by Ember Lane
“This is bugger-me hard,” he told Frank.
“Try slowing down.” Frank scrubbed Merl’s hard work out. “Now, just do the first letter again.”
Merl fancied smacking Frank around the head with the lump of chalk for scrubbing out his first efforts out, though he had to admit it had looked like a one-legged spider had dipped its boot in white flour and jigged around after eating skinny mushrooms, so he didn’t. Instead, he redoubled his efforts and wrote his first D.
“Just looks like a circle with its sides smashed in by a lump hammer,” Merl said, curiously disappointed with the D. “Not a very interestin’ letter, is it?”
“Try the next one. Think what it looks like first, then draw it.”
“The second one looks like Mr. Doughmaker’s windmill without the sails.” Merl drew an A. He then imagined the road up to Fred’s quarry, only a different way up. Then a gaping, toothless mouth, after a right way ‘round E, and a R. The R was hard, until he thought of Walinda Alepuller walking around with nothing above her big belly.
“DANGER,” he said, chuffed to bits. “There, but we knew that already. Question happens to be, what danger? The zombays?”
“Try the next word.”
Merl groaned. His head hurt already. Learning letters was really hard. “Slingshot, circle, upside-down horseshoe, half a Walinda prancin’ around the inn.” He let out a huge breath. “There, what’s that sayin’?”
“That says YOUR. Danger, your… Your what?” Frank asked.
Merl shrugged. “Dunno. A whole load of buggerin’ words as long as river come next.”
“Well, we got as long as it takes. We’ll whack a few zombays, make our way to Quintz, and do a word every now and then until we get to the end.”
A pot with a feather sticking out of it appeared in Frank’s hand. He set it down on the roof, and then a piece of parchment appeared in his other hand.
“Fancy shelves?” Merl enquired. “You never said anything ‘bout paper ‘n stuff.”
“Supposed to write everything down.” Frank picked up the quill and started writing. He hunched right over the paper and scratched away. “Not great at scribin’ myself, though, so you take your time. Ricklefess said recording information is as important seeing it happen. There.”
Frank held up the paper.
Danger your
“What? Ain’t you written ‘bout all the zombays and whatnot?”
“Na, that’s not much. Just a bit of killing.”
“You seen more killing than that?”
Frank fell silent, and that faraway look rippled over him again. “Yeah,” he said, and then turned around and looked toward Three Valleys. “I’ve seen fields of men slaughter each other. Fields as big as that valley.”
Merl couldn’t imagine anything so horrific. He couldn’t even imagine so many people. Surely Frank was exagerating, and if he wasn’t, why in Andula’s name would they want to kill each other? He wanted to ask Frank all about it but had the feeling Frank wouldn’t want to answer. So he said the only word that seemed to work.
“Shit.”
“Shit, indeed.”
Frank stayed like that for a while. Merl wondered what memories were flicking through the wizard’s head. He reckoned they were more interesting than his. Merl could only think of the time he’d got stuck up Three Face Mountain when the fog had rushed in real quick and he couldn’t see his way down. That had been one scary night—freezing too. His toes had nearly gone black and his mouth had been as dry as a dune dog’s turd.
“Do you pray, Merl?” Frank asked.
Merl didn’t answer him for a while. He knew about Gods, and they seemed a whole bucketful of trouble he didn’t need. If folk fell out, folk fell out about Gods. Merl was supposed to pray to Andula, but as far as he could see, she’d done shit to help any of them, especially now, but even before that too. What was the point of praying to someone if the best you could hope for was hard toil and an empty belly? Andula was the Goddess of Gathering, but the only thing the folk of Morgan Mount gathered now were maggots and weaver beetles.
The Morlock soldiers had tried to get them all to worship Helios. Helios was the God of Battle Prowess, which was a daft thing to be God of. Merl wondered why not just battle? That would make more sense. Mind you, he wasn’t overly sure what prowess meant.
“What’s prowess mean?” Merl asked Frank. The wizard was probably the most ‘telligent person Merl had ever met—him or Viggers.
