by Ember Lane
“Retreat,” he said, “give ‘em room to pile up.”
Merl was glad he had his ax and cleaver back. They just felt more natural than the soldier’s sword. He cleaved and sliced, blocked and severed, and zombay blood flooded the courtyard.
There were only about twenty of them, and Scaramanza made light work of most. Merl and Billy mopped the rest up, and then the yard fell silent and the inn groaned no more. Frank stepped over the corpses, slicing one in two that grabbed for his leg. Merl followed, but Billy said he’d get the four horses sorted and went into the stables to tether them and feed them.
Merl followed Frank into the inn. It had a low ceiling, all striped with big black timbers and propped up by huge great wooden pillars. It was the biggest inn Merl had ever seen, but that only meant it was bigger than the one in Morgan Mount. Its tables were all upturned, and blood stained every surface and had crusted on every wall. Bits of flesh were scattered around, and the flies had sewn the devil’s seeds, and his legions of maggots had already wriggled free.
Frank took in the scene. “Not quite how I’d imagined it,” he sighed.
“Be okay after a sweep up,” Merl told him. “Don’t smell as bad as it could, jus’ needs an airing.”
Frank grinned and slapped Merl’s back. “Let’s get to it, then.”
They righted the tables and set chairs under. Merl lit a hearty fire of pine logs, and that seemed to send the flies into a frenzy until they buggered off. Frank swept the maggoty meat up and chucked it out of the front door, nearly letting in one of the foul bastards, who Merl shoved back out with his broom. Before long, it looked quite smart, if slaughterhouse chic was smart in Three Valleys.
Merl snooped behind the counter and found a few stoppered jugs of wine. He pulled up three mugs and set some stools at the bar.
“Don’t think I’ll ever get used to their smell,” Merl said, more in an attempt to break their newly settled silence than be deep and meaningful.
“That’s the smell of death, Merl. A man ain’t supposed to get used to it, because if he does there’s no hope left for him.”
“How long were you in the army for?”
“Too long, Merl, too bloody long.”
Billy bumbled in and stopped on the spot. “Anyone checked the scullery yet?”
“Grab some wine first, Billy. Take a load off,” Merl chided.
“Not likely,” said Billy. “Let’s get the food set and see if we’ve got a bed fer the night. Might be more of them bastard zombays up the stairs. Might be some in the kitchen.”
“He’s right, Merl. I’ll check the upstairs, you two take the kitchen.”
Frank equipped Scaramanza again, then went to the back of the room and up the wooden staircase that clung to the back wall like it was hiding from the horror that had befallen the rest of the inn.
Merl and Billy rounded the counter and snuck up to the closed door behind it. Merl could hear Billy’s breaths. They had an edge of fear that told Merl he was trying and failing to keep as quiet as a mouse. Merl held his cleaver ready, and his ax in place for a side swipe. Kicking the door, he edged in.
The scullery was as empty as a dune dog’s brain box but had a mighty stove that sat against a wall like a fat gargoyle. Billy opened its fire box, and then glanced around for some kindling and firewood. He soon had the oven warming.
As Billy heated a pot on the stove, Merl perked his ears and told him to shush. “Is that someone sneezin’?”
Billy went as still as a statue and cocked his ear to the floor. “Aye, that’s sneezing, and that table’s in the wrong place—just look at the drag marks on the floor. Help me shift it.”
Merl dragged the table away from the wall and looked over. “Perhaps it’s an ice pit?”
“If it’s an ice pit, we’ll only find dead ‘uns, and dead ‘uns don’t sneeze.” Billy pulled a hatch up, but Merl could only see the top of a ladder poking out of pitch black. “Hello?”
“Errr. Achoo!”
“Hello?” Billy whispered, for no reason whatsoever that Merl could see. “It’s okay, we’re not zombays. Well, Merl’s a bit slow at times, but he won’t gobble you up.”
“Remember Mrs. Chivers,” Merl hissed, ignoring Billy’s jibe.
“Come up if you ain’t been bitten or scratched, but stay down thar if you ‘ave, coz Merl’ll chop yer head off soon as drink an ale with ya.”
“I ain’t been scratched,” said the woman.
