by Ember Lane
Billy was like a giant too. His scythe did Death’s work that night. Its blade glinted bright in the moonlight, the stars spraying crimson lines about. In the middle, Frank exacted a metronomical toll with Billy’s ax, but where Merl and Billy’s movements were awkward and jerky, Frank’s were like a dance. His rhythm was fluid, and he rained death down with the efficiency of a practiced warrior.
“Well, that’s that,” Frank said in conclusion, looking back at the carnage behind them. “Gonna have a job driving the cart through that lot. Wheels’ll slip something awful.”
“You’re no wizard,” Billy said. “You’re a warrior.”
“I’m no wizard yet, but I mean to be.” Frank winked at Billy.
“We’re a bit screwed if this isn’t some form of necromancy,” Merl pointed out. “Three or four bodies could have been a mistake, but murdering half the village…”
“Aye,” said Billy. “We’ll be dancing on the end of a rope, that’s fer sure. If the law catches us, like.”
“Tzeyon Bay,” Frank said, as he hefted the ax over his shoulder and walked towards the bridge. “That was the place that ate itself.”
“Where’s that, then?” Billy asked, marching along beside the wizard.
“Morlock,” Frank said. “It’s Morlock, and Morlock is one dark place. Trust me on that.”
Merl picked up Billy’s spade, but kept Joridan’s sword too. He had the feeling that Frank wasn’t really Frank, but that he had a much longer name than that. It probably had a the in the middle of it. Something like Frank the Great, or maybe Frank the Slaughterer. It certainly wasn’t just Frank. Plus, wizards, as far as Merl knew, hated to fight up close and personal. Merl’s dad thought they were cowards. He’d told Merl they hid behind trees and snuck out to fire magical bolts before skulking back behind cover. Merl wasn’t sure about that. Frank wasn’t like that at all. Even now his jaw was clenched and he was passing his ax from one hand to the other like he couldn’t wait to cleave more heads. Merl doubted he’d hide behind any tree unless it was to grab some poor bastard and wring the life out of him with his bare hands.
“By Andula, that’s a lot of blood,” Billy whispered.
Merl followed his pointed finger. There was blood and guts everywhere. Great smears of crusty black were splattered all over the houses and shops that edged one side of the road. The baker’s place was a mess of entrails splattered up its walls, and the crafting workshop had guts hanging from its annoying wind chimes. On the road’s other side, the remains of something were wedged between the rocks on the riverbank. Merl couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman, only that it had once been human. Even though it had hardly any flesh left, its head still twitched and groaned, and one hand scraped at the rock as if it was desperate to reach them and tear them limb from limb.
“What the hell is it?” Billy asked.
“A sickness,” Frank said, then began nodding like he was trying to convince himself.
“What, like a cold?” Merl asked, but wished he hadn’t almost instantly.
Billy blocked off the road, facing Frank. “Spill,” he said ominously. “If you know something, you spill it now. Or else, like.” He bunched his hands to fists and tried to look as hard as a blacksmith’s anvil.
Frank squared up to him as if Billy was nothing but a daft dune dog. He poked his sharp chin out like the end of a pickax, daring Billy to swing. Merl knew Billy was good at fighting, but he’d seen Frank in action. Billy wasn’t that good.
“We shouldn’t fight between us,” Merl said, knowing Billy would rather take a beating than back down. “Please, I just want to get to my dad.”
Behind Billy, the bridge had been barricaded with a couple of carts. They didn’t look capable of stopping a good sneeze, let alone a horde of raging undead with that disease from Tzeyon Bay. Billy and Frank carried on squaring up. Merl could see the doubt in Billy’s eyes, but knew his friend would hold his ground.
Frank reached into his pocket and brought out a small tin flask. He popped its cork and took a swig. “Rum,” he told Billy, and offered it to him.
Billy took a swig. “Just askin’ you to spill what you know. If it’s the business of wizards and sorcerers, can’t see no harm in the tellin’. We’ll probably be dead soon, like. Can’t see us beatin’ the whole of Morgan Mount if they’re all like Iron Jaw and Gloomy Joe.”
“’cept my dad,” Merl muttered. “He’ll be alright.”
“’Cept Merl’s dad.” Billy handed Merl the flask.
