Master In His Tomb

by Jack Holloway

  “I hope they’re tree wranglers Daphnae.” I chuckle. “Bit of a waste otherwise.”

  Daphnae has been dead for three thousand years but she still appreciates a good joke. That was back when I still took interest in beauty for reasons other than its intrinsic worth.

  There are locals behind them. Not the hunters on their ponies and riding their tanks. Or, maybe hunters. They have rifles and wear those hats that Tyroleans used to use with crossbows to show they, hat a bolt and shot the hat. Hat.

  Hat.

  Ack. I need more time.

  “Lumpy? Lumpy?”

  I wave a tired arm at my delightful lady. Warm hearths and good food. Caught fresh from the ruins of… what was the city. She was a priestess. Goddess of the hunt.

  “Hello dear girl.” I smile. “I missed you so much.”

  The earth tilts. I fall over backwards. There are scarlet clouds above me and a dead bird thing besides me. The clouds are red with the signifiers of meaning and there are things in them that should not be there. And Daphnae died when I came back home along with everyone else.

  The witch, the living one, not the dead one forces a half smile. There’s concern in her green eyes. For me? “Bit dramatic there, Lumpy. Just been gone for a moment, but I did wonder if you were going to be okay. That was quite the fall.”

  Emmet. He’s my Golem friend, helps me up. The haze is burning away and I can think again. The locals are hanging back. Hemlock is sliding against my legs purring. The pony is watching. It is always watching. Damned thing.

  It’s just a pony.

  Deep breath. Clear the lungs. I give Ariadne a hug. “Thank you. That was surprisingly strenuous.”

  She pulls back and brushes away some feathers. “Surprised meself to be honest with you. And we have those fellas to thank for… that sack of shit falling back down.”

  The chief witch looks like a broken bird. One that flew too fast into a wall maybe. Get the shovel. Over the fence…

  “She was trying to save her…”

  “Flock?” suggests Emmet.

  “Flock?” suggests Ariadne.

  “Hah. Great minds do thing alike.” That gets me a quizzical look from the young witch. “I mean think.”

  She picks another feather up and slides it in her hat band.

  “You must really have hit your head hard, Lumps. The lads over there want to say thank you for sorting out the bad sisters. ‘Parently the witches were a bit of a problem recently. Weren’t listening to the local Russian boss man who is on his way here now and hoofing about screaming about death coming.”

  “Eh?”

  Ariadne shrugs. “He says they were going nuts hunting. Had hit half the towns in the province. Building up their strength for something.”

  I wave at the Polish gentlemen in their fine crossbows, they gingerly wave back. “Thank you, kind sirs.”

  “They don’t speak English, Lumpy.”

  “Then how do you know what they are saying? You are not a Russian speaker I seem to remember. It was quite the event…”

  She colours a rosy red. “Hey. It’s been quite a busy couple of days. And look down.”

  Hemlock meows at me. “He’s quite the cat linguist.”

  “Tricky.” I narrow my eyes at him.

  The village headman is one of the hunters whose excellent marksmanship saved me from a painful dissolution among the clouds. He is effusive in his thanks for saving his village from the witches and promises to put in a good word with the Baron when he arrives. I understand from the secondhand translation, hunter to cat to witch to me, that our pursuers were actually hunting down the marauding witches rather than my party.

  But he intimates that it would be for the best if we left before the Baron arrives. No matter how many good words he can put in on my behalf, Vampires will never be overly welcome in any of the Little Russias, even if a specific Vampire would be welcome to…

  “I’m sorry, he said what?”

  “I think he said you could, suck on his wife, any day of the week?” Ariadne grimaces. “Gross. I think it’s a joke.”

  The Headman bursts out into hearty laughter and I clap him on the back, humour is such a fine release from the stress of the day.

  “Mind if I ask a question, Lumps?”

  I shrug a shoulder, as the saying goes. “Knock yourself out.”

