§

  Gosling opened his eyes. And instantly closed them again. There was a pounding at his temples that became a searing pain when he opened his eyes to daylight. He remembered eating beef and ale pie and buttery mashed potatoes in the tavern. He remembered mugs of ale and stories about Gregory and the other two who had been cursed. And he remembered helping the village men roll a barrel of ale out to the burial site so they could all keep vigil. After that, he couldn’t remember anything at all. He must have made his way back to Widow Snitkin’s at some point. He reached out an arm, but the bed beside him was empty. He briefly wondered where Bryn might be, and then decided that he didn’t care.

  The door to the bedroom banged open.

  “Ow!” Gosling groaned.

  “Gosling, get up. We have a problem!” Bryn said. Far too loudly.

  “Go away... my head hurts.”

  Bryn lifted the little man off the bed and carried him to the window. Gosling squinted trying to focus on what lay outside. “Are they all still drunk?” he asked, looking down into the street at the people milling around there.

  “They’re all dead,” Bryn said, handing Gosling his eyeglasses.

  Gosling opened the window and leaned out, peering through the heavy glass lenses. Then he drew back quickly and slammed the window shut. “Isn’t there anyone left?” he asked.

  Bryn shook his head. “Not that I’ve seen. Every cottage is either empty or filled with things like that.”

  “All dead,” Gosling said to himself. “There’s only one thing we can do now.” He turned and moved back towards the bed where he began pushing his belongings into a sack.

  “We’re leaving?” Bryn asked.

  “If we stay here, we’ll end up like everyone else,” Gosling said.

  Bryn hesitated, thinking there was something wrong with this plan, but he wasn’t sure what it was.

  “You go down and get us a couple of horses sorted out,” Gosling said, “I’ll find us some food.”

  Bryn frowned, still unsure. Then his expression cleared and he shrugged. He headed towards the stairs.

  “You might want to take this,” Gosling said, struggling to lift Bryn’s axe. “Just in case.”

  Bryn nodded, taking the axe easily in one large hand, and then he thundered down the stairs.

  “Don’t leave the door open!” Gosling shouted after him. “Don’t want one of those ugly undead bastards creeping up on me,” he muttered to himself. He heard the reassuring crash of the door closing downstairs. Gosling tied up the top of the sack with string and then reached for another empty sack. There were a couple of pies and some biscuits in the kitchen that Widow Snitkin wasn’t going to be eating now that she favoured a meat-only diet – it would be a shame to let them go to waste.

  §

  “Are you sure you brought enough food?” Bryn asked.

  Gosling’s pony was laden with bulging sacks and looked like a pack mule from a merchant’s caravan. “We need to keep moving,” Gosling said, “put some distance between us and that place. Might be a while before we can stop again for provisions.”

  “If you were carrying less, we could move faster,” Bryn said.

  “There’s no hurry.”

  “You’re not worried that they might catch up with us?”

  “Who?”

  Bryn looked over his shoulder and nodded back the way they had come. Gosling turned to look. Three of the undead villagers were staggering down the road after them, their arms outstretched.

  “Just a few stragglers,” Gosling said, unconcerned, “they’ll soon get distracted and wander off.”

  “In search of food?” Bryn asked, glancing towards the sacks behind Gosling. The smells of cheese and meat pie hung in the air around them.

  §

  Gosling’s pony plodded on through the late morning and the villager’s lumbered along after. Bryn shook his head, thinking it must be the slowest chase he had ever witnessed.

  By midday, the group of villagers following them had increased to about a dozen and the gap between them and the assassins had decreased considerably.

  “They will overtake us by nightfall,” Bryn said.

  “Who will?”

  “The cursed.”

  Gosling turned and looked back. “These eyeglasses make things look closer,” he said.

  “They are closer. And there’s more of them.”

  “How far to the next town, do you think?” Gosling asked.

  “At this pace, a week’s ride or maybe more.”

  Gosling glanced back again, trying to gauge the distance between them and their pursuers. “I was thinking about stopping for something to eat,” he said.

  “Stop now and you will be something to eat,” Bryn said.

  “Best crack on then,” Gosling said. “And pick up the pace a bit.” He urged the pony onwards, but there was no perceptible increase in speed. They rode in silence for a few minutes.

  “What will happen when we get to the next village?” Bryn asked. It was a question that had bothered him for some time.

  “We’ll find a room with separate beds,” Gosling said, “you don’t half fidget.”

  “I meant, what will we do about them?” He jerked his head back in the direction of the undead.

  “They’ll have to be killed,” Gosling said. “Again. Hopefully, the folk in the next village will have a bit more about them than the last lot.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “There’ll be a lot more of the cursed wandering the countryside,” Gosling said.

  “How do you think we will be treated,” Bryn asked, “if we enter a village and bring a horde of the cursed with us?”

  “It’s not a horde,” Gosling insisted, “it’s only a handful.” He glanced back. The crowd behind them now numbered more than twenty.

  “If we just carry on, going from village to village, the whole country will be cursed within a year,” Bryn said.