Frank let out a little laugh, which sounded good. “And I thought you’d forgotten my question. You thinkin’ about Helios? Don’t pray to him, he’s a no-good bastard who’ll turn his back on you as fast as a man blinks when a pretty girl comes along the road. No, Helios is a bastard, and when you’re laying on blood-soaked grass with a spear hanging outta your belly, he’ll just tell you your killer worshiped harder than you.”
“But Helios must be better than Andula. Can’t fight with a branch of sprouts, can you?”
“Nope,” Frank said as Merl drew aside him and they both stared down the valley. “Perhaps we should be as flighty as them. Worship The Gatherer when we’re farming, and The Bastard when we’re killing.”
“Hey!” Billy shouted up. “Who fancies stoppin’ fer some lunch?”
Merl rolled his eyes. Billy was always thinking of food—either that or pretty girls. As there weren’t any pretty girls in Morgan Mount, and those that were there had recently taken a turn for the worse, he now seemed focused on food. Merl suspected Billy had only gone to Old Ma Chivers’ to rob the chiver cheese, and the butcher’s had been his priority too. If anything was going to get them killed, it was going to be Billy’s belly.
“I could eat,” Frank replied as Merl realized he’d drifted off again. “You, Merl?”
“S’pose. Where?”
“Thar’s a bridge ‘cross the river up there. If we stop there, no dribbley bastard can sneak up on us.” Billy pointed down river.
Merl wasn’t so sure.
The bridge was an old stone affair that stretched from one rocky bluff to another. It had a single arch with both pillars in the water. Bridges were built like that because trolls hated the design. It gave them no dry bank to sleep on. But bridges were an obvious ambush point, and if there were any brigands about, then there’d be trouble. Not that there were many brigands this far up in the mountains—picking were too slim.
“Don’t worry, Merl. We ain’t got nothing worth stealing. Apart from the cheese ‘n meat, that is, and those are in Frank’s fancy ring on his invisible shelves, somehow, like. Still can’t get my bonce around that.”
“We’re just a bit out in the open, is all,” Merl said.
“It’ll work,” Frank told him, and that reassured Merl more than any of Billy’s mutterings.
Billy stopped the monster wagon dead center of the bridge, and Frank chocked the wheels. The wizard then led the two rear horses past the wagon and tethered them to a tree near some good grazing. He then took the front pair and walked them to the other side, where he did the same. At first, Billy scratched his head in confusion, but then he started nodding.
“He gettin’ less ‘n less a wizard n’ more n’ more a warrior as the days go by.”
“What’s he done all that funny business fer?” Merl asked.
“Coz he’s got brains in his box, tha’s why. If anyone comes fer us, no matter what bank, we got horses on t’other. Plus, the fresher ones are the way we’re going.”
Merl nodded. “Yup, he’s got brains in his box alright.”
They sat on top of the monster wagon and ate cheese and drank the last of Mrs. Chivers’ wine. It was still fresh, and the wine hadn’t soured yet, which was a bonus as far as Merl was concerned.
“How comes it don’t spill?” Merl asked. “If the wine goes in the ring, and it sits on an invisible shelf, how come it doesn’t fall off when your hand goes all flappy-flappy?”
Frank shrugged. “Dunno, Ricklefess gave me the ring, and he said I can put
ten things in it. Wine won’t spill, and food won’t go bad. If it’s a weapon, I just say equip and unequip, and it’ll appear and vanish. If I gotta load of one thing, then that counts as one and not ten.”
“Gotta get me one of those,” Billy crowed. His cheeks were puffed with chivers’ cheese and wine spilled from the corners of his mouth.
“What the heck would you put in it?” Merl asked.
“I’d have a shelf fer chivers’ cheese, one fer red wine, one fer streaky pig, and another fer skinny ‘shrooms. Sometimes a man’s jus’ gotta quit thinkin’ too hard and go with the stuff he knows.”
“Think I’d put all that in my ring too,” Merl said, but he immediately had a rethink. He’d never touch skinny mushrooms again; they gave him frightful weird dreams. “’Cept the skinny mushrooms—they was way too odd. Dreamt all kinds of dubious dreams.”
