Limbo's Child (Book One of The Dead Things Series)

by Jonah Hewitt

  “There may yet be an heir.” Moríro said absentmindedly more to himself than to the two cadavers standing in front of him.

  The two corpses looked nervously at each other.

  “May?” The thin one asked. “How is it that Necromancer does not know?”

  “Do you think to question me, Hokharty?!!” Moríro suddenly bellowed.

  “Apologies, Master,” Hokharty replied, and he gave another small bow, “We do not wish to offend, we are only trying to…” he looked up at the thick one and narrowed his eyes and spoke the next word carefully, “understand.”

  “Understand this,” Lazlo spoke forcefully, “Margarita had a child, I don’t when or how, but she had a child, a girl apparently, and this child is the heir and it must be found, at all costs, before someone else does.” Then more softly, “Someone is trying to upset the balance between our two worlds,” Moríro muttered, thinking aloud, biting his knuckle in frustration.

  Hokharty spoke carefully, “At all costs?” He repeated. The two corpses exchanged subtle glances once again “What is it the Necromancer wishes of his servants?” Hokharty spoke solemnly.

  “Find the child. Bring her to me. Do all in your power to protect her.”

  The two corpses were silent for a moment. The large one seemed to smile, slightly. The thin one was more cautious.

  “Does the Necromancer knows of what he speaks?” the thin one sounded slightly irritated.

  “Of course I do!” Moríro said, affronted, “This child could be the new heir. If so, then she must be found, before she is harmed.”

  “It is not that simple Master,” The thin one raised a thin finger as if to admonish Moríro. “The Great Master cannot be compelled as a common lackey. If the original heir has died, then he has willed it and no man can go against that.”

  “The child is in danger!” Lazlo replied testily.

  “If Death is after the child, then Death will have her.” The thin one replied in a matter-of-fact tone. Moríro’s face blanched in anger but the corpse continued before he could speak. “The Necromancer ca not stay or force the Great Master’s hand without grave consequences.” The corpse paused as if to collect the thoughts in his still rotting brain. “Death… must… remain… neutral.” He spoke each word with particular emphasis. “No servant may take the power of the Great Master unto himself lightly. Good or evil, rich or poor, all must come under his heel, the balance must be preserved. His powers are given only to his champion.” And with that the skeletal finger pointed directly towards Moríro’s chest. “And then only to maintain that balance. If you seek to thwart that, the balance will be undone.”

  “Don’t patronize me you old courtier. The child must be found!!”

  “Does the Necromancer know what he asks?” Hokharty said once again, this time more forcefully.

  The two were frozen in a tense moment; the bony finger of the corpse remained outstretched towards the chest of the Necromancer.

  Moríro seemed lost in thought. He dropped his gaze to his feet and uttered an almost silent whisper, “Sí.”

  The corpse relaxed and dropped the outstretched finger. “Then command me, Necromancer. Release me. Give me full charge and I will do all in my power to find her and protect her and restore the balance between the worlds.” The thin corpse gave another slight bow. Moríro didn’t like the tone Hokharty had used when he spoke the title, “Necromancer,” and he wasn’t certain what the old mummy was driving at, but he needed him now.

  “Hokharty, I charge thee in all things, use all your powers to find the girl, protect her, and bring her to me, safe.”

  Graber moved forward slightly, but Hokharty put a hand to his chest to stop him.

  “And what of the hunters? And night stalkers and other minions? What of them?” Hokharty inquired.

  “I doubt there are many left, but whatever you may find, call them. Use whoever you need to find the girl.” Lazlo said, and then in a lower voice, “Do all that you need to to restore the balance,” and then as an afterthought added, “But see that you harm no living soul.”

  The corner of Hokharty’s mouth moved minutely, as if suppressing a smile. He looked satisfied. The thick one looked disappointed, however.

  “Then it will be done, Master,” and this time, both Hokharty and the thick corpse bowed slowly.

  “Start with this one,” Moríro pointed towards Tim lying still as a dead fish on the metal morgue drawer. When Moríro pointed at him, Tim hoped all that angry language he couldn’t understand wasn’t about him. “He knows where she can be found, but go quickly, others will be searching.”