  “Hemlock, does the Headman know why the witches went nuts. The other ones that is?”

  “Went digging in old server in some ruins. Found something. Not happy, not one bit. Go ‘nuts’.”

  He mimes tapping his head and rolls his eyes, then mimes throwing fire from his hands with pew-pew noises.

  “Hmm,” is Ariadne’s only comment. “Wonder what they found.”

  “I doubt this fine fellow knows. Might be that the only person who does is over there.”

  After a little more talking, and some compliments on their fine shooting, accompanied with some gifts of a few helpful nicknacks I happen to have in my pockets, they return to the town to intercept the Baron’s party and we slip away with our two captive witches carried over Emmet’s shoulders.

  When we are far enough away to avoid unfortunate incidents I find us a little shelter – a broken down hunting shack in some light forest – and have Ariadne untie them. The trees no longer seem to avoid our presence.

  “Good afternoon ladies” I smile showing fangs. “I’m afraid I have to ask a favour of you.”

  They do not reply. They remind me of Clem a little, same aloofness. Difference being that I’ve never done anything to annoy Clem, bar existing. These two have better motivations to hate me. Though they still eat children.

  Clem is also quick with the come backs. The silence here is irksome. “Hello?”

  One of them flicks her dark eyes frantically left and right, the other coughs and chokes.

  “Oh. Hold a moment.” I release them a little from the holding spell to allow them to speak.

  And they reply both at once, in some Slavonic language I cannot follow. “Myed? Lee? Yayna?” I seem to remember that means slowly. Slowly not likely to help in this situation.

  “Looks like a job for Hemlock,” says Ariadne. “I’ll sort out something to make it a bit easier.”

  She draws up some stylised runes against the stone and picks up Hemlock who grumbles out a couple of sad meows. “Food soon, I promise my furry lil chunker.”

  There is a crackle in the air that rebounds from the walls and the witch gently lowers the overweight cat who settles next to the new additions to our shelter.

  “Right, should be good to go Lumpy.”

  “Lumpy?” one of the Russian witches rattles out a laugh. “Skinny. Maybe?”

  “Tall. Bastard.” The other confirms.

  “Hunchback!” The exclaim in unison.

  “Long story on ‘Lumpy’ and I’ll let you have the insults. Short story, I apologise for the unpleasantness of a moment ago…”

  The women share a glance and one on the right replies. “We are indifferent. We have no choice when one such as she is about us, this gives us the chance to live as we wish and removes the share of knowledge which was killing us.”

  Wonderful. Riddles. It is difficult to tell the difference between the two women. Maybe one is slightly more aquiline of nose, but both display the conventional attractiveness of the young witch. The glamour hiding their real appearance behind the standard thick dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin and a warm ready smile.

  So much easier to get what you want. Except with me of course.

  “So we can be friends?”

  “Yes.”

  I clap my hands. “I’m so very glad to hear that as I have some ways I can help you establish yourself if that is your true wish.” They look at each other. “Provided you can help me with one small matter.”

  “You want same thing we do.” The sharper nosed witch gestures with her head towards the west. “You want to leave here.”

  “Bang on, young lady.”

&
nbsp; They confer for a moment. While they do I whisper to the cat.

  “Any chance you can sharpen up the translation, Hemlock old boy?” I refuse to believe that the witches are really talking this stilted nonsense. The Cat just yawns and the moment passes.

  “We bring forest back if you agree to let us go our own way.”

  Ariadne looks dubious. “There’d be a price to that, and I’m not sure I’m up to negotiatin’ it with some nasty old Oak or the things livin’ in it.”

  “What?” I glance over at her.

  “You’re not talkin’ to the actual trees, ‘cept in same way that you’re talkin’ to Hemlock there. Fae who stuck about when the Courts went off, followers of the wild hunter himself.”

  Hemlock licks his paws and cleans his ears, entirely engrossed in a feline cleanliness ritual when not engaged in his alternate career as a translation cat.

