“How did you get rid of him?” asked Trypp.
“Well, I weren’t sure that Hrodebert really enjoyed what he was doing. He didn’t seem happy, looked like keeping things going caused him more grief than maybe he expected. Zombies and skeletons aren’t that smart, so he had to constantly give them orders. We still had ferry traffic coming through, and though he increased the tariff, the corpses weren’t much use as workers so he needed the real people to keep doing their jobs. To be fair to him, he still paid folks; there weren’t much in the way of force to get people to do it.
“By the way he walked around town like a man who’d found a copper and lost a crown, you could tell that he was finding it all a drag. And then the summer came. A hot one. In case you didn’t know, zombies stink in the heat. Folks got sick too. That’s when most of the people died during the reign of Zomtopia. Some nasty diseases went around, even though we tried to have people clean up behind the zombies; bits of green flesh dropping off all the time. Summer was ending when word reached us that King Arlfsson had finally dispatched a squadron to deal with the necromancer. And I’m sure he heard about it too.”
“Did they lay siege? Clear the town house to house? How bad was the fight?” asked Florian, leaning in as he listened to the story. Conversation had moved onto military matters—so now he was allowed to talk—and he was always eager to see if there was a tactical lesson to learn from a tale.
“There weren’t one!” said the Sheriff, throwing her hands up in the air. “A squadron of a dozen-dozen soldiers readied themselves across the river late one evening, and then attacked the town at dawn. They expected a fight right enough. But the zombies and skeletons just collapsed at their feet. Dropped dead again if you like. And Hrodebert was nowhere to be found. Cleaning up all those dead bodies was the worst, I can tell you. The squad captain told me that he must have ran and once he was too far away from the undead, they had no magic to hold them up.”
Motega exchanged a look with Trypp. This was a strange invader, even for a necromancer. Avoiding a fight when by the Sheriff’s description he outnumbered the army three to one. Why did he run?
“Since then there's been neither sight nor sound of Hrodebert,” continued the Sheriff. “The necromancer's tower, where he came from, is still there in the foothills of the mountain nearby, and it’s been quiet. But then, a year ago, we noticed graves being disturbed again. Thought they might be just scavengers to start off with, or bandits taken to robbing graves for what they're buried with; but it's been happening too often, and we know there aren't any bandits around the King’s roads. So, I asked Johan, he’s a tracker here in town, to investigate the tower. Just to make sure there was nothing going on.”
“Let me guess,” said Trypp. “Hrodebert is back.”
“We don’t know if it’s him. Johan said he got close to the tower and heard an infernal racket of scraping and banging. Got scared for his own hide, and ran back with his tail between his legs. We don't know what’s happening and I can’t get any more volunteers to go and have a look, so I have to assume he’s back and rebuilding his army of the walking dead. I sent messages to Carlburg for help, but they're not interested. Until something happens, or I’ve got more evidence, they won’t march the infantry all the way up here.
“That's why I put the word out for people like you,” she said, looking to Motega and his friends. “I need to know what's happening and have some evidence if I need to call for the King’s help.”
“All we have to do is find out what's going on?” asked Trypp.
“That’s basically the job. But if you three are as capable as you say and you can stop Hrodebert yourselves—make him run away again even—then I can pull together an extra twenty-five gold crowns. A clean-up bonus. All of this uncertainty is bad for business in this town.”
“We’ll see what we can do,” said Trypp, reaching over the table to shake her hand. “Now, can you point us toward this tracker?”
Motega, Florian and Trypp stood outside a shop on the main square. The swinging shingle hanging outside read “Breckon Trading”.
Apparently, Johan the tracker had decided on a career change and was now Johan the salesman.
The dirt square was the center of commerce for the town; handcarts of produce, two taverns, a blacksmith, and the local branch of the Kollskar bank. Locals and transients moved about with intent as Motega surveyed the shop front. By the looks of it, Breckon Trading sold everything you could want that wasn't made in a town of this size. Hanging on racks, or stacked on shelves on the porch outside, were pots and pans, iron bathtubs, rakes, hammers, and a surprisingly large selection of well-crafted furniture and other home decorations.