  Hokharty tilted his head at the word “others,” but if this was a surprise to him, he said nothing. Moríro turned to go.

  “You’re not coming, Necromancer?” Hokharty said tentatively.

  “No,” said Moríro, stopping mid-turn, “I have questions that need to be answered.” If Hokharty knew what he meant by this, it didn’t show.

  “Wait ‘til I leave before you go. I don’t want any trouble.” He turned to go and walked to the swinging door, then stopped and looked back at them. “And find yourself some clothes…” and then as final thought, “and find Graber a hat!”

  Moríro stormed out of the door and left them behind. They stood there watching silently as the swinging door went back and forth and back and forth and finally came to a stop. Graber reached up with his massive, free hand and scratched the gaping wound on his head.

  Hokharty turned slowly and folded one arm across his chest. The other hand he raised close to his face and rubbed the fingers together as if thinking.

  “Lift him up,” he said to Graber in perfect high-medieval German.

  Graber unceremoniously lifted Tim by his face and set him on his backside in a sitting position. Tim’s eyes frantically darted back and forth between the two nightmare corpses, but he didn’t resist otherwise.

  Hokharty then spoke to Tim in perfect English, but with an indiscernible lilting accent. On the surface it was nearly a perfect Oxford English accent with a touch of something foreign, eastern, exotic and ancient. “I am going to tell my friend here to let go of your mouth. If you think to scream or run, he will crush your skull before the thought has had a chance to reach your limbs or your voice box.” In actuality, this wasn’t true. The Necromancer had charged them to harm no “living soul” and Tim was definitely living, but he doubted this man could speak any of the ancient tongues that were spoken just minutes before. “Do you understand?”

  Tim looked towards Graber, who returned a discomfiting smile, then looked back at Hokharty and nodded as well as he could through Graber’s gigantic paw.

  Hokharty lowered his gaze towards Graber. That was the only signal that Graber needed. Graber removed his hand from over Tim’s mouth, but placed his other hand firmly on the back of Tim’s neck. Tim gulped in a few free breaths, but other than the panting, was silent.

  “Good,” said Hokharty, “Now, first, we will need clothes. Where can we find them?”

  Tim looked around nervously, not certain if he had permission to speak, but decided to chance it.

  “Th-th-there’s some scrubs and things in the custodial closet just down the hall.”

  “Will anyone see us?” Hokharty inquired, as calmly as if he were asking directions to a local pub.

  “N-no. I don’t think so,” Tim was rubbing the sweat off his palms onto his pants.

  “Good,” Hokharty looked pleased. Pleased was ok, thought Tim. He hadn’t expected zombies to be this polite, so that was something at least.

  “We will retrieve the clothes and ask you more about this girl, but in the meantime I have a question for you.”

  Tim raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

  “How would you like to live forever?”

  Tim wiped his palms some more and thought.

  “Well, for the moment, I’m just concentrating on living through the next hour.”

  Hokharty smiled slightly, and Tim thought he saw a
sharp fang slip over the lower lip when he did. Hokharty dropped the smile quickly though, and rubbed his fingers together close to his face.

  “Good.” Then he turned to Graber and spoke in Old German. “Put him back in the drawer…but gently this time.”

  Tim felt the heavy hand of Graber on his back pull him slowly down into a lying position on the metal drawer. Hokharty leaned over him and spoke, “We will return for you shortly. Until then, please, try not to make any noise.”

  Hokharty turned and went out of sight. Graber, with his massive hands and huge gaping head wound, leaned over Tim, put his finger to his lips and went, “Shhh.” Then he shut the drawer with Tim inside.

  As Tim lay there in the complete darkness inside the morgue drawer, wondering about all that had just taken place, he thought to himself, “I really ought to call my brother and apologize about the Caprice.”

  Chapter Five

  The Marsh of Lost Souls

  Nephys thrust the punting pole down into the reedy, black mud and slowly pushed the skiff forward on the stagnant water. Hiero was at the prow like some demented figurehead, scanning the featureless horizon. From where he stood in the stern, Nephys could barely see above the tall reeds. They were well beyond the plains of Limbo now, out into the marshes and dark swamps that surrounded it for miles. Nephys didn’t like going out this far, but fortunately he still remembered how to navigate his boat through the thick bulrushes like he did when he was alive. There wasn’t much he remembered, but he did remember that. They hadn’t seen many shades though, so he had that to be grateful for.

