Tag: writer

Big plans

It’s nice to come up with plans and see them come to fruition, isn’t it? We gain an enormous sense of pride and well-being from our work, when it goes right, at least. Maryk is no different but his plans involve improving the lives of every living person, somehow. It’s a big deal! I’m sure we all wish him well in his endeavours, especially as his plans have a tendency to go a little awry, usually to the detriment of all those around him.

Chapter 14: The Working Dead

It had been in front of me for years. The last casualty of my curse offered the clue to how I could help my people gain their freedom. I spent several days in confinement while I studied and planned and prepared. Meanwhile, outside, the newly appeared fortress had begun to attract attention from the locals. I performed Farsee so that I didn’t have to show my face at the window. My assumption was that the local people had considered me dead, probably at the hands of the dead and moving Primula. I was in no hurry to disabuse them of this notion. It would be more useful for my identity to remain unknown. Anonymity might just offer even greater protection than my new home. Farsee transformed the surface of the mirror in my bedroom into an eye to view whatever I wished. It was one of the most useful spells I had mastered from the Royal Magic book. Now I looked at the area directly outside the gate and saw the Markinsons, beet-faced father and cruel sons. They were banging on the gate with sticks, either to get the attention of the occupant (me, though they couldn’t have known it) or to try to break it down. They would not succeed in either. I had no interest in them and a simple Silence spell around my room would take care of the noise they were making. Attention from the locals was inevitable of course but I had hoped to be left alone a little longer; I had a great deal of work to do, after all.

I found the spell I was looking for again. I had only used it once before and it had not worked as I had hoped it would that time but now I knew what to expect and I expected it to achieve my goals. I had to find another spell in the book, however, that I could use in conjunction to give me the control I had lacked last time. It would take time to find and even more time to meld the two spells. It was my greatest magical challenge yet. As such I spent all day every day for a week locked away in my, admittedly comfortable, rooms, studying and writing and working. I went out at night-time only, when it was safe to go and find food. I still survived on very little sleep each night, only an hour or two most nights, so that left me plenty of time to hunt. I used magic, obviously since I had never really handled a weapon with any great confidence. I simply lured the animals out with a simple Charm Beast spell and then fried them with a Firebolt. For vegetables I just went to the Markinsons’ and dug up what I wanted from their fields. I did not feel bad about this.

After a week like this I felt I was as magically ready as I would ever get. That evening I took my amalgamated spell on a scroll of parchment and exited my fortress, setting off to the Creakwood. I knew what I needed would be there. Coming upon the crevasse, I worried that I might have damaged what I needed, near as it was to the epicentre of the earthquake. As I got closer to my goal, though, I could see that it was more or less intact. Only a few gravestones had been knocked over, the graves themselves seemed unaffected.

The Dead, of course, would make the ideal workers for the society I wished to build. The dead would never tire, they did not require payment or even sustenance, they could be controlled to a degree the living could never be and to a degree the Ens could not because they did not have a will of their own. They could be much stronger than the living and would be unflinching and highly effective if sent into battle. Why had no other great mage ever thought of this before? I had read a great deal on the subject by this point. There had been many mages who raised the undead but none of them had ever sought to control them to such an extent. They had only ever been used in the pursuit of wholesale murder, chaos and terror. I think I am the first ever to have come up with a spell alloy that would not only raise the undead but also place them firmly in my own control. They would follow my instructions to the letter without question.

Of course the answer to my question is obvious to me now that I am free of the Fae-Mother’s influence. The dead deserve to remain dead and gone even if one thinks that the soul departs the body when life leaves it. No-one wants to see their loved ones or even their recently deceased acquaintances or neighbours walking about, performing everyday labours in a state of profound decomposition. Of course, the decomposition problem did not arise with the first set of bodies I took from their graves in the Creakwood.

The spell was quite a long one, taking about one hour to perform. When I finished the final movement I could see immediate results. Ancient skeletal hands, digging their way out of the ground, ripping roots apart on their way. They hoisted themselves up out of the holes they left behind and stood at attention by their gravestones like soldiers. There were more than a hundred of them but some had not come out so well. There were several missing skeletal limbs, one had no lower half and the ribcage of one was so badly damaged that it bowed forward constantly. Many of them had become one with the flora of the place and the right arm of one old blighter had been replaced by a long tentacle-like root. I was delighted with them. They would be my first workforce. I intended to put them to work in the fortress and the surrounding farm. I would make it thrive again and I would do it with the untiring limbs of my skeletons.
I marched them back to the fortress in the darkness. I had given them the command, “Defend me.” They defended me alright. They efficiently dealt with a fox, a house cat and a low-flying bat. All of them had simply gotten too close, I suppose. All of them might have caused me some harm, I suppose. Perhaps my orders had to be a little more specific, after all there was no reason for anyone or any thing to die needlessly.

Once back at the fortress I put them to work immediately. I had them destroy the old farmhouse and strip it of all useful building materials. You might think this caused me some distress but I was actually happy that the old place, abandoned and useless for so long, could be put to use in proving