This was the sorcerer’s tower, the tallest and pointiest part of the palace of Drak. The uppermost room was filled with a Dark Lord’s most important accessories: torture devices, portraits of ancestors, various doomed weapons, jars of disturbing ingredients for magical concoctions, skeletons of long-dead mythical creatures, scrolls of apocalyptic prophecies and — most importantly — six semi-clad demon priestesses who could pluck, skin and sacrifice a dozen chickens in under a minute, and would perform any spell or ritual their master required, the bloodier the better.
Chicken feathers and wet, fresh blood daubed the floor. The demon priestesses chanted, their straggly hair whirling madly around their heads and their scrawny, half-naked bodies formed the complex, stomping movements of a mad ritual dance.
“My lord,” the Chamberlain protested. “This is going too far. You must accept that the draklight is gone.”
Maybe you should accept that your Lordship is bonkers, thought Aragon.
So what should I do, assassinate him?
That sounded a lot like sarcasm, Chamberlain. I must be having an effect on you.
You claim to be loyal to our lordship. How can you doubt his wisdom?
It’s easy. Just listen to the words that come out of his mouth.
“My people are begging for answers,” said Lord Sinistre, far beyond the point of reason. “I must summon the darkest, most malevolent magic I can, to lure the draklight back to its home. When we are powerful again, the puny green fields of Mocklore will bend to the will of Drak!”
Aragon tugged at the metal Compelling Collar which still bit into his throat, forcing him to remain close to Lord Sinistre at all times. “This is not going to turn out well,” he muttered.
Still trust that he knows what he’s doing, Chamberlain old man?
It’s not his fault, Silversword. The loss of the draklight has affected his sense of identity.
I know the feeling.
“Drak will be remembered for all time as the darkest of dark cities,” Lord Sinistre cried triumphantly.
“But what are you going to do?” Aragon demanded. The squawking of chickens made him turn around. “I swear, if those women kill one more chicken I will be physically sick.”
What he saw was enough to bring bile to his throat, but it was not another sacrifice. The squawking came from the chickens that had already been sacrificed. They stood on their scrappy little legs, bald without their feathers, throats gaping open from the sacrificial wounds. Some of them had been cut entirely open, their entrails used for an earlier weather-prediction spell.
Some chickens were pecking at the demon priestesses in search of seed. One quite happily gobbled up her own discarded entrails, not noticing when her messy prize fell through the hole in her throat.
Aragon backed away, but Lord Sinistre stood firm between him and the door. “Am I right in thinking you decided this would be the ideal moment in time to raise the dead?” Aragon said hoarsely.
“I told you I was a villain,” said Sinistre with a happy smile. “I told everyone. They didn’t believe me.”
“Well now,” said Aragon Silversword. “You showed them.”
Kassa sat on the steps outside the Mermaid Tower, exhausted. “If you’re looking for Singespitter and Egg,” she said without opening her eyes, “they think I don’t know that they’re helping Professor Noir check out the storm remains for magical traces.”
“Aren’t you angry about that?” asked Clio.
“Why should I be? Somebody’s got to do it. Not that it will do much good. Magic is good at lying low.” She sighed and opened her eyes, blinking in the bright afternoon light. “How are you two doing?”
“We’re fine,” said Sean. “Sort of.”
“I know that feeling.” Kassa leaned back against the door of the Tower. “It’s too much to think about. I keep telling myself that I can cope as long as nothing else happens. Not one more thing.”
“It’s all over,” said Clio. “Isn’t it?”
“That’s a dangerous question,” said Kassa. “I’m not up to dangerous questions at this stage of the day.”
Sean sniffed the air. “Is that coffee?”
Kassa’s smile was beautiful. “Mistress Brim is inside setting up for afternoon tea. She started the clockwork coffee-brewing dripolater about ten minutes ago. It should be just about ready. If I could get my legs to obey me, I’d get myself a cup.”
“That sounds like a job for me,” volunteered Sean. He headed off to the back of the tower, where the entrance to the Seaweed Dining Room was.
