Gruntle, without being asked, poured half a pint of watery beer and handed it across the scratched and splintery bartop. “On the house,” he said. “But when you’ve finished that, be on your way. I don’t cater to princes. Nor them who bring them here, neither. Ruins my reputation.”
One look at Gruntle’s face was enough to convince Marley that argument would be futile. He downed his beer in a single swallow, dumped the mug back on the nearest table, and tried to take his leave. To his horror, he found that his legs appeared to have become disconnected from his brain. “Can’t move,” he said. “Can’t move!”
A croak of laughter came from the darkest shadows beyond the line, where Mucus, Mildew, and Corruption were crouched.
“’Twas the power of the music,” Mucus said.
“It twists the mind,” Mildew agreed.
“And dulls the senses.” Corruption gave a harsh cackle.
Gruntle Marrowgrease snorted. “Dulls the senses, does it? So it seems I’m stuck with you, Marley Bagsmith. Humph! If you can’t move, you’d better polish these glasses. I don’t have no freeloaders in my establishment.” And he dumped a heap of mugs in front of Marley, together with a greasy rag.
As Marley slowly began his task, the landlord stepped away to open the wooden hatch leading to the cellar, where the beer casks were kept. “It’s OK, Mr. Bullstrop,” he said. “You can come out now.” There was no response, and Gruntle raised his voice. “TAKE THE WOOL OUT OF YOUR EARS, MR. BULLSTROP! I said, you can come out now. What was it you was wanting to talk to me about? Something to do with silver?”
The Ancient One stared at the fine silver fabric stretched in front of her on the web of power. A sharp, raised line was running from one side to the other as if a thread had been pulled. As she watched, the gleaming silver on the nearer side began to dim, slowly turning an ugly gray.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “Elsie, have a look at this.”
Elsie got up from the secondary loom. “Anything to get away from that dreadful scarlet,” she said. “Still, we’ve only got a couple more cloaks, and then we’ll be finished.” She stretched. “It may be good money, but I’ll be delighted to see the back of them. What’s the matter?”
“Someone, or something, has tried to break across the border protecting the Five Kingdoms,” Edna told her. “See how clear it is!”
“Can you tell where it happened?” Elsie asked.
Edna sighed. “If only I could. It’s a vicious attack, though. Look at the color.”
“But at least it’s still outside the kingdoms,” Elsie pointed out. She peered more closely at the web. “Is it my imagination, or are those lumps and bumps getting bigger?”
The Ancient One took another look. “You’re right. The giants must have decided to come this way after all. Never mind. They aren’t dangerous, and they know not to go too near the border. I’m far more concerned about this attack. We’ll strengthen the enchantment . . . There’s not much else we can do until we know more.”
Val came wandering into room seventeen, yawning. “Foyce and I are having a cup of tea,” she said. “Would either of you like one? And is there any news of Gracie?”
“Not yet.” The Ancient One was loading her shuttle from a basket beneath her stool. “But I’m sure there’ll be news quite soon.”
Val’s gaze sharpened. “Why are you using that silver filigree thread? Is there an emergency?”
“Not that I’ve heard.” Edna’s voice was very calm. “But someone tried to break across the border, so I’m making sure it hasn’t been weakened.” She tied in the thread and began to weave with long steady throws of the shuttle.
The filigree sparkled brightly against the gray, and Val folded her arms.
“Something’s wrong. I know it is. I can tell, you know. I may be the youngest of you all, but I have feelings in my toe bones, and my toe bones are telling me that something’s just not right.”
“That’s because Gracie’s wearing your slippers,” Elsie said tartly. “You’ve been grumpy ever since she left.”
Val snorted. “I’ve been worried, if you don’t mind. And Gracie’s welcome to my slippers whenever she wants them. I just hope they’ve kept the poor girl’s feet warm, wherever she’s gotten to.”
“Hush, girls,” the Ancient One interrupted. “I can’t concentrate with you two arguing. Elsie, those cloaks need to be finished as soon as possible. And, Val, we need to figure out who’s going to deliver them if Gracie doesn’t get back in time. You might have to take them, dear. But for the moment, perhaps you and Foyce can make sure the crockery’s safe. If the giants are heading this way, we’re in for some serious disturbance.”
