a deep breath, extending her staff forward. "Hit the ground!" she called out, even as she took a precarious position on a pile of old crates, rising on her tiptoes. As those in the wagon ahead ducked low, she called on all her latent energy, sending forth a volley of shrieking, sharp-edged stones. The group of zombies recoiled, twisting around and toppling to the ground, until perhaps only four remained staggering forward.

"Giddyap! Come on!" Paul said, slapping the reins down firmly as Jez's magical blast faded away. The others slowly rose, just as the horse and wagon slammed into the first zombie. It teetered to the side for a moment, then slammed firmly on the ground, making a sickening sound as it crunched over a few fallen corpses. Then they were rolling past, reaching the very edge of Ashbry. Jez looked back as her wagon followed along, just a few paces behind.

The young woman they'd left behind had darted out of the tavern, wild-eyed desperation clearly written on her face. The door lurched open behind her, Butch staggering forward, a knife in one shoulder. He rasped something inhuman. Another dozen or so of the risen dead looked away from the departing wagons, walking toward her, then picking up steam into a shambling run. She weaved past, one, then two, but a third snatched at her long hair.

Jez clenched her eyes shut and looked away. Under the hood, she tried to pretend the distant screaming was nothing but her own thudding heartbeat. She breathed in the scent of the herbs, willing away tears, clasping her fists together as the wagons rattled farther away from Ashbury. Then she sucked in a final breath, hauling her leather hood off. The pair in her wagon were silent.

Licking her lips, Jez called out in a controlled tone, "Our best chance is to head south. Skirt the edges of the larger towns and stick to the main roads. If we push forward and stop for nothing, we can reach Hardscrabble Falls by nightfall!"

Even as she said the words, Jez couldn't help but feel doubt. The evening shadows were already lengthening, and there was no telling if Hardscrabble Falls would bring safety. More than likely the villages they'd push through would be infested as well...

Paul Fowler whipped his hat upward, sparing a backward glance. "Agreed!" he shouted back at them. "Take heart, everyone. We've got a witch with us, two wagons, and I know the route like the back of my hand. If we stick together, we can make it through this!"