“I’m no expert, but that stuff looks like what Mistress Bekah was selling in Carlburg,” said Motega.
“Aye,” said Trypp. “This is the place where she is getting her new produce. It’s the supplier she wants to make sure isn’t interrupted.”
They walked inside the store and faced a grim old man standing behind the counter. Big bushy beard and black hair shot through with gray, his broad expanse breaking out from the sides of his leather apron. “What can I be doing for you gentlemen,” he asked, politely enough but his piercing stare clearly said something else—I can see your weapons and I don’t care; don’t nick any of my stuff or there will be hell to pay.
“We’re looking for a man by the name of Johan,” said Florian.
“And what would you be wanting with him then?”
“The sheriff sent us. We’re investigating the disturbed graves. Are you Johan?”
“Nope, that’s not me. I don’t think them graves anything other than hungry mountain trolls if you were to ask. But I’ll get him for ya.” The shopkeeper stepped through a curtain into a back room. He called for Johan and a new silhouette, visible through the dirty grey hanging, joined the old man.
“I can’t make out what they’re saying,” whispered Trypp.
“Me neither,” said Motega. Maybe it was all above board but, in his experience, whispers led to lies or knives.
“Here he is, boys. Don’t take up too much of his time though eh? He’s got work to do.” The shop keeper pushed a small, wiry man—rather resembling a ferret to Motega’s mind—out of the back room with a large paw of a hand. “Why don’t you sit down over there to talk,” he said, nodding to a table and chairs on display nearby.
In his line of sight, thought Motega.
Johan squirmed on his chair as Motega and his friends sat down, avoiding eye contact, but he squeaked a welcome. “W-w-what can I be doing for you gentlemen?”
“The sheriff said you saw something up at the necromancer’s tower,” said Trypp. “I was wondering if you could describe it for us.”
“I don’t like to talk about it, sirs,” Johan mumbled, looking from side to side as he spoke. “Given me awful nightmares. I can’t go up in the hills anymore. Jump at every sound.”
“I understand, Johan,” said Trypp, remaining patient. “But we need your help.”
“Didn’t see much to be honest. There were bright lights burning in the windows of the tower and this new building built next door to it. Lit up the night it did. I would have looked more, but that’s when I heard the noises.”
“What noises?”
“Terrible screeching sounds. Banging and moaning. That’s what wakes me up at night. I couldn’t get no closer, my legs froze.” Johan looked up from the floor to Trypp for the first time. “Prolly pissed me self too. I'm sorry, sirs, I don't think I’m much use to you.”
“That’s all right, Johan,” said Trypp, resting a hand on the shaking man’s shoulder as his gaze returned to the floor. Trypp looked at Motega and rolled his eyes. “Help us out with a few directions and we’ll be on our way.”
The town cemetery was on the outskirts of the settlement, a grassy flat expanse bordered by a low white-washed fence. Small mounds of turf, or for the more recently deceased, freshly turned earth, headed with stones or carved wood sig
nifying the final resting places of the townsfolk. And dotted throughout the burial ground, home to centuries of inhabitants, were signs of graves being disturbed and not set right. Awaiting the return of their owners? thought Motega.
“Let’s split up,” said Motega. “See what we can find out here, and then go and get some dinner. I’m starving.”
Trypp and Florian agreed and they divided up the field between them. Motega walked through uneven rows of graves, his falcon, Per, clutching his shoulder and tearing at jerky that Motega fed the bird with his fingers. His eyes scanned the markings as he walked, noticing families sharing the same name grouped together. Where the stone had not worn away, there were a few words remembering the soul buried beneath; the size of their family, their profession, in some cases a nickname or other way to remember the long dead body beneath the grass. In war they say that the victors write the history; some gravestones showed that in the war of life, it was the young who were the winners.
