The Black Knife

by Christopher Nuttall

  They passed one of the farms and headed on into the greenwood. Hind felt the odd tendrils of wild magic out in the woods and shivered, knowing that supernatural creatures were hidden within the impenetrable woodland. The greenwood had been abandoned for decades, but it was impossible to live so close to it and be unaware of the creatures lurking within the darkness. Some lived in a symbolic relationship with the farmers – the Brownies, in particular, were happy to trade labour for milk and alcohol – while others preyed on their fields and cattle. The plumes of smoke faded away into the distance, allowing her to convince Eric to lean into her and relax. There was nothing they could do for the Golden City now. A moment later, the rattling motion of the carriage slowed to a halt.

  “We’ve stopped,” Eric said, pulling away from her. He stuck his head out of the window – Hind could hear outraged shouts from some of the drivers – and peered towards the blockage. “There are Royal Guardsmen out there.”

  Hind heard the puzzlement in his voice and understood. The Royal Guard had never been a strong force and almost all of its fighting men had been at the Golden Palace. They were effectively wiped out as a fighting force, so how could they be here? She opened her third eye, risking looking at the wild magic surrounding the greenwood, and peered towards where the guardsmen had to be. Nothing jumped up and bit her, no blast of magic flared in her Sight, but she saw a haze ahead of them. It had to be an illusion spell. Nothing felt quite like that apart from illusion and distraction spells.

  Eric jumped down out of the carriage and Hind, forgetting their cover, jumped after him. They were in the third carriage from the start of the convoy, staring towards a group of Royal Guardsmen standing ahead of them, blocking the road. Even without her senses, Hind was sure that she would have seen that something was wrong with them, for they were just...standing there. They didn’t move, or respond to Bran’s shouts and none of them even showed any reaction to the two women behind Bran – or Hind herself. It was almost as if they were under a very strong compulsion spell, or dead. A nasty thought occurred to her and she reached out with her power, touching the illusion spell and pushing away at it. It felt like trying to push away a wet sandy blanket, as if it were trying to smoother her as she touched it, but she kept pushing and eventually it snapped. The air shimmered and the Royal Guardsmen vanished. In their place stood dead men and women, staring at the convoy with cold sightless eyes.

  Hind heard cries of horror from behind her, but she was too shocked to care. They were zombies! The original necromancers had used them as shock troops – they didn't feel pain, they didn't slow down and anyone bitten by them became a zombie themselves – and there were still zombie nests scattered around in the less civilised regions. Those zombies were nothing more than a minor set of pests because they had no master – the sorcerers who had created them had died centuries ago – but the ones facing now were clearly coordinated. She’d never seen a zombie before, yet she’d read the old books and records – carefully stripped of anything that might help an aspiring mage from creating their own – and knew that the more zombies there were, the more intelligent and dangerous they could be.

  “By all the gods,” Eric whispered. “Look at their clothes.”

  Hind followed his gaze as the zombies started to twitch into life. They’d once been human, of course, but even as dead bodies animated by a necromancer’s will they were still wearing their old uniforms. Some of them were dressed in the uniform of the Royal Guard, others wore finer clothes and a handful of the creatures were naked. It was alarmingly clear where they’d come from now, providing chilling confirmation of what would have happened to them if they had remained in the Golden Palace. The zombie mind seemed to have been caught by surprise when the convoy had arrived, but now they were advancing on the humans with only one thought on their dead minds. Feed! A single bite by a zombie would be fatal, if not immediately so, and the bitten person would rise again as part of the pack.

  The horses shied back as the zombies closed towards them, moaning out loud to attract other zombie swarms to attack the convoy. The guards ran forward, lifting their weapons, but Hind could see them hesitate. They’d been paid to face bandits and robbers, not zombies and she couldn't blame them for hesitating. Zombies, even a single zombie, could be hard to destroy. The stronger ones needed to be rendered completely immobile before the unnatural magic burning through them gave up and allowed them to return to their eternal rest. Sometimes, merely separating a zombie from its head would work, but somehow Hind suspected that it wouldn't be so easy. Eric patted her on the hand – he couldn't kiss her in public, not when he was posing as her brother – and moved forward, raising Morningstar in front of him.

