Tales of Kingshold

by D P Woolliscroft

  A black circular tower, three stories high, twice as wide at the base than at the flat roof. Lit candles visible through unshuttered windows provided interior light in the shade of the mountain. It looked old. Old enough for the black stone, stark against the grey cliffs, to be covered in moss; ancient twisting vines climbed up one side.

  Adjoining the tower was a building of much newer construction. Large, rectangular, and made of the same stone as the mountain nearby; to Motega it had the look of a barracks. Functional and made for housing many people. Squeaks, shrieks, bangs and clangs reverberated around the hollow. I can see why Johan took a fright, thought Motega.

  “What are those noises?” asked Trypp. The three friends lay side by side on a rock, only their heads visible to anyone looking from the tower.

  “Doesn’t sound like people,” said Motega. “It’s a racket, to be sure. But sounds more like construction.”

  “Well, let’s figure out what we’re dealing with.” Trypp pulled out his brass spyglass, Florian doing the same.

  Motega didn’t need a spyglass, though he had admired the matching pair they’d bought in Ioth years ago. He didn’t need one because he had Per, and a falcon’s eyes are sharper than a couple of pieces of glass. Motega’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as his mind melded into that of the bird's. And he flew.

  The sun had set behind the mountain as Florian, Motega and Trypp descended down the escarpment away from the tower to compare notes. Motega had stayed put for most of the afternoon, flying with his spirit animal; but Florian and Trypp had moved around the hollow, looking for different vantage points from which to observe. Dinner was a loaf of bread, cheese and boiled eggs picked up from the inn that morning, and they ate while they talked.

  “There are definitely zombies in that barracks,” said Florian. “I counted more than ten through the side windows. It looks like they’re building something.”

  “I saw that too,” said Trypp. “Looked like there was a forge inside, which would explain the smoke from the chimney and the glow from that end of the building.”

  “From the high windows I could see zombies at work benches too, looked like they were working with wood,” said Motega between mouthfuls.

  “What would they be making?” asked Trypp. “I’ve never seen a zombie do anything but swing a sword. Slooowwlly.” Florian and Motega laughed.

  “I don’t know,” said Florian. “Could be they’re making siege equipment? Looked big enough. Maybe he captured a smith from somewhere to make weapons too? Makes sense if you want to plan an invasion.”

  “Well, old Hrodebert is pretty confident in what he’s doing,” said Motega. “I didn’t notice a single guard in the grounds or on the roof of the tower.”

  “I saw him through one window. Sitting in an armchair, smoking a pipe and a book in his lap,” said Trypp. Motega and Florian nodded in agreement.

  “Old guy. Looked like a grandad,” said Florian.

  “That doesn’t make him a nice guy,” said Trypp. “When I was a kid on the streets of Kingshold, they were the ones we would watch out for.” Motega nodded. He knew his friend had a tough early life, escaping one scrape to land in another—that’s why Trypp was always ready with an escape plan. But then again, Motega’s childhood could be argued to have been even worse.

  “Did you notice the vine up the side of the tower? It’s an old one. Tough. And there is a nice-looking trapdoor waiting for us at the top of the tower,” said Motega.

  “We don’t need that. We can note our observations and then head back down to the Sheriff,” said Trypp.

  “What about the bonus that the Sheriff offered us for just taking care of this mess?” asked Florian. “If we don’t make the bonus then we won’t make much return on the trip.”

  “You’ve said it yourself, there are at least a dozen zombies in there, and who knows how many more?”

  “Ah ha,” said Motega, “but we don’t need to fight them. We already know Hrodebert has to control them. So, we just got to take him out. And, friends, just like an Ambrukhan whorehouse, they’ve practically rolled out the carpet for us.”

  “Agreed,” said Florian nodding. “Trypp, you’re outvoted. Unless today is the day you quit.”

  “Not today,” sighed Trypp, his exasperation evident as he looked at his two friends. “But we need to do something about these voting rights.”

  The clouds had persisted into the night, creating the perfect gloomy conditions for infiltration and assassination. Lights shone from all the windows of the barracks, its inhabitants still laboring by the sounds audible as they crept close to the tower.

  Motega had used Per’s eyes again to check that no guards had come out for the night, although the falcon’s eyes weren’t as sharp in the dark. A few flybys still found the coast to be clear. Scaling the vine was child’s play for them, even though it was slick from the rain earlier that day. In fact, from the look of the weathered stone of the tower, Motega thought he could have managed without the vine, knowing for certain that Trypp could have been up the wall like a spider running to dinner.

  Trypp crouched by the trapdoor on the roof of the tower, the leather roll of his picks and tools already in hand, expectant of the task ahead.

  But there was no lock. Was Hrodebert just incompetent or so self-assured in what he was doing? Possessing an invincibility complex seemed to be a common theme for necromancers. Control over death would probably do that for you, even if it was just a mockery of life.

  Shaking his head, Trypp lifted the trapdoor and waved Motega and Florian in after he had confirmed the room was empty. They had seen the necromancer use this room earlier that day, but they had watched Hrodebert put on his nightgown and climb into bed an hour earlier, and according to their observations, the zombies didn’t enter the tower.

