by D. P. Prior
Shader glared at him, but Gaston was looking at the floor, his shoulders bunched up about his ears. ‘They’ll find no help there,’ Shader said. ‘Your attack won’t have been forgotten. One other thing,’ he scanned the group. ‘The serpent statue given to me by Huntsman has been taken.’
‘Must’ve been Shadrak,’ Gaston said.
Rhiannon turned back to face Shader. ‘He came up from the crypt. We thought he’d come to help, though shog knows why. Guess we were too flaming scared to care at the time.’
Shader’s hand went to his back. The wound had healed, but he still felt the pain. ‘I’ll find him.’ He narrowed his eyes and sucked in a long breath through his teeth. ‘But first things first. We have to get word to Barek and see if we can drum up some more support. We can’t let the city fall to Cadman.’
SERVILITY AND COMMAND
The sun dipped below the distant towers of the city centre, leaving streaks of pink and crimson across the darkening sky. Barek spat into a rag and rubbed at the basinet in his lap. He couldn’t really see what he was doing, but that wasn’t the point. He needed to keep busy.
The rest of the White Order knights were sitting around fires dotted about the hilltop at the centre of Lesmallen, Sarum’s easternmost suburb. It was a play area, judging by the wooden climbing frames and the knotted ropes hanging from the branches of trees encircling the camp. Further down the hill he could see the orange glow from the windows of the locals’ cabins. Most had their own smallholdings and allotments; they were doing their best to live apart from the bustle of the city. Probably reckoned themselves amongst the lucky few now.
No one had approached the knights in the two days they’d been in Lesmallen. At best they’d drawn suspicious glances, but mostly they’d been greeted by closed shutters and sullen silence. Lesmallen appeared to have escaped the worst of the plague, but clearly its residents were taking no chances. It was Barek’s guess that the locals thought the White Order was in the vanguard of trouble spreading out from Sarum’s centre like a cancer. Maybe they were right, he thought, but what choice had they had? They’d already lost four more men to the hordes of walking dead as they’d ridden clear of the chaos, and if they fled beyond the city walls, they’d have to answer for the attack on the Imperial troops.
‘That’s my job, milord,’ Dave the Slave said, snatching the basinet from Barek.
The old hunchback had followed them up from Calphon where they’d passed him squatting in the gutter, clearing dead leaves from the drains. Barek shook his head and felt his face tightening in a wry smile as he realized he’d used the nickname the lads had given the bloke on account of his insistence that he do all the menial chores around camp. At first they’d tried to send him away, but when he hung around they’d offered to pay him. Dave would accept nothing. He just kept groaning about penance and touching his brow in the Nousian manner.
‘Sit yourself down, Dave,’ Barek said. ‘You’ve been on the go all day.’
Dave stooped over him and twisted his neck to see better. He was mostly bald, but long strands of hair hung like twine over his shoulders. His forehead was a craggy overhang, the eyes beneath glinting with a feverous intelligence. His face reminded Barek of a horse’s—long chin, flat nose, and lips that were thick and drooping, opening like a clam to reveal the stumps of yellow teeth. He was dressed in a sack-cloth tunic and woollen trousers that stank like the furred-up pig shit Barek’s dad used as compost.
‘The Demiurgos loves an idler,’ Dave muttered, giving the basinet a polish with the hem of his tunic. ‘Ora et labora, I always says. It’s hard work that paves the mountain path to Araboth. I’ll bring your helmet back in the morning, polished clear as glass. Anything else I can do for you? Nice sizzling sausage? Hunk of crusty bread? How about I groom your horse and pick the grit from her shoes?’
Barek raised a hand and forced a smile. ‘You’ve done more than enough, Dave. Get some rest. You’ll need your strength in the morning.’
Dave’s eyes narrowed and his lips drew back in a snarl. He thrust the basinet under one arm, turned away from Barek and limped towards the camp.
‘Can’t please some people, eh, sir,’ Solomon said, stepping from the gloom like a ghost.
Barek suppressed a pang of irritation. The boy—Solomon had just turned sixteen—had shadowed him ever since the flight from the templum.
‘I was about to grab some kip,’ Barek said, pointedly rolling out his blanket.
