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

by Max Anthony

  Turning his mind from this seditious whispering that the clerks might have it in for him, he picked up his cup of hotleaf. After his recent fine performance promoting international relations in Rhult, his office had climbed a rung or two up the pecking order. It meant he now had his own tray of pastries hand-delivered every morning, as well as a pot of freshly brewed hotleaf. The cost to the taxpayer of these luxuries was a fairly hefty twenty-three Slivers per day, but Skulks made certain that nothing was wasted by eating each pastry within fifteen minutes of his arrival. The few visitors to his office were always disappointed to find the pastry tray empty since it was accepted practise for the pastries’ recipients to be generous in their distribution.

  In one corner of the office was a chest. Skulks walked over to it and flicked the lid up with his steel toe-cap. The chest contained the items stolen by Humpy Wagglehorn’s clockwork monkey, which beast had once thieved Skulks’ valuable dagger-swords before he’d enacted their recovery and overseen the destruction of the light-fingered construct. The items in the chest were the most valuable possessions of their unknown owners, stolen by the monkey on Wagglehorn’s command. These goodies had been dumped unceremoniously in Skulks’ office while he was away in Rhult, with the message quite clear: you found them, you get them back to their owners.

  Skulks stooped over the chest and had a rummage. Jerry the Ratchet’s silver ear-horn was still there, undamaged in spite of the battering the chest’s contents had received when they’d been carried here from Skulks’ old office. He put the ear-horn to one side for return to Jerry later. It wasn’t that he liked Jerry the Ratchet, but Skulks had a certain sympathy for his hearing loss. In addition, Jerry was fairly harmless as crooks went and Skulks knew exactly where he could find the self-styled Ratchet if he ever needed to ask him any questions.

  Also in the chest, there was a monocle, which Skulks put to one eye. Seeing nothing unusual about it, he cast it back amongst the other finery. What Skulks didn’t know was that the monocle belonged to Mootan Hairy Balls, an eccentric and very dirty-minded old wizard. The monocle was designed to see through the clothing of the opposite sex, revealing them in all their naked glory. Mootan had been distraught when it was stolen, for its loss seriously curtailed his lecherous stalking of his next-door neighbour Edna, who found it curious that Mootan was always present when she was hanging out her washing.

  Whilst Skulks was lacking a dirty mind, being almost innocent in this regard, his ignorance of the monocle’s nature spared him from a pleasant surprise. There was a knock at the door and Captain Jives Honey entered the room, dressed in her standard-issue armour, with sword sheathed at her side. Skulks felt a slight hot flush even seeing her clothed, though he didn’t know why she brought out such a reaction.

  “Captain Skulks,” she greeted him warmly.

  “Good morning, Captain Honey,” replied Skulks. “How may I be of assistance to you?”

  Letting curiosity get the better of her, Captain Honey peered into the chest. “What’s all this stuff?” she asked him.

  “These? They’re what Wagglehorn’s monkey stole. I should get them back to their owners, though I have no idea who they all belong to.”

  Captain Honey leaned over and picked out the monocle, which was lying on top of the pile. She pressed it to her eye in jest as she looked around the room, pretending to be an old woman with short sight. After a time, Skulks saw one of her eyebrows rise up and a faint pink glow came to her cheeks. She placed the monocle back in the chest.

  “Yes, well,” she said, the sentence tailing off. “Good luck with tracking down the owners, then.” Having regained her composure which seemed to have been inexplicably lost, she addressed Skulks on a matter of business, which had initially drawn her to his office.

  “Captain Skulks, I am advised that there has been a recent spate of attacks on the city’s people by animals normally thought of as docile. Cat, dog and rat attacks have been noted across several areas of the city. Five people have been badly gnawed in these attacks! Are you aware of any reason behind these goings on?”

  Skulks suddenly remembered that the lone employee of his office was meant to be on top of any unexplained happenings in the city, though this was the first he’d heard about these animal attacks.

  “Could it be a strain of dribbling madness, passed down from pigs?” he asked, referring to a disease known to send pigs into a frenzy.

