by Ember Lane
“Queer-like?” Merl didn’t like the sound of that. He’d heard of drunk and blotto, but never queer-like.
“Keeps groaning, and his eyes have gone all funny-like.”
“Funny-like?”
Billy had a habit of adding like to the ends of a lot of words. Merl often thought if he could spell like, he’d easily be able to read half of anything Billy wrote. Except Billy couldn’t write—or read for that matter.
“You’d best come,” Billy told Merl, but with less conviction. “Are those sprouts in there?”
“You want a bowl?”
“You drive the cart back to town,” Billy said, grabbed a bowl, and began ladling the stew in.
“Have his eyes have gone white?” Frank enquired. “Is that why they look funny?”
“Like they’ve got milk in them, yes,” Billy answered, then rolled his eyes at Merl. “Who’s your funny-looking friend?”
Merl supposed Frank did look funny. He resembled one of them monks from up the gorge. They looked dafter though. They had funny hair. For some reason, they shaved the middle of their noggins so the shone in the sun.
Frank stiffened. “I am a wizard from the lost city of Quintz, and I’ll have you know, they only let the supremely intelligent in.”
Billy furrowed his brow. “How can it be lost if you know where it is?”
“Ah!” Frank said, jumping up from Merl’s dad’s seat. “It’s lost because no ordinary man can find it. Quintz is the size of an ant’s toe. It is no bigger than a grain borne of the finest Andalisian polishing powder. No sound comes from it. No smell taints it. No path leads to it. Only the greatest, most highly intellectual wizards can find it. Quintz is invisible to all, that’s how.”
“But it’s called Quintz, so won’t it be on a map?” Billy asked.
“Can we get back to my dad?” Merl asked as Billy scraped his bowl clean.
“Jus’ think he’s daft, don’t I? How stupid can you get makin’ a city that small? If a dune dog came along and dumped on it, or somethin’, then it’d be lost forever, and it’d stink.”
Frank let out a strangled sigh. “No one can approach it unless they know how. Do you not think the land’s finest minds thought of all that? What if it rains, won’t you’ll all drown? We’ve heard them all.”
“Can we get back to my dad?” Merl shouted and stamped his feet.
Billy put the empty bowl on the floor. “Oh yes, right, ermm, I was told to bring you a message.”
“What message?”
Billy scratched his head. Then his big eyes lit up. “Come quick—that was it, like—go get Merl and tell him to come quickly.”
Morgan Mount spread across the bottom of the valley created by Three Face and No Face Mountain. It straddled its fast-running river and was quite the size for a mountain village. Much of its population worked in the iron mines that pocked the mountain slopes with little tunnels. A single road wriggled through the houses and workshops, crossing the river in the middle right by the Walinda Alepuller’s inn. Merl’s dad frequented the inn every time he found an excuse to come to town, which was most days.
Merl didn’t mind his dad spending a lot of time in the inn. It seemed to make him happy, and if he were honest with himself, there wasn’t enough work on the croft to keep both of them going. Sheep could only be herded so much in one day, and the few crops they had, appeared to do a good job of growing on their own.
Besides, it was best if his dad had time to himself, after all, he was going to be busy soon. Billy didn’t have a mum or a dad. Well he did, but they were long dead. Nearly a third of Morgan Mount’s population had perished in a mine collapse, and it had knocked everything out of kilter. Nearly all the families had lost a mother, father, daughter or a son. For ages Merl thought his mother must have died in the collapse, but Walinda Alepuller had told him he hadn’t ever had one. She could be spiteful, Walinda, especially when she’d had an ale.
Perrick the Lamplighter had done his rounds. The village’s torches sprayed their glow all the way down to the bridge. Because Morgan Mount was long and thin, Merl could see quite the way down it, and a peculiar scene that awaited them.
“Are they all drunk?” Frank asked. He shoved his elbows out, trying to eek a bit more room for himself, having been sandwiched between Billy and Merl on the cart’s front bench.
“Certainly looks that way,” Merl replied, as he watched four folk staggering about in the road. “Was it like this when you left?”
Billy scratched the top of his big head. “Don’t think so. Yer dad had gone all strange, and Walinda was slumped on the bar’s counter, but nothing that out of order. I jus’ see his eyes and they was all—”
“Milky, yes, we know,” Frank snapped. “Were they all drunk though?”