Merl wasn’t a great one for drinking. It made his legs go wobbly, and he didn’t want to get pregnant either. He was sure his dad had got pregnant in the tavern. He took a long sip anyway. It was a night for throwing caution to the wind.
Frank took a step back. “I know what I said, and little more. All I really know is that the Morlock’s wizards thought they had rid the world of it. They torched Tzeyon Bay and burned all its citizens alive. Seems it didn’t work. Some escaped and ended up here. And if it’s got here, it’s everywhere.”
“What, like at Three Valley’s market too?”
“Everywhere,” Frank said, taking another sip.
“What are they, then?” Merl asked. “Are they dead, mostly dead, what?”
“Folk started call them Tzeyon-bays. Now they just call ‘em zombays. It’s got a ring to it.”
“What’s the cure?” Merl asked.
“No one knows.”
“So cut their heads off, move on,” Merl summed up. He tossed away Joridan’s sword and picked up Billy’s spade once again. It felt better—suited him better—no doubt about it. “Let’s go get my dad.”
Billy finally turned away from Frank. He approached the barrier. “I wonder who build this.”
They could all see it had been pushed in place from their side. Merl guessed one of the zombays had broke through. It made sense. The tavern was over the other side, and as far as he could surmise, all bad things had started in there. No, he was sure, one of the bastards had broken through and had bit someone in the group they’d just slaughtered.
Merl caught up with Billy. “That looks like Saul’s cart.” He jumped up onto its back, staring down the road towards the tavern. “There’s a load of them down by the tavern.” Merl’s shoulders slumped. “That’s not good news.”
A gore-encrusted hand reached up from under the wagon’s side and grabbed his ankle. It tugged him hard right as another slapped around his other ankle and upended him. Merl yelled for Billy while he was dragged toward Saul Carbuncle’s twisted, warty face. Saul’s lips were peeled back, and vicious-looking, yellow teeth were primed, open and ready to tear a chunk out of Merl’s calf. Merl screamed and slid closer, then he raised Billy’s spade up and brought it down on Saul’s head. Filled with blind panic, he’d forgotten to turn it edge on and just ended up giving Saul a mild thumping.
“Get off me, you horrible zombay bastard!” Merl screamed.
Saul’s dripping gob closed on Merl’s fleshy calf. Merl desperately yanked the spade back up and held it like an axe. Before he had a chance to slice Saul’s soft skull in half, a Frank-shaped blur somersaulted through the air and landed on the cart. In what looked like a continuation of the wizard-slash-warrior’s roll, Frank’s ax arced through air and cleaved Saul’s head in two. It continued farther, seemingly unstoppable, and carved a bloody wake through Saul’s shoulders, chest, and belly. An eruption of insidious guts, bile, blood, and fetid air exploded out when Saul’s lungs and stomach burst open. Merl covered his eyes and snapped his mouth shut. Fortunately, not much brain matter was scattered about. Saul had always been a couple of dune dogs short of a pack.
“Think that got him.” Billy jumped up onto the wagon. “Although we’re in the shit, like. Them zombays outside tha’ inn are all trottin’ this way. That’s yer screaming that’s done that, Merl. Shoulda kept yer gob shut.”
“Saul was trying to eat me bleeding foot, and he was all dribbly. Scared the shit outta me, I don’t mind saying.”
/> Frank glanced around like a dune cat faced with a flock of tasty birds. “We take them on here,” he said. “We’ve got the higher vantage point. Spread out and make sure you’ve got enough room to swing.”
Merl jumped up. He scanned the horde, hoping his dad wasn’t among them. He guessed there were about fifty of the zombay things all lurching and groaning as they approached. The tavern was a little way back from the bridge, but the blood-caked creatures were already at the turn by the time the three of them had formed up. Billy was on his own on the second cart. While Frank was dead center and looked like he intended to skip from one to the other.
Merl’s heart missed a beat. He was still shaken up from his close encounter with Saul’s warty mouth, though he had been impressed with the pigger’s teeth. He’d still had a full set. Not now, though, not once Frank’s ax had cleaved Saul’s bonce in two. The zombays pressed forward and for the first time that night, true fear coursed through Merl’s veins. He realized his life had altered irrevocably. Then, the odd feeling that he’d never see his little croft again settled on his stomach. It seemed to douse his fledgling fear and replace it with anger. Merl twisted his face in fury and screamed at the top of his voice.