  One of the guards took a slash at the lead zombie. The sword dug into the zombie’s side, sending grey unnatural blood cascading down towards the ground, but the zombie barely noticed. Yellow eyes fixed on the guard’s face and its hand lashed out, terrifyingly fast, latching on to the guard’s neck and pulling him towards the decaying mouth. The guard struggled desperately, kicking and punching the zombie – he’d dropped his sword when the zombie grabbed his neck – in a bid to make it let go. It was useless. The zombie felt no pain and was unbothered by his struggles. It pulled the guard up and bit him on the arm. The guard screamed in pain and fell to the ground, one hand clutching the bite. Hind knew that it was already too late for him. Perhaps, if someone had acted quickly, his arm could have been severed from his body, saving the rest of his life, but it was too late. The zombie virus was already racing through his system.

  “Stay together,” Eric snapped. The guards, having lost their leader, were coming apart at the seams. “Nip in, take off their heads, and nip out again. Don’t let them touch you!”

  He suited action to words and lunged at one of the zombies, slashing Morningstar right through the creature’s head. The head fell to the ground, but the body kept advancing, stumbling around as if it were suddenly blind. Eric swore, using words Hind hadn't known he’d known, and slashed out again. The zombie rapidly lost both of its arms and legs, sending it crashing to the ground as nothing more than a hopeless mass of dead flesh. The magic holding it together faded and died, but there were so many zombies advancing towards them. A guard who took out one of the undead was caught by another zombie, who bit down on his neck so hard that it was severed from his body. Hind had no idea if he would reanimate or not after such abuse, but there was no point in taking chances. Eric slashed him apart as the onrushing wave of zombies forced them back. Guards were falling one by one. Bran stood on the first coach and lashed the zombies with his whip, but the creatures didn't even notice the pain. A slash across the eyes that would have left mortal eyes bloody stumps didn't even bother them in the slightest. Bran jumped back as the stagecoach began to shake – the mass of zombies was smart enough to know that if they tipped the vehicle over, they could get at the humans inside – and leapt to the second coach. A moment later, the vehicle toppled over and a young girl leapt out. One of the zombies reached out, quicker than Hind would have believed possible, and caught her leg. She fell, screaming, and the Zombie pulled her towards him.

  Hind felt the magic boiling up from within her before she quite realised what she had in mind. She was about to blow their cover, but she couldn't have lived with herself if she’d allowed the girl – Bran’s daughter – to die when she could have saved her. She summoned a line of flame and directed it at the zombie’s arm, burning right through the dead flesh. The zombie twitched backward, surprised, and Hind ran forward. She caught the girl and yanked her back, concentrating on directing the flame right into the zombie’s body. It caught fire and went up in a very satisfactory blaze. The girl clung on to her as if she was her mother, her arms almost choking Hind as they were wrapped around her neck, distracting her from burning the remaining zombies. Hind staggered back as the zombies advanced with new purpose, suggesting that whoever had created and programmed them was smart enough to convince them that magicians represented th
e worst danger to their new undead existence. She tripped over a dead body on the ground and came down hard on her rear, crying out in pain and surprise as she hit the ground.

  And then Eric was there, right in front of her. She saw him lashing out with Morningstar, slicing through the zombies as if they were made of nothing stronger than paper. Zombie after zombie was hacked to pieces before they could even hit the ground, leaving empty shells behind as the magic faded away. Eric stood his ground and would not yield. The remaining guards formed a line beside him and slashed away themselves, forcing the zombies to impale themselves on their blades. Hind pulled herself to her feet, holding the child with one hand – it bothered her, suddenly, that she didn't know the girl’s name – and staggered backwards. Her body hurt, but there was no time to slip into a healing trance and focus on healing herself, not when there was too much to do. She passed the girl over to one of the other women and returned to the fight. The remaining zombies caught fire as her magic passed over them, driving the guards back before the fire burned away their bones and sent them crashing to the ground. The mad slaughter was over.