“No, no, not all.” Billy glared at Frank. “I wasn’t, nor was Sedgewick Lumphammer. He helped me get your dad out back. He got him some broth. Your dad was really hungry. Snappin’ at everything, he was.”
“Snapping at everything…” Frank said, mulling over the words like something had occurred to him.
“Weird,” Merl said. “Look at them two kissing.”
The cart carried on trundling down the road.
“Are they kissing?” Frank asked, just as a shrill scream filled the air.
“They ain’t kissin’” Billy said, shooing the horse into a trot. “Oi!”
A big splatter of blood sprayed out as one of the figures pulled their head back and tore a large chunk out of a screaming woman’s neck. He pushed her to the ground and started clawing at her gut, ripping her intestines out and immediately gobbling them down. Two of the other drunks then raced toward the pair and fell on the woman like famished dune dogs.
Dune dogs might have been stupid, but they could strip a carcass to the bone in seconds.
“What the…” Billy said, jumping out of the cart and grabbing his pitchfork. “Get off her!”
Merl leapt down too, looked in the back of Billy’s cart, and grabbed a spade. He stomped after Billy. The three men were kneeling around the woman and feeding on her guts. They were all making the same noise as Sam’s pigs did when Sam fed them—all snorts and sharp intakes of breath.
Billy stood over them, his pitchfork primed for a stabbing. “I said, get off her!”
Merl didn’t bother with a warning. He just smashed the closest man over the head with his spade. The man froze, then slowly turned his head like it was on some kind of revolving platform. His eyes were all milky, and his mouth had some of the woman’s guts hanging out of it.
“It’s Gloomy Joe,” Merl said, and banged him straight on the bonce again.
Gloomy Joe shook his head and began to rise.
“Just you stop still, Gloomy,” Merl barked, but Gloomy Joe took no notice. He peeled his lips back to reveal his sole blood-stained tooth and growled like mountain bear.
“Whack him again, Merl! He can’t hurt you with that empty gob,” Billy shouted as he fended off Iron Jaw Jack with his pitchfork.
Gloomy Joe lunged at Merl, but Merl held him at bay with Billy’s spade. Gloomy’s breath was foul at the best of time, but now it was just plain rancid. He looked blind, yet Merl had the unpleasant feeling he could see quite clearly. He was groaning too, just like Merl’s dad did when Walinda came to stay. Gloomy tried to claw at Merl’s face. His horrible, curly yellow fingernails were getting too close for comfort. “I ain’t sure he’s drunk, Billy.”
Billy didn’t answer. He had his own problems. Iron Jaw Jack was soaking up Billy’s tentative pitchfork prods and pushing Billy back. Not only that, but the third man stood up, and they realized it was Skin ‘n Bones Jones. Jonesy was the best fighter in Morgan Mount even though there was next to nothing of him. He had his arms out in front of him like he was feeling about in a dark room and was walking around Iron Jaw Jack aiming for Billy’s flank.
“I’ve had enough,” Merl said, then spun his spade ninety degrees, raised it above his head, and brought it down on the u
nfortunate Gloomy Joe, burying it halfway in. “Well that’s softer that a rotten squash,” he muttered as Gloomy’s surprisingly full head burst open and sprayed way too many brains around for Gloomy’s limited intellect. Gloomy Joe fell to the floor in a heap of spilling ichor.
“I think I killed the bastard,” Merl said.
Billy seemed to immediately realize the seriousness of the situation, and he thrust his pitchfork straight into Iron Jaw Jack’s guts. Iron Jaw didn’t even flinch. He carried on walking towards Billy, impaling himself farther and farther onto the pitchfork.
“Blood hell, Merl, I think Iron Jaw is indestructible.”
Meanwhile, Skin ‘n Bones Jones had rounded Iron Jaw and was lunging for Billy. A flash of green magic smashed into Jonesy’s head and knocked the little man onto his backside. Merl didn’t waist any time and slammed Billy’s spade straight into Iron Jaw’s noggin, bypassing his sturdy chin and slicing off a good chunk of his skull. Iron Jaw collapsed into a heap. Billy pulled his pitchfork out of Jack’s belly then stabbed down into Jonesy’s gut. He jumped onto the fork for good measure and pinned the little fighter in place.
“Strange business,” Frank said, strolling up to them. “How do you lads feel about me not being here when the law comes?”