“Boys are awfully useful at times,” said Clio.
“That they are,” said Kassa cheerfully. “Sit down, enjoy the sunshine for a few minutes. We deserve a break.”
“It was my first real magical catastrophe,” Clio confessed, joining Kassa on the sunny steps.
“Unusual for someone your age. What are you, eighteen?”
“Seventeen.”
“You would have been twelve when the Second Glimmer came through. Where were you?”
“Not far from here, but my grandmother’s house is fenced all the way around with cold iron. When she heard about the Glimmer she scattered salt around the house and made me hide under my bed all day.”
“Sensible woman,” said Kassa. “Folklore is the one true protection against wild magic. Can’t go past a good bit of cold iron and a handful of salt.”
“At least I don’t have to worry if she made it through the storm all right,” Clio agreed. “We missed the local Tidal Puddle because we were holidaying in Zibria when I was eight, Grandmother’s chicken and herb soup kept the Purple Plague from even reaching our village when I was seven, and when I was four…”
“The first Glimmer?” Kassa guessed, counting back.
“We never even saw it. We were in the Forest of Aardvaalk at the time, trying to… Grandmother was trying to convince my father that plotting to make himself Emperor wasn’t a very good idea.”
“It never is,” said Kassa. “I only know one person who has done it successfully, and even that remains to be seen.”
“I never really believed all the stories about the Glimmer,” said Clio. “I thought the stories had to be exaggerated.”
“I don’t believe half of any story I hear, even about events I’ve witnessed,” said Kassa. “When it comes to Mocklore natural disasters, ballads can never measure up to the real thing.”
“But this one is over?”
“I hope so,” said Kassa. “I’m not up to saving the Empire any more times today. I’m even too tired to fetch my own coffee.” She frowned, looking across the cobbled path. “Do you know that girl? She looks lost.”
Clio stared. A girl stood near the hedgerows that surrounded the next building, her back to them. She had dark hair, golden skin and a good figure squeezed into a little knitted red dress.
Sean rounded the corner, cheerfully balancing a tray which held three cups of creamy coffee and a plate of buttered scones. “Mistress Brim said you were probably hungry whether you thought so or not and that if the plate didn’t come back empty she would be seriously displeased,” he called out to Kassa.
The tray hit the cobblestones a moment later, the cups and scone plate jolting off the tray with a smash. Sean stared at the girl across the path, his eyes so wide they almost fell off his face.
“What’s going on?” said Kassa, her voice heavy with the expectation that this was some new, horrible disaster and she would be shortly called upon to save the world without even a cup of coffee inside her.
Clio didn’t disappoint. “That’s Lemissa. My roommate. She’s one of the students who was killed in the storm earlier today.”
“She seems fine now,” said Kassa.
“Um, yes. I noticed that.”
As Singespitter and Egg reached the field near the Axgaard encampment, a huge, burly Axgaard warrior crossed their path. He was seven feet tall, wide shouldered and booming. His beard was so big and bushy that it should have been considered a city-
state in its own right. He wore so many foul-smelling leathers and skins that the stench of death clung to him. His skin, beneath the mighty beard, was covered in ugly purple patches. “Are you my heir?” he thundered.
Singespitter and Egg glanced briefly around to check he was addressing them.
“I’m not,” said Singespitter.
Egg had a horrible sinking feeling. This was not any old Axgaard warrior. This one wore the same crown that Svenhilda did — a small wooden helmet with two enormous horns nailed to it — although there was none of the elaborate decoration she had added. A huge wooden necklace hung around his neck, depicting a bear skull. And then there were the purple patches… “Are you Jarl Erik?” he asked tentatively.
“Yaarrrgh!” boomed the Jarl. “Who else would I be, boy? Are you my heir?”
“Um, no,” said Egg. “I think I might be your grandson, though.” On the hill behind the Jarl, Egg could see Svenhilda, fully armed and accompanied by her axe-wielding handmaidens. The women marched down the slope towards them. “She’s your heir,” he said helpfully, pointing.