Albion managed almost a hundred yards at a sprint before his body noticed what was happening and put in a formal complaint. His legs gave way, and with a loud groan, he collapsed into the grassy strip beside the path. “Oooooh!” he wailed. “Oooooh!”
Gracie, her ears still ringing from Fiddleduster’s music, came running toward him. “Prince Albion! Are you all right?” She knelt beside him as he lay back and closed his eyes with a dramatic moan. Gracie glanced up at Auntie Vera, who was hovering over her head. “Is Marcus anywhere near yet? Albion needs help! What do you think they did to him?”
Albion’s eyes stayed shut, but he managed a martyred smile. “Tortured . . .” he whispered. “I’ve been tortured . . .”
“That’s terrible!” Gracie said. “We must get you home at once — Oh! Where’s Marley Bagsmith?”
Albion’s smile faded. “He’s a ruffian! A thug! He kidnapped me! ME! Prince Albion!” The prince’s tone suggested that it would have been fine for Marley to kidnap anyone else, and Gracie’s sympathetic expression wavered. “When I get home, I’ll send out the guard. I’ll have him thrown in the dungeons!” Albion was now sitting bolt upright, the better to shake his pudgy fists. “It won’t do! I won’t have it! I thought he was going to be my spy and find things out for me, and what does he do? First he bops me on the head, and then he kidnaps me! And all because he wants me to see some weirdo who plays the fiddle like a load of scalded cats!”
“But it wasn’t actually Marley who hit you,” Gracie began, but Albion was in no state to listen.
“Of course he did. I trusted him, and what’s more I gave him loads of money, and he bopped me on the head, I tell you . . .”
As Albion continued to rant, Auntie Vera settled herself on a nearby bush to doze, and Gracie began to think of other things. She was getting less worried about the prince’s state of health by the second; anyone who could talk so much and for so long must be reasonably all right. She did her best to look interested, but in the back of her head, she was considering the best way to transport him back to the palace. Would he get back in the wheelbarrow? It seemed unlikely.
Marlon, flying down to report, chuckled as he heard the prince’s plaintive ramblings, but his news was sufficiently urgent to prevent him from taking time to listen for long. He had noticed Fiddleduster Squint’s exit from the back of the Howling Arms and had been sufficiently interested by that strange gentleman’s evidently apoplectic state of mind to follow him, keeping his ears wide open as he flew. What he heard made him fly a sudden, shocked zigzag.
“Holy moly!” he muttered, and it was only when Fiddleduster trailed under the broken archway of his ancient ruin that the bat circled slowly away. He was thinking hard. “A zombie on the warpath, swearing terrible revenge on the Five Kingdoms. Does he mean it? Could well be. And what have we got to stop him? The Trueheart, the prince, and me, Marlon Batster —”
“Don’t forget me, Unc!” The squeak was right behind Marlon and made him swerve.
Alf twittered in delight. “You’re losing it, Uncle M! You never heard me, did you? Alf — super-silent bat!”
More shaken than he would ever have admitted, Marlon took refuge in being cross. “This ain’t no time for the funnies! Where’ve you been?”
Alf giggled. “I met the other Mr. Prince who looks like o
ur Mr. Prince, and he’s on his way to find Miss Gracie and our Mr. Prince and the other one. The one in the wheelbarrow.”
Marlon digested this news. He had no very high opinion of Arioso, but reinforcements might be necessary. “Okey-dokey. Now, pin back your ears. Gotta job for you. See that place below? Ruins ’n’ all?” His nephew nodded. “Get down there. Watch. Listen. There’s one angry zombie, and I want him checked. Every word he says. Every step he takes. Sharp, mind! There could be dark stuff brewing.” He gave the little bat a searching look. “Get it?”
Alf’s eyes shone, and he raised one wing in a salute. “Got it! Alf Batster never fails! See ya, Unc!”
As Alf fluttered down to the ruins of Howling Castle, Marlon had flown to find Gracie. Albion’s tale of woe was continuing unabated, but as the bat circled toward them, there was a clattering of hooves from the opposite direction, and Marcus came galloping into view. Gracie jumped to her feet, her cheeks scarlet. With a shout of relief, Marcus slid off the saddle, rushed across the grass, and hugged her.