Solomon crouched down, eyes fixed on the thin strip of red that was fading from the horizon.
‘Me too, sir. Just thought I’d see if there’s anything you wanted me to do.’
What was it about people wanting to do things for him? Barek gritted his teeth and forced himself to relax.
‘Just get some sleep, Sol. There’ll be plenty to do in the morning.’
Solomon nodded, rocking on his haunches. ‘Sir,’ he drew in a big gulp of air. ‘Back there at the templum…’
‘You did good, Sol. We all did.’
The lad pushed down on his thighs and stood. ‘I was scared, sir. I should’ve helped him—Master Shader.’
Barek had been feeling the same way, but he knew there was nothing they could have done. No matter what ideals of bravery they held, they were only human after all. He shuddered at the recollection of the terror emanating from the demon.
‘It takes more than swords to stand against some foes. Better to retreat and fight another day.’
‘That’s what the others say, but Elgin, sir—excuse me for saying it— Elgin says if he was in charge he’d have made us stay.’
Barek dropped his head. He’d been expecting this. What right did he have to lead the Order, just because Shader had left and Gaston was out of the way? Justin was the natural choice, but he’d last been seen out cold on the ground in front of the templum. Barek had assumed command because no one else had, but the challenge was bound to come sooner or later.
‘Elgin has a right to speak his mind,’ Barek said. ‘Maybe in the morning we should elect a new master.’
Solomon sucked in his lips. He opened his mouth to say something, but was arrested by a cry from one of the sentries.
‘Someone’s coming up.’
Barek grabbed his sword and scabbard and ran towards the sound, Solomon close on his heels. He placed a hand on the sentry’s shoulder— Gord Pelham from Broken Bridge.
‘Who is it, Gord?’
‘There, sir.’ Gord pointed into the darkness as a figure emerged from the tree-line. ‘Blow me for a…I mean, bless my soul, it’s Justin.’
Barek’s heart jumped and his mouth felt suddenly dry. ‘Justin,’ he called out. ‘You’re OK.’
Shadows flickered across Justin as he stopped to warm his hands above the outermost campfire.
‘Shit would be a better way to describe how I feel.’ He turned to indicate the bloody tangle of hair at the back of his head. ‘Thanks for your help. Much appreciated.’
Barek lowered his eyes and picked at his teeth with his thumbnail. ‘Justin, I’m sorry. Shader…’ Barek tensed as Justin came towards him around the fire.
‘Shader was right,’ Justin said, ‘and Gaston screwed up. Reckon I deserved it.’
Barek looked up, mouth dropping open and no words coming out.
‘I might be a hard bastard,’ Justin slapped a hand on Barek’s shoulder, ‘but I’m not a total fuckwit. OK, maybe I hoped we could take the good from Cadman and pass on the bad.’ He patted the pommel of his sword and rubbed the front of his chainmail hauberk. ‘And we already know I’m not your typical Nousian; but that business at the templum was too much. Fuck, man, I got caught up in it at the time, but once the fighting died down I nearly crapped myself at what we’d done. How many we got left?’
‘Thirty-five, including you,’ Barek said, scanning the camp.
Justin sniffed. ‘Got any food? I’m starving.’
Dave hobbled over with a plate of sausages and a huge doorstop of bread. It gave Ba
rek the creeps. Seemed like the hunchback knew exactly what was needed before anyone even realized there was a need. If Justin was concerned, he didn’t show it. He snatched the food and began to wolf it down, speaking through mouthfuls.
‘Thanks. And you are?’
Dave bowed so low his forehead nearly grazed the ground. ‘Dave, Master. Your humble servant.’
Justin raised an eyebrow at Barek, who just shrugged. ‘Followed us from Calphon. He’s been a great help.’
Dave wrinkled his nose at that, spat, and shuffled off towards the next fire, collecting plates and mumbling something over and over in a low monotone.
‘Cool,’ Justin said. ‘So, tell me, Barek, what’s it like being boss now?’ Justin wrapped an arm around Barek’s neck and gave a big squeeze, leading him to the centre of the circle of fires. The other knights stood, many of them drawing swords. Barek felt his chin quivering and couldn’t keep the fear from his voice when he spoke.