  From the trapdoor was a ladder, down into a study or laboratory that took up the whole floor of the tower. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather bound tomes and rolled parchments. On one wall was a display cabinet filled with stuffed creatures mounted on wooden bases, organs in jars of floating liquid and rows of eyeballs glaring at the intruders. In the center of the room was a small desk and a large wooden table; the two separated by little less than an arm’s length. The table was a ghastly scene, the partially decomposed body of a man lay there, eyes closed, right arm severed at the shoulder and draped over his chest like the arm of a lover in sleep.

  Motega did not like the undead. True, he was visited by the spirits of his ancestors in his dreams, but they did not get up and walk around and try to eat his brains. Why do the people of the Jeweled Continent insist on burying their dead when burning, like they do on the plains, would stop this from ever happening?

  Trypp led the way, knife in one hand, Motega and Florian following silently behind, as they descended the open spiral staircase to the bedchamber below. The staircase creaked as Motega, at the rear, stepped down from the landing. They froze, waiting to see if Hrodebert would awaken. A moment passed, and Trypp signaled that the necromancer had not stirred.

  Urrghh.

  The groan came from behind Motega as his face was level with the floor. His head turned to see the body from the table swing its legs to the floor, bloodshot eyes open, left hand grasping its right arm by the elbow.

  “Shit. Trypp!” whispered Motega. “Do it now. We’ve got one behind us.”

  Motega reached the bottom step as the zombie behind him started its descent. “Stop! Who are you?” it called out in a rasping voice.

  Trypp was already halfway across the room but Hrodebert, with a sprightliness unexpected for one of his obvious age, threw the bedspread in the direction of the knife-wielding assailant closing in on him.

  “Help! Intruders!” called Hrodebert.

  Motega braced himself, for the inevitable attack of the zombie behind him and for whatever magic the necromancer would unleash.

  Much to Motega’s surprise, but not necessarily his joy, the necromancer pulled a small
loaded crossbow from his bedside table and pointed it at his friend as Trypp fought valiantly to untangle himself from the bed linen.

  “Who are you?” screamed the old man in his blue and white striped nightshirt. “What are you doing in here?”

  Motega, Florian, and especially Trypp—who didn’t take his eyes off the crossbow bolt—did not move. The questions on Motega’s mind at that moment were:

  How long has that crossbow been loaded and so has the string stretched?

  Does this old man know how to fire it?

  Can he hit a barn door from six feet away?

  Chances were good that they could kill the necromancer. The real question was: could they do it without Trypp getting a quarrel in the chest? And the potential answers to his questions left too much chance of that occurring. Motega slowly inched his hand down to his belt to pull a throwing knife.

  “I don’t think so,” came the rasping voice of the zombie behind him, tapping Motega’s hand with the outstretched severed arm. From the doorway below came sounds of movement. And then Hrodebert was surrounded by zombies, wielding mallets and hammers, chisels and awls.

  “For the record,” said Motega, the need for quiet obviously past now, and more than a little pissed off that things were going so suddenly pear shaped. “It was not my fault the stairs creaked. Who was supposed to check the body?”

  “Don’t matter now, Mot,” reassured Florian. “It’ll be ok.”

  “Leave him alone!” barked a zombie, shorter, fatter and maybe more feminine than the others, though it's state of decomposition made it difficult to tell. She pushed through the other zombies and took up a position in front of the old man. “What do you think you’re doing? We’re not doing anything wrong.”

  The old man seemed calmer surrounded by his undead bodyguards, though he still kept the crossbow pointed at Trypp. “I think it’s time to talk. Explain yourselves,” he said.

  “We’re here because Stableford knows what you’re up to. You’re planning to invade again. They don’t want your zombies,” said Motega, tensed and ready to get to work with his axes. “One of them ran through the town last night.”

  “Zombies? Zombies! These are not zombies, you heathen. They are wights,” said Hrodebert. “Some of my finest work. Zombies are so dull to be around. And they are useless workers.”

  “Workers?” asked Trypp.

  “Why, yes. She told you we’re not doing anything wrong.” Hrodebert puffed himself up, the effect somewhat lost in his nightclothes. “This is a legitimate place of business.”

  “Yeah,” said the dead woman. “We like it here. Been years since I was useful.”

  Motega and his friends exchanged confused glances. Workers? What was going on here?

  “I’m sorry,” said Trypp, putting words to the thoughts running through Motega’s head. “What?”

  “This is a factory. A legitimate place of business,” repeated Hrodebert. “I was never into the whole conquest lifestyle. I tried it once, but it just wasn’t me. All I want is a nice life. Creature comforts.” He waved his hands at the undead around him with evident pride. “This here is my workforce. We make the finest furniture around. If you don’t believe me, take a look for yourselves.”

  Motega was grateful the wights had not tried to relieve them of their weapons. That would have accelerated the required decision making and for the moment, he wanted to learn more. As they descended the stairs, wights in front and behind the three friends, Florian glanced in his direction, looking questioningly at his axe, obviously thinking now might be the time to attack. Motega shook his head.

