by epubBillie
Helmut instinctively made his way towards the graveyard path that led to the village beyond. He never questioned how he knew where the path was - nor even why it had remained in the same place from century to century, down through the ages - but he found it all the same. He made his way towards the settlement quietly, pausing to sniff the air from time to time. The scent of woodsmoke and charred meat told its own story to his sensitive nostrils, a story of despair and suffering and pointless cruelty. The raiders didn't know - could not have known - that their target was not at large in the village when they struck. That their target had nothing to do with the village. That their ashes would be dust on the wind before the night was out. A cold anger grew in Helmut's breast as he drew near to the scene of the massacre. And a ghastly anticipation.
The first victim he saw was a child. Julia Schmidt, baker's daughter. Blood on her dress, dark in the moonlight. Her mother lay nearby. He walked on. There were more corpses now; the reavers had fallen upon a fleeing band of women and children, slaughtering them like sheep. In the gloom they might have been sleeping, in cruel, uncomfortable postures forced upon them by the positioning of strange breaks in their limbs.
Helmut kept rein on his anger. These were his people; firstly the people he had lived among - and latterly the people destined to be his subjects. Then he came to the village.
It was a scene of utter carnage. There were bodies everywhere; twisted and hunched peasants with their weapons still in their hands, oddly pathetic heaps of cloth containing mortal remnants. The wreckage of the houses still smouldered under the moonlight, ashes glowing red around paper-grey cores of charred wood. There was blood in the street.
He slowly turned around, until his eyes had taken in the entirety of the ghastly scene, No-one was left alive; any survivors had fled. He felt no guilt, though. Guilt towards such as these was beneath him. But it wasn't always so, something nagged deep inside. He stilled the dissenting inner voice, and steeled himself for the final act.
No good. Tension and anger curled into knots around his spine. Straightening, he surveyed the corpses. Not one of the reavers had died here! The sight stiffened his resolve. Slowly he stretched out an arm, heavy beneath the sleeve of his black robe, and began to chant a soulless, evil rhyme.
Among the trees a strange rustling could be heard. A shuffling of ragged clothing, a sound like the sighing of the breeze that swung the felon on the gallows. Stick-figures were beginning to twitch and stir. Helmut continued remorselessly. Perhaps a minute passed, and then one of the bodies which was stretched lengthwise along the ground sat up. Moving slowly and arthritically, Hans-Martin Schmidt - the baker - crawled to his feet. He stared vacantly about with a face out of nightmare: mashed-in nose, a jaw that hung below his face by a tatter of drying meat. Seeing a scythe at his feet he bent and laboriously picked it up.
Helmut continued his spiritless, mournful chant. Julius Fleischer rolled over twice in the dust before he too sat up, clutching at the stump of a leg. The leg twitched towards him slowly, forced towards unnatural reunification with its master. The energy pouring into Helmut from the will of the dead Nameless One engorged him with a dark sense of evil; he was one with the night and the magic, as his servants crawled to their feet and, vacant-eyed, shambled towards him.
Finally the incantation was complete; the spell of summoning in place. Zombies were still staggering in, but already a hard core surrounded him. He looked about. The eyes that met his gaze were lifeless: some were merely gouged sockets, while others were hazed and dulled by the flies' feeding. For the most part these were the menfolk of the village, armed in death as in life. His eyes continued their search, until he saw his father. It might have been his father; its neck and head were too badly damaged for him to be sure in the darkness.
"Follow me," he commanded in an ancient tongue, the learning of which was not possible in a night - not without enchantment. "The enemy lies sleeping. In death ye shall reap your revenge for the afflictions of life; whereafter ye shall seek peace through my ministrations. Forward!"
He pointed down the path towards the beach and, slowly at first but gradually gathering speed, the horde of zombies plodded towards the reavers.
Ragnar One-Eye and his men were no amateurs. They had not forgotten to place a watch, nor to light fires on the beach. But a single guard was no match for the horror that swarmed out of the darkness in total silence save for the slithering of rank, battle-scarred flesh and the clanking of metallic death.