“Like what?” Frank asked.
Merl stared into Frank’s eyes. They’d gone all intense again. Frank latched onto words like a dune dog on to a grass rat’s tail.
“Like I could jus’ point at stuff and build it, or point at a field an’ harvest it. That sorta shit.”
“Like you was The God of Construction, and The God of Gathering?”
“Some-it like that. ‘Cept there ain’t no God of ‘Struction, and Andula’s the Gathering God.”
“That’s some strange dreaming you did there, Merl. Say, Billy, where would you find some skinny mushrooms?”
“Oh no. no. no,” said Merl. “I ain’t ever having them again.”
“Who said they were fer you?” Frank patted Merl on his knee to reassure him.
“Find knobby tops in the pine woods. You want a few? I’ll scoot in and get some when we camp up fer the night,” Billy told him.
“No hurry,” said Frank. “Won’t need their like until we get to Quintz.”
“Then we’ll just settle in here and—”
With a thwack and a twang, an arrow smacked into the monster truck’s roof. Merl jumped so high he fell clean off, bouncing off the bridge’s parapet and splashing into the river. He was upended into the freezing water so fast, Merl didn’t even have a chance to scream, but as he splashed about in the river’s shallow water he heard Billy do plenty of shouting for him. There was hollering too, but it wasn’t Frank or Billy. Merl waded to the riverbank farthest from where the arrow originated. Crouching low, he snuck back onto the bridge and drew aside Billy, who was peeking around the wagon’s back.
“About twenty of them,” Billy hissed.
“Zombays shootin’ arrows now?”
“Ain’t zombays. Morlock soldiers.”
“Where’s Frank?” Merl leaned over Billy. Frank was standing in the middle of the bridge right in front of the wagon. It looked like him against the entire mob. “Shouldn’t we go help him?”
“Said he’d talk to them.”
“They don’t look in the mood t’talk. Keep pointing at the wagon.”
“Let’s go help.”
Merl’s heart was pounding, and all the strength had gone from his legs. “If yer think we should, Billy.”
They edged around the wagon, sliding up its side as quiet as a pair of rock snakes. Billy made the first move. Merl thought he was nearly as brave as Frank, who was staring down the soldiers like a one-man army.
“What do you want?” Frank growled.
Merl could smell the rust stinking up from their chainmail, and the bitter sweat of men who’ve trudged a few dozen miles. They looked at best a rabble, at worst, a few mercs who’d run. But Merl knew desperate men could be as dangerous as a boxed-in ferret, and Frank was an outsider, what did he know?
One of them sauntered toward Frank like he was out for an evening stroll. “Your wagon, we want you wagon. King’s business. Strikes me that’s a mighty fine wagon fer re-establishing law and order.” The man nodded behind him. “You know yer dead already. You’ve seen Tigger shoot an arrow. He’s deadly with the bastard things. So, why don’t you and the two farmer boys make way, and we’ll take yer wagon and go about our King’s rightful business.”
Tigger had an arrow nocked and ready.
Merl and Billy came up alongside Frank.
“Shit,” said Billy.
“What,” Frank hissed from the corner of his mouth.
“Forgot the weapons.”
“Don’t matter. We take theirs.”
Merl had never been good at mathematics, mostly because he’d never heard of it, but he did know that three soldiers couldn’t take on twenty. Two farmers and an ex-soldier, even less so.
“Will they give them to us?” he asked hopefully.
“Well?” the Morlock soldier asked.
But Frank didn’t reply. He thrust his hand out and sent a green magic ball at Tigger, who exploded in a shower of flesh and guts—and then before Merl blinked, Frank’s sword was in his hand and the cocky Morlock soldier was rent clean in two. By the time Merl had finished his blink, the soldier’s sword was flying through the air toward him, and Frank was a blur of blood-colored steel and flying limbs. Billy caught the blade and rushed into the melee, and Merl charged in as well, scouring the bodies for a dagger or something.