  “I’ve had someone look at two of the dead creatures, and they show no symptoms of a known disease,” replied Honey, looking puzzled as she mulled it over.

  “Rest assured, the Office of Covert Operations shall investigate in order to determine the cause of these unwarranted attacks by domestic beasts!”

  “Very good, Captain Skulks, I will leave it in your capable hands,” said Honey, giving him a smile before exiting the room.

  Alone once more in his office, Skulks picked up the monocle again and squinted through it, wondering if he’d missed something earlier. If it had secrets, it refused to give them up and Skulks put it back in with the other stolen goods.

  Skulks withdrew several further items and studied them. He didn’t know what he expected to find, for most people didn’t have their names etched on their goods, even their treasured ones. There was a glass prism, which reflected the light most beautifully but was otherwise unremarkable. Next to the prism was a nearly-complete set of dentures, cast in solid gold. Further sifting uncovered a crystal vial, stoppered with glass and containing a green liquid. Curiosity got the better of Skulks and he tugged the stopper free. A faint green vapour rose immediately from the surface of the liquid. It had a peculiar smell, like a dozen different flowers combined, but with undertones of cheese. Skulks sniffed at it a few times, but it made him feel curiously dizzy, so he replaced the stopper and put the vial back in with the other items.

  With things to do, Skulks left his office, burping as he did so and tasting flowers with undertones of cheese.

  Two

  It was now mid-morning and Tan Skulks was at something of a loss. The city of Hardened was awash with dogs, cats, rats, mice, pigeons and all manner vermin. Because of this, he had no idea how to investigate the cause of them going berserk.

  “Is it a disease spread from beast to beast?” he wondered. “Or is there a source of the illness?” At this point, he hadn’t ruled out wizardry, being naturally suspicious of anything unusual which he tended to blame on magic first.

  With little to go on, he made his way briskly to one of the neighbourhoods Captain Honey told him had seen a number of recent attacks. Everywhere he looked, he could see dogs and cats, nuzzling at fallen food, or sniffing each other eagerly in places which their owners would be arrested for attempting to sniff. Until he started looking for them he hadn’t been aware of how many creatures lived in the city. The barking that had previously been subdued amongst the background noise of a big city now became prominent, pushing the hubbub of Hardened’s citizens into a murmuring chatter.

  Skulks stopped by a stall, where a lady sold fried cheese sandwiches. Ordering a double portion, Skulks engaged her in conversation as she pushed several lumps of pale, white cheese around a hot plate until it bubbled at the edges.

  “My young lad Fingle got attacked by his pet mouse yesterday,” said Skulks conversationally. His fishing attempts were quickly rewarded.

  “Eeeh I know, it’s terrible, isn’t it?” said the lady at the stall. Skulks enacted surprise.

  “Have there been other mice attacks, then?” he asked.

  “Not just mice, but everything with four legs. One of my customers lost a finger to his pet cat and another one had to stand on his gerbil after it jumped at his dangly bits.” She scooped up the blob of molten cheese, deposited it upon a sliced half loaf and then impressed Skulks by starting to fry the combined product. “He told me his cock hasn’t been so sore since he caught it in his zipper five years ago.”

  Skulks nodded sagely at this, though it was perhaps more detail than he need
ed. “Fingle got such a shock. He thought his mouse had escaped and when it came back he was so happy until it bit him on the finger and he had to hit it with a brick.”

  “It’s just not right. Mark my words, there’s witchcraft involved in it!” She handed Skulks the sandwich and he straight away burned the roof of his mouth on the hot cheese.

  “Have any of your other customers had anything to say? It seems very strange for all of this to be happening.”

  “You’re telling me! I have to keep myself armed now. I’m scared for my safety every time a dog looks at me funny.” She reached behind the stall and withdrew a three-feet piece of metal bar, to which nails had been welded. “But if any of them filthy mutts think old Polly’s leg is fair game, they’ve got another thing coming to them!” She waved the bar around in the air a few times, leading Skulks to think that she wouldn’t have minded being attacked.