  “Do you see anything yet?”

  “Fhank-blatt,” the bagpipe spluttered.

  That meant “no.” An imp could sniff out a suffering soul like a bloodhound could sniff out a blood trail – except imps could do it over open water. Suffering was their life bread – they fed on it, and it didn’t take much to set them on the scent…a galling mistake, a frustrating afternoon, an embarrassing memory that suddenly came rushing back, anything really, and an imp would be on you like a tick. Still, the two of them had never been out quite this far or long before, and Nephys was getting nervous. Shades could be as hungry as imps were, though they preferred the taste of sadness and despair.

  “Are you sure you sensed something this way?”

  Hiero’s whooshing breath went silent for a moment, and then the bagpipe exploded. “Fhank, thaaaarn, thookooool bummm-paaaarhntf!!!” which, as near as Nephys could translate meant, “If you’re so darn anxious to get there, then why don’t you…USE YOUR DEATH SIGHT ALREADY!!”

  It was true. Nephys could use the inner sight and all the reeds would become like glass and he could see to the horizon. The bright flame of a newly departed soul would be easy to see, but he had already used the Death Sight once this morning. Each time you used the Sight, it caused your natural eyes to atrophy a little more and he wasn’t quite ready to go blind that much sooner. Turning back had its own risks though. He didn’t want an angry, psychotic bagpipe following him around all day.

  He was just about to suggest giving up when Hiero bleated out a triumphant, discordant note. Hiero plunged the big butcher knife forward with his spidery arm and nearly threw himself out of the boat in the process. Nephys could see something above the reeds ahead. The water grew shallower and Nephys pushed the boat forward onto a nearby shoal. Hiero was out of the boat and splashing ahead, using the knife like a machete to clear a path, hooting and slashing in anticipation.

  “Noisy thing,” muttered Nephys. He’d bring every shade within a furlong down on them. Fortunately, shades were just as scared of imps as everyone else. Nephys secured the boat and stepped off; his feet sunk deep into the black muck. It pulled and sucked at every footstep. Eventually, Nephys managed to find firm ground and pulled himself free, following Hiero’s trumpeting cacophony. The ground here was firmer and drier and the reeds became less thick; with a final push, Nephys pressed on past the rushes into a small, damp clearing. Hiero was nearby, silent, and even Nephys gaped at what he saw.

  It was a tree, a large tree, with two large trunks, shaped like a “V.” High up, higher than a person could reach was some awful, huge, twisted hunk of metal and glass squeezed in the scissor grip of the tree, like a poor animal in a trap. The tree was denser and more solid and somehow more real than its surroundings.

  Once, there had been trees in Limbo, whole orchards in fact, but now there were none outside of a few twisted, dead trunks near the acropolis of the city. The whole landscape of Limbo had changed over the centuries. The plains progressively got swampier. The center of Limbo was getting lower as well. Like a sandcastle melting in the surf, the whole of Limbo was slowing eroding. Since the orchards of the dead had disappeared long ago, this tree could only have come from one place – it had been dragged from the land of the living.

  Such things were not impossible, but they didn’t happen very often. Most souls arrived in Limbo in the usual way, through the gates of Erebus, muttering, disoriented, and bearing the wounds and marks of the method of their parting. They were generally not in the best of sorts, but they knew they were dead and more or less resigned to something like a compliant state. There, the servants of Death processed them, recorded their names and measured their wounds, but it was not the only way to get to the afterlife.

  The world of the living lay over the top of the underworld like a tablecloth on a table. In certain places and at certain times it could be very thin. So thin, that if a person’s death was violent enough, traumatic enough, it could tear through and drop them here, in the swamps surrounding Limbo, or further away, in the barren desert wastes that surrounded the Pits of Punishment. When that happened, the dead often dragged something, an echo you could call it, a psychic manifestation of their death, with them. A murder victim could conjure the weapon that had killed him. A person who was long sick on their deathbed would often bring a shadow of that bed with them, but Nephys had never seen someone drag a whole tree after them before. The soul must have been wrenched from life suddenly with a near unfathomable amount of pain and horror, like an arm torn from its socket by a wild beast. No wonder Hiero could smell this thing from so far off.