“Oi!” Albion struggled to his feet in indignation. “What’s going on? Put that girl down! You’re meant to be rescuing ME! Hey! MARCUS! I’m talking to you!”
Marcus, suddenly shy at having so obviously shown his feelings, let Gracie go. “Hello, Albion. Thought you’d been kidnapped?”
Albion pouted. “I have. I was. It was TERRIBLE!” He swayed to and fro while he tried to make up his mind if a faint would make Marcus realize how much he had suffered. As Marcus immediately turned back to Gracie, he decided against it. “Look here, Marcus old boy — it’s not good enough! I’ve been bopped on the head! And then wheeled off to be tortured!”
“Sounds nasty,” Marcus said in an offhand way. “But you look OK now.”
“I most certainly am NOT!” Albion puffed out his cheeks. “I’m . . . I’m in shock!”
Gracie decided it was time to intervene. “I do think we should get him back to the palace. He still looks pale, and he was unconscious for a very long time.”
“I was,” Albion said proudly. “I was unconscious all the way down the vegetable garden and all along that horrible windy path. You’ve never seen so many ruts and bumps, Marcus, and I felt every single one of them. I’m feeling very poorly.”
Marcus gave Gracie the faintest suspicion of a wink as he said, “You’re quite right, Albion. You’re a poor old thing. Look, why don’t we put you on Hinny? She’s the gentlest pony ever, and it won’t take long to get you home — What’s the matter?”
Albion was backing away, trembling. “No!” he said. “No! I can’t! I can’t ride! No ponies!”
“But —”
Marcus was about to argue, but Gracie saw that Albion was genuinely terrified. She stepped between the two princes. “It’s OK,” she said soothingly. “We’ll think of something else. Maybe one of us could go and get help from the palace. They must be ever so worried about you.” She turned to Marcus. “Did you stop in there on your way?”
Marcus stared at her as if she had lost her mind. “Of course not! Marlon said you might be in danger, so I came straight here!”
“Oh.” Gracie smiled so happily that it made Marcus look down at his boots in pleased embarrassment. “Thank you! Erm . . . it would probably be quickest if you ride there while I look after Prince Albion.”
There was a loud protesting wail. “No! You can’t leave me! What if that creature comes to get me?”
Marcus folded his arms. “Come on, Albion. You want to get home, don’t you?”
Albion nodded.
“Then there’s only one answer. If you don’t want to ride Hinny, and you don’t want me to go and fetch help, it’ll have to be the wheelbarrow.” And before his fellow prince had time to protest, Marcus strode off toward the Howling Arms.
By the time he returned, Albion had grumpily agreed that there was no other option. Gracie did her best to make the wheelbarrow more comfortable with handfuls of bracken and Marcus’s jacket, but the invalid still complained nonstop as they began their journey back toward the palace. It was an odd little procession. Marcus wheeled Albion, and Gracie followed behind leading Hinny. Marlon, keeping an ever-watchful eye out for Alf, circled above them. Of Auntie Vera there was no sign.
“I never thought I’d be so miserable,” Albion wailed. “OUCH! That hurt! Can’t you be more careful? OUCH! You might try and avoid the bumps! OUCH! The bracken’s tickling my neck, and I’m sure it’s giving me a horrid rash . . . OUCH! OUCH! OUCH!”
After rather more than an hour of this moaning, Marcus had had enough. He was hot, his back was aching, and his hands were getting blisters. “Albion,” he warned through gritted teeth, “if you don’t shut up, I’m going to dump you on the grass and leave you.”
There was an even louder wail. “But you don’t understand! I’m suffering! It’s all very well for you, Marcus. You’re beefy and strong, but I’m a flower compared to you. A fragile flower! Even my cousin says I’m sensitive, and I am, you know, I’m ever so sensitive and I — Oh, oh, OH, OUCH!”
Marcus, irritated to the point where he could hardly speak, had turned a corner too fast and run into a substantial rock. The wheel twisted, the barrow tipped, and Albion found himself lying on the grass staring up at the sky. He was so outraged at what he was quite certain was a deliberate upset that he completely failed to notice the small bat zooming across his vision.