Merl found a torch and lit it. He held it over the hole to see a woman’s face looking up.
“You ain’t a zombay, are ya?” Billy shouted down.
“You cheeky bugger,” the woman replied, climbing up the ladder. “Been stuck down here ever since them Morlock soldiers started going mad. We all ‘ave.”
“All?”
“Tillyman locked us down here. Always does when a load of boothoofers come lookin’ for trouble. Tillyman says if they can’t find us, they can’t mess with us, and if they don’t mess with us, then we can get back to workin’ the minute they gone. Must ‘ave been a big fight. We’ve must ‘ave been down there fer ages.”
“Oh, it was big alright,” Merl told her. “Biggest fight I’ve ever seen.”
Merl held his hand out, and the woman took it and helped herself out of the cellar.
“Is there food down there?” Billy asked.
“There’s potatoes and grain and not much more. Make a thick old soup if you fancy and Tillyman lets you.”
“If Tillyman was up ‘ere, Tillyman’s dead,” Billy said, with as much tact as a charging bull. “They’re all dead. While you were trapped, the whole world died.”
Merl helped another two women out. Their blouses were much too small for them and the laces were fit to burst.
“What do you mean, the whole world’s dead?” the woman asked Billy.
“Exactly what I just said. Tillyman’s dead, so’s everyone else in Three Valleys. Thar’s been a terrible pox that’s come up from some bay or another and it’s turned everyone into zombays.”
The woman looked at Billy and her face twisted in anger. “Just what have you done, you bastard? If you’ve killed Tillyman, I’ll gut you like a spring lamb.”
Merl knew quite a bit about gutting lambs, and he didn’t fancy it one jot. He sized up the three women, and from the look of them, he decided he would rather face a yard full of zombays.
“If you don’t believe us, come look outside. We had to kill a load jus’ to get in here.”
The woman nodded and followed Merl out.
“These zombays?” she asked staring at the pile just outside the inn’s backdoor.
“Dead ‘uns, like,” Billy said from behind.
“That your wagon?”
“Sure is.” Merl ambled over to the gate, opening it a touch. “Come, you can look, but be awful quiet. What’s your name?”
The woman gave Merl a funny look, but then pressed her face to the small gap, instantly snapping back and gasping. “What are they?” she asked, holding on to Merl’s arm as he shut the gate.
“’Fected,” said Billy. “Thay infected, filthy zombays, jus’ like this lot piled in here. An’ if they scratch you or bite you, you join ‘em in the blink of an eye, an’ you start dribblin’ and groaning.”
“Well bugger that, then.” She backed away from the gate. “I’m Gwen, and that’s Sarah-Ann, and the little’un is Portius, but she’s a shy one.”
“An’ I’m goin’ back in an getting tha’ food cooked, like,” Billy said, but he looked a bit grouchy, like the thought of sharing it another three ways pained him.
When they got back in the bar, Frank was sitting and sipping an ale. He glanced over at Merl and the girls but said nothing at first, choosing to turn back to the counter and pour another mug of wine. He handed it to Merl and spun around on his stool, as Billy introduced the girls to Frank. Frank raked his stubble, seeming to have gathered some words together.
“What do you think you’ll do?” he asked no
one in particular, but his question hit Gwen like a well-shot arrow.
“Come with you,” she said, like it was a done deal.
Frank nodded. “I thought you’d say that, and it’s a daft thing to say, and a dafter thing to do.”
“What would you have us do?” Portius asked. Her voice was as soft as a feather brushing your ear, and Merl’s heart pined for her plight, because he was in no doubt that Frank didn’t want them to come to Quintz.
“You should hide out in Morgan Mount. We’ve already killed every undead we’ve found up there, so at worse, they’ll be a few stragglers. The smoke from the fire should attract more survivors to this place—if there are any. You’ll need more than just you three to work the fields. Set out for Morgan Mount and don’t look back. Trust me, go there, don’t come with us.”
“Where are you goin’?” Gwen sidled up to Frank and leaned on the bar. She was all chest and cleavage and a winning smile, and she licked her lips real slow. “Are you a warrior?”
