“Get ready! Here we come!”

  Not a cow, then. Bryn had a cowbell on a leather thong around his neck and one in each hand, rattling them wildly as he ran. And behind him was not a herd of cattle but a horde of cursed villagers.

  Gosling sprinted towards the windmill, ducking inside and taking up his place behind the open door.

  “Shiiiit!” Bryn yelled, pounding through the door, knocking it back and almost flattening Gosling behind it. Bryn bounded up the wooden rickety stairs two at a time. The waking dead stumbled through the door after him one after another, some staggering up the stairs after Bryn and others spilling out across the floor until it seemed that every inch of space was filled with decaying grey flesh and the stench of rot.

  Gosling reached out and yanked at the rope that brought two sacks of flour tumbling down from the rafters, covering the undead like a dusting of snow. While this distracted them, Gosling ducked out of the door and pulled it closed behind him. He wedged it shut with the pieces of wood Bryn had cut for that purpose – and the cursed villagers were trapped inside the windmill. For the moment. This was going far better than Gosling could have hoped. He turned towards the fire he had kindled earlier – and stopped. There was an undead villager standing close to the flames and as Gosling watched, it stooped and picked up his bow.

  “Bollocks,” Gosling muttered. He glanced at the sky. The sun was dipping towards the horizon. If he waited it would soon be too dark for him to see the window he was supposed to aim for. And who knew how long the barricaded door would contain the undead.

  Moving as silently as he could, Gosling pulled the dagger out of his boot and hurried towards the fire. When the creature turned to look at him, Gosling stopped still, aimed, and threw the dagger. It spun end over end, the firelight flashing off the blade, and buried itself in the creature’s eye socket. The thing’s undead face looked almost as surprised by this as Gosling was. Then it toppled over backwards into the flames and began to smoulder. Gosling scurried towards and snatched his bow from its twitching fingers. He tested the string and it seemed taut enough still. The arrows were standing in a row beside the fire, their points buried in the grass. Gosling snatched up the first one and pushed the head towards the flames beside the burning corpse. The pitch-soaked rags bound to the shaft caught light.

  In a single smooth motion, Gosling nocked the arrow, turned, and fired. The arrow arced through the evening sky and thudded into the windmill’s sail. The wood began to burn.

  If anyone asked him afterwards, Gosling would say that he didn’t know how many burning arrows he fired at the windmill before one went through the little window. Three or four he might say – and who was there to argue with him? Not that he would ever tell anyone this story – as soon as he turned his back on the village of Midduck he would try and erase it from his memory. And he might even go as far as to buy a spell to help him forget.

  A pale face appeared in the little window – Gosling hoped it wasn’t Bryn. The arrow sailed through the darkening sky trailing flames behind it. Whether it was the third or fourth or the ninth or tenth didn’t matter – this was the arrow that struck the pale face between its eyes and sent it staggering backwards into the darkness inside the windmill. 

  Gosling stared at the window. Nothing happened. He leaned forward thinking he might be missing something, peering through the heavy lenses of the eyeglasses. Still nothing. Had all their efforts been wasted? He felt certain he’d done enough for the plan to work – emptying the sacks of flour and whisking it into the air with the broom. There had to have been enough dust  – and yet the flaming arrow had failed to ignite it. What could have gone wrong?  

   Then there was a glimpse of orange through the little square window. The windmill began to swell, like a giant inhaling. But it didn’t let go of the breath – it kept expanding, swelling until cracks appeared in the walls, following the lines of mortar between the stones. The two sails that were silhouetted against the sky quivered like arms held aloft in alarm – perhaps the old building sensed what was coming. A deep rumble shook the ground and sharp cracking sounds like thunder split the air. Finally, almost as if the windmill could hold itself together no longer, there was an awful rending and gasping sound and it exploded outwards.

  The stonework seemed to rise from its foundations and fly in all directions at once. Stones bigger than a man’s head whistled by him and Gosling felt the disturbance in the air as they passed. The framework of the wooden sails was shattered into a thousand splinters that shot through the air like daggers. A cloud of dust and smoke and fire bloomed outwards, roiling like agitated storm clouds. It threw out a wave of heated air like an invisible curtain and the grass beneath it crackled into flame.

