Village of the Waking Dead, page 1
part #2.50 of Thurlambria Series
Table of Contents
Author's NotePart I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright © 2019 by Paul Tomlinson
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or transmitted, in whole or in part, or used in any manner whatsoever, without the express permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in the context of a book review.
Village of the Waking Dead is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events, is purely coincidental.
First published April 2019
Publisher: Paul Tomlinson
www.paultomlinson.org
Cover image and design © 2019 by Paul Tomlinson
Author's Note
This story takes place between the novels Slayer of Dragons and Fortune’s Fool – if you haven’t read the first Thurlambria novel yet, this story contains a couple of minor spoilers but nothing that would ruin the story for you.
If you’re a fantasy author, there’s an unwritten rule that says you have to write at least one story about a dragon and one about zombies. This one isn’t about a dragon...
Part I
The two figures on the woodland path walked in dappled sunshine and might have been a father and son. One was tall, broad-shouldered, with shoulder-length blond hair and dressed in a simple linen shirt and rough trousers. There was a broadsword in a scabbard on his belt and a large axe over his shoulder. The smaller of the two was dressed in brown leather from head to toe and had to take two steps for each of the big man’s strides. The little man – Gosling – was, in fact, the older of the two and his brown face was wrinkled like an old leaf.
“What day is it today?” Gosling asked.
“Market day,” Bryn Fairfax said.
Gosling stopped and looked around him. There was nothing but trees and heathland for miles in every direction. “Market day?”
“Well, there’s a market every day,” Bryn said, “but Friday is the big one.” He stopped and looked back the way they had come. He frowned.
“No one’s coming after us,” Gosling said. “They have other things to worry about.”
“I wonder if they’ve managed to clear the market place,” Bryn said.
“It’s probably full of stalls selling dragon meat,” Gosling said.
A month ago, they had fled the mountain town of Drake’s Spur with only what they were wearing. There had been no time to collect anything. Even Bryn’s armour, from his ‘ceremonial’ office as Slayer of Dragons, had been abandoned when they left on foot. And they have been walking ever since – south and eastwards, more concerned with getting away from than heading towards. At the next town, perhaps Bryn might earn enough for them to buy horses.
Bryn Fairfax was a woodcutter. And a good one. Two days ago, Gosling had watched him swing the axe and fell a good-sized pine tree. And then he watched the young man trim and saw up the trunk into logs, split them, and stack them. All so the two of them could have a hot meal and a night’s lodging in a farmer’s hayloft. Gosling had also seen Bryn swing the same axe and embed the blade in someone’s skull – with no flicker of emotion. Perhaps that was why Gosling felt an affinity for him. Gosling was glad to have him as a travelling companion, even if it was fate rather than a conscious choice that had brought them together.
“I can’t see the mountains at all now,” Bryn said. He was still looking back along the narrow path. “I’ve never travelled this far before.”
“You spent your whole life in Drake’s Spur?”
Bryn nodded. “I never thought about leaving – had no reason to.”
“Perhaps the good people of Drake’s Spur did you a favour when they chased you out,” Gosling said.
Bryn turned and strode onwards. “Maybe they did us both a favour,” he said as Gosling scurried to catch up with him. “I get to see more of the world and you get a new partner.”
“Apprentice,” Gosling corrected him. “There are conditions that must be met before you can call yourself an assassin.”
“I’ve killed people before,” Bryn said.
Gosling knew this from experience and had also heard the rumours about the fate of the old woodcutter whom Bryn had replaced. “There’s more to being an assassin than simply killing people,” he said.
“Such as?”
“Well – you have to get someone to pay you to do it. There has to be a contract in place. Beforehand. You can’t just randomly kill folk.”
“Money and contracts,” Bryn said. “What else do I have to learn?”
“You need to demonstrate, to the satisfaction of a Master Assassin, that you are adept in the use of a variety of weapons.”
“I have a sword and an axe,” Bryn said.
“That’s a good start.”
“Where will I find a Master Assassin?”
Gosling stopped in his tracks. “What?”
“You said I’d need to prove my abilities to a Master Assassin. Where can I find one?”
“I am a Master Assassin,” Gosling said haughtily.
“Really?”
“I have been a member of the Guild for more than thirty years,” Gosling said.
“And before you joined the Assassins Guild, you proved your weapons skills to a Master?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Your eyesight didn’t hamper you at all?”
Gosling frowned. “Why would it?”
“Last evening you threw your dagger at a rabbit...”
Gosling waved a hand dismissively. “Even a Master misses the target occasionally.”
“You didn’t miss,” Bryn said. “But it was a boulder, not a rabbit.”
“Friday,” Gosling said.
“What?”
“You said it was Friday.”
“Market day,” Bryn said, nodding.
“He doesn’t complain nearly as much as Merivale used to,” Gosling muttered to himself, “and yet he still irritates me.”