Edith Flyss, Barely a mother to Audrey. Royal cow to all. You won’t be missed.
Motega wondered who would raise a stone above his head when his time came? He hadn’t seen his sister in five years. Likely he was heading to a stone that read ‘Brother in name only’. He shook his head. No point getting distracted when he had a job to do. They didn’t know if there would be any clues around here, but they needed to be certain and the day was getting long.
Walking up and down the rows it was obvious which graves had been despoiled, the gaping holes topped with an aged marking leaving little doubt, often a wooden box of varying stages of decomposition at the bottom. The open graves were dotted throughout his section of the cemetery, not just close to the edges of the yard which would make it easier for any raider. He counted only fourteen open graves, most with their neighbors untouched, except for one whole family, the Tomrers. How was it known who would have the richer spoils?
“Motty,” called Florian, walking over with Trypp at his side. “Are you finished?”
“Yeah, I think so,” said Motega. “Any great insights?”
“Not much,” said Trypp. “We counted twenty-two robbed graves between us.”
“Fourteen for me. Hardly an army with those numbers.” He paused, thinking about the strange pattern of exhumation. “The thing that’s bugging me… why are the robbed graves all spread out though the yard? Doesn’t one dead body make as good a zombie as another?”
“Don’t know,” said Florian, shrugging. “We were discussing the same thing. Seems like they were picking graves at random.”
“Maybe,” said Motega, fingers twirling through his braided hair while he thought. “But if so, why did they take this whole family?”
“I don’t know,” said Trypp. “And I don’t think we will figure it out here. Let’s go back to the outfitters and stock up ready for tomorrow. We’ll go find the tower. But tonight, I want a beer and a comfortable bed.”
“Good plan,” said Motega, slapping his friend on the back before they strode back the way they had come, to the center of Stableford.
Two inns faced each other across the central square, The Cold Peak and The Boars Head. They plumped for the latter. The common room was empty, except for three people clustered around a table in the far corner from the fire; their friend Johan the former tracker, the shop keeper and a well-dressed fellow who had the look of a traveling merchant. Florian made an imposing figure as he walked across to the man standing behind the bar, cleaning a pewter tankard with a rag that looked more oily than clean.
“What’s on the menu tonight, good sir?” asked Florian.
“Same as every night. Boar. ‘S good though,” replied the barman. “Thas what ah’m known for, and plenty of boars in them forests. You want a drink too?”
“Yes, and we need a room for the night. Three beds.”
“Ah think ah can manage that lad. Aht’ll be ten silver. Each.”
Florian put the money down on the counter and the three friends took a table close to the fire. The barman returned with three wooden bowls full of carved meat and roast potatoes, swimming in a deep brown gravy. Three shiny pewter tankards filled with ale followed.
“It’s quiet this evening,” said Florian.
“Still early,” said the barman. “Those travelling through will be here before long. Lot of the locals staying at home though these days. Weird things going on. Ah heard about you three, that’s why you’re ‘ere. Need things to get back to normal we do, so Ah wish you good luck.”
The barman left them alone, not waiting for a reply. Motega and his friends ate in silence. The boar was as good as the inn-keep had said, and they felt replenished to plan for their next day.
The inn had a few more customers by the time the three of them clambered up the stairs to bed, but it was hardly busy. Motega could understand the barman’s forthright concerns.
Their room was adequate—thankfully cleaner than the rag used to wipe the mugs—with a pair of bunk beds. Taking a bottom berth, Motega climbed into bed and sleep came easily.
Some unknown hours later a scream cut through the night. Motega sprang up in his bed, banging his head on the bunk above and cursing. Trypp and Florian, eyes open, were tensed, similarly upright on the opposite bunks, hands on weapons and waiting for further noise. Another cry came from outside, away from the square.
“Mot. Can you look to see what’s going on?” asked Trypp as he slipped from the top bunk and moved to pull his trousers on. “Maybe I’m just a little jumpy but I don’t fancy staying here if the town is about to be overrun by zombies again.”