“C’mon, you bastards!”
Billy joined in, and Merl saw Frank’s teeth glint in the moonlight as the wizardy warrior smiled. “Let’s get ‘em, boys.”
3
The slavering horde lumbered toward the barricade. The first reached up, clawing at the three brave defenders. Merl imagined himself a regal knight fighting a band of barbarians. He struck out with Billy’s spade, which suited him far better than Joridan’s sword. Merl had often used a spade, but ten minutes ago was the first time he’d picked up a sword, so now that he was faced with his next test, he deferred to the familiar. He missed judged his first swipe, but it still took a good chunk out of Mr. Doughmaker’s head. Merl liked Mr. Doughmaker and had even helped him repair the windmill’s sails when a terrible winter’s storm had ripped down the valley. The chunk was still big enough to kill the groaning husk of Mr. Doughmaker, but Merl decapitated him for good measure anyway. He didn’t want him rising from the dead-dead, or whatever zombays did. As he smashed Sadie Frost on the head, he wondered if zombays could die or not, and if they could die, would they rise from the dead again, and then attack zombays?
It was all very confusing.
“It’s going over!” Merl screamed as the cart started rocking and tipping. “They’re going to upend us!”
The cart started skidding sideways, but then wedged tight and lifted instead. The press of the ravenous horde was relentless. Merl severed a militia man’s head. He tried to grab the man’s boiled-leather helmet, but the ghoulish mob lunged for his hand like pigeons after spilt seed. Merl jerked backwards and lost his footing when the cart finally toppled. He landed on the stone-flagged bridge with a lung-emptying thump. Billy’s spade clattered away as the cart rolled again and threatened to crush Merl. Frank rolled backwards, ended up on his feet, and pulled Merl free of the falling cart with the thinnest slice of air to spare.
“Grab your spade and get on your feet!” Frank dashed over to Billy, decapitating a zombay as it pounced on the big muckspreader.
Merl jumped up, barely shoving Billy’s spade into a zombay’s guts before it got him. It was a Morlock militia man. He had a lovely looking hand ax dangling from his belt. Merl wanted that ax. He screamed his guts out and forced the spade into the side of the militia man’s head, cutting its top off like a boiled egg. The soldier’s knees buckled, and Merl kicked him to one side before wrestling the hand ax from his belt. He buried it straight in Prissy Legspreader’s head, then jabbed Billy’s spade into her stomach to fend her talon-clad fingers away from his face. As he pulled the hand ax out, a spout of black blood spurted forth like a mohawk fountain.
More zombays crawled over the cart’s wreckage. Frank was in his zone now, and his ax swung like it was imbued with the might of the Gods. They fell before the wizard-warrior, and his prowess flooded Merl with an urge to fight, a desire to kill. Merl redoubled his efforts, bounding forward and chopping one, two, three of the bastards down. They were easier to kill if he didn’t know them, but toward the end, they were zombays whatever his previous relationship to them.
Frank cut through them like an arrow through a soft underbelly, and Merl and Billy followed in his blackened-crimson wake. They regained their position atop the upturned carts, and then advanced forward, the dead squelching underfoot. They found their killing rhythm and thinned the zombays until the last one fell and they’d cleared the bridge.
Frank leant on his ax, head down, recouping precious breath. Merl stared around at the bodies. “He was right.”
“Who was?” Billy gasped.
For a muckspreader, Billy was well out of shape, Merl mused. Muckspreading was hard work, dawn till dusk digging and spreading. But they reckoned it made the sprouts and carrots much nicer. Merl couldn’t see how spreading shit on vedge made it taste nicer. It wasn’t like muck was garlic sauce or anything.
“My dad. He said the day went tits up early, and he wasn’t wrong.”
“Probably underestimated exactly how high the tits had ascended,” the wizard mused, but he was the learned one out of the three, so musing was his game.
“Higher that the top of Three Face Mountain, I reckon,” said Billy.
“That’d be some pair of tits.” Merl imagined Three Face and No Face mountains turning into huge breasts.