  “What about your other customers?” he prompted her around a mouthful of cheese which seemed to retain its heat long after he’d have expected it to be cool.

  “It’s the talk of the neighbourhood!” she said. “Almost everyone knows someone who’s a victim.” She pointed to an elderly gentleman on the other side of the road who was walking by slowly with the aid of a stick. “There’s old Hooter. He got bit just last week. By his own cat too! He had to throw it out of the window to stop it from doing worse!”

  “Poor fellow,” commiserated Skulks. “Thank you for your time, good lady. I believe I shall speak with Hooter about his travails.” With that, he left the fried cheese stall and made after the old man across the street.

  “Kind sir!” called Skulks as he caught up. Hooter stopped and looked around. There was fear in his eyes.

  “Yes? How may I help you?” he asked.

  “My poor son Fingle has recently been attacked by his mouse. I believe that you have suffered an unfortunate attack by your pet cat.”

  Needing little prompting, Hooter spoke. “Yes I have, the ungrateful little bastard! I’d looked after that cat since it was a kitten. People told me cats had no loyalty and I told them it was nonsense, that my Ponky wouldn’t bite the hand that fed him. Well it didn’t bite my hand, did it? No, it had to bite me right on me rear end, it did. For no reason whatsoever! He’d ran away for two nights and there was me worrying meself sick and as soon as he comes back, chomp! Right on the bum.”

  “What a dreadful creature,” said Skulks, “to attack its kind owner in such a manner!”

  “You’re telling me! The next time someone knocks on me door asking if I want to buy a kitten, they’re going to get a taste of this!” He brandished his walking stick menacingly, prompting Skulks to duck. When the stick was lowered to a position of safety, Skulks patted the old man on the shoulder and told him that pets were more trouble than they were worth.

  As Hooter shuffled off, Skulks pondered matters. He didn’t like pondering for long, because he was the sort of person who liked to be doing things, rather than pondering about doing them. Pondering made him bored and he’d eventually end up doing the first thing that jumped into his head, which was what he did now.

  Having entered the nearest dingy-looking alley, Skulks took advantage of the lack of pedestrians to hide himself from view by using his Wielding powers to conceal his outline. In the dark and with few people looking, he could flounce about with impunity and before he’d gained responsibilities commensurate with his new office, had often done so, stealing and pilfering whatever caught his eye. If it was full daylight and with lots of people in the vicinity, it was much trickier to remain unseen. In the dingy alley, he felt fairly comfortable that he wouldn’t be spotted.

  Halfway along the alley, Skulks stalked his prey, that prey being a stubby little street dog with short legs and brown fur. It is often thought that dogs and other household pets have a prescience; the ability to know something in advance or to somehow feel things beyond the ken of mere humans. Not so Pumper, as Skulks had already dubbed the beast. Pumper had his nose shoved deep into a pile of discarded pie wrappers as he rooted around for crumbs, blissfully unaware that he was being followed.

  Finding the pie wrappers to be devoid of worthwhile morsels, Pumper gave the greasy paper a mournful lick and whimpered. His belly was gurgling uncomfortably, for he’d not eaten in nearly two days. Without warning, the dog’s head shot up and he sniffed the air. Legs whirred as they propelled Pumper directly towards Skulks’ hiding place, veering off at the last moment in order for the hound to sniff happily at a knee-high damp stain on a nearby wall.

  Skulks sighed. Throughout his long and illustrious career in the world of thievery, he’d followed many people. He was very good at it. Once, he’d stalked the anxious King Grink of Fleams for two whole days, avoiding detection from the sixty counter-espionage experts guarding the King at all times. Skulks had even discovered that Grink had haemorrhoids, for he winced and cursed as he voided his bowels. In all those years, Skulks couldn’t recall once having to follow a dog. He was always open to new experiences, often pursuing them to his own detriment, but the tracking of Pumper was certainly not the most exciting of new experiences Skulks could remember.