“Miss Gracie! Mr. Prince! Uncle Marlon! The skeleton’s ever so angry, and he’s gone out of his castle, and he’s got a shadowy thing with him, and they’re going to find giants! Giants! Whatever shall we do?”
At the same moment, a loud clear voice boomed, “Marcus? Is that you? Goodness! Look, Hortense! There’s Gracie Gillypot! And who’s that lying on the ground? Has there been an accident?”
Alf was right. Fiddleduster Squint was angry — angrier than he had ever been before. As the little bat flew in on his spying mission, he had found Fiddleduster storming around the confines of his castle, spitting and chewing at his own bony wrists.
“Pride! Such pride! The fall must be great . . . there must be fire and ruin, death and destruction of all that they hold dear. But how? But how?” He tore his claw-like fingernails down the mossy green wall, leaving deep gashes of white stone. “Even so, would I, Fiddleduster Squint, tear them limb from limb . . . but the border! I cannot cross the border!” He turned and slashed at the wall for a second time. “If their palaces could tumble and fall, crushing them beneath the heavy weight of iron and stone —”
Fiddleduster stopped. For a moment he was still. Gradually his face took on an expression of ferocious cunning, and he licked his bloodless lips. “The giants . . .” he murmured. “The giants! Walking mountains they may be . . . but their brains are small. They know nothing. They live and breathe and eat and drink, but think? No. They do not think, so hollow are their minds. But if something were to creep, to slide, to slither in their ear and whisper, ‘Walk, dear Greatover! Walk, dear Meggymould! Walk, dear Trunkly . . . walk, walk, and do not stop. Walk, then run, then stamp . . . stamp and stamp and STAMP again . . .’” Fiddleduster Squint began to rock with mirthless laughter.
Up in a dark crevice, Alf had shivered as he listened.
“Yes! YES! The giants will shake the kingdom, set it shaking and quaking as never before, and every building will be dust, rubble, and ruin.” Fiddleduster’s eyes gleamed. “I will be avenged! If the prince of the kingdom cannot love my music, then he shall be squashed and crushed, even as a soft green grape is squashed and crushed by a hobnailed boot. Shadow! Come with me!”
And Fiddleduster loped away, his shadow at his heels.
Alf, gazing in horrified fascination, had suddenly remembered his instructions.
“Wowee!” he said to himself as he flew to report his findings. “Wowee!”
The giants, happily unaware of any oncoming danger, were wandering slowly in the direction of the Five Kingdoms, picking nuts and berries as they went. From time to time, Trunkly
would ask hopefully, “IS WE NEAR EGGSIES HOUSES?” and Greatover would shake his enormous head.
“EGGSIES HOUSES IS FAR,” he explained. “WILL FIND TOMORROW.”
Trunkly rubbed her stomach. “TRUNKLY’S TUMBLY IS RUMBLY FOR EGGSIES. TRUNKLY RUN!” She did her best, but after only ten or eleven paces, she was puffed out and red in the face. “OOF! RUNNING IS TOO HARD FOR TRUNKLY.”
“NO RUN.” Greatover was firm. “TOO HARD FOR GIANTS. GO SLOW. SLOW AND STEADY. SLEEP SOON, THEN EGGSIES TOMORROW.”
Such was the length of their stride, even a slow and steady pace took the three giants a long, long way before the sun began to sink over the distant mountains. The hills surrounding the Five Kingdoms were clearly visible when Greatover announced it was time to rest, and Trunkly smiled as she looked at them.
“TRUNKLY HAPPY!” she said, and she did a little jig to prove it. Birds, rudely awoken and shaken off their nighttime perches, scattered across the evening sky, and every door and window in the House of the Ancient Crones rattled.
The china, now tidily stowed in a locked cupboard, was safe enough, but Edna’s evening cup of hot chocolate rocked wildly on its saucer. “Hmm,” she said as she steadied it. “Let’s hope they settle down again soon. Val’s nerves are in pieces, and Elsie’s not her usual self. Still, no point in worrying.” She yawned. “Shall I have another look at the web before I go to bed? No. I’m too tired, and who knows what’ll happen tomorrow. Elsie’ll call me if anything changes.” And the Ancient One was just in time to catch the sugar bowl as another enormous tremor sent it sliding across the table.
The Music of Zombies Page 11