  “That’s ridiculous!” Gosling said.

  “You’re probably right. Word will spread and nobody will let us near a village or a town. We’ll be treated like plague-carriers.”

  Gosling reigned his pony to a halt. “You’re as optimistic as a eunuch at a cunny shop, aren’t you?”

  “We have to go back and kill them all,” Bryn said.

  Gosling sighed. “If word ever got out that a member of the Assassin’s Guild killed a whole village of people for free – I’d be a laughing stock.”

  “Twice,” Bryn said.

  “What?”

  “Killed them for free twice. We’ve already killed them once.”

  “That wasn’t our fault,” Gosling said sulkily. “Not entirely.”

  “We’ll head off the path, circle round,” Bryn said, “lead them back to the village.”

  “And what will we do when we get there?” Gosling asked.

  “You’ll think of something,” Bryn said. He urged his horse off the track and into the open ground.

  “Aren’t you afraid they will try and rush us?” Gosling asked.

  “Not really,” Bryn said. “I only need to outpace you.”

  “What do you mean?” Gosling asked. He looked over to where the cursed villagers had left the road and were angling towards them. And he realised what Bryn had meant. He urged the pony to catch up with his companion’s horse. “You wouldn’t leave me,” he said, “not really.”

  Bryn did not answer him.

  §

  “Here we are again.” Gosling sighed.

  They were on top of a hill looking down on the village. Below them, they could see the lumbering figures of the undead villagers passing aimlessly between the cottages. Off to one side, a naked woman seemed to be chewing on the spilled entrails of a pig that wasn’t quite dead.

  “Doesn’t look that much different from when we first arrived here,” Gosling said.

  “You couldn’t see it when we got here,” Bryn said. “What are we going to do now?”

  Gosling thought about this for some time. “We need a plan,” he said.

  “We need an army!”

  “Two professional assassins are the equal of an army by anyone’s reckoning.”

  Bryn stared at him. “And where will we find two professional assassins at short notice?” he asked pointedly.

  Gosling looked defiant – but then his shoulders slumped. “You are right, of course. I forgot – you’re not a fully-fledged assassin yet.”

  Bryn looked up at the sky, trying to judge how many hours of daylight were left.

  “We need to find somewhere safe to spend the night,” Gosling said.

  “We could barricade ourselves in the windmill,” Bryn suggested.

  “No!”

  “The tavern?”

  “I like that idea better,” Gosling said. “But the undead – the men might be drawn back to that place.”

  “Widow Snitkin’s then,” Bryn said. “No one will be drawn back there.”

  “She might come looking for me,” Gosling said.

  “Only if she wants her pies back,” Bryn said. “We’d better move before it gets dark. Then tomorrow...”

  “We kill them all.”

  “Again.”

  Part IV

  “How are we going to kill them?” Bryn asked.

  They had climbed the hill on the other side of the valley and stood in the shade of the windmill. Below them the sun was burning off the early morning mist, revealing the village much as it had been the day before. 

  “Why are you asking me?” Gosling asked.

  “I thought it was your area of expertise – being an assassin and all.”

  “I told you before, we don’t kill dead things.”

  “You must know something we can try,” Bryn insisted.

  “I know lots of ways to kill living people...”

  “Then let’s try some of them,” Bryn said. “Name one.”

  “Er – hanging,” Gosling suggested.

  “What do we need for that?”

  “A rope and an undead villager.”

  “I’ll be back in two shakes.” Bryn marched back down to the village.

  §

  Gosling was lying in the grass shielding his eyes from the sun with his arm when Bryn finally returned. “How many of them did you hang?” the little man asked, sitting up.

  “It took me a while to catch one,” Bryn said, “they’re slippery.”

  Gosling squinted at the undead villager that was standing docilely behind Bryn. “What happened to its skin?”

  “It came off when I tried to seize him.”

  “It’s all down the front of your shirt,” Gosling said.

  Bryn tried to brush the slimy film away but succeeded only in shredding it and smearing it around.

  “They’re obviously easier to skin when they’re dead,” Gosling said, casting a professional eye over the raw flesh.

  “You’ve flayed men before?”

  Gosling shook his head. “Not a whole one.”

  “What shall I tie the rope to?” Bryn asked. He held one end of a piece of rope in his hand and the other end was tied in a noose around the dead man’s neck. He looked around for a stout tree branch but there were no trees near the windmill.

  “Tie it to one of the vanes,” Gosling said. “When the wind catches it he’ll be hoisted into the air.”

  Bryn led the dead villager towards the windmill and set about fastening the rope to the vane of the windmill that was closest to the ground. “What sort of knot should I use?” he asked.

  “A tight one,” Gosling said.

  Bryn looped the rope around the wooden stock and tied a couple of stout knots, then he stood back. He and Gosling waited for the turning of the sails to hoist the undead villager up into the air. Nothing happened.

  “Wind’s dropped,” Gosling said after about ten minutes.

  “He’s in no hurry,” Bryn said. The dead man was chewing at his own fingers, biting each one off at the first knuckle. The crunching sounds seemed loud in the still morning air.