“I heard that,” Bryn said, without looking back.
The path emerged from the trees and ahead of them, silhouetted against the sky, was an unmistakable shape.
“Is that...?”
“A windmill,” Gosling said, his tone curiously flat.
They breasted a slight rise and looked down into a broad, shallow valley. Nestled in the valley was a good-sized village. A shallow river – barely more than a stream – splashed through rocks and curved around one side of the village. Where the water grew deeper downstream, there was a stone bridge. But the village’s most impressive feature, without a doubt, was the windmill up on the hill. Farmers from miles around had to bring their grain here to be ground.
“I’ve never seen inside a windmill,” Bryn said.
“You wouldn’t catch me going in there,” Gosling said. He gave a theatrical shudder.
Bryn looked at him and smiled. “Are you afraid of being ground into tiny pieces?”
“No, I’m afraid of being blown into big wet bloody pieces.”
“They only grind flour,” Bryn said, “they don’t grind gunpowder in a windmill.”
“They don’t need to.”
Bryn looked puzzled.
“When I was a boy,” Gosling said, “I had a friend who used to deliver sacks up to the flour mill. His mother sewed them. One day he went into the mill and BOOM!” Gosling mimed an explosion. “They found bits of him and the miller all over the village – for weeks afterwards.”
Bryn looked down at his companion. Was this true? He sometimes felt that Gosling was testing him – to see how unlikely a story had to be before he’d disbelieve it.
Gosling looked around at the village. “This reminds me of home,” he said. “I’m fighting the urge to turn and run away.”
“It looks like a nice peaceful place filled with ordinary people,” Bryn said.
“You say that as if it is a good thing,” Gosling said.
“Isn’t it?”
“Not for us. Nice ordinary people have no need for assassins. We’ll make no money here.”
“Did I hear you say assassins?” a voice behind them asked.
Gosling turned suddenly. “Only if you were eavesdropping on a private conversation,” he said dangerously.
The villager seemed unperturbed and instead smiled as if he was greeting a wealthy aunt. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you,” the man said.
“Why can’t you?” Bryn asked.
The villager’s smile faltered only slightly. “You must come and meet the village elders,” he said, “they’ll explain everything.” He hurried off. When he realised they weren’t following, he turned and beckoned them, smiling again.
“It’s never a good sign when someone is pleased to see an assassin,” Gosling said.
“Try not to upset them until after they’ve given us food and ale,” Bryn said. He strode after the villager.
Gosling cast another glance up towards the windmill and his shoulders shivered. “This isn’t going to end well,” he muttered to himself.
§
Gosling belched and smiled. “Now, how may we be of service to the generous folk of Midduck?”
Bryn looked down at his plate and scowled – there was bread and cheese but the portions had hardly bee
“We’d like you to kill someone for us,” said a large white-haired man. He had been introduced to them as Jack Hobbfoot and he seemed to be the village leader.
“A Guildsman can only kill someone if there is a formal contract in place,” Gosling said.
“Technically, I’m not yet a Guildsman,” Bryn said. Gosling kicked him hard in the shins, but the youth didn’t seem to notice.
“What would it take to put a contract in place?” another of the village elders asked.
“You’d have to pay us,” Bryn said.
“How much?”
“You said it was a gang. How many men?” Gosling asked.
“We’re not sure they’re men,” a skinny man with big ears said. Someone elbowed him sharply. “Ow!”
“What Gregory means is – one of them might be a woman,” Hobbfoot said. “Do you kill women as well?”
“I have killed a woman,” Bryn said. “Twice.”
“You’ve killed two women?” Hobbfoot asked.
“No, it was the same one. She came back. Magic,” Bryn said.
“Is that right?” The old man looked at Bryn but directed his next question to Gosling. “Was he, perhaps, dropped on his head as an infant?”
“Quite probably,” Gosling said, “but he is telling the truth. There was magic.”
The jug-eared man made a farting noise through wet lips.
“We were in Drake’s Spur,” Gosling said. “You heard about the dragon?”
This caused some chatter among the assembled village folk.
“You saw it?” the elder asked.
“We faced it and lived to tell the tale,” Gosling said. “My colleague here cut the dragon’s head from its body and held it aloft for all to see.”
This wasn’t a lie as such, but it did omit the significant fact that the dragon had already been dead when Bryn decapitated it.
“And then people threw stones at...” Bryn began, but Gosling cut him off.
“... at the fallen beast – in celebration,” the little assassin said. He was pleased to see that the people around him were now looking at him with greater admiration. Or he assumed they were: his eyesight wasn’t good enough to make out anything more than the pale blurs of their faces in the twilight.
“Stay and tell us more of this adventure,” the village elder urged.
“Alas, we must move on,” Gosling said. “Assassins must go where the work takes them.”
“You have another contract to fulfil?” the elder asked, disappointed.
