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

by Max Anthony

  Although the spider-limbs gave no indication that they felt pain, this spider-Graves certainly didn’t like that which Skulks had delivered unto her, for she shouted in pain and tried to thrash him away by twisting and turning. In this she was unsuccessful, because her movement was now severely curtailed by a gaggle of well-meaning citizens who had taken exception to having an ill-intentioned, pie-stall-smashing spider-creature in their midst.

  These citizens had hold of spider-Graves’ legs and pulled in several different directions. One particularly enterprising lady had even tethered a rope to a spider-leg, with the other end of this rope being attached to a pair of oxen. There could be only one outcome to all of this activity and soon the street was littered with detached spider legs, whilst Zera Graves’ head shouted and railed at the injustice she felt was being done to her. Skulks put paid to her frothing by plunging his dagger-sword into her eye and giving the hilt a vigorous shake in order to do greater damage to the brain within. His stabbing had the desired outcome and Zera Graves abruptly ceased her vituperative utterances.

  The death of this spider-Graves came not a moment too soon, for it transpired that three identical creatures had exited the Scurtle and Sons International Brewery soon after the first. They had found their path down Brewery Lane to be somewhat more fraught than that of the first spider-Graves and when they arrived at the scene of their fellow’s death, they were all three showing signs of wear and tear. Hardened’s citizens took exception to being bullied, particularly when this bullying came from hideous and malign hybrids. Two of these creatures were missing a leg each. The third had accidentally opened a cut in its own forehead attempting to fend off a variety of cabbages and rotten tomatoes which had been hurled in its direction. It was neither the time nor the place to ponder the matter, but this third spider-Graves did give passing thought as to where the crowd had found two hundred rotten tomatoes at such short notice.

  Surrounded by a hostile crowd, the spider-creatures trampled pies, cabbages and a three-legged rat as they attempted to retrieve the potion that Skulks had stolen. Not wishing to stop for the party, Skulks had scaled the wall of a lopsided building and quickly reached the roof thirty feet above. He turned to taunt these offspring of Zera Graves in the time-honoured fashion of giving a jolly wave and throwing down a number of half-bricks and chunks of loose mortar which came to hand.

  Tan Skulks had a number of failings, but a weak throwing arm was not one of them. The spider-creatures found their time on the pavement below to be an unpleasant one as hard, clay bricks made contact with half-dead flesh. In the confined space of the street, even rapid scuttlings were insufficient to avoid the enthusiastic rain from above.

  There comes a time in the life of every necromantically altered, half-human, half-spider, when it realises that the game is up. Such as when it is surrounded by a hostile crowd intent on pulling its legs off, with an opponent hurling down a seemingly endless supply of unyielding missiles, which cruelly strike it hither and yon. At such a time, this half-human, half-spider must ask itself whether it is able to continue in the face of such adversity, or if it should simply lay down and suffer the cruelties of the madding multitude.

  Faced with this very choice, the three spider-Graveses showed that they possessed the mettle required to push on through these tribulations. They hissed and swiped at the people around them, trying to give themselves the space to pursue Skulks unmolested. Two of the spiders made tentative efforts to climb the wall to the roof upon which Skulks stood. They were much heavier and less suited to climbing than their tiny arachnid brethren, but nonetheless were still able to make tentative steps upwards, hairy spider legs seeking out nooks and gaps in the rough brickwork.

  Up above, Skulks could no longer be seen, giving these vile spider-humans hope that they would be able to continue their pursuit along the rooftops of Hardened, where they would be less likely to encounter the resistance of the plucky citizens. This hope proved to be short-lived when a familiar voice shouted loudly from on high.

  “Watch out below!” commanded the voice of Skulks as he staggered to the edge of the roof carrying a pallet of eighty oversized rough-hewn bricks, which a local blacksmith had overbought when he’d put a new story on top of a nearby dwelling.