  “Thank you,” Bran said, catching Hind’s hand and spinning her around before he could remember that Eric was going to be annoyed at his touch. Hind could see the gratitude written deep within his eyes and said nothing, although she did sense Eric’s alarm through the ring. The longer he allowed it to go unchallenged, the harder it would be to regain their cover and maintain the pretence. “I thank you on behalf of my daughter and my family.”

  Hind looked over at the little girl, barely seven years old, and smiled at her and her mother. “You are welcome,” she said, as if she wasn't speaking her first language. All educated people on Touched spoke the Lesser Speech, but a woman from her fake background couldn't be expected to be educated. “I could not allow a young girl to die.”

  “That’s all very well and good,” Eric said, harshly. He directed a glare at Bran until he let go of Hind’s hand, dropping it as if she were suddenly burning hot, too hot to handle. “Might I suggest that we get back on our way? Those monsters won’t be the only ones out here.”

  Bran directed a hard look at him. Hind realised, suddenly, that he was considering trying to thrash Eric for his treatment of her. She had to fight down an absurd urge to giggle. It would be the height of ironies if they were caught because of their faked identity. She tried to communicate that she would be fine, but without being able to speak it was impossible. A low moan in the distance rendered the entire point moot. More zombies were on their way.

  “Mount up,” Bran bellowed, forgetting Hind and her so-called brother. He spun around and started to bellow orders, telling the guards to abandon the damaged stagecoach and unbuckle the surviving horses. The zombies had ignored them in favour of the human prey. “We have to get moving.”

  Hind ran back to their coach and scrambled up into the cabin as the driver whipped the horse into life. The horses shied as they passed the remains of the zombies, but once they were past they picked up speed rapidly. The moaning in the distance faded away as the convoy picked up speed, racing along the way to Garstang. Hind relaxed slightly and took Eric’s hand in hers. They were, against all the odds, alive.

  “That was close,” she said, grimly. “We’re going to have to be more careful in future.”

  “I know,” Eric said. Somehow, the brief encounter had revitalised him. “Do I have to thrash you now for talking to another man?”

  Hind looked at him and then dissolved into giggles. It wasn't funny – a real woman with the background they’d given Bran probably would be thrashed, first by her brother and then by her husband – but after what they’d been through it seemed the height of humour.

  “That depends,” she said. She felt his amusement through the ring and snorted. “Do you want me to turn you into a toad or not?”

  Eric laughed and gave her a hug.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Herod turned, his hands clasped behind his back, as Master Reginald escorted the Oracle of the Golden City into his presence. He had grown used to the idea of Oracles as unnaturally old women – the legends always cast them as ancient crones – and the sight of a thirteen-year-old girl was perversely disappointing. She walked between two guards, holding her hands together in front of her, refusing to show any fear. Her long frizzy brown hair seemed to suggest inexperience, but her eyes were old. This was a girl who had never been given a chance to be young.

  He studied her as she halted in front of him, her eyes darting around the room as if she didn't even want to look at him. She would never have been inside the Golden Palace before, for the Sages tried hard to keep the Oracles out of politics. It was just common sense – an Oracle would be an invaluable asset to any minor Lord or Lady who gained control of her – but it had just failed spectacularly. The Sages of the Golden City were dead and their Oracle was in his hands. He followed her gaze, noting how her eyes lingered on the portraits of lesser Emperors and their families, smiling inwardly at the silent tension she was displaying. She comported herself well, for a child, but up close he could sense that she was nervous, if not afraid. No Oracle ever saw their own deaths, according to some legends, while others had it that the Oracle would see their own death, but never realise it until it was too late to change the future. The gift of glimpses of the future was a two-edged sword.