“No,” Bryn said. “Ow!” Gosling had kicked him much harder this time.
“Yes,” the little man said. “I received word last night. While you were sleeping.”
“You did? I heard no one.”
“You were dead to the world,” Gosling said.
“I hardly slept – the ground was cold and lumpy. And... What?” His partner was glaring at him.
“We have a man to kill,” Gosling insisted. “In Sangreston.”
“One man?” the village elder said. “There are six men here to kill.”
“Eight,” Gregory corrected. “Willby and Darius have joined their number.”
“Eight men, then,” Hobbfoot said.
“Two of your own folk have joined the outlaws?” Gosling asked.
“They got infected,” the man with the big ears began. He was silenced by another blow from the elder’s elbow, which caught him just below the sternum and left him gasping for air.
“Infected?” Gosling asked, suspicious.
“Gregory means they fell under the spell of the outlaws and were drawn in by their thievish values,” Hobbfoot said.
“I’ve seen that happen,” Gosling said, nodding.
“Eight men,” Hobbfoot said, “what price for such a contract?”
Gosling sucked air through his brown teeth.
“Two horses,” Bryn said. Gosling stared at him, shaking his head. “A horse and a pony?” the bigger man said.
“Horses?” the elder asked, sensing a bargain here.
“Yes,” Bryn said. “And it is customary, where multiple slayings are required, for the client to provide warm, comfortable lodgings, drink and hot food for the assassins.”
“No, it isn’t,” Gosling said. Bryn kicked him and the little man fell to the ground, clutching his shin and writhing in agony.
“Yes, it is,” Bryn said, “you taught me that.” He turned to the villagers. “He’s just testing me, as his apprentice, to see if I’ve been paying attention.”
“That’s what I was doing,” Gosling gasped, pulling himself to his feet.
“Horses and food and lodging?” the elder asked.
“And ale,” Bryn said.
“It’s also customary for a village to provide the assassins with a bit of entertainment in the evening – if you catch my drift?” Gosling said with a sly smile.
“That’s right,” Bryn said, nodding. “We like to see a bit of singing and dancing. Or a storyteller.”
Gosling shook his head and said nothing.
“Very well,” the elder said. “Horses and three days’ accommodation.”
“Three days?” Gosling said, wheedling. “For eight men?”
“We can’t take them all at once,” Bryn said. “We shall need to separate them, kill them one at a time.”
“Guild rules,” Gosling said, nodding.
“A week then,” Hobbfoot said, “not a day more.”
“Done!” Bryn said. He spat on his palm and shook the elder’s hand.
“Should it not be the master who seals the contract, rather than the apprentice?” Hobbfoot asked.
Bryn looked towards Gosling. “Most people don’t like to touch him.”
The elder looked at the little assassin and nodded. “We have a contract!”
“We’ll start first thing in the morning,” Gosling said. “Can’t go murdering men on an empty stomach.”
With the formalities settled, the villagers turned away and went back to their business.
“The Widow Snitkin will let you have a room, tell her I sent you,” Hobbfoot said. “Her husband passed away recently, she’ll be glad of the company. Possibly.”
Gosling nodded his thanks as the old man limped away.
A raven-haired woman with heavy eyelids and a sultry smile swayed her hips over towards Bryn. She wrapped her fingers around the hilt of his sword and rubbed the pommel with her thumb. “When you’ve eaten, and you’re ready for your entertainment, come and find me,” she said, her voice breathy. “I know just what to do with a man’s weapon.”
“Very kind of you to offer,” Bryn said. He pushed the heavy axe into her hands. “Beeswax on the blade to prevent rust, if you have it. And I like a jolly sort of a song after dinner, not one of those dreary ballads.” He strode away, leaving the startled village woman straining under the weight of the axe.
“You’re wasting your time with him,” Gosling said. “I, on the other hand, am much more adept at providing a lady like yourself with a good seeing to.” He nodded and winked.
The woman swung the axe fetching Gosling a blow up the side of the head with the handle. It left him staggering and seeing stars. “She’s a feisty one!” he said, grinning, and then pitched face-forwards into the dirt.
§
“Is that a lump on the side of your head?” Bryn asked.
“It was just a love tap,” Gosling said.
“It’s the size of a turnip!”
“You’re the one with a head like a turnip,” Gosling muttered.
“You walked into something, didn’t you?” Bryn asked.
“No, I did not. I’m not blind.”
“That’s what you said when you squatted bare-arsed in those nettles.”
“It’s an easy mistake to make for someone who’s more used to a privy.”
“Or someone who’s as blind as a new-born piglet,” Bryn said. “The next proper town we come to, we need to find you some eyeglasses.”
“I don’t need eyeglasses. There’s nothing wrong with my eyes,” Gosling said.
“You know you’re talking to a bush, don’t you? I’m over here.” Bryn shook his head and turned to knock on the Widow Snitkin’s door.