Jarl Erik’s face went pale beneath his beard. “A wench?” he bellowed, drawing a huge axe from his back and running up the hill, straight at Svenhilda. “What cursed gods made you my heir, daughter? I’ll take my city back by blade and blood!”
“Try, old man!” she screamed into the wind, quickening her pace down the hill. “I’m a better Jarl than you ever were!”
They met in the middle, screaming and shouting, and tumbled down the slope together in a crash of leather and axe-blades.
“So,” said Singespitter, watching the fight with interest. “Grandfather, huh?”
“My dead grandfather,” said Egg. “He was killed by the Purple Plague nine years ago.”
“Right,” said Singespitter. “Something a bit funny’s going on.”
“I’d say so,” said Egg.
18
Day of the Dead
Up close, it was fairly evident that Lemissa was dead. The right side of her body was flattened from where she had been crushed when her room caved in. There was a large hole in her throat where an ice shard had pierced her, although the ice had already melted away. “Do you know what happened to you?” Kassa asked now.
Lemissa shrugged, not overly interested in the topic. “I think I died. Is that right?”
“Pretty much,” said Kassa.
Clio and Sean kept their distance from the girl. Sean was quite pale.
“You all right?” Clio whispered to him, nudging her hand into his.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“Do you know why you came back?” Kassa asked.
Lemissa shrugged again. “Has something gone wrong? I don’t have to go to classes, do I?”
“I’m pretty sure not,” said Kassa. “Are you the only one?”
“Um,” said Clio. “I don’t think she is.”
There was quite a crowd wandering through Drak now, dead people of all shapes and sizes. They were well-preserved, with no evidence of decay, but many of them wore wounds that displayed how they had died.
“So the bad news is, we’ve got zombies,” said Sean, recovering himself slightly. “The good news is, they’re not rotting zombies.”
“Aren’t we the lucky ones?” Clio said scathingly.
“Hi, little brother.”
Sean whirled around, not letting go of Clio’s hand. A taller, blonder, slightly-older version of Sean leaned against the Mermaid Tower. He wore the neatly-ironed uniform of a Dreadnought Blackguard, his boots high and shiny. He also wore a silver collar with an exploding tree motif, which had been the symbol of office for all post-Timregis Emperors until it was stolen by one of the less law-abiding post-Timregis Emperors.
“Tam,” said Sean, sounding stunned.
“Good to see you,” said his eldest brother cheerfully. “How’s the family?”
“Same old stuff, really,” Sean said after a moment. “Haymish got married. Angus became a priest. Finnley’s on a mountain somewhere. Owen and Roddy joined the Blackguards, no surprise there except it’s the real Blackguards, not the ponced-up acting troupe you belonged to. Prissilla’s hunting for a rich husband.”
Tam laughed easily. “This your girl?”
“Oh, no.” Sean brought Clio forward. “This is my friend Clio. This is my big brother, Tam.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Clio, bracing herself to shake Tam’s hand. It felt fine, perfectly normal. Warmer than she expected. “I’m sorry about, you know…” She drew her finger slightly across her throat, indicating where his had been slit open.
“Don’t mind that,” said Tam. “Easy to be philosophical, this side of the coffin.”
Sean glanced around at the various other dead people who were threading their way through Cluft. “Da here?”
“Think he wanted to go visit Ma,” said Tam. “He headed off towards Dreadnought.”
“Oh, man,” said Sean, alarmed. “She is not up to that. She’s been having funny turns lately. A sudden shock could bring a bad one on.”
“Really?” said Tam. “Reckon we could head him off if we hurry.”
“Let’s go,” said Sean. “See you later, Clio!”
The McHagrty boys ran off in the direction of the road.
After taking a few deep breaths to calm herself, Clio went over to Kassa and Lemissa. “Are you all right?” she couldn’t help asking her dead roommate. “I mean, how do you feel about being dead?”
“It’s not bad,” shrugged Lemissa. “Kind of boring.”
“Come on,” said Kassa, motioning to Clio to follow her. They headed in the direction of the library tower. “This is not the kind of side effect I would have expected from the storm. I think this is something new.”
