The Limbs of the Dead (A Wielders Novel Book 3)

by Max Anthony

  The Limbs of the Dead

  A Wielders Novel 3

  Max Anthony

  Copyright

  © 2016 Max Anthony

  All rights reserved

  The right of Max Anthony to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser

  Cover art by Yuriko Matsuoka

  Typography by Shayne Rutherford

  http://www.wickedgoodbookcovers.com/

  Contents

  No.12, Mops Lane

  The Prince’s Gout

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  The Limbs of the Dead (A Wielders Novel Book 3)

  With the Wizards’ Conference finished for another year, the Wielder Tan Skulks hopes for a break from all things magical. His quiet life doesn’t last long - a new threat looms and it’s much, much worse than a baboon-summoning mage.

  Thirsty dead have begun to roam the streets and everything seems to be growing spider legs all of a sudden. Are these the symptoms of something greater than they appear? As Skulks investigates, all signs point to evil doings a-happening, with a practitioner of the dark arts on the loose.

  It’s dog eat dog out there and the city needs its favourite thief more than it’s ever needed him before. Can Skulks step up to the plate and defeat the mysterious figure that hopes to conquer the city?

  No.12, Mops Lane

  It was a beautiful day outside. Even though it was early, the morning sun could be seen striking the upper levels of Hardened’s higgledy-piggledy skyline. It would be closer to mid-day before it was shining directly down into the narrow streets and lanes of the city. Because of this, it was chilly at street level, but that didn’t dampen the spirits of the people who looked up and were cheered by the brightness. The citizens of Hardened were an optimistic folk and even the promise of sun was sufficient to create a feeling of contentment about the day ahead.

  Grenny Warbler was already up and about, ready for a day in the sausage factory. One of the perks of working there was a daily parcel containing a dozen free sausages, as well as lunchtime sausages generously provided by the factory owner. Grenny had seen what they put into the sausages, so usually took a salad for lunch, but her husband couldn’t get enough of them. He’d eat six sausages for his dinner and put another four aside for his lunch the next day. The cat got the other two. Grenny was looking for the cat now - it was not to be found in its usual place under the kitchen table, where it generally awaited its morning sausages.

  “Where can it be?” Grenny asked herself, having looked in every corner of the kitchen for the recalcitrant moggy. She didn’t even like cats, so had little patience for Tidger and his hiding games. She went into the living room.

  “Perhaps he jumped out of the window last night,” she muttered to herself with little hope. Holding a sausage between forefinger and thumb, she crept around the room, looking under the furniture.

  “Here tid-tid-tid,” she called, hoping to lure the cat out with her soft words. Tidger knew that Grenny didn’t like cats and she knew it knew. They had a largely peaceful coexistence, because Grenny’s husband Herby loved the cat as much as he loved his wife and before today Grenny hadn’t wanted to make him have to choose between them. On many an occasion, she’d thought to herself that Herby was really a bit of a turd and just maybe she should kick him out of the house on the basis that he’d married her, rather than the bloody cat. There was a rustling, scratching sound from under the bookcase, with its grand total of five tomes.

  “That’ll be the little sod there,” Grenny told herself, now becoming faintly angry at the thought of playing second-fiddle to a cat. She bent down and looked under the bookcase. “Here’s your breakfast, tid-tid-tid,” she said to the darkness.

  Without warning, a shape shot out from beneath the bookcase, darting towards her. However, the shape did not snatch the proffered sausage and retreat back into the gloom to eat it. Rather, it sprang for Grenny’s face, claws extended and mouth open to reveal small, thin fangs.

  “Hiss!” said Tidger as it frantically clawed at Grenny’s face, leaving scratches along both cheeks. The cat tried to bite her nose as Grenny screamed in surprise.

  Finding suppressed anger welling up inside her, Grenny head-butted the cat, which was the first and last time she’d ever use her forehead in anger.

  “Take that, you little bastard!” she shouted, even more furious than the time Herby had come home smelling of another woman’s perfume.

  The cat fell away under the force of the butt. It dropped to the floor, but launched itself anew, springing for Grenny’s leg. It looked different somehow. Crazed, perhaps, thought Grenny as she grabbed it by the tail. Tidger scrabbled and clawed, but it was after all just a cat and there was little it could do to prevent Grenny swinging it twice around her head and then smashing it into the wall, whereupon it fell unmoving to the floor.

  Panting, but already feeling emancipated, Grenny picked the cat up and put it on the kitchen table for Herby to see when he got home. If he didn’t like it, he could stay at his mother’s house tonight. And tomorrow and the day after that. In fact, he could shove the dead cat up his arse if he loved it so much. She marched out of the house, leaving the salad box on the table.

  “Stuff it, I’m having sausages for lunch today!” she said, heading to the factory.

  The Prince’s Gout

  At approximately the same time as Tidger was being dashed off the Warblers’ living room wall, there was a knock on the locked door of The Prince’s Gout tavern.

  “Crumbs, it’s the guards!” said Stumpy, making as if to hide beneath the table he was sitting at.