“Nobody’s anything anymore. Farming’s the only way this valley will recover, and if the undead pox got this far up here, it’ll be the death of any that go west.”
Gwen swept away from the counter and scooted behind it. She placed six mugs on it and poured some ale. “You’re going west,” she pointed out.
“Aye, but I have no choice. See Merl, there?”
“I see ‘im. Without Merl we’d be bones in a cellar.”
“Well,” Frank said, “I’m going to let you in on a big secret. That young man has got words in his head, and sees words all over the place, and it’s my humble opinion that he might just be able to save this shithole of a world from a doom it’s racing to faster than a dune dog runs to a cliff. Now, that information is worth killing for, but do you know why I’m happy to tell you?”
Gwen suddenly lost her rosy cheeks and looked seven kinds of nervous. “Why?” she asked.
“Because if you go west where folk might want that information, you’ll die, and if you go to Morgan Mount and eke out an existence, then someday we’ll come back and tell you what all the fuss was about.”
Merl’s heart leapt. He couldn’t believe his ears. Did Frank just say…? But Frank flicked him a glance, and that look told Merl to keep his mouth shut. Silence fell. Then Gwen’s cheeks puffed out like her head was going to explode.
She laughed and snorted at the same time. It was a horrific combination that sent shivers right up places Merl didn’t think should have them.
“I ain’t eking out no existence,” Gwen said, slapping Frank on the arm. “Girls, we ain’t doin’ any ekin’ are we?”
Sarah-Ann and Portius looked at each other, then the floor, and then back at each other again. Merl wondered which one would gather the guts to answer the question. He wouldn’t have fancied disagreeing with Gwen himself, but thought that both of the girls didn’t agree with her at that exact moment.
“I’ve kinda had enough of doin’ what we do,” Portius blurted out, and immediately looked at the floor as if it was the most interesting floor in the whole wide world.
“Me too,” Sarah-Ann said softly, but didn’t look anywhere in particular, apart from not at Gwen.
Gwen thrust herself off the bar and marched straight up to the pair. Billy clattered through the scullery door with a steaming bowl of something in his hand and dumped it on the counter. He hesitated, clearly seeing what was going on, promptly ignored it, turned around, and clattered back out.
“Why don’t you?” Frank asked.
His voice broke the ensuing silence like a pin had dropped. Gwen stopped walking up and down in front of Portius and Sarah-Ann. She whipped around to face Frank. “What did you say, honey?” Her tone was a false as Walinda Alepuller’s wooden tooth.
“It’s a new land,” Frank said. “Strikes me that old ways don’t work no more. Now I know, Gwen, I know what you three were doing—the life you had to lead, and I think I know that somewhere along the way, you started protecting these two.”
“I—” Gwen looked fit to rage, but Frank held his hand up, and the steel in his eyes stopped the words right on her lips.
“You protected them,” he said softly. “And now you need to protect them in a different way. That’s your duty, Gwen, and duty is handed down by a God, not by me. Tell me, what God will you choose? Coz Vella hasn’t served you too well.”
Merl knew Vella was the Goddess of Loving, but what business she had here was way beyond him. Gwen looked a bit bemused too. A bit like Merl’s dad used to when he couldn’t make up his mind if he wanted to go to the inn or not.
“Morgan Mount?” Gwen asked.
“You could rule the roost. We killed all the zombays in the village, and all the crops an’ livestock are still growin’ and fine.”
Billy ambled back in carrying six plates and some spoons. “Help yerself, folks. If yer still at the arguing bit, you need some scram to row properly. If Frank’s offered you some words, I’d listen to ‘im, coz he’s the wisest man I know.”
Merl knew Billy had been practicing that speech in the scullery, and now that it was out and done, Billy set about serving up the porridge-broth-stew mix. It looked disgusting but smelled mighty fine. Gwen grabbed a bowl and muttered her thanks but took a table on her own. Portius took her bowl without looking up. She sloped off and sat with Gwen. A whole lot of whispering ensued until their bowls were scraped clean.
Gwen got up. Her chair scraped back like fingernails on seasoned wood.
“We’ll rescue your village fer you, and we’ll keep it safe and sound.”
Merl’s heart leapt.
Portius got up. “On one condition.”