“Who would do this?” Clio asked.
As they reached the library tower, Kassa slowed. “I think that’s our answer,” she said. “The who at least, not the why.”
Aragon Silversword was assisting Lord Sinistre down from the golden skybridge.
“Ah, Mistress Sharpe,” Sinistre said, oh so pleased with himself. “Enjoying my little entertainment?”
“How could I fail to enjoy something so petty and pointless?” Kassa replied with a warm smile.
“Before you start blaming me,” said Aragon, “I had nothing to do with this.”
Kassa’s smile widened, but not in a pleasant way. “Oh, really?”
Clio spotted two colourful pirates approaching, a large black-bearded man with a gaping sword wound in his chest and a red-haired woman with greyish skin — a drowning victim? “Ho, Kassa-girl!” the man said cheerfully.
“Not now, Dad,” she said, still staring at Lord Sinistre. “What’s this, an evil magic substitute for the draklight, or proof that you’re the biggest baddest villain of them all?”
“Both,” said Lord Sinistre smugly.
Clio heard the two pirates muttering together. “If she’s busy, she’s busy. You grab the boy, Nell. Time I had that chat with him.”
The pirate woman went to Aragon Silversword, neatly unhooking the Compelling Collar from his throat and pulling him away. “Come on, boyo. We want a word.”
“Kassa, your parents are kidnapping me,” he warned.
“Hush,” said Kassa, her eyes fixed on Lord Sinistre. “Care to explain why you felt the need for this attention-grabbing spectacle? Did you enjoy being tied to a chair so much that you want to repeat the experience?”
Lord Sinistre raised himself up to his full height, sneering down at her. “I am the villain,” he declared. “You are the hero. Aren’t you going to try and vanquish me?”
“Vanquish?” Kassa said scornfully. “What am I going to do, throw a bucket of water over you and hope you melt like sugar candy? You’re not a villain any more, Sinistre. You’re just going through the motions.”
“I raised the dead,” he hissed.
“And a right dog’s breakfast you made of it, too. You haven’t created an a
rmy of bloodlusting zombies. You brought a lot of people back from the dead in their right minds and reasonably right bodies, giving them the opportunity to tie up loose ends with their loved ones. It’s practically a good deed.”
“A good deed?” Lord Sinistre sputtered.
“Look over there,” said Kassa. “My parents died years ago. Your little back-from-the-dead spell has given them the chance to meet the man I’m planning to spend the rest of my life with, assuming he doesn’t pull any more vanishing acts.”
The pirate known as Vicious Bigbeard Daggersharp had pinned Aragon Silversword to a wall, several small knives keeping him in place, and was talking to him in a low, threatening growl. The pirate known as Black Nell smiled sweetly and smacked a sword back and forth between her hands as emphasis to whatever Bigbeard was saying.
Kassa sighed nostalgically. “They used to do that to all my boyfriends. I should thank you.”
Lord Sinistre’s mouth opened and closed briefly.
Kassa took his arm sympathetically, leading him to sit on the library steps with her. “You’re not a villain, you know,” she said quietly. “You never were. You were playing the role that Harmony tried to squash you into. It was the draklight that made you all dark and villainous, but it’s gone now. Once you get past that, you’re left with a city. An ordinary city that needs an ordinary ruler to look after it.”
“I don’t know how to do ordinary,” said Lord Sinistre.
“Well, you’ll need a decent bureaucracy behind you,” she conceded. “And you should arrange ambassador exchanges between Drak and the other Mocklore cities, so you can get a feel for what opportunities are out there. Do you produce your own velvet?”
“There are some factories in the Outer City. I don’t think they run on magic.”
“Fantastic, that’s your first export product.”
Sinistre gazed at her, his dark eyes like sunken holes. “Are you helping me now? Why would you do that?”
“Because,” said Kassa, “Drak is part of Mocklore now. We look after our own.”
“As simple as that?”
“We don’t get much simpler.”
Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles) Page 82