‘You’re the leader, Justin. Always were, after Gaston, and Ain knows where he is now.’
Justin released him and stood up tall, hands on hips. ‘The leader should be the strongest? Is that what you’re saying?’
Barek grimaced. ‘Well, yes.’
Justin drew his sword and held it high. ‘The strength of a man is measured by his sword, eh?’ He spun round to take in the assembled knights, who must have seen something on his face as they began to laugh and put their weapons away.
Barek forced himself to look into Justin’s eyes, which reflected the glow of the campfires, but may also have had a twinkle of their own.
‘Come on, Barek. Why so serious? You’re the boss now. The lads trust you, and just look at what you’ve already done.’
Barek turned his palms up. ‘What?’
Justin raised his voice to make sure everyone could hear. ‘You brought the Order to safety. You made the big decision, man, and it was the right one.’
‘Bollocks!’ Elgin said, stepping into the circle, his broad shoulders swallowing up his neck. He towered above Barek and Justin, his barrel chest making him seem almost as wide as he was tall.
‘You’re the boss, Justin, and that’s final. Besides Gaston, no one else comes close with a sword. Don’t get me wrong. Barek’s a nice enough bloke, but he ain’t got the balls to lead.’
A few of the knights grumbled their agreement.
Justin’s eyes were locked to Barek’s, apparently awaiting his next move. Barek was about to say that he agreed with Elgin when Sol appeared at his side.
‘I say Barek should lead. He’s the one that got us out of the city. What we need now is a level head in charge.’
Elgin snarled at him. ‘I’ll level your fucking head if you don’t shut it, wimp.’
Sol stood his ground, despite the fact that his hands were shaking. ‘In the absence of the appointed master,’ Sol was quoting Shader’s rule verbatim, ‘a successor shall be elected by no fewer than a majority of seventy percent.’
‘Yeah? Well I reckon I got about seventy percent right here,’ Elgin said, raising a club-like fist and stepping towards Sol. Without thinking, Barek got in between them, hand on the hilt of his sword, eyes narrowing.
‘Back down, big man.’
Elgin faltered, looked from Justin to Barek, and then bared his teeth. ‘You shogging little runt!’ Elgin reached for his sword, but Justin’s foot snapped out and caught him in the groin. Elgin deflated like an empty wineskin, clutched his balls and sank to his knees. Justin lunged forward and cracked him on the chin with an uppercut that sent Elgin sprawling to the dirt.
‘You got my vote, Barek,’ Justin said. ‘Don’t let me down.’
‘Mine too,’ Sol said, standing to attention and lifting his chin.
A chorus of agreement sounded from the watching knights, with the only dissent a feeble moan from Elgin. Barek caught sight of Dave the Slave looking up from the scrubbing of a pan, bottom lip sticking out, head cocked to one side and nodding slightly.
‘That’s settled then,’ Justin said. ‘Barek’s the new Master.’
Barek drew in a deep breath and rolled his shoulders to ease a bit of the tension. ‘What if Gaston comes back? Or Shader?’
‘Shog them,’ Justin said. ‘Reckon they made their choices. Ain’t that right, lads?’
A great shout of ‘yeah’ went up, and then, one by one, the knights knelt and bowed their heads.
A lump formed in Barek’s throat and his eyes welled up. He waved his acknowledgement and then raised his voice.
‘Dave,’ he called to the hunchback, who was standing just beyond the circle of knights. ‘Don’t suppose you have any wine?’
Dave scurried forwards still wiping at a pan. ‘I could ask about, Master.’ He nodded down the hill towards the houses. ‘I’d love it if you’d let me prepare a feast. Don’t worry, Master, I’ll do the clearing up.’
‘Did someone mention wine?’ Gord hollered from his post. ‘What’re you waiting for?’
As Dave hurried from the camp, Barek offered his hand to Justin. ‘I’ll need you by my side, Justin.’
‘I know. So, what’s the plan for the morning?’
Barek sighed. They didn’t have enough men to retake the city, and yet they couldn’t abandon the people.
‘Don’t see we have much choice,’ he said. ‘We are Nousians, after all.’
Justin’s mouth curled into a grim smile as he seated himself by a fire, gesturing for Barek to join him.