“As long as it doesn’t deflect us from our journey,” Frank replied, not even taking his gaze from his bowl.
“Teach us how to kill ‘em without being bit,” Gwen said, and then Sarah-Ann waltzed over and stood with them. The three of them suddenly looked fearsome.
“There an armorer around here? A tanner or a hunter supplier?” Frank asked.
“There’s the barracks. They’ll be stuff in there,” Gwen told them.
“Then that’s where we’ll go.” Frank pushed his bowl away. “That, Billy, was interesting broth. Now, go stand over there. Merl, get three of the shortest swords out of the monster wagon. Three knives too,” Frank said, then positioned Billy in a nice clear spot in the middle of the floor. “Think of Billy as a big, ugly zombay.”
“Thanks, Frank,” Billy moped.
Merl darted out and rifled through the monster wagon. He grabbed three of the smallest swords and evilest-looking daggers and scooted back in, handing one each to the three girls.
Frank inclined his head and waited until Merl was done. “Your job, girls, is to kill Billy. Just so you know, the only way we’ve found to kill the foul bastards stone dead is to lop their noggins off or bash their brains in.” He equipped Scaramanza to awed gasps. “Or this.” Frank yanked Billy’s head back and drew his great blade across Billy’s throat.
Merl stifled his scream when no blood spouted, and Billy exhaled hard. “Don’t mind sayin’,” Billy gasped out. “Nearly filled me pants just then.”
“Cut their throats, girls, cut their throats. It’s clean. It’s quiet. And you can drop them one at a time and move on. Throw me a dagger.” Scaramanza vanished. Portius tossed him her knife. Frank caught it easily, bringing it straight to Billy’s throat. “Watch this. Merl, stand closeish to Billy.”
Merl didn’t fancy standing anywhere near Billy, but he did exactly what Frank wanted.
“Watch,” Frank repeated. “Sneak up behind. Pull back the head. Slit the throat. Spin on to the next. Pull the head back…”
Frank spun from Billy to Merl and then Merl to Billy. “Got it?” he asked, handing back the knife.
All three nodded.
“Let’s go try it, then.” Frank marched outside, and they all followed in his immense shadow.
The zombay’s groans still echoed up from the depths of the we
ll. Merl and Billy stood on either side of the yard’s gate and Gwen waited a few yards in front.
“Grab, yank, slit,” she muttered, over and over.
She’d armed herself with just a knife, saying she thought the sword would get in the way. Frank had insisted she wear the sword, and they’d looted a sheath and belt from the pile of zombays in the yard. Frank stood a little ways away from her, ready to jump in if necessary.
“Just let one in,” he shouted.
Billy unbolted the gate, and Merl stood ready with his halberd, waiting to poke ‘em back if more than one walked in. The gate opened and Billy whistled to attract the lumbering creature in. Gwen visibly shook, but then an evil smile curled onto her face. She shifted her dagger from hand to hand and took up a pose that looked like she was going to make a mad dash for it. The first of the beasts came shuffling in. Billy slammed the gate shut.
“Grab, yank, slit,” Gwen said, as the thing trudged in.
“Dance around it,” Frank cautioned.
“Dance, yeah, dance.” Gwen jigged one way, then the next. She skipped to one side, then slid around the zombay. “Grab!” She snatched at the thing’s hair. “Yank!” The zombay’s head snapped back. “And slit.” Gwen drew the knife across the creature’s throat, and crimson gushed out in gouts of thick blood. Its knees buckled, and she danced away.
“Take a bow,” Frank said, clapping. “Who’s next?”
The girls danced through the streets like legendary Allusian Rogues from his dad’s fireside tales. Zombays fell, one after the other, and Merl and Billy watched from the inn’s stoop. Merl had his hand ax and cleaver in hand. Billy was ready with his scythe. Frank stood in the road with Scaramanza equipped.
“We should try doing it like them,” Merl said, nodding. “They ain’t gettin’ blood or guts or stuff all over them like we do.”
“But we lop their heads off and bash their brains in, and that’s a ton more fun, like.”
Merl ruminated on Billy’s statement. “Yeah,” he said. “Our way is a ton more fun.”