The guard stood transfixed for two fatal seconds, mouth agape; then he screamed "attackers!" He was too late. The horde of death was already scrabbling and clawing its way over the sleepers, knives flickering in deadly arcs.
Helmut stood watching, controlling the attack by force of will alone. Something within him was crying out: if you hadn't dabbled, hadn't experimented with corruption, hadn't wakened the thing under the graveyard... No matter. He pushed the thought aside. Some of the reavers retreated to the boats, making to cast off and push them into the sea and escape. A couple of his zombies followed, but he recalled them with a peremptory tug of willpower. Let the survivors bear warning to whoever had sent them! A cold smile that was most certainly not Helmut's own played about his lips as the last of the sleepers died beneath a struggling mound of noisome flesh. The first light of dawn was already beginning to show along the horizon: he turned and, ignoring the destruction around him, walked back towards the Liche-crypt.
It was as he had left it. The fighting hadn't reached the graveyard; a few poppies bobbed fitfully in the morning breeze as he pushed aside the altar stone and again descended into the musty darkness. But this time when he reached the inner chamber he paused before the throne and genuflected. "Thank you, Father. I am most grateful for your assistance," he murmured as he contemplated the heap of bones piled there. The skull grinned at him.
It might almost have been his imagination that as he reentered the apartment a bone-dry whisp of a voice behind him said: Think nothing of it, my son.
But then again, it might not.
THE OTHER
by Nicola Griffith
The city of Middenheim reared up on its fist of rock, blocking the glitter of weak autumn sunlight and throwing a shadow across the line moving patiently up the slope of the viaduct towards the east gate. The air creaked with harness; iron-rimmed wheels rang softly against stone. Stefan stood up in his stirrups to get a better look at the jam of carts and foot travellers.
"It's more than two weeks yet until Carnival." He pulled at his reins in irritation; the horse snorted and curvetted.
"Stefan," his father said mildly.
Stefan relaxed his grip a little, patted the horse on the neck. Herr Doktor Hochen nodded approval. Stefan's attention wandered.
He stared down at the back of a craftsman's neck. It was creased with dirt; the rough leather jerkin had rubbed a sore into the skin. It ought to be cleaned with good lye soap before it festered. He imagined the edges of the sore swelling, glistening red and tight as the poisons accumulated; he could almost taste the thick sweet smell of decay.
His horse danced, sending a stone skittering. Stefan swallowed bile.
"It's going to take longer crawling up this viaduct than to ride from Hunxe." He tried not to think of the man's neck, swelling, swelling. "We should have ridden on last night and not bothered staying at the inn."
"The gates would have been closed at that hour."
"They would have recognized you."
"Perhaps. But the Watch might be a little overzealous about its duties at this time of year."
Stefan looked at the sunlight gleaming on his father's soft-tanned boots and brown riding velvets, and wondered why a physician important enough to be summoned all the way to Grubentreich to minister to the son of Grand Duke Leopold would not be prepared to force the Watch to recognize him. Whatever the hour.
Privately, he suspected that it was because his father was getting too old to sit his horse comfortably for any length o
f time.
"Perhaps we should have taken a coach from the inn at Hunxe."
His father's shoulders hunched in anger but he spoke quietly, without looking up from his reins.
"You might be eighteen, Stefan, and old enough to have applied for your own physician's licence, but it seems you do not yet have sufficient manners to mind me to grant it."
Stefan knew an apology would only make things worse. As it was, his father would probably delay the licence for a week or so. He stayed quiet and concentrated on trying to ignore the ache of two days' riding.
Ahead, the faint background noise grew louder. Stefan thought he could hear shouting.
"Sounds as though there's a fight in front." He stood up in his stirrups but could not see what was happening.
The shouting got louder; a ripple of movement spread outward, reaching them in the form of a rustling of clothes as people shifted from foot to foot. Several scrambled up onto their carts to get a better look.