  They were guided out into the large building they had assumed to be a place used for the production of implements of war. Now they could see it was a factory being used for the production of nice places to sit and have a good natter.

  The female wight took up the role of guide, introducing herself as Sheila, before a flurry of other names were called out by the assembled wights, most of which Motega didn’t catch.

  “…we make couches, arm chairs, tables, desks. Every piece is unique. We can do whatever type of decorative work we like. All the iron work is hand forged by Sren over there. He was the smith when I was a girl…”

  Motega walked around the factory floor, clucking along admiringly as Sheila continued explaining their work in her sandpapery voice.

  “…it’s much better work than we would do when we were alive you know. We don’t need to eat or sleep, so we have a lot more time. And Master Hrodebert gets much better materials than we had. Oh, it’s such a joy to be proud of your work.”

  “You like it here?” asked Motega to the assembled walking morgue, genuinely intrigued about their welfare, his brain having just come to terms with the whole crazy situation. A nodding of heads and general grunt of agreement came in reply. “And you don’t plan to invade the town and take it over?”

  “Oh no, lovey,” said Sheila. “Why would we do that? We were all born and raised there. Lovely place. Our families are there.” The other wights nodded again. “The only reason Adum went into Stableford last night was because we’d just dug him up and he wanted to see his wife. Got too far away from the master, he did. Made him stupid before he likely just fell right over. Am I right, lovey?”

  It was Motega’s turn to nod and grunt.

  “Well, I guess that settles it then,” said Florian, slapping his hands at a job well done. “Nothing for us to do here. Right lads?”

  “I guess,” said Motega, a smidgen of disappointment creeping into his tone that there wouldn't be an exciting end to their mission.

  “Do you get paid?” asked Trypp, eyes narrowing as he looked at the workers. Motega realized he’d been quiet since they left the necromancer behind, assessing the situation.

  “Of course not, lovey. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re dead,” said Sheila, her fellow wights chuckling at her joke.

  “Is that fair? Hrodebert’s making a lot of coin from your work. He doesn’t even need to feed you.” Trypp paused for a moment, letting the words sink in before putting the proverbial head on top of the pike. “You've got it worse than slaves.”

  The wights became silent and looked at each other with what Motega thought were quizzical expressions—but it was difficult to tell when half of their faces were exposed down to the skull.

  “It’s not right,” said one wight, breaking the silence, slowly beginning to understand what Trypp had said.

  “We work ourselves down to the bone for him,” said another, without a hint of irony.

  Calls of ‘aye’ and ‘hear, hear’, came from the two score workers.

  “You own the means of production!” said Trypp, pumping his fist into the air. “You need to stand up for yourselves!”

  “Yeah!” they cried. Trypp broke into a big smile—it was clear to Motega he was enjoying himself.

  “We’re not working anymore,” said another, who put down his mallet on the nearest worktable. The others followed.

  “What’s all this commotion?” said Hrodebert entering the workroom, now dressed in long voluminous black velvet robes more in keeping for a necromancer. He looked around at the wights assembled before him, their hands on their hips and with a few things on their mind.

  “Master Hrodebert,” said Sheila, wagging a finger in his direction. “Me and the lads have a few things we need to talk with you about.”

  The necromancer sagged after scanning the faces in front of him. Motega thought he heard him mutter, “At least zombies don’t bloody talk back.”

  “And so, you have nothing to worry about Sheriff,” said Trypp, finishing his explanation. Motega could tell she was finding it all difficult to process.

  “Let me recap to see if I understand everything,” she said, massaging her temples with her fingertips. “Hrodebert has been taking our dead ancestors, not for an army, but to make furniture?”

  Trypp nodded.

  “And they like being there, what with being alive again, even though the
y aren’t paid. But now they’ve formed a union? The Guild of the Working Dead you said. So they can get a better deal. And he went along with this?”

  “Oh yes. Sheila is very persuasive,” nodded Trypp, a grin plastered to his face. He’d been smiling all the way back to town at the thought of his rabble rousing. “And Hrodebert seems like a pleasant old soul, actually. Sheila negotiated a quarter share of all profits back to the workers, which they can give to their families on their twice monthly visits to town.”

  The Sheriff paused again, contemplating the regular visitation of two score dead folk into her town. “What about the grave robbing?”

  “He said he will stop. From now on there will be an opt-in process, and interviews pre-death for new positions. Hrodebert can only maintain so many live wights, so there is a limit.”

  “But people can interview for a job for after they die? What if they can make more money when they’re dead than when they’re alive?” Her mind was obviously racing now with the repercussions of the story these three strange foreigners had relayed. Her life turned upside down in ten short minutes. “And what’s this going to do to the local still-breathing craftsmen who can’t compete with his prices?”

  “I don’t know Sheriff. I’m not a scholar or a businessman. I know that most of this stuff is heading down river to Carlburg, anyway. Maybe you can just shift your problem? Anyway, a factory of the dead has to be better than the alternative. Am I right?”

  The Sheriff, dumbly, nodded her head.

  “Now, on to the payment,” said Trypp. “I believe we have qualified for the clean-up bonus you mentioned…”