Navarin, Thunder and Shade

by William Stafford

  “Not his bottom, exactly. I’ll fetch him.”

  “You’re leaving me alone? With him?”

  Lughor glanced back at the prone figure on the bed. “If he starts anything, I am sure Your Grace will be able to fend him off until I get back.”

  The Duke’s expression suggested he was not as certain. Alone with the dying man, he wondered if he was faking it and at any second he would spring out of bed and assassinate him. No... the doctor had examined him, had dressed his wounds; they were most certainly not fake... But... the doctor could be in on it! It could be a conspiracy to oust me!

  The Duke moved away from the bed, out of springing range.

  He had never trusted doctors.

  ***

  The lad was in a sulk when Lughor found him in the gardens. Gonda had refused to admit him to her room, despite the cries of Tiggy who wanted to spend time with his playmate. Gonda had been in a strange mood. Quiet. Distracted. But she wouldn’t let Broad in to talk about it and so the youth wandered the gardens alone, frustrated and fearful that their association was already at its end.

  “Hoi,” said Lughor, calling the lad to him. Broad appeared not to hear or notice. Lughor strode over with mounting impatience; there was not time for adolescent anguish. “Did you not hear me calling? See me waving?”

  “Hullo,” mumbled Broad absently. “It’s not my shift already, is it? Is it my shift?”

  “No, it’s not you I’ve come for.”

  Broad frowned and glanced around. “There’s nobody else here.”

  Lughor seized his hand and glowered at the ring. “Come off it,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about it and if your mate is what I think he is, he could be very useful indeed. The Duke has need of your little friend.”

  ***

  “No!” cried the Duke in horror. “I will not allow it.” He glared at the youth who was hanging his head abashed. “I cannot believe you brought that - that thing into the palace! It could kill us all.”

  Broad hid his ringed hand behind his back as though that would help matters. “Shade is not like that. He doesn’t hurt anyone.”

  “Tell that to the guard he murdered so that you could escape my dungeons!”

  “Your Grace,” Lughor interceded. “What choice do we have? The fellow is approaching death and could go at any moment. We have no other way to learn who he is and what he came for.”

  “And I say the fellow has suffered enough. I cannot be party to ending his life - for that’s what it means, doesn’t it? Let that thing loose on him and he dies. That’s how it works, isn’t it?”

  “He’s going to die anyway.”

  “But not at my bidding!”

  “Then leave the room, Your Grace.” Lughor moved to open the door.

  The Duke remained where he was. A loud rasp from the bed drew their attention. The man was entering his final seconds.

  Lughor nodded to Broad. Broad looked to the Duke. The Duke shut his eyes. And nodded.

  Broad moved to the man’s side. He opened the ring near the man’s ear. The Duke watched, fascinated, as a stream of steam poured from the ring and into the man’s head. At once the fellow stiffened and almost sat up. His eyes swam with the steam, taking on a smoky quality before blanching over like those of a cooked fish.

  From the man’s other ear, Shade emerged, taking humanoid form from the feet up. The Duke made sure Lughor was between himself and the apparition, just in case. The fellow on the bed had breathed his last.

  Shade’s facial features were the last to form. His eyes darted around the room, taking in the scene. His mouth curled in a grin.

  “Hello,” he said. “Thanks for dinner.”

  “Never mind that,” said Broad. “What did you find out?”

  Shade became aware he was being stared at. He pulled a face. “Oh! Is that the Duke?” He dipped in a curtsey. “Charmed, Your Grace.”

  The Duke stepped a little further behind Lughor.

  “Well?” said Broad. “His Grace is waiting.”

  “All right,” said Shade, a little annoyed. “There wasn’t much left in him. More of a snack, really.”

  “But what did you learn?”

  “I’m getting to that. Blimey. He was a soldier.”

  “We sort of guessed that,” said Lughor. Shade looked him up and down.