  The spider-beasts could only look up in horror as this pallet was gleefully dropped over the parapet, whereupon it descended at an ever-increasing speed. The pallet made excellent contact with the chest of the foremost spider-Graves, tearing it from the wall and dropping it to the hard stone below, crushing the life from it in an instant. The second spider-Graves escaped this fate and renewed its efforts to reach the tormenting Wielder, whilst the third spider-Graves was bombarded by the crowd who seized upon the rough-hewn bricks which had been so helpfully provided to them for just this task.

  Skulks had once more vanished from sight, so it was with confidence that the remaining spider-Graves popped its head over the rooftop to find out the lay of the land. There was nothing to be seen apart from a fist, which Skulks drove into the human face of the spider-Graves, knocking its head back and causing it to hiss and curse in anger. Skulks was certainly not a coward, but nor was he afraid to take advantage of circumstances in order to ensure he got the upper hand. With the spider-Graves so poorly positioned, Skulks punched it again and again, as it tried to bring a bladed arm to bear in order to drive him back. Finding the creature resilient to his punches, Skulks drew a dagger-sword and made a lunge or two as the spider-Graves attempted to pull itself completely onto the roof. Unwilling to forego his advantage, Skulks managed to land a dagger-thrust into his opponent’s chest and followed this up with a kick which burst open one of his new brown boots and sent the spider-human cascading to the ground below, where it landed in a crumpled heap and was finished off by the pie vendor.

  With all three spider-manifestations of Zera Graves put in their place, Skulks set off across the rooftops, intending to return to the Chamber Building to speak to Captain Honey and see how Jake the Headcracker was faring.

  Fifteen

  Although Tan Skulks was unaware, Zera Graves was a necromancer of some power. In fact, she was one of only three necromancers in the whole known world to hold the rank of Arch-Cabbler, this title being bestowed only upon those known to hold the greatest sway over the flesh of the dead. Unlike the more conventional wizards to be found dotted around the cities of Ko-Chak, Rhult and the Treads Archipelago, necromancers were generally not tolerated as being either good or desirable neighbours. Even though death was a terrible thing in most cases, it was an inevitable conclusion of every life. People and beloved pets would pass away, a period of mourning would be observed and then slowly, those whom the dead had left behind would continue on with life, holding onto the precious memories of better times.

  Therefore, having committed Harvey the bounding spaniel to his final resting place, most families would not have welcomed the sight of a putrefied Harvey digging himself out of his grave at the bottom of the garden three weeks after his death. Equally it was widely accepted that if one were to hear a knocking sound at one’s door during the post-burial gathering of a beloved parent’s funeral, it would not be agreeable to find that same tragically re-animated parent seeking entrance to partake of the ham sandwiches.

  At one time, necromancy was so prevalent in parts of the Treads Archipelago that numerous kings and governors passed laws dictating that the bodies of all the dead should be burned until they were ash. This sensible practise also gained traction in much of Ko-Chak and Rhult, eventually reducing the numbers of necromancers into a few small and feared sects concentrated mostly in remote parts of Treads. With no raw materials to work with, the dark arts of necromancy were almost forgotten, though some few practitioners remained.

  Having put his foot through the rotten planks of one especially weak roof, Skulks had descended to the street for safety. He was dressed again in his favourite clothing, bought for him so generously by his favourite captain of Hardened’s army. It took h
im four attempts, but he finally found a tramp willing to take the tweed jacket, purple trousers and brown boots off his hands. The tramp was a kindly old soul called Toggs and he didn’t have the heart to turn away the garments being offered to him, even though he’d have been killed by the other tramps and beggars within minutes if he’d been foolish enough to don them. If Toggs had been a better businessman he could have likely persuaded Skulks to hand over five Slivers in addition to the clothing, in order to sweeten the deal.

  With his good deed for the day done, Skulks waited in a queue in Jinky’s Lucky Loaves, wherein he intended the purchase of numerous items for both himself and his friend Jabin’oh.

  “Eeeeeh,” said one elderly man to another old coot, “things aren’t what they were, are they?”

  “You’re telling me,” replied the second gentleman. “The price of loaves has gone up by a quarter Sliver in the last two months and then there’re all these half-woman, half-spider thingies walking about in broad daylight!”