"Hoy!" Stefan called. "Can you see what's happening?"
"Someone's had his wagon turned right over on its side."
"Ask him if anyone's been hurt," his father said.
"Can't tell," the man shouted, "but the Watch are coming out." He paused. "They're coming this way."
"Tell them we're physicians."
Under the direction of two members of the Watch, the wagon had already been hauled upright by unwilling bystanders. A guardswoman led them through the crowd.
The air was sharp with the reek of wine which still poured from the shattered barrel. A man wearing the coarse clothes and leather gauntlets of a waggoner lay on his back in shadow. A woman knelt at his side, gently probing his shoulder.
Herr Hochen handed his bag to Stefan and looked around. He walked over to a flat-bedded cart.
"Lift him up here," he said to the guardswoman.
The woman kneeling at the man's side stood up, shadow line slicing across her body diagonally from collarbone to hip. One knee of her pale green trousers was stained with wine, like a bruise. A cotton scarf, the same colour as the wine stain, was tied around her upper left arm. She was wearing a light cloak against the autumn chill but it was slung back over her shoulders, out of the way, and pinned with a wooden brooch. She was young, seventeen perhaps, but fatigue or something else made her seem older. Her hair, light brown and just long enough to be tied back, was dull with travel dust.
"He should not be moved until his leg is splinted," she said.
"I need to get a good look at him, my dear."
"His shoulder may be broken too."
"He'll be taken good care of, don't worry. Are you his daughter?"
"No."
"I see." He turned to the guardswoman. "Lift him up please."
Stefan turned away from the injured man's pain as two guardsmen heaved him onto the cart. The woman stooped to pick up a leather satchel which she slung over her back. Stefan recognized it as the kind of thing travelling musicians carried and wondered how she knew about splinting bones. She saw Stefan watching her. He blushed, but walked over.
"You don't agree with my father's methods."
"No."
"Don't you know who my father is?"
"No."
"Herr Doktor Franz Hochen."
"So now I know his name, as well as the fact that he doesn't know his job."
"He's the most well-respected physician in Middenheim. In fact, my father is the representative of the Guild of Physicians and a member of the Komission for Health, Education and Welfare."
"Then if he is not ignorant, he has caused that waggoner suffering wilfully."
"That man was poor, you could tell by looking at him. If we treated him here, we'd get no fee. So that cart will take him to the Temple of Shallya where the initiates take charity cases. Later, if it turns out he has got funds, then my father would be pleased to treat him. As it is, my father is probably paying for the use of that cart out of his own pocket. He's too generous."
"I see."
It was the exact tone his father had used earlier.
"We could prosecute you for practising healing without a licence," he said.
"You wouldn't." It was a statement. "Who authorizes these licences?"
"My father. He makes recommendations to the Komission from the applications received by the guild. Why? Do you want to apply?"
She studied him a moment.
"Perhaps."
And then she turned and forced her way into the crowd.
Stefan was left staring at the people she had pushed past. He felt foolish. He did not even know her name.
The night was mild and damp. Stefan walked along the Garten Weg slowly, enjoying the smell of grass and wet leaves. He stopped and listened to the unusual quiet. When he set up his practice, he would buy a house somewhere in clean, orderly Nortgarten, overlooking Morrspark where it was always peaceful. He smiled. Today, his father had handed him a parchment stamped in blue and fastened with the Komission's seal; he could set up his practice whenever he liked. He walked north and then east along Ostgarten, leaving the quiet behind.
Burgen Bahn heaved with people. It was nearly midnight but with only a week to Carnival, hawkers and pleasure-seekers lit lamps against the dark and did business while they could.
Stefan stooped through the doorway of the Red Moon. A fire blazed at one end and torches sputtered around a stage at the other; the room was full of noise. His cloak steamed in the heat.
"Stefan!"
He waved and made his way over to his friends' table. They poured him wine while he took off his cloak.
"Welcome, Herr Doktor Stefan," one of them said, handing him a leather cup.