  “Leave us,” he commanded. Master Reginald looked up sharply, only to lower his eyes when he saw Herod staring at him. The young mage wasn't ready to challenge him, then. Herod was sure that one day Reginald would turn on him – magic was a drug to the young and unwary – but the time was not yet ripe. “You will leave us alone and unmolested.”

  The General was the only one to raise an objection. “Your Grace,” he protested, “it isn't safe to leave you completely alone.”

  Herod smiled, but there was a hard cold edge to the smile. “Do you really believe that a young child is really going to be a threat to me?”

  “No, Your Grace,” the General said. It was an absurd thought. Even without magic, Herod was stronger and faster than the Oracle...and he was armoured, wearing an outfit made from dragon’s skin. “I shall await your command in the antechamber.”

  “See that you do,” Herod said. “Do not interrupt us until I summon you.”

  The room emptied rapidly, leaving the Duke and the Oracle alone. Herod said nothing until he had reached out with his mind and rapidly built a second set of wards around the Lesser Hall, rendering it impossible for someone to spy on them from a distance. Magical – or more mundane – spying would be useless against his wards. Brute force could bring them down, but there would be no way to hide that from his senses. The Oracle was still refusing to look at him directly, yet she was just...waiting for him to speak. Herod wondered, absently, if she had seen this coming and, if so, why she had done nothing to prevent it from taking place?

  “Oracle,” he said. Her eyes turned to meet his briefly, and then looked away again. “I would have you predict the future for me.”

  “I have a name,” the Oracle said. She sounded like a girl caught between girlhood and growing up into a teenage child, a strange combination of maturity and wilful disobedience. Like all magic, precognitive vision extracted a price; it was in the nature of her magic that she couldn't lie directly about what she’d seen. “I am called Kuralla, Oracle of the Golden City.”

  “Oracle of the New Empire,” Herod corrected, firmly. He hadn't bothered to proclaim it to the world yet, but he was curious about how the Oracle would react. “Very well, Kuralla; will you foresee the future for me?”

  Kuralla looked at him for a long chilling moment. Now he had spoken to her, he could see a thousand signs that showed fear and defiance. Her hands were trembling very slightly, while she was keeping her mouth firmly shut. She wanted to defy him, but she didn't quite dare, not when she knew just how much he could do to her, or her family. She had seen the Sages, her adopted family, slaughtered in front of her and it had ha
d to have left a mark on her mind. He would have to watch her carefully. She might not be able to lie about what she saw, but she could certainly mislead him. There were hundreds of stories about past empires that had been toppled by Oracles misleading those who listened to their predictions.

  “Your power is burning you up from the inside,” she said, flatly. It wasn't an answer to his question. “I have seen it exploding outwards and consuming everything around you. I have seen your death at the hands of a dark man with a sword. I have seen your power turning on you and consuming you, leaving you as nothing more than a soulless lich, powered by hatred and rage.” Her voice lightened slightly. “Was that the prediction you wanted from me?”

  Herod controlled his temper with an effort. He had never been very good with children – he had no wife or children himself – and they had always irritated him. Back at Azimuth, his staff had known to keep their children well away from their master, confining them to the servant’s barracks or leaving them with relatives out in the countryside. One hand clenched into a fist, knowing that he could take Kuralla’s neck and crush it like a grape and yet not quite daring to take the final step. The gods, it seemed, frowned on those who killed Oracles. They always came to bad ends.

  “Perhaps,” he said. His power was still safely confined within his wards, but he checked anyway, feeling the remains of the magic stored within his mind. Reanimating the zombies had drained most of the power he’d gained from killing the castle’s staff, but there were plenty more human sacrifices where they came from. Eventually, half of the countryside would be fed into the necromantic maw. “Are you telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”