  “I hear they’ll kill you without so much as a ‘how do you do?’”

  “Suck you dry, they will. Horrible creatures!”

  “Mind you, the spiders were bigger back when I were a lad. Massive they were. I once found a spider in my outhouse that was so big I had to hit it with a coal shovel. You should have heard my mam scream when I brought it into the house.”

  Skulks was only paying casual attention to the gossip. He liked to listen to what was of importance to the people of the city, but mostly it was fairly uninteresting and of little use to his position as head of the Office of Covert Operations. Still, he was impressed by how quickly news travelled and was sure that by later this evening the tales of spider hybrids would be the talk of all the taverns.

  When he was second in the queue to be served, Skulks felt a sharp pain in his lower leg, which caused him to jump. When he looked for the cause, he saw a hole in his black trousers, through which blood from his leg oozed. The cause of this unexpected hole was a knee-high Zera Graves, holding a tiny needle-sharp dagger. As this mini-Graves drew back her arm to deliver another hole next to the first, Skulks kicked out, sending her across the shop floor and into the bread counter. Although this kick was hefty in comparison to her stature, Zera Graves did not seem badly injured and sprang to her feet at speed, giving Skulks the opportunity to see that her mouth was full of tiny, sharp teeth and her eyes were featureless, black orbs.

  “Give it back to us,” she squeaked, hurling herself again at Skulks.

  “She’s trying to push in!” exclaimed Skulks to the patiently queuing customers in the shop.

  The people of Hardened were stoic, hard-working and generally placid, but one thing they did not tolerate was a queue jumper.

  “Hey, you! Get to the back!” said one doughty lady.

  “You can’t just push in!” shouted another, who was hoping to get one of Jinky’s Cinnamon Specials before they sold out.

  The tiny Zera Graves was undaunted by the irritation of the customers, though the steel toe-cap she’d just received in the throat gave her reason to pause. Skulks had been distracted by this miniature necromancer just sufficiently that he failed to notice a swarm of identical Zeras enter the shop behind him. He was alerted by more shouts from disgruntled customers.

  “How rude!” said one, as twenty-five little necromancers pushed past his kneecaps.

  Jinky himself was serving today, which was unusual for his shop was now successful enough that he could afford to employ staff to run it. “What’s going on?” demanded Jinky nervously. He had become a worrier after finding a severed head out the back of his shop a few weeks ago.

  Jinky was forced to take evasive action when a man dressed in black, wearing a flat cap and with a smoking pipe in his mouth, vaulted over the shop counter, sprinted through the staff area and burst out of the back door into the alley beyond. Following behind was an army of tiny, evil-faced women, bearing a variety of swords, axes, hammers, daggers and hooked sticks. They swarmed over and around the counter, trampling loaves and sweet cakes. The last three Cinnamon Specials escaped the trampling feet, not through luck, but because Skulks had stolen them as he dashed by. After the shop had fallen silent, a lone voice was heard.

  “If he comes back, he’s lost his place in the queue now.”

  By the time these uncharitable words were spoken, Skulks had made good progress along the dark alley behind Jinky’s Lucky Loaves, although he’d also trodden in a dog turd in his haste.

  “My good boots,” he lamented, wondering briefly if this was Pumper’s final revenge on the Wielder who had killed him.

  There was no time to waste mourning his fouled boot, as an army of necromancers was nearly upon him, their little legs propelling them at speeds far greater than Skulks would have expected. They made almost no sound as they ran, bar a quiet pitter-pattering and the occasional noise of metal catching stone when they brushed too close to the walls as they passed.

  Although his body was doing its best to heal his wounded leg, Skulks still found himself slowed by the surprise jab he’d taken from the first mini-Graves, so it was all he could do to keep ahead of the pack. As he ran, he used his Wielding powers to wrench open closed doors, banging them violently into the alley. His occasional successes were demonstrated by grunts and thumps as unwary necromancers barrelled at speed into solid wooden doors. Now a chorus of voices rose behind him.

  “Give it back,” said many in tandem.

  “I don’t have it any more,” Skulks called over his shoulder. “I swapped it for a brass looking-glass!”