Frank tossed him a sword just as he was rushed by a soldier whose face was twisted with more anger than Merl had seen in his entire life. Merl didn’t know squat about sword fighting, so it was just as well the man ran straight onto his sword, and it was a toss up who looked the more surprised when the bastard died. Once the shock of killing his first real human was done and over with, Merl got to the business of sword fighting with a tinker’s damn worth of prowess. He nearly took Billy’s head off before accidentally killing another soldier by cutting his throat with a badly timed backswing.
If either Billy or Merl were honest with themselves, Frank killed nearly every soldier, but since they were pumped with the victory, they celebrated like they’d each single-handedly vanquished evil without him. That was until they saw the bodies lying there completely unzombayfied.
“What the hell was all that about?” Billy asked. “Why the bugger are we fightin’ amongst ourselves when we should be fighting the zombays?”
Frank gathered up all the weapons and the three best chainmail vests. He held out a boiled leather helmet. “Either of you want a helmet?” he asked. “Ain’t a bad one, but it’s probably riddled with lice eggs.”
Merl shook his head so hard it nearly fell off. He grabbed the mail vests from Frank, then went down to the river and beat the life out of them until they shone as much as they could. By the time he was done, Billy had tethered the horses and had driven the wagon next to the carnage. Frank was busy looting all the soldier’s weapons.
“Shame I blew up the bow and arrow,” he said, voice filled with genuine regret. “In fact, shame I blew up the bowman. We coulda used one of them—sit up top of the wagon and clear the road with one of them. Oh well.”
“How often can you use that magic?” Billy asked.
“’Bout once a day. When I get better, this thing called mana will refill quicker, but for now don’t rely on it. Right, we’ve got eight swords, two halberds, and another ax. I reckon we strap the halberds up top with the scythe, then we can do some choppin’ up there if needs. Whaddaya all think?”
Merl certainly wasn’t going to argue with Frank, and Billy was busy rifling all the dead-un’s of their coin. Frank took the silence as a yes and strapped the weapons up top.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said, and relief flooded through Merl.
If any other Morlock soldier came, Merl doubted they’d be too chuffed with him or his companions. “Should I put the chainmail on?”
Frank winked at him as he climbed back atop the wagon. “If you wanna stink like a pile of rusty nails. If not, keep it close and whip it on when it looks like you’ll need it.”
“Soldiers always wear ‘em.” Merl scrambled up after him, and Billy flicked the reins.
“Soldiers only got their bodies to hang their stuff on. W
e got this here truck, so we have a little leeway.”
“Thanks to you.”
Frank cocked his head. “Thanks to me. Aye, thanks to me, but you should know one thing about that fight.”
Merl was looking at Frank with what amounted to undiluted awe. “What’s that?”
“The nine out of ten rule. It goes like this, Merl. Only one out of every ten soldiers wants to fight. The rest don’t. Identify that person, kill them, and then you got a chance.”
“The man in front and the archer?” Merl asked.
“Those two—they wanted to fight. We put them down, the others either run, or they fight with a pile in their pants, and that ain’t no way to fight.”
“Why’d we kill ‘em them?”
Frank’s distant look came over him again. “Coz I hate soldiers, Merl. I hate them worse than zombays.”
6
The westward valley spread away before them. It looked mighty pretty, cloaked in burnished green. An ocean of tall pasture rippled away in gentle waves bullied by a waking wind. Hemmed on both sides by stern mountains topped with sparkling snow, it looked like a giant’s causeway leading to the ends of the land and filled with the promise of untold adventure.
“Well doesn’t that look fine.” Billy’s tone was nothing short of reverent awe, and Merl felt it too. It was like a thousand butterflies had gathered in his belly. His breath was short too and his eyes were as wide as the time he saw Misty Cherrypicker skinny dippin’ in Bucket Lake.
“And look at the town!”
Three Valleys was nothing short of majestic. It had the look of a town on fire, brushed and gilded with the rising sun. It sat a little way down the great valley, away from the rough and tumble of the glistening water where three rivers met and jostled for superiority. Merl couldn’t tell which one won, and it didn’t really matter that much, because the river that flowed away was the most powerful thing he’d ever seen—apart from Frank, that was. Merl was beginning to think Frank was a God.