‘Don’t think I’m gonna like this,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’d better tell me once the wine starts flowing.’
IN TOO DEEP
Something’s wrong.
Cadman chewed anxiously at the tips of his chubby fingers. He peeked through the slats of the shutters onto the lamp-lit street outside Arnbrook House. A cordon of corpses faced the building, red eyes glaring like Jack-o’-lanterns. The broad plaza beyond was packed with rows of undead drawn up in a gigantic phalanx. The corpses were in varying states of decay and shrouded in soiled rags. They clutched an assortment of weapons—some martial, others janitorial. Nothing to be feared there. Outside, all was still. No one had dared approach his army and the cadavers could do nothing unless Cadman commanded it: they were totally subservient to his will.
Cadman felt bone weary and would have yawned, only he’d forgotten how. He’d never raised so many corpses before, and yet he’d still only required a fraction of the statue’s power. Maybe it was worth the risk, coming out of hiding to take centre stage when the rewards were so high. The ever-present chill in his bones had turned to ice. He might have believed that had it not been for the memory of the look his driver had given him, the echoes of the mocking laughter. Oh, there’d been no repeat performance, not yet at any rate, but he’d seen enough to rue the day he ignored his own advice.
Didn’t Mama say never speak with strangers? I can’t really see what else you’d call a mysterious man in black walking into the surgery demanding treatment for the rotting carcass of a cat. You’re an oaf, Cadman, an imbecile.
Never draw attention, never act, and never, ever trust a psychopathic dead-cat fetishist.
He fastened the buttons of his jacket over the mountain of his belly and thrust his hands into the pockets, where warmth still radiated from the eye and the fang.
Just tired, perhaps.
Cadman turned to the globe drinks cabinet he’d had brought up from Councillor Arkin’s office the night before. He’d sold it to the councillor years ago and used the money to set up his surgery. Arkin had no further need of it. The old soak was out there in the phalanx, probably wielding a bottle of Scotch as a club. Cadman spun the globe around on its castors so he didn’t have to look at Verusia then flipped up the top hemisphere and selected a Gallic brandy. He wished he could say it was good stuff—undoubtedly it was if Arkin’s reputation was anything to go by—but it all tasted the same to him.
Someone screamed in the corridor outside. Cadman poured himself a double.
It was h
ard to tell if it was a woman or a man until the fellow started to plead. Cadman took a sip and swilled the tasteless fluid around his mouth. Councillor Willem, by the sound of it. Good show for the devious old scoundrel to hold out so long. No doubt caught on his way to the latrines. Poor chap had probably been holding it in for hours. No mean feat with a prostate the size of a melon. Bravo, old chap. Bravo.
As Willem’s gurgling cries died away, Cadman flopped into his chair and glanced over the medical papers awaiting his attention. He picked up the first and read the patient’s name.
‘Dead.’ He scrunched it into a ball and dropped it on the floor.
‘Dead.’ He did the same with the next. ‘Dead, dead, dead.’
Tiring of the effort, he swept the entire stack into the bin and gave himself a refill.
‘Shader still lives,’ said the whispering wind.
Cadman sprayed brandy all over the desk and leapt to his feet.
‘Up here.’
The ceiling bulged and sagged as a glob of blackness swelled into being. Cadman squinted and backed against the wall. A belly button popped out, followed by an avalanche of flab as the stomach dropped to the floor and quivered in a pool of lard. The black stuff parted and a face emerged, its features sliding about beneath the skin, swapping places so that eyes became ears, the chin a nose, and the cheeks great meaty lips. The continuous warping forced Cadman to look away out of fear for his sanity.
‘You didn’t say anything about the Sword of the Archon, coupled with which he had the body of the statue upon his person.’ The voice was sickly sweet, an innocent child who’d been led astray.
Sword of the Archon? What the deuce is that?
‘How was I to know?’ Cadman said, sidling back to the desk and pouring another drink with shaking hands. Most of the brandy splashed to the tabletop, but the rest he downed in one.
‘Tut, tut, Doctor.’ The face took on a sterner aspect, older and drawn, the nose long and aquiline, grey hair slicked back and stained with yellow. Cadman dropped his glass and scrambled away, frantically trying to get to the door.