  “Hello, big man!” he grinned. “Nice to see you again.” He rose from the floor and swooped across to the warrior, swimming around him like a friendly breeze. He pouted; the warrior was still wearing his little pendant and therefore Shade was powerless against him. The Duke, cowering, whimpered. Shade floated down to the floor and bowed. “Fear me not, Your Grace. I am nothing without my good manners.”

  “What else?” Lughor said sternly. “What else about the soldier?”

  “He’s come a long way,” said Shade. “But again, you know that already. There was an army. He had never seen their like. Marching out of Tullen Spee, destroying everything in their path. Our man was the last defence in his village - he was home on a furlough, visiting his wife and kiddiewinks and - oh! He saw them butchered before his very eyes. I can hear the screams. Awful scenes. People running, being cut down. And then - and then - they get up again, no matter how many limbs have been hacked off, regardless of how dead they are - and they join the destruction! The dead get up and join the army! Tearing at their neighbours. Our man fled his own children - his own dead children coming after him with cold murder in their sightless eyes...”

  Shade broke off. The others pictured the events he had described.

  “This army,” Lughor prompted. “From Tullen Spee.”

  “Apparently so,” said Shade.

  “Tullen Spee?” said Broad. “There’s nothing there.”

  “Ah,” said the Duke. “That’s not entirely true. But more of that anon. This army?”

  “Growing by the minute. With every kill it gains another recruit. And it’s coming this way. This brave man kept ahead of them, just about, to deliver his warning. The army is heading for the palace, Your Grace. And it is unstoppable.”

  Broad gaped. Lughor and the Duke shared a glance.

  “Once-deads,” they said.

  “Eh?” said Broad.

  “Once-deads,” the Duke repeated. “Someone has woken up the legions of the dead at Tullen Spee.”

  ***

  They repaired to a state room from where the Duke issued orders to double the guards at the gates. He sent word to the watchmen at Grimswyck to evacuate the town. The people would be housed within the palace grounds. It was the least His Grace could do.

  “Did he say how much time we have?” the Duke directed the question toward the creature of steam and shadow.

  “It wasn’t exactly a conversation,” said Shade. “I just pick up images, impressions, feelings, memories. All at once. But I got the idea time is something that is in short supply. The once-deads are closing in.”

  The quartermaster was sent for and was duly questioned about the armoury and the arsenal.

  “It’s interesting you should mention it, Your Grace,” the quartermaster bowed low, “I was speaking only recently to the master of fireworks about some of the gunpowder going astray.”

  The Duke waved dismissively. “I don’t want to know what we don’t have. I want to know what we do have.”

  The quartermaster reeled off a list of weaponry from catapults to cannon, longbows to lances. All the time, Lughor was shaking his head, until the Duke noticed and asked him why.

  “None of these things will be of use, Your Grace. You cannot kill a once-dead man. Chop him up, blast him to pieces, and those pieces keep coming. Hand-to-hand combat is no good. He will keep coming. Our men will be cut down then they will get up and cut down more of our men and so on.”

 
The Duke swallowed. “How do you know this?”

  “I have seen it for myself.”

  “Impossible! Those men have been dead and buried beneath the citadel for centuries.”

  “I was there,” said Lughor. “Recently, I mean. I was attacked by dead men. Recently dead. They must have died there, fallen from the masonry or perhaps they were thrown. They all came for me but I cut them down. They got up again. Severed arms swung at me. Legs, heads and all, kept on fighting. I had to dice them like a chef preparing turnips for navarin before I could get away.”

  The Duke frowned. “Why do you say navarin?”

  “It’s just a simile, Your Grace.”

  The Duke twitched. The last time he had heard that word was during a clandestine meeting with that malodorous magician.

  “Your Grace?”

  “What? Oh! Oh, I was just - something has occurred to me. It would take a wizard, would it not? To raise such an army after all this time.”

  Lughor pulled a face. “I’m no expert but yes. At least one.”