  “We know this. We sent forest away so that we could use ourselves but needed more power to get away. Far far away from dying place. Not so many of us now, you see him, he sees you. Can all go safe using original contracts. Needful for you to…”

  “Let you go.”

  The two eastern witches look at me expectantly. “No loss to you. Both get what we want.”

  It is the work of moments to agree this, but I have one last question. “Why are you leaving?”

  Silence for a time. “Bad thing coming. Found out too much. Might have been you. We not take that risk. You know it, it kill you. You seem different but same. Not same in bad way. We know less, now Mistress dead. Safe for now. Need more distance. Forget.”

  “It’s that or just leave them here, and I’m thinking that that Russian Baron’s not going to be too kind to any of those witches he catches.” Ariadne shrugs. “They said they didn’t have enough power, and that means they’ve been doing this for a while. Your average Russian baron is a peasant beating ass. You mess with their workforce and they’ll tear you apart on a rack. If you’re lucky.”

  “And they always loved children.” I gesture and the bonds fall away.

  “We join sisters. Children safe. You follow. Go where you want.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Far away. No more of this. Find Fae, stay there. Have invite.”

  We head outside where I am surprised to find Emmet and Buttercup, or whatever the pony is called today, staring at about a dozen witches from the village, standing in a silent semi-circle around our makeshift shelter. The two witches we had been negotiating with turn and smile at us, showing bright even teeth. “You not let us go, would have gone bad for you. Now we are in agreement. All is good.”

  They take their place in the semi-circle, link hands and raise their hands to the sky. I have a sinking feeling in my stomach for a moment, like dropping from that bloody balloon outside Paris, all those years ago when I was trying out my interplanetary plan (number thirty-two from memory), and then we are standing at the edge of the forest.

  Not any old forest. The good old forest, with trees that are green and leafy, that don’t stink of mushroom rot and drop adorable bloodsuckers on you from above.

  The witches are with us, though not for long. They file off into the trees. The last to leave turns back and waves. She says something to Ariadne in some witch tongue which I do not recognise. Then she turns with a swish of feathered cloak and joins her sisters on their long journey to wherever.

  Silence, but for the crackle of thunder and the patter of sleet on Ariadne’s hat.

  “What did she say Ariadne?”

  “Tatty-bye-bye pretty much, Lumpster.”

  “Now that is a straight up lie young lady.” Her eyes are thoughtful, and her lips pulled back against her teeth.

  She lets out a slow whistle. “Yeah, that it is, but it’s witch stuff so you’re not getting in on the know. Bet you hide all sorts of things in that lumping great noggin’ of yours, Vampire.”

  “She’s not wrong,” says Emmet. “He barely knows even what he’s got hidden most of the time.”

  I pat the pony on the snout. “Least I can rely on your loyalty my quadruped friend.”

  The pony raises its long head up with a cunning look playing across its equine face. For a moment I see snakes falling from the sky and the earth shrieking in pain.

  That bump on the head must have been harder than I thought.

  23

  Human Motivation

  The usual path opens between stone pillars, clear of snow and relatively warm and welcoming. Birdsong flutes from the highest branches and Ariadne drops her head as we go into the world-wood to avoid dislodging her battered hat. I carry mine under my arm.

  Silence is our companion as we depart and I digest our Silesian sojourn. The flight of the eastern witches is interesting, something bad coming probably was me given how things turned out, though the way they tended to drop dead in mid flight hints at an unknown factor. Perhaps a side effect of the clouds?

  The locals’ accuracy with their rifles was a pleasing surprise. The art of marksmanship and the proud heritage of the Polish people continues even in these hardscrabble times.

  Mr. Thomas on the other hand is a disturbing element to my plans and one I cannot quite manage to integrate. I understand the Union to some extent, it is trying to get by in difficult circumstances. It does what it needs to and its intentions in most respects seem pure.