  “I felt a breeze,” Gosling said.

  “It’s still not moving.”

  “There might be a reason for that.” Gosling got to his feet, his knee joints cracking like bitten knuckles. Casting a wary eye at the windmill he went in through the open door. There was a clunk somewhere inside and then a creaking sound from the sails. Gosling reappeared. “You have to take the brake off,” he said.

  Very slowly, the arms of the windmill began to turn. As the vane went up, the rope attached to the dead villager tightened. The creature seemed unperturbed until the rope hoisted him up off the ground, at which point it let out a sound somewhere between a cough and an oink. As it was pulled up into the air, its legs and arms twitched. It rose higher and higher, making more gurgling pig noises.

  “Haven’t been to a hanging in ages,” Gosling said.

  “I thought they were supposed to dance at the end of the rope,” Bryn said, disappointed, “that’s not much of a dance.”

  “You get more of a jig with a live one,” Gosling said. “And at a proper gallows, you can buy roast taters and chestnuts.”

  They followed the turning of the windmill’s sails, peering up as their hanged man reached the apex of his journey – and then started down again.

  “He’s still moving,” Bryn said.

  “You need more of a jolt to break their neck.”

  The undead corpse came down in a slow arc and eventually slammed into the ground. The windmill continued to turn and the villager was dragged through the dirt, still making pig noises.

  “Not very dignified is it?” Bryn said.

  As the windmill’s arm began to rise again, there was a drawn out creaking sound like leather being twisted. The creature’s neck was stretched by the pull of the rope and then with a tearing and popping sound the head came free and went flying through the air.

  “That’s a bit like that traybooshay thing,” Gosling said.

  Shaking his head, Bryn picked up his axe and went to dismember the headless corpse before it could wander too far.

  §

  “Not hanging, then,” Gosling said as Bryn cleaned the blade of the axe on the grass.

  “Any other ideas?” Bryn asked.

  “Er – drowning?”

  “Wait here,” Bryn said. He picked up one of the old flour sacks and walked back down towards the village.

  “You’ll never fit one in that,” Gosling called after him. “It’s barely big enough for a kitten!”

  The sails of the windmill creaked in the wind and Gosling cast a nervous glance up at them. “I’d better go and keep an eye on him,” he said to himself and set off down the hill after Bryn.

  §

  “There you are,” Bryn said, “I thought you were going to wait up by the windmill.”

  “I never said that,” Gosling said. He was sitting on an outcrop of rock halfway down the hill.  “Who’s your friend?”

  “Hard to say for sure,” Bryn said, “most of his face was missing. It might have been the baker.”

  The figure behind Bryn had his hands bound in front of him and there was a flour sack over his head. A rope was tied around the creature’s neck, keeping the sack in place, and Bryn was leading him with the free end of the rope. The dead baker didn’t seem keen on co-operating.

  “We’re going to drown him, are we?” Gosling asked.

  “If it works for him, we can push the others off the bridge.”

  “It worked for old man Snitkin,” Gosling said, blinking behind the dead man’s eyeglasses.

  “Who?” Bryn asked. He tugged on the rope and set off towards the river. After a moment’s hesitation, Gosling followed.

  §

  Bryn was kneeling on the thing’s chest and holding its head under the water. He was already drenched and the creature’s struggling had made it seem that Bryn might be the one to be drowned – but he appeared to have the upper hand now.

  “I think it’s working,” Bryn gasped, “he’s not fighting as much.”

  “Perhaps he just got bored,” Gosling said. He was lying on the river bank chewing a stalk of grass.

  “I’m sure it’s killing him,” Bryn said. “I think he put up a struggle because he knew he could drown – he was afraid.”

  “Or hungry,” Gosling said.

  “His legs aren’t moving.”

  “Numb with cold?” Gosling suggested. He shaded his eyes and peered into the water. The dead man did seem to have stopped moving. “Keep it under a while longer – just to be sure.”

  In the absence of thrashing limbs, the scene became tranquil.

  “He’s dead,” Bryn said confidently. He struggled to his feet and looked down at the figure that lay below the surface of the water. He stepped aside and the corpse began drifting away, carried downstream by the current. It bumped against some boulders and half-turned and then carried on into the deeper water.

  “Do you think I should have weighed it down with a rock?” Bryn asked, wading towards the bank.

  “I think you should have crushed its skull with one,” Gosling said. “Look.”

  Bryn turned. The dead villager was sitting up in the water. It pulled the sack from its head and turned towards them.

  “It didn’t drown,” Bryn said, crestfallen.

  “I don’t think they breathe,” Gosling said. “It’s coming back this way.”

  The creature was on its feet and wading towards them.

  “Bollocks!” Bryn said. He picked up a good-sized rock and waded out to meet it.

  Gosling watched as Bryn went to work with the pale grey rock. The first blow caved in the left side of the creature’s skull and it went down on one knee. Bryn raised the rock again and again, bringing it down with all of his strength, driving the dead thing under the water and continuing to beat it until the water he was stirring up became a dark pink colour.

 

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