  The Duke shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Treacherous dog,” he murmured. “Not you. There is a wizard, goes by the name of Smedlock.”

  Broad and Shade exchanged a glance. Shade nodded.

  “Your Grace,” the youth said. “You need a wizard’s weapons to fight magical men.”

  Lughor nodded. “And I shall do what I can.”

  The Duke frowned. “You? You are but one man?”

  “You underestimate me,” said Lughor. “By a hundred and ninety-nine.”

  “What?”

  “And there’s the bag,” Broad interrupted. “You remember the bag, Your Grace? You put something in it and you never see it again.”

  “That’s right...” the Duke sounded more encouraged. “And we have you too, my shadowy friend.”

  “Who, me?” said Shade. “You forget, Your Grace, I can’t kill someone who is already dead. And they have no thoughts for me to read.”

  “But they’re not all once-dead,” the Duke held up a finger. “That wizard, for one. And any accomplices he might have.”

  The others nodded. Between them a plan of action was beginning to form.

  “That bag...” the Duke took to pacing again. “Will it stretch over a doorway, for example? Or perhaps the western gates?”

  “And they march directly into it?” said Lughor.

  “Is it possible?”

  “I don’t know,” said Broad. “In my experience, it only seems to get bigger when it needs to, like when it senses something is near. Like a snake with a goat or something.”

  “Hmm,” the Duke scratched his chin. “But with a team of men, with it ready... It’s worth a try.”

  “Your Grace, I suspect the army will attack on more than one front. They are not all going to file in through a single gate like tourists visiting a monument.”

  “And that’s when I need you ready,” the Duke gave Lughor an appraising look. “There’s more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there? You have a military background.”

  “You could say it’s in my blood,” said Lughor. “You may depend on me, Your Grace.” He even bowed. Broad and Shade were astonished.

  “My lad,” the Duke turned to the youth, “it will be your task to get our shadowy friend as close to the wizard as possible before you release him. We cannot afford for Smedlock to get wind of him and do some trickery to neutralise him.”

  “Don’t you worry about me,” said Shade. “Just stop calling me ‘our shadowy friend’. It’s a bit racist.”

  They were drawn to the balcony by the sounds of the first refugees arriving from Grimswyck.

  “Oh, dear,” said the Duke, “I hope I have not made sitting ducks of them all.”

  “Here or in their homes, what’s the difference?” said Lughor, offering cold comfort.

  “We’re buying them some time, at least.”

  “Or buying yourself some,” said Shade, “Cushioning yourself against the initial onslaught with the bodies of your subjects.”

  “Shade!” Broad was astonished and embarrassed. “Forgive him, Your Grace. He doesn’t get out much.”

  “Perhaps he is right,” said the Duke. “Or perhaps I am ensuring that my own subjects turn against me. I need someone to tell me this whole undertaking is not devoid of all hope. We must have a chance at success, however slight.”

  No one would meet his eye. A momentarily awkward silence was broken by Lughor.

  “Your Grace, there is something else. Something we can deploy at the last moment. If it is clear that all hope is extinguished, I am sure Your Grace would not wish to become a once-dead.”

  “No, I wouldn’t like that,” the Duke paled. “What is it?”

  “There is among these palace walls a creature of such terrible power that none would be left standing for miles around.”

  The Duke gaped. “What? What creature? In the palace, you say? What rot!”

  But something about the serious expressions of the others made him believe. “Tell me. What manner of creature dwells under my roof?”

  “A bringer of thunder, Your Grace,” said Lughor. “A malgrim.”

  “A m-” The Duke shook his head, remembering all he knew from his studies of lore. “Here? Who?”

  “The child,” said Lughor. “The goose girl calls him Tiggy.”

  The Duke laughed incredulously. “That little scrap of a boy? Nonsense! I cannot believe it. Tiggy! A malgrim! Never!”

  “It’s true,” said Lughor. He looked to Broad and Shade for corroboration. Neither of them would meet his gaze.