  “Don’t be a tit,” said another one of the patrons. “Why would it be the guards?”

  “It’s a lock-in,” responded Stumpy from the shadows below a dirty, wooden table. “The guards don’t like lock-ins!”

  “Now, now lads,” said the proprietor. “Lock-ins have been legal for the last thirty years.” He was partially correct - it had actually been ninety-five years since the ban on tavern lock-ins was lifted. Though a few of the guards felt that around-the-clock drinking was an invitation to trouble, they had no legal powers to arrest those partaking.

  The proprietor, a former sailor named Jonty Jon, made his way from behind the bar and headed over to the door.

  “Careful, Jonty,” called Bargle. He was also hidden beneath a table, swigging jerkily at his cup of ale in case the anticipated raid by the city guards saw it confiscated.

  “Yeah, pretend you’ve not seen us. Tell them you was just opening up!” sai
d Pocks, sidling slowly towards the bar in the hope that he’d be able to top up his cup while Jonty was distracted. Jonty had seen all the tricks and was watching from the corner of his eye.

  “Get away from there, Pocks. I’ll have you barred if you touch that tap.” With this warning Pocks stopped his sidling. He would be heartbroken if Jonty barred him, for the bar keep was very tolerant of his customers, even where said customers had been barred from every other tavern within half a mile. Stumpy, Bargle and Pocks were known locally as The Four Pillocks on account of their drunken alcoholic bumbling. Even though they were only a trio, it was generally agreed that they were so utterly incompetent that they should be known as a foursome. Almost every Sliver that fell into their mitts was spent in The Prince’s Gout, though Jonty wasn’t so desperate for their custom that he’d fail to deliver the promised barring if he caught them thieving.

  Silence descended upon the tavern, broken only by the jangling of Jonty’s keys as he fumbled to locate the correct one. He jiggled it into the stiff lock, turned it with a faint screech and yanked the door open, to find a man standing there. He certainly wasn’t one of the guards.

  “Croaky Tumble!” exclaimed Jonty in surprise. “I’ve not seen you in weeks!”

  “Ale,” said Croaky, his voice sounding faint, as if he were speaking from the other side of the street.

  “Come in, come in! Let’s get you something to quench your thirst!”

  “Ale,” repeated Croaky, shuffling into the tavern. Even in the dim morning light he looked terrible, with a slight green tinge to his pale skin. His clothes didn’t seem to have been washed in months, if ever. He lurched after Jonty. Stumpy and Bargle emerged from beneath their tables, trying to look mean in an attempt to regain some lost dignity.

  “How’re you doing Croaky, me old mate?” asked Bargle.

  “Ale,” whispered Croaky once more as Jonty plonked a cup down on the bar. Croaky was a regular, so Jonty didn’t ask to see his Slivers, but started a tab in his head.

  Croaky’s hand and arm shook as they homed in on the cup of ale. Eventually his fingers found purchase and brought the cup waveringly to his mouth. He drank deeply, with much of the contents sloshing down the sides of his face. With the cup empty, he dropped it back onto the bar.

  “Ale,” he repeated, though Jonty, good bar keep that he was, had anticipated the demand and had an ale waiting. This next drink followed the first. By now, the Four Pillocks had gathered around, come to greet their old tavern-buddy. Pocks wrinkled his nose; Croaky smelled a bit funny.

  “How’re things going, Croaky me lad? Missus been keeping you indoors?” Pocks asked him, finding Croaky still unforthcoming with answers as to his recent whereabouts. Behind the newcomer, Stumpy stared at something with a puzzled expression.

  “’Ere, Jonty. He’s leaking,” whispered Stumpy, pointing at Croaky’s back.

  “Ale,” murmured Croaky, paying them no heed at all.

  Pocks leaned over to see what Stumpy was pointing at. Sure enough, there was ale welling out of three holes in Croaky’s lower back. He could tell it was ale, because it foamed slightly. The holes didn’t look healthy for a man to have in his lower back. Squinting, Pocks noticed that there were quite a few other holes, though no blood was flowing from them.

  “He’s been stabbed! Quick, get him some bandages or something!” said Pocks. As the men fussed around him, Croaky had evidently noticed the dearth of ale on the bar.

  “Ale!” he whispered, forcing the air from his lungs with sufficient force to generate an exclamation mark at the end of the word.

  “It’s not ale you need, mate, it’s bandages,” said Jonty, pulling a roll from under the bar. The Prince’s Gout wasn’t the most genteel of taverns and Jonty liked to be prepared. “Lie him on the bench over there and I’ll wrap him up!”

  As the message filtered through into Croaky’s brain that no more ale was to be provided, his arm shot out, grabbing Pocks by the throat and lifting him up at arm’s length.

  “Urghh!” choked Pocks as Croaky shook him left and right. “Get ‘im off me!”

  Jonty had seen his fair share of combat through the years and was the first to react. He threw himself at Croaky’s midriff, hoping to push him from his feet. For all his shuffling, unsteady walk to the bar, Croaky didn’t move when Jonty connected with him, leaving Jonty’s legs pedalling away on the floor as he tried to force the assailant to topple.