  With the other dog’s urine thoroughly sniffed and tentatively licked, Pumper was distracted anew and he scampered along the alley, crossed a busy street and went into another similarly dingy alley, with Wielder in tow. The new alley was a cornucopia of experiences. There were several crates, numerous papers rustling slowly along in the wind, a couple of turds (origins unknown) and a handful of overlooked crusts. Pumper swept down on the crusts, snatching them up with his jaws and swallowing them. There then followed a long hour wherein the turds were sniffed, ignored and then sniffed again. Papers were chased, caught and waggled in the air until they ripped. Walls were sniffed and balls were sniffed, before Pumper settled down to nip at his crotch with his teeth. Skulks fervently hoped that he would never suffer the misfortune of becoming a dog, for their lives seemed truly dull.

  Eventually, afternoon wore on into evening and daylight faded. Skulks could see well enough at night, but Pumper was not a nocturnal dog - at the hour of eight he trotted down to the Ten Dams River and drank deeply next to the jetty serving the Tradis Brewery. Then he made his way back along the route he had led Skulks over the previous five hours, located his favourite abandoned crate and curled up underneath it to sleep, leaving Skulks to grit his teeth in frustration at his wasted day.

  “A pox on these unruly animals!” he told himself, feeling slightly comforted at this internal display of his emotions. He resolved to locate the nearest tavern and comfort himself to an even greater extent by consuming many cups of their strongest ale. His resolve wavered not fifty paces away from the spot at which he’d made this resolution. There, lying in a heap against the alley wall, was not one, not two, but three prone bodies. Skulks had followed Pumper along here several hours prior and distinctly remembered the dog pursuing its own tail in the very spot now occupied by the three unmoving figures.

  “Most peculiar,” Skulks told himself. “A single drunk asleep in the street is not unusual, but I wouldn’t normally expect to see three of them in the same place.” He considered himself something of an expert in these matters and he had the backing of many hundreds of years’ experience. Even were three ale-hoggers to leave the tavern at the same time, one of them would generally manage to stumble a few paces more than their colleagues before falling asleep, or tumbling into a random hole. Skulks studied the figures for a moment. They were dirty and poorly dressed, though not quite in rags.

  “They look like prisoners,” said Skulks to himself, which was the first conclusion that popped into his head. He nudged the closest figure with the tip of his boot. It grunted and snuffled. He nudged it again, thinking it most certainly to be an over-indulged drunk. His hunch was reinforced when a voice rose from the ground in the vicinity of the slumped man’s mouth.

  “Ale,” it said. Skulks gave it another unsympathetic nudge with his boot.

  �
�Ale!” it repeated, louder and more insistent.

  “You need to get yourself home, man!” said Skulks to the figure. “And drink as much water as your stomach will hold before you go to bed.” He didn’t know why he said these last words. He recalled someone telling him this snippet of wisdom what seemed like a lifetime ago. He couldn’t remember the person’s name or their face, but he could remember the words.

  “The best cure for a hangover is to drink as much water as your stomach will hold before you go to bed,” the words said. For a time, Skulks had followed this sage advice, gulping down water at the end of every visit to the tavern. After almost a year had passed, he’d finally realised that the advice was nonsense; his hangovers didn’t get any better, but he definitely needed to go to the toilet more often. Once he’d wet himself by dreaming that he was standing over a toilet urinating, when in fact he was still asleep in bed.

  Ignoring Skulks’ suggestion, the figure uttered its plaintive call for ale once more.

  “There’s no ale here. Get on your feet and go home!” said Skulks, wondering why he was even bothering. The other two figures had been roused by the sounds.

  “Ale!” said one.

  “Ale!” said the other.

  Skulks’ Thief’s Senses were now beeping a faint alarm in his head. ‘Something’s not right here’ they told him in their soothing ‘don’t panic’ tones. Skulks wasn’t prone to panic even in the direst of emergencies, but he always listened carefully to his Thief’s Senses. He looked more closely at the three as they roused themselves. They looked very unhealthy, with their skin pallid and tinged slightly with green. As yet, Skulks could only see the face of the closest one – it looked ghastly and almost lifeless. Skulks remembered seeing his own early morning face in the mirror a time or two and he occasionally looked just as bad.