Motega nodded, he wasn’t particularly excited for that eventuality either, and closed his eyes. Per had been sleeping too, perched near the chimney of the inn for warmth in the cool mountain night air, but he had been woken by the screams. And when Motega’s mind merged with that of his spirit animal it was already in the air looking for the disturbance. The peregrine falcon swooped low over the square, before banking to follow the street that headed out of town toward the cemetery. The street was deserted until two figures became visible, one a woman, screaming as she tried to open a door to a house. Behind her was a man, slow moving and stumbling, one foot dragging behind him.
Severing the connection with Per, Motega opened his eyes to see his friends dressed and ready to go.
“The mountain road. Looks like a zombie. But just one,” said Motega. His friends made for the door. “Hey, wait for me to put my trousers on too.”
Stableford was not a big town and it only took a few moments for them to reach the spot where Per was perched on the side of a small wooden house, the two figures still in the street below. No one else had rushed to help, though Motega had seen several pairs of wary eyes peering out from the safety of their shutters. Maybe the town folk were on edge too? Or perhaps they’d just pegged the scream for being none of their business. The woman was no longer screaming or trying to enter the house though. The door was flung open but abandoned and she was crouched down on the floor by the other figure, that lay face first in the dirt.
Motega approached her, the tears on her face visible in the moonlight. “Are you alright?”
She looked up, her eyes unfocused and red from the tears. “It’s my Petr. It’s my Petr.”
“Do you know him?”
“He’s my husband. He w-w-was,” she forced out between gasps of breath.
Motega helped the grieving woman to her feet, gently guided her away from the cadaver and to a seat on the front step of a neighbor’s house. The tears continued to fall and Motega could get nothing more sensible out of her until the owner of the step brought steaming mugs of tea for the woman, Motega and his friends.
“He died last winter,” she said between sips of brown tea. “It wor his birthday today. I missed him. Went to pay him a visit at the graveyard as the sun was going down. I must have fallen asleep and when I woke, there he was, crawling out of the grave, toward me. I ran. I ran away from him. He kept groaning and reaching for me.”
“I didn’t do nothing. I was scared! Tried to get behind the door. But then he just collapsed.” Her shoulders shuddered as the tears returned. “And now he’s left me again.”
Following the instructions of Johan the tracker/salesman—east road out of town and into the foothills—Motega, Florian and Trypp set out for the necromancer’s tower. It was a grey spring morning, a constant drizzle in the air that soon dripped from their faces. Hoods up, they continued without discussing the events of the previous night. During dinner last night they had considered whether there were any less-dark answers for the town’s problems than a necromancer; maybe bandits or trolls like others had suggested. The zombie had changed that opinion. But a lone zombie wandering into Stableford was a strange tactical decision for their quarry, though from what they had heard about Hrodebert it would not be possible to rely on him being predictable.
And unpredictable was dangerous.
Though the weather was miserable, the walk was easy enough. A rutted caravan trail that headed to the mountain pass was their path for most of the morning, though they saw nary a traveler. Turning off the main path where instructed, by a lightning struck lonesome pine, the incline increased and for a while the path became overgrown and hard to follow, until out of nowhere a gravel track appeared. It was wide enough for a horse and cart, and seemed either recently made or well maintained. Motega looked at his friends, their shared surprise at seeing the road. He shrugged and set off in front.
Somewhere behind the clouds, the sun was starting its long arc back down to its celestial bed when they neared the mountain range, sheer faces of rock launching from the grassy foothills. The road had been helpful and seemed to head directly to the front door of the necromancer, but Motega and friends all agreed it was time to find a more suitable passage for a reconnaissance mission. Silently clambering up hill and over rocks they reached a perch—discovered by Per no less—overlooking their destination, nestled as it was at the foot of the cliff in a small hollow.
Tales of Kingshold Page 14