  To Gosling, it seemed as though time had slowed to allow him to take in the horrible spectacle of it all. He watched as stones and lumps of wood and flesh were cast up into the sky – up and up until they reached the highest point of their flight and then seemed to hang there for a moment before raining down like a giant hailstorm. It was only when the stones began clattering and thumping around him that Gosling thought to run and take cover.

  He tried to look past the expanding flame, hoping to see a glimpse of Bryn running to safety. But there was nothing to see but a thick pall of black smoke rising and the expanding cloud of grey-white dust. A severed and burned head bounced close to his hiding place and Gosling hid his face with his arms and waited for it to be over.

  The silence when it came was so complete that Gosling thought he might have been struck deaf by the explosion. Then he heard the sound of stones rolling and settling somewhere in the dust that filled the air around him. He peered into the dense cloud, not sure what he was looking for. A breeze caught the dust, swirling it into dancing shapes and slowly teasing it apart, thinning and dissipating it. The windmill was gone. A ragged circle of stones about waist-high was all that remained of it. The rest, broken pieces of wood and grey boulders, littered the ground and lying among them were unidentifiable dark lumps that he didn’t want to look at too closely.

  “Bryn?” Gosling’s voice was hardly more than a croak. He tried to work up some moisture in his mouth. When he licked his lips to lubricate them he tasted dust. “Bryn!”

  Nothing moved. He should begin a search, he knew, to ensure that none of the cursed had escaped. But first, he must know Bryn’s fate. Crawling out from his hiding place, Gosling took off the eyeglasses and rubbed the lenses with his thumbs, clearing away the whitish film that covered them. He put them back on his nose.

  “Bryn!”

  I shouldn’t have let him go in there, Gosling thought. He felt a pang in his chest – but wasn’t sure if it was sorrow at the woodcutter's fate or despair for his own. To lose two partners in the space of as many months was not an enviable score. If word got out, he’d never get anyone else to work with him.

  Gosling blinked. Ahead of him, a pile of rocks was moving. No, not rocks. A greyish figure drawing itself up onto its feet. One of the cursed. Gosling drew his dagger, determined to pounce quickly before the wretched creature saw him. Too late. It turned towards him and lurched forwards. Its face was grey, hair hanging on either side in thick lank strands. A blackish stain on its forehead – blood perhaps. The mouth twitched into something like a smile – more blood on its teeth. Gosling raised his blade and lunged forward.

  “Gosling, no!” The figure held up a palm to halt the assassin’s attack.

  Gosling stopped. “Bryn?”

  “Yes!”

  Gosling peered at the greyish figure. “Are you cursed?”

  “I’m alive!” Bryn grinned at him. “Hit in the head by a stone – that is all.”

  Gosling felt his eyes fill with tears. Just the dust, he told himself. He ran forward to embrace his companion – but missed his footing, tripping on a piece of broken wood. He fell forwards, his dagger aimed directly at Bryn’s heart.

  “Sorry about that,” Gosling said, embarrassed, as they untangled themselves.

  “Your aim hasn’t improved any,” Bryn said. His hand was clasped over the wound in his upper arm. “It’s only a small gash – I’ve survived worse.”

  “It’s these eyeglasses,” Gosling apologised, “I can’t see where my feet are.”

  “It’s nothing, honestly,” Bryn said. “It probably won’t even need sewing up.”

  “Is the blood still flowing?”

  “Less than it was.”

  “It is good for assassins to have scars,” Gosling said, getting to his feet. “It makes you look more dangerous.”

  “Better to get them from enemies rather than friends though, eh?” Bryn said, kneeling on the scorched grass. Blood dripped from between his fingers.

  Gosling looked away awkwardly. “Best we get on and finish the job.”

  Bryn looked at the devastation all around him. “Do you think they’ll still pay us?”

  “That stone hit your head pretty hard, didn’t it?” Gosling said.