  Croaky’s second arm came up and around, swatting Stumpy across the chest and knocking him a good ten feet back across the room, where he landed at an uncomfortable angle on the edge of a table.

  “Croaky, you shit-bag!” Stumpy yelled as he struggled back to his feet.

  As Pocks’ kicking became less vigorous, Bargle picked up a chair and swung it off Croaky’s back. Jonty had by now realised that his tactic wasn’t working, so he pulled at the hand clutching Pocks’ throat and succeeded in prying it free, though Croaky’s grip was like iron. Pocks fell to the hard tavern floor, where he landed on his arse.

  “Ooh me bum!” he wheezed through his bruised throat. From his position of disadvantage on the floor he watched Croaky spin this way and that, flailing with his arms as he demanded ale. More chairs rose and fell, striking Croaky with increasing enthusiasm. Eventually Croaky fell over and lay twitching on the floor.

  “Bugger it, I think you’ve killed him,” said Stumpy to everyone else present, already looking to apportion blame.

  “Shut your mouth, Stumpy you twit!” said Pocks, still gasping. “He almost did for me, he did!”

  “Should we call the guards?”

  Jonty thought about it for a minute. “Nah, he’s out cold now. Let’s drag him around the back and if anyone asks, we’ll just say he got drunk and went home.” Jonty was no master criminal and this would by no stretch be considered the perfect crime. The other patrons looked up to him as something of a shining beacon of intellect, so accepted his plan as flawless. Croaky Tumble was picked up by arms and legs, hauled a few yards along a deserted back alley and dumped without ceremony into a pile of wind-blown rubbish and a big horse dung. The patrons of the tavern did their best to look innocent as they went back inside, managing only to look as furtive and guilty as could be.

  “Who’s for a last one before opening time?” Bargle asked.

  One

  The Wizards’ Convention was almost two weeks gone and Tan Skulks had recovered sufficiently to resume his duties as the head of Hardened’s Office of Covert Operations. His hand, sliced most unsportingly from his wrist by the now-dead Lunder-beast, had grown fully back, recreated painstakingly by his Wielding powers which kept his body in tip-top shape. As much as he loved having a pair of hands again, there were two minor problems with the new one.

  Firstly, it itched like buggery all the time and no amount of scratching seemed enough to quell the sensation. He’d scratched it so much in places that he’d worn away the new skin, making it bleed. For all his thousand or so years of life, Skulks had never lost more than a finger and a couple of toes, so he was in uncharted territory with his new hand. Was it meant to itch like this and would it ever stop? He just didn’t know.

  The second problem with his new hand was that it was a different colour to the other one. The hand which had not been chopped off was a shade of brown, resulting from its exposure to the sun. The palms also had leathery patches where use of his blades had stimulated the production of an extra layer of skin. The new hand was a pale pink colour, the skin as soft as that of a new-born babe. Skulks rotated the hand in front of his face and looked at it with fascination, before succumbing to the urge to give it another vigorous scratching.

  “Stupid hand!” he exclaimed to no-one in particular, wishing he had his old one back.

  Heathen Spout had recommended an apothecary’s cream to relieve the discomfort, but Skulks had been mortified when he discovered it cost twenty-five Slivers for a tiny pot. He could afford it, but wished not to, simply on the basis of principle. After
two days, he’d relented and bought himself one of the meagre containers of cream and discovered that it smelled like excrement. The apothecary had proudly told his dismayed customer that baboon droppings were the chief constituent, as if this were something to be celebrated. Now in his office, Skulks opened the pot and dipped the tip of his finger inside, scooping out some of the overpriced unguent. He wiped it over his maddeningly itchy hand, trying to pretend that the itch was gone and that the cream didn’t smell terrible, before turning his attention to the upcoming duties of the day.

  While he’d been convalescing, his employers had kindly moved his office from the far reaches of the Chamber Building (next to the privies), to a new location near the reception area. This new room was more opulent than the old, with a mixture of carpet and tiles on the floor and paint on the walls. There were a couple of pictures hanging from a rail and a number of cheery-looking potted plants to balance out the humours of the room. The most notable improvement was the clean smell of the air, as well as the solitude of not having to listen to the privy door banging open and closed with every visit.

  Some things hadn’t changed. His desk and chair had been lugged dutifully to the new office, along with his hated to-do trays. The three trays were now empty bar a meagre two sheets of unread guidance on current affairs within the city. Heathen Spout had let Skulks in on a little secret:

  “Tan, read the missives as soon as they arrive, that way you’ll always be on top of them.”

  The problem with Spout’s method was that Skulks’ to-do tray appeared only to fill up when he was out of the room. He’d spend time reading through everything, then treat himself to ten minutes in the privy as a reward. When he returned, there’d be another half-dozen pages to read. He was seriously starting to wonder if the clerks were playing tricks on him. As far as he recalled he hadn’t insulted any of them. He might occasionally be a bit brusque, but he was never specifically offensive. It wasn’t in his nature.