  The Zera Graveses were not persuaded by Skulks’ lies and continued to pursue him with vigour, intent on claiming back the stolen potions which were currently tucked away inside his tunic. Some of these mini necromancers were more athletic than their brethren, or had been spawned with more fast-twitch muscle fibres and Skulks felt something stab him in his boot. His boots were well-made and the tiny sword failed to penetrate, though the back of Skulks’ fleeing heel made contact with the chin of the attacker, sending her careening into a wall.

  When he reached the end of the alley, Skulks sent an image of himself to the right, whilst he darted off to the left. His ruse was partially successful, leading half a dozen of the pursuing mob astray until they realised their folly. This new street was busier than the alley and there was a large number of people present. Skulks weaved his way amongst them as best he could, but the smaller and nimbler necromancers were better-placed to scamper between the legs of the crowds and three of them managed to fasten themselves to the back of Skulks’ leg, whereupon two of them stabbed him in the thigh as the third climbed up his back in the hope of dealing a more serious injury.

  With this extra burden slowing him down, Skulks swung desperately behind him with a dagger-sword in each hand as he tried to stab at these cruel aggressors. A dagger-tip in the throat dislodged one. Another cackled as it tried to force a hooked stick up Skulks’ rectum, though the stout material of his trousers was his saviour. Being quite happy to have his innards remain within, Skulks swung around again, this time managing to plunge a dagger-sword through the head of this evil, hooked-stick bearing simulacrum of Zera Graves. He pulled back the dagger, finding the necromancer to be still skewered on the blade, with her legs kicking. As he shook her free, the third Zera Graves chose this moment to clout him on the side of the head with a small hammer she was holding. Though it was the size and shape of a toffee hammer, she had delivered a hefty whack and Skulks felt that he should not like another.

  Dismissive of Skulks’ desires, the tiny Zera Graves clonked him once more in the same place. Her arms were more powerful than they appeared and the blow produced a small depression in Skulks’ normally thick skull. Angered beyond measure, Skulks thrust his daggers back into their sheaths and reached over his shoulders, just as the hammer struck a third time. His hands closed around the neck of the perpetrator and he pulled the Zera Graves away from his back.

  “Gurgle gurgle!” she
attempted to yell, as Skulks closed his fingers around her throat.

  With a violent twist of his wrists, Skulks wrung the neck of this Zera Graves and threw the lifeless and floppy body back over his shoulder, where it fouled the pitter-pattering feet of two other Zera Graveses which were closing in upon his heels. Anger gave the impetus that Skulks needed to pull a small lead upon his pursuers and he darted suddenly down a narrow alley. The army of Zera Graveses followed him eagerly, clamouring to strike Wielder flesh with their motley collection of weaponry.

  Clamouring turned into disappointment, for Skulks was nowhere to be seen. The cohort of Graveses shuffled uncertainly into the alley, which was long and nearly featureless. There were no nearby doors leading to the surrounding shops and dwellings. No escape ladders ascended into the gloom. A collection of boxes was stacked up against a wall a few yards along and twenty necromancers advanced upon them, leaving behind the rearmost two, who had been silently stabbed in their backs.

  The boxes were not concealing a Wielder or a stolen potion, but further into the alleyway there was a large metal container used for storing rubbish. Sixteen necromancers advanced upon this metal container, unaware that four more of their number had been dispatched with holes in their backs.

  Fourteen necromancers swarmed over the bin, lifting the lid and peering within. The lid was heavy and the container was deep, but it was not hiding a potion-stealing Wielder. Shortly though, it held six tiny necromancers, who had been incautious in their endeavours to pry within and found themselves pushed firmly into the depths of the bin, whereupon the lid slammed down with an air of finality.

  Although the walls of the bin were thick, they did not entirely conceal the noises of combat from without, nor did they conceal the sounds of what could only be described as small bodies striking hard, brick walls at high speed. As the six trapped necromancers tried to form a pyramid to enact their escape, the noises abruptly stopped, leaving them straining to hear what was happening outside.