  Bryn thought about this. “There’s no one left to pay us, is there?” he said finally.

  “We’ll have to reward ourselves with whatever we can find in the village,” Gosling said. “But first we have to make sure they’re all dead. Again.”

  While Bryn tore a piece of cloth from his shirt and bound up his arm, the smaller assassin reluctantly began gathering up the shapeless lumps of flesh that were the remains of the villagers that had been in the windmill. He piled these together with pieces of broken wood that had come from the beams and sails.

  “Do you think there’s any of them left out there?” Bryn asked, pulling the knot in the bandage tight with his teeth. “The cursed?”

  “One or two maybe,” Gosling said. He dragged a pair of legs and added them to the pile.

  “I should go and search for them,” Bryn said.

  “They’ll come to us as soon as they smell flesh burning,” Gosling said.

  “We have meat to roast?” Bryn asked. Then he looked at the heap of body parts. “Oh...”

  Gosling was right – the fire drew three of the cursed villagers back to them. The three youths looked to have been dead for some time. One of them was missing an arm. Bryn took off their heads with his axe and the bodies were added to the bonfire. They waited to see if any more of them appeared, but none did.

  “What now?” Bryn asked.

  “Be nightfall soon,” Gosling said.

  “Do you want to spend the night here?” Bryn looked back towards the deserted village.

  “Not sober, I don’t,” Gosling said. “Come on.”

  They walked back towards the little tavern. Both kept glancing left and right, but they saw no sign of movement. Walking between the houses toward the centre of the village, they were discomforted by the eerie silence.

  “Never killed a whole village before,” Gosling said. “If this had been a paying job, we could have retired off it.”

  They walked on past the house where they had stayed, Widow Snitkin’s. Gosling felt sure that at least one of the legs he’d just burned was hers. “I think we’re cursed,” he said.

  “But neither of us was bitten,” Bryn said.

  “That’s not what I meant. This is the second place we’ve reduced to ruins.”

  Bryn looked around him. “At least no one’s throwing rocks at us this time,” he said.

  Reaching the tavern, they stood outside. Neither wanted to be the first to go inside where the shadows were already gathering. Bryn sighed and kicked open the door. It swung violently inwards and crashed against the inside wall, bounced off it and then swung shut again. Gosling looked at the closed door and then at Bryn. Bryn shrugged. Then the door seemed to lean inwards from the top. It fell inside and hit the floor with a gentle bump. They listened to see if the noise had disturbed anything inside. The tavern was silent. Gosling squared his shoulders and marched forwards, walking over the fallen door. Then, tripping over nothing that Bryn could see, the little man fell face-first onto the tavern floor.

  “These bloody eyeglasses!” Gosling cursed.

  When Bryn entered, Gosling had already made his way to the barrels on the table at the back.

  “Always fancied having my own tavern,” Gosling said. He picked up two of the metal mugs and filled them with ale.

  “Do you think there’s anything to eat?” Bryn asked. “The smell of that burning flesh made my belly rumble.”

  Gosling stared at the big blond man – and then grinned. “Perhaps you have the makings of an assassin after all.”

  “I’m going to see if there’s any pie in the kitchen,” Bryn said. “Do you want pickles as well?”

  “Yes,” Gosling called after him. “But not if they’re pickled walnuts. They look like testicles.” He shuddered then took a long drink from his mug. He turned to refill his drink from the tap before Bryn returned.

  “There’s something in here!” Bryn called.

  “Honey cake?” Gosling asked, hopefully.

  There was a scuffling sound in the kitchen and then a dull thud.

  “Bryn?” Gosling turned toward the open kitchen door. There was no response. The little man drew his dagger and edged quietly towards the kitchen. As he reached the doorway there was a sudden movement and something slammed into him. Gosling was knocked from his feet. Panicking and fearing he would feel the teeth of one of the cursed dead gnashing at his pickled walnuts, Gosling rolled and thrashed wildly. Somehow he managed to get on top of his attacker.

  “Let me go,” a voice wailed. “Let me go!”