Stefan grinned.
"Thank you, Josef."
He sipped and leaned back in his chair to get a good look at the stage, letting the heavy wine slide over his tongue. Tonight was his night, he wanted to savour every moment. To one side of the stage, a heavy-set man was tuning his rebec while another sat cross-legged, running through some repetitive tune on the pipes.
Stefan missed the point at which the rebec began to thread the room with the counter melody; it was just there, weaving the audience in tight. Two women began to dance. They moved easily, perfectly in time, ignoring the audience. To Stefan, it seemed that they danced for each other, swaying in and out of each other's reach but never touching. He watched, fascinated, as they stepped in close and silk skirts slid up the smooth muscle of their thighs at the same time. They held that position, close enough to feel the heat of each other's skin, for several heartbeats.
When the music finished, Stefan clapped as loudly as the rest. Several of his friends threw money onto the stage. Eva always hired the best entertainers in the city.
"And that was just the first act." He filled his goblet and took a long swallow, waving the wineboy over for more.
"Look," Josef nodded over to a tall woman in a cloak who had just arrived. "Eberhauer's here."
Janna Eberhauer, the deputy High Wizard, took her seat next to the owner of the Red Moon who smiled and stroked her arm, then stood, gesturing towards the stage.
"Looks like Eva's going to introduce the next one herself."
"...for our next performer. She's young but very, very talented. Katya Raine."
A young woman walked onto the stage carrying a pair of hand drums. Stefan leaned forward. It was the girl he had met by the east gate, the healer. Her loose trousers and sleeveless shirt were soft black. The scarf tied around her arm was black too. Her feet were bare. She sat down and settled the drums between her legs.
"Tonight, we sit well fed and snug, with the carnival moons overhead and wine lying warm in our bellies." There were a few cheers and shouts. "But tonight I will sing of a different place, a village where hungry people sit in their houses roofed with straw while autumn hardens to winter."
The audience was silent while Katya's hands moved over the drums, stroking and tapping, cupping the sounds, bringing them to life. They spoke of ground
brittle with frost, of breath steaming in air bright as glass, of a deep and waiting cold. Power built under her fingers. Her eyes glittered with reflected torchlight and she swayed slightly, her head moving from side to side with the beat. Shadows caught and dissolved on the planes and ridges of her cheek and neck. Her fingers moved blindly, gently as moths. She sang...
... of a young woman kneeling on the floor of an old cow byre, feeding a fire with chips of goat dung. She was excited, impatient. Finally, satisfied with the height of the flames, she opened a small leather pouch and slid a stone onto her palm. It was dull and red. Using tongs, she held the stone over the flames. Now she would see if she was right: if it was heartsblood stone, it would glow in the heat and then, cooled in wine, it would be a treasure beyond price. The wine could be used in many healing tinctures, drop by precious drop. Or so she had been told by her great-grandmother.
With a flat crack, the stone exploded; she coughed in the smoke. Her left arm was stinging and when her eyes stopped running, she saw that it was smeared with blood. A sliver of stone must have caught her. She examined the charred dust on the end of the tongs: whatever the stone had been, it was not heartsblood.
That night, she woke in pain. Her arm was hot and swollen. Careful not to wake her sister who shared her pallet, she slid from under the sleeping furs and went outside into the moonlight. Around the puncture hole, her arm was puffy and tender. There was still something in there. It would have to come out.
The next day, the arm was sore where she had cut into the flesh but it no longer felt unnaturally heavy and hot. The woman wondered what the stone could have been. That night, she woke up again. She unwound the bandage; the arm was healing well but she felt strange, lightheaded. Outside, she did not feel the cold, it seemed that voices and hot breath whispered over her skin. Her body sang with excitement. She ran, laughing and mad, through the freezing night. It was dawn before she returned to her family's cottage, exhausted and bewildered, with blood on her hands and lips. Frightened as she was, she had the wit to wash herself before she lay down to get what rest she could.