  For all my dislike of the world into which I awoke I suspect that the Union’s territory is much the best place to raise a family, or try to start a business, to pursue the myriad arts of civilisation. And it has people like my friend Mr. Pole to guard it. Honest and straightforward in his pursuit of hopeless causes.

  For that they are to be applauded, and I think in the longer term we could work with one another.

  I understand the western witches, I suspect that my friend sashaying besides me more than she seems. A genial spy maybe. She watches to make sure I do not do anything silly and I conceals important information. In point of fact I still want to know what her eastern cousin said before she departed for destinations unknown and maybe unknowable. That is besides the point however, the rule of witches is that as long as they are left to themselves they are predictable and dependable. Their malice is directed at those who disturb them, and their friendship is something I value. I wouldn’t be here today if it wasn’t for their assistance.

  The Russians I understand, even their hatred for my kind. Based on the history books and what I learnt from Ariadne, they thought they were under attack, and they fought back in the way they always have. They’ve never really moved past that and with the bulk of their lands under the clouds I’m not sure they ever will.

  How they will handle the secession of the majority of their witch-caste I do not know but I’m sure they will adapt. There are other forms of magic available to them.

  Mr. Thomas and his Cultists. I do not know what they want. In fact I’ve only met one of them to the best of my knowledge and I do not like what I have seen.

  If they had wanted to spy on me, they could have done that from a distance. If they had wanted to hurt me, they would have needed more than Mr. Thomas to give effect to that aim for all his clever nasty tricks. If they wanted to delay me? Why would they want that? Do they want things to stay the same or change? And if it is change what form do they wish that change to take?

  They seem more at home in the present conditions than anyone else I have met to date. That trick with the cloud is breathtaking.

  The Pony watches me carefully as we walk. I think it may be hungry. I am being a poor host.

  “A short rest break, ladies, gentlemen and various fauna?”

  “Good call, Lumpy. Nature’s calling.”

  We stop for a snack in a pleasant clearing, lit by luminous fungi and the faintest light from above the canopy of trees. Bugs chirrup and the grass is soft and comfortable. There are eyes watching us from the trees but they are benign, at least for now. Ariadne has found a horse-brush from somewhere and is giving
the pony a thorough clean and trying to encourage it to graze.

  “Lots of knots in her hair Lumpy. That’s just cruel. Animal craft skills of whoever was looking after her are something rotten. Poor thing. No wonder she’s off her feed.”

  A little cold soup for the living (a fire in these circumstances would be foolish, whatever is watching us from the trees does not love open flame) and hard tack and we are ready to move.

  I begin to understand why the witches stick to their forests, this is like being in a bucolic variant of the world before allowing for a little artistic license in the insane variation of the day/night cycle. The smell of the forest alone is a feast for the senses, dulled by the dull world beyond.

  I remember chasing down boar in the antediluvian forests of my youth. Dark and wild, hanging on the edge of the cyclopean walls in which halls and song… My, that was a long time ago. This place triggers memories. It may be part of its nature.

  Helene is travelling with us again, down in the mud, mouthing words. I cannot understand them, she is too broken, and the detritus of the forest floor cover her features for miles at a time. It is not fair that she should be down there, whilst I am up here. Where were my allies when this happened? Dear Serah and the others of my party?

  Eventually, I will have to exorcise them all, my friends from the past, they can’t be here in this awful state.

  Ariadne is watching me with pity in her eyes. “Still a little battered looking am I, young lady?”

  “A little, Lumpster. You don’t worry your head.”

  More miles of travel and my feet start to ache. The forest buzzing across the land over the Rhine, across the war-torn plains and hills of eastern France, before the land slopes upwards and we take a moment to catch our breath (figuratively) before arrival.

  24

  In Memoriam

  We emerge from the world-wood in what appears to be a very neatly laid out post Apocalyptic Memorial. A fine series of buildings with some architectural merit, ruined only by that infectious obsession of every civilised age for columns as a decorative element.