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Informationen zum Autor Ari Berk is the author of the Undertaken trilogy and Nightsong , illustrated by Loren Long. He works in a library filled to the ceiling with thousands of arcane books and more than a few wondrous artifacts. When not writing, he moonlights as professor of mythology and folklore at Central Michigan University. He lives in Michigan with his wife and son. Visit him at AriBerk.com. Klappentext "As his family and friends suffer and fall at the hands of the vengeful Huntsman from Arvale's sunken mansions, Silas Umber must reach deep into his complicated bloodline to summon powers and wisdom beyond those required of a Lichport Undertaker"--Lych Way A FALCON TURNED SLOWLY IN the cold air, its arcs becoming wider and higher with each pass it made over the corpse. It rose above the cobbled lanes and leaning houses and flew north, past the bare trees whose roots cracked the sidewalks on most of Lichport’s crumbling streets. It could see the river in the distance ahead. Then, as though it had changed its mind, the bird banked, and flew back the way it had come. It circled once more far above the body and then stooped, dropping from the sky into a blur until it opened wide its sharp-tipped wings again, briefly holding the air before landing gently on the dead woman’s shoulder. The falcon flapped quickly, finding its balance. Dark and light markings flashed from the underside of its wings as it lifted its yellow legs up and down, careful not to pierce the corpse’s clothing or flesh with its talons. The peregrine tilted its head to the side and looked at the woman’s dull eye with its bright one, perhaps seeing its own reflection. Leaning closer, the bird moved its smooth beak slowly across the woman’s face as though to wake her. It plucked tentatively at the disheveled tresses of hair lying across her face and shoulders. The bird stood atop the body, crouching, vigilant, jerking its head sharply this way and that, attentive to each sound it heard—branches scraping against one another, distant waves falling to shore, anything that moved or stirred the air. The falcon waited like that for some time before a movement farther down the street caused it to leap into the sky again. Another corpse, desiccated and elderly, shambled toward the woman’s body and, lifting it from the ground, carried it away. The peregrine followed above them, unseen and silent, in the direction of Temple Street, where the one corpse carried the other up the stairs and onto the veranda of a large house. On the roof of that house, the falcon perched upon one of the spiral brick chimneys and waited. Inside the house—she knew with the instinct of a mother—was Silas Umber, who in life had been her son. LEDGER It is now surely beyond any dispute that the first death watch, the original Hadean clock, was built by Daedalus. Hesiod makes no mention of this episode. True. But what cared he for the machinations of mere men? Pausanius, Apollodorus, and Ovid are all cryptic, and generally reliable, but the most detailed account is found in the “lost” portions of Hyginus’s Fabulae. No other versions of this account exist but, in truth, what classical author would have written openly on such a matter, particularly in those long ago times when selfish, vengeful gods walked closer to the sides of men? Who would scribe a story that would have reddened the face of Hades with shame, only to have such records used against them when they later arrived in Tartarus’s dark tribunal halls, where more creative punishments might be meted out over the long eternities? Then as ever: better to say little and live long. Nevertheless, my own careful studies of...