  Holding down the bucking form with his full weight, Gosling screwed up his eyes and tried to make out what was under him. He’d lost his dagger and his eyeglasses in the struggle.

  “Ah, you caught him,” Bryn said, appearing in the doorway.

  “I did?”

  “Let me go!”

  “He hit me at the side of the head with a black iron pan,” Bryn said. He dipped his fingers into a pot of pickles and popped an onion into his mouth.

  “Only ‘cause I thought you was cursed.” The voice under Gosling was muffled.

  “Do I look cursed?” Bryn asked.

  Gosling and his captive looked up at the figure who was still covered in grey dust and smeared with blood. “Yes,” they both said in unison.

  “You can let him go,” Bryn said, “he’s not dangerous.”

  “Yes I am!” The voice was defiant.

  Gosling cautiously released Bryn’s attacker. It was a red-haired boy about ten years old.

  “Who are you?” Gosling asked. He retrieved his dagger and eyeglasses. And his drink.

  “Wiggsy,” the boy said. “This is my dad’s place – and that’s his ale you’re stealing. Not that he can do anything about it now, I suppose.” 

  “How did you escape?” Gosling asked, eyeing the boy suspiciously.

  “Me and a friend went fishing downriver,” Wiggsy said. “We camped out last night – when we got back we saw all that.” He nodded towards the open door. “We din’t know what it was. Paulie got bit.” Wiggsy’s voice caught in his throat as he said this – but he was obviously determined not to cry. “I ran away and hid. My room’s up there in the roof.”

  “It was the smart thing to do,” Gosling said.

  “I saw the explosion – the windmill,” Wiggsy said. “Is everyone gone?”

  “Everyone except you,” Bryn said.

  Wiggsy nodded, it was the answer he’d expected. “Will you take me with you?” he asked. “Just to the next village. I have an aunt there.”

  There was hope and expectation in the boy’s face. Gosling shook his head sadly.

  “It’s all right if you don’t want to,” Wiggsy said. “I can make my own way. I’ve walked there before – last summer.”

  “You ever tasted your dad’s ale?” Gosling asked.

  “Not allowed to until I’m twelve,” Wiggsy said, pouting a little.

  “You’re allowed to tonight,” Gosling said. “Circumstances being what they are, we all deserve a drink.” He went back to the barrel and filled another mug to the brim. He passed to the boy. “Drink it all down – it’ll make a man of you.”

  Wiggsy took the mug in both hands and raised it to his lips, barely spilling a drop.

  “You are going to kill him, aren’t you?” Bryn whispered in the little man’s ear as the boy was gulping down his drink.

  “I am not,” Gosling said, seemingly shocked by the idea. “Why would you think such a thing?”

  Wiggsy finished draining his mug and slammed it down on the table triumphantly.

  “Excellent!” Gosling said. “Go and get yourself another one, lad.”

  “You’ve got to kill him,” Bryn said, leaning close to his companion’s ear again. “Because of everything that happened here.” He turned in a circle, arms outstretched, gesturing to take in the whole village. “If word spreads of what we’ve done, we’ll neither of us work again. The assassins who couldn’t kill dead men! The boy is a witness and you cannot allow him to live.”

  “Be that as it may,” Gosling said, “I am not going to kill the boy.”

  “You’re not?” 

  “No.” Gosling sipped his drink, then looked up at Bryn over the rim of his mug. “You are.” Gosling took out his coin purse and fished out a small silver coin. He held it out to Bryn. “A token payment only, but sufficient to establish a contract.”

  Bryn took the coin, frowning. “Contract?”

  Gosling exposed his brown teeth in a proud grin. “Your first paid assassination!”

  THE END 

  Slayer of Dragons (Thurlambria - Book 1) Bryn Fairfax knows Slayer of Dragons is only an honorary title: dragons have been extinct for decades. All he has to do is wear a suit of armour on ceremonial occasions and pretend to be a hero. It is the perfect job. Until the dragon arrives. Now people expect their ‘Slayer of Dragons’ to live up to his name.

 

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