“Best go see about yer dad,” Billy muttered, and Merl realized he’d been stalling.
He wanted to stall forever.
“Don’t hope,” Frank’s voice whipped around Merl’s head like a confused wind. “Tzeyon Bay’s curse leaves none behind.”
“See?” said Billy, all chirpy-like. “You do know more than you’re letting on.”
“Can you kill him for me?” Merl asked Frank.
“Who, Billy?” Frank replied, furrowing his brow.
“Nope,” Merl said, all filled with resolution. “My dad. Can you kill him…only, I don’t think I’ll be able to.” Nerves suddenly gathered in Merl’s guts, making him feel sick. He wished he’d drunk a bit of wine to give him some extra courage. Maybe then he could kill his dad. It was a bit rude to impose it on a total stranger. “Or you, Billy.”
Billy shook his head. “Nah, I couldn’t do it. I liked your dad. I’ll kill Walinda Alepuller, though. I hate that bitch.”
“You’ll have to beat me to her head,” Merl growled. “I hate her too.”
“How about,” Frank cut in. “I kill Merl’s dad, and you two kill Walinda Alepuller, whoever she is.”
“Sounds good,” Billy and Merl said together. It was always best when Billy and Merl did things together. Killing Walinda Alepuller would be no different.
They marched toward the tavern.
“Will I be able to spot who is who?” Frank asked. “Mountain women can look a bit…”
“A bit what?” Billy asked.
“Man-like?” Frank ventured.
“Walinda’s pregnant, and Merl’s dad’s got the biggest belly.”
“He’s pregnant too.” Merl nodded his head in affirmation as he pushed the tavern door open.
A great howl rang out as a tavern full of zombays smelled fresh flesh. Frank pulled Merl out of the way and fought his way in, ax first. Billy barged past too, drawing beside the wizard. Merl charged, Billy’s spade leveled and the Morlock hand ax raised.
The tavern was packed with Morgan Mount’s finest. The mayor’s head bounced off Merl’s elbow as Merl buried his hand ax in Brenda Twojug’s neck. He couldn’t quite force it all the way through, but he did enough that her head toppled over, opening her neck up like a box. Her throat pulsed and spouted black blood upward, showering down on all three of them while she wobbled and fell. They battled through the groaning throng, slipping on blood and tripping over limbs. The mass of reaching arms and the scores of milky eyes were endless as they trampled t
he fully dead-dead underfoot one at a time.
“Where’s my dad!” Merl screamed.
“Out the back,” Billy cried. “He was one of the first.”
“Why him?”
Merl had never seen so much blood. It was like dark crimson clouds had gathered overhead and rained down gore in an endless tempest. He’d seen folk die before. Saw Grod Cattlerustler impaled on a bull’s horns. The blood had burst out of him like a well squeezed boil. But he’d never seen this much—even out back at the butchers where they slaughtered Merl’s dad’s lambs it wasn’t this bad. Mind you, they had a trench that carried it all away. Somedays it turned the river red. No, this was a new level of gruesome, and as he swung his hand ax, two words appeared in Merl’s mind.
Leveled up.
Had he been able to read them, he would have been none the wiser, but he could only read the luh and the vuh, and not the other four letters that made up the two words. He was curious and wished Frank had some more charcoal. Not that the tavern’s floorboards would suit at the moment. They’d need a sweep and a mop. He did, however, feel a sudden surge of strength and energy run through him, but attributed it to the fighting. He tried his hardest to mesmerize the words, but there was a lot going on.
For instance, Froad Alebrewer was lumbering straight toward him. He had a big chunk of his belly missing and his baby had clearly fallen out. A length of his guts had dropped out too and was looped down to his knees. His fat hands reached out, nearly raking Merl’s face. Merl leaned backwards and tried to swing his ax, but his foot slipped on the gore and he dropped like a stone. Froad stumbled over him, kicking Merl in the face with his knobbly knees in the process. As Froad went down, another soldier lurched toward Merl and launched himself forward for a bite. Merl tried to untangle himself from Froad’s legs and get a swipe in with his hand axe, but the soldier was the on him. In panic, Merl dropped the axe and fended off the soldier, rolling with the lunge and throwing him aside while desperately keeping the bastard’s snapping jaws away from him.