  Nephys scanned the tree and the twisted hunk of metal. He recognized the wheels and suddenly knew what it was. Over thousands of years, the arriving souls had changed their dress and language a great deal, but for most of that time Nephys could tell the world was largely the same place he had left. Every culture had its bakers and blacksmiths, millers, scribes and politicians, housewives, maids, and cobblers. People were people and no matter how strange or foreign, they still had to eat and they still got around by horses and carts, but in the last century that had all changed. Spirits started showing up with strange devices of no discernable purpose. Worse yet were the ones with horrifying wounds with bits of glass and metal embedded in them. Some carried strange wheels still gripped tightly in their hands, while others had the marks of wheels on them, heavy wheels that crushed their bodies as they passed.

  In snatches of conversations between these new arrivals he had overheard how men now moved about in strange, fast-moving carts­­ – metal and glass carriages powered by steam and fire without horses. How these conveyances worked was a mystery to Nephys, but it was certainly some sort of evil magic, because they extracted a heavy toll. Never had so many mangled souls entered the Gates of Erebus before. The Children of Limbo referred to them as “death-carts” and were convinced they were a conspiracy on the part of the Great Master to speed up the work. Nephys had never seen a whole one before, but this mangled metal thing stuck in the tree had to be one of them.

  “Phlarnk!” Hiero nudged Nephys’ leg, hooted and gestured with his nose trumpet. Nephys could see a woman struggling frantically at the base of the tree. She was desperately trying to climb it to reach the metal carcass of the death cart, but she instead clawed helplessly at the bark, sliding back down to the ground. With each failed attempt, she became more desperate until she collaps
ed at the base of the tree, sobbing hysterically.

  “Fhwooootonk!”

  Hiero was right. They had to put an end to this right away. All that crying was bound to attract some shades. There were certainly shades nearby, and Nephys didn’t want to meet up with any way out here. Touching a single shade was like thrusting your hand under ice water for several minutes. If several shades surrounded you, it was like falling into an icy lake, and release only came when you managed to escape or became a shade yourself.

  Nephys quickly padded over to the sobbing woman. Hiero splashed alongside him in the puddles like a lame, but excited, dog. When he got closer he could see that she was tall and thin and dark haired, but not young. Middle-aged he guessed. It was hard to tell her age exactly; after a while all of the dead looked the same to Nephys. She was dressed in the strange, tight-fitting pants that so many souls wore now, but they looked uncomfortably binding to him. Nephys stopped just a few feet short of her and didn’t know what to say or do. Hiero looked from Nephys to her and back to Nephys again.

  “Haaaarnt!” Hiero hooted exasperatedly. Then he shoved Nephys hard behind the knees until he nearly fell over.

  “Stop that!” Nephys muttered hoarsely.

  “fhun, fhun, fhun…weeeeeeenarn,” Hiero bleated sulkily. He hated dithering.

  “Alright then, fine.” Nephys took a few cautious, small steps forward. Nothing was worse than being less decisive than a demonic wind instrument. Nephys approached carefully and said nervously, “Hello.”

  The woman didn’t notice and kept on sobbing. Nephys tried a little louder, this time with some throat clearing as well. Still nothing. Nephys had learned many languages working as a scribe in the record houses of the dead. He tried various greetings in several of these, but still nothing. She couldn’t see him. She couldn’t hear him. It was like he wasn’t there at all. This was bad. A soul torn so swiftly and violently from the land of the living was often in such a state of shock, it couldn’t be made to understand the nature of its new reality. Most did not even know they were dead. If she couldn’t be made to see the truth, and quickly, she would be locked forever in a state of denial, forever clawing at the base of the tree, sobbing. That is, until she became a shade, at which point she would wander without a thought at all, clinging only to the memory of the terrible sadness that had consumed her.