“Law’s laying on the floor with half its head missing,” Billy said, pointing at Iron Jaw.
Skin ‘n Bones Jones growled and started foaming at the mouth. Billy gave his pitchfork another stamp for good measure, and Jonesy’s gut finally split and spilled a load of black ichor and undigested woman out.
“Great magic bolt,” Merl said. “Caught Jonesy smack on the head. And I thought you weren’t a wizard.”
“It was meant to stun, nothing more. This looks like a simple case of necromancy. The correct cancelling spell and they’ll all be right as rain.”
“Iron Jaw won’t be,” Billy pointed out. “Half his bonce is over there, and his brains have spilled all over the road. Have you got a spell to cancel that?”
“Don’t think Gloomy will either…” Merl started to say something else, but then his gaze was drawn to the woman who’d had her guts gobbled up. “Err, Miss, are you okay?” She was trying to sit up, though she appeared to have no body strength left. Merl decided it was a lack of stomach muscles that was doing it. “Perhaps you should lie down and wait for the witch to come. She’ll make you a nice cup of nettle tea.”
Billy scoffed and laughed at the same time. “How’s she going to keep that down? Wait a minute. Isn’t that Rosy Hunter from up Trotter’s Brook? What’s she doing down here?”
Merl leant in to ask her, but Rosy peeled her lips back and hissed at him. He jerked away. “She jus’ tried to bite me. I’m not sure I like this necromancy. Do the reversey thing, Frank.”
“I’m not versed in the art, and besides, I’m not quite at the level where I could even try.” The wizard peered around Merl. “She does look like she’s been raised from the dead though.”
“Are they ‘fectious? Is necromancy contagious?” Billy asked.
Jonesy struggled to get away from the pitchfork. He’d ripped his own guts apart and was only being held in place by his spine. Saliva streamed down his chin and he was constantly snarling. He had loads of teeth compared to Gloomy, but then most folk did. All of them looked like they wanted to tear chunks out of Billy.
“He’s a dead’un. And so’s she,” Merl decided, and chopped Rosy’s head off with Billy’s spade. “No point in living with no guts. All your broth’ll fall out.”
“Yer right,” Billy said, and reached out for his spade. “I’ll finish Jonesy off. Never did like the bastard. Besides, cutting their head off seems to stop the ‘mancy stuff.”
He grabbed the spade and swung it like an axe, decapitating the little man with ease.
“Their heads softer than normal, or is your spade sharp?” Merl asked.
“Sharpen it most days. Goes through the tangle roots easier.”
“We’d best report it.” Merl pulled the pitchfork out of Jonesy’s guts and jumped back onto Billy’s cart. “We should go to the tavern, see who’s second in charge. If this is necromancy, we need to find a better wizard. No offence, Frank.”
Frank jumped up onto the cart. “There aren’t many, and those that do dabble are outcasts.” He leaned over to the pile of guts and bones that used to be three citizens of Morgan’s Mount and one from Trotter’s Brook. “Mind you, I’m not overly sure it’s necromancy anymore. From what I read, when you decapitate the dead, you don’t get blood and guts pumping everywhere.”
“Well, if it’s not that, what is it?” Billy asked.
“Beats me,” Frank said, “but there’s more coming.”
“I hope your dad’s okay.” Billy threw his pitchfork in the back of the cart.
“Didn’t you say his dad’s eyes were milky?” Frank enquired.
“My dad’s eyes might’a been milky, but not that type of milky,” Merl protested, pointing at the pile of bloody flesh and bones.
“Harrumph,” Frank grunted, turning and looking in the back of the cart. He leaned in and picked up an ax. “May I?”
“Rather you used that magic but go fer it. It’s a swinga. None too heavy,” Billy said.
Frank took up the axe and tested its weight. “This’ll be fine. My mana doesn’t replenish so fast at the minute. Probably won’t be able to send another bolt like the last one for a while.”
Billy lifted his eyebrows. “I feel honored you used it t’save me, then.”
“Think nothing of it. Now,” Frank stood as Billy slowed the cart, “thinking about it, I remember the older wizards talking about something like this.”
“Like what?” Merl asked. It looked like half the village was walking toward them. Except they weren’t quite walking. Most were either dragging a leg or staggering like they were drunk. “Maybe the ale was off.”
“Like what, like?” Billy pressed.
“Well, I can’t remember too much, but I know a whole city ate itself.”
“Must have been fat bastards after gobbling up a whole city. Bit like yer dad, Merl.”
“My dad’s not fat. He’s pregnant.” Merl jumped up holding his spade, daring either one of them to say his dad was fat.
“Calm down, lad, yer soft in the head. Softer than them lot seem to be,” Billy chided. “So, wizard, what do we do?”
“If my memory serves me correctly, you need to chop their heads off and don’t get bitten,” Frank told them. The wizard jumped from the cart and rested the ax against its wheel. He shed his cloak to reveal boiled leather armor, bracers, and heavy leather boots. “What?” he said upon seeing their looks of confusion. “I wasn’t always a wizard.”
Frank picked up the ax and marched forward.
“You meet the strangest wizards around here,” Billy muttered.
“Do you think my dad’s okay?”
“I think we’ve gotta fight our way through all them lot an’ find out, like,” Billy replied.
“Probably know them all,” Merl pointed out.
“Then just say sorry an’ it’ll be alright, like.”
Merl grabbed Billy’s spade, and Billy left his pitchfork behind in favor of a scythe.
By the time they’d caught up with Frank, the wizard was swinging hard and fast. Heads exploded, and bodies slumped onto the road. They were rabid, gruesome shadows of what the villagers once were. Their pallor was as pale as the moon, with veins like black rivers. Some had half their necks missing, and others had huge chunks torn from their arms, legs, stomachs, or thighs. Merl drew Billy’s spade back over his shoulder. Wendy Doughmaker lumbered toward him. Her rounded face was missing a great slab of flesh that used to make up her cheek. One of her eyeballs was hanging from its tendon and resting in the resulting hole. Blood-splattered lips drooled rivers of spit, and her bare arms, usually covered in fine brown baking flour, were caked in guts and flesh instead.
Merl tried a side swipe but misjudged his swing and took awa
y the lower half of her jaw. “Sorry, Mrs. Doughmaker,” Merl shouted, reversing his swing and decapitating her.
“Sorry, Arthur,” Billy shouted, and Arthur Cobblerson’s head flew toward Merl.
Merl ducked, and that saved his life, as a lad not much younger than him lunged at his arm. The lad’s gruesome mouth snapped shut with a tooth-shattering bite. Merl stabbed out with Billy’s spade, thrusting it into the kid’s gut. The kid doubled over and Frank’s ax lopped his head off.
“Thanks, Frank,” Merl shouted.
“Don’t mention it,” Frank said, and flashed Merl an excited smile. “Don’t hesitate either. Kill ‘em quick,” Frank winked at him. “And shout, like this: Aaargh!” he screamed, as he forced his ax deep into another villager’s shoulder. “Kill them all! Kill all the bastards, Merl.”
Merl leapt up, and the mutated villagers pressed in on them. Horrifically deformed faces all turned lifelessly toward him. Their mouths sagged, letting drool drip in long, elastic strands. Incessant groans plagued him with their courage-sapping monotony. But slow, unrelenting, shuffle of old acquaintances closing in on him, seemingly oblivious or uncaring of the fate that awaited them, was the worst bit.
Fortunately, there was one thing about Merl that was indisputable. It was the one part of him his father was always proud about, and he sang Merl’s praises from one end of the tavern’s counter to the other. That was Merl’s work ethic. “Give the lad a task, and he’ll work all day and night to complete it,” he always said.
Kill all the bastards!
Merl screamed his lungs empty. He ran at the foul group, swinging Billy’s spade for all it was worth. He chopped Mrs. Woolweaver’s noggin in half. He cut Jake Tanner’s head off. Black blood spurted up everywhere. The monsters tried to claw him, they tried to bite him, but Merl was The Reaper, and Frank had told him what to do. He ended Wendy from Barn End Lane. He lunged at Joridan Bowhunter, disemboweling him before ripping the man’s sword from its sheath. Castinging Billy’s spade aside, Merl redoubled his efforts, now consumed with a hatred for all that had driven his village to this point. He wanted to kill whatever had caused it, whatever dire magics had created it, but more than anything he wanted to get to the tavern. Joridan’s sword swiped out at the villagers, taking heads as easy as a dune cat catches rats. Blood spewed. Guts spilled. Heads flew.