  “I am not sure I want to leave the endgame in the hands of a child who may or may not be a bringer of thunder. If it turns out he is just a boy...”

  “Then we become once-deads. But not until we have put up the fight of our lives, of course.”

  “And if he is a malgrim...”

  “Well, at least the once-deads will be stopped. The wizard too. All.”

  “Including us.”

  “Including us.”

  The Duke rubbed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. “I don’t suppose we may meet with this wizard and negotiate terms? Perhaps the people can be spared at least. Perhaps I can offer abdication in return for their lives.”

  Lughor grimaced and looked likely to spit on the stateroom carpet. “Your Grace, with respect, one does not raise an army of once-deads in order to have a cosy chat about who should be in charge. They are coming to fight and fight we must.”

  “You’re right, you’re right,” the Duke hung his head. “Convey the child to the highest point of the palace. The goose girl too so she may keep him calm. We don’t want him going off before the enemy is upon us.”

  “I’ll get her,” Broad volunteered, “although she is adamant Tiggy is no malgrim. What do you think, Shade?”

  “I’m inclined to believe her,” said Shade. “She knows the child best. However-”

  Before he could finish his statement, the door crashed open and Carith Drombo burst in. Gone was her hauteur and poise. She collided with the doorframe and the furniture as she sought the Duke. Her eyes were wild, her cheeks pale and drawn and her hair was shot through with streaks of grey. Bony, liver-spotted hands clawed at her husband.

  “The goose girl!” she gasped, her voice cracked and reedy. “Find her and bring her to my rooms at once!”

  She reached up a claw to stroke the Duke’s face. The Duke backed off, repelled. His wife, his beautiful wife was aging before his eyes. With an anguished cry, she fled from the stateroom, stalking out like a stork wearing stilts for the first time.

  “Someone’s let herself go,” Shade observed.

  “You better find the girl,” the Duke told Broad. “Take her to my wife for now. Sa
y nothing of our plans for the boy.”

  “Of course,” Broad stood to attention. Shade executed a mock salute and poured himself into the ring to the astonishment of the Duke.

  The Duke watched them go before addressing his next words to the warrior. “He’s a good lad. Perhaps he should be allowed to go elsewhere, keep out of harm’s way.”

  “Impossible,” Lughor shook his head. “We need the soul-taker, and the soul-taker needs to be near the ring. Besides which, from what I know of the lad, he would refuse to go. He will stand and fight with the rest of us. I believe he has his eye on the goose girl.”

  “Well, she is rather pretty, I suppose. Were I not married to the most beautiful-” He broke off. That last glimpse of his wife had hardly shown her looking her best.

  What was going on there?

  ***

  Carith Drombo clung to a pillar for support. Her mind was racing, trying to keep up with the speed at which her body was deteriorating... The renewal! She played it over in her head again and again. She had done everything exactly the same way - she was sure of it - and it had gone to plan. Apart from this unexpected outcome, of course!

  She could feel her shoulders stooping, her breasts moving south, her hair falling out...

  The girl! Something about Milassa must have rendered her unsuitable for the renewal. But what? Carith had virtually kept the girl under lock and key since cutting her tongue out. Apart from sending her out on expeditions to Grimswyck in search of suitable candidates... Could something have happened to her there? Had some man taken advantage?

  No. I would have noticed. I would have read it in her face. Smelled it on her. That girl was pure and virginal right up until the last moment. She-

  A knocking at the door interrupted her line of thought. “Come in!” she cried, dismayed at how like a parrot’s squawk her voice had become. The wretched goose girl at last.

  But no. The door opened to admit that fool of a fireworks master again.

  “Excuse me,” he looked confused, “I was looking for-”

  “I am she!” Carith insisted.

  “No!” cried Frent. “You’re never Milassa.”

  Ah. Carith saw how it was then. Milassa and Frent! There had been fireworks between them! She must have thrown herself at him, knowing it would make her unsuitable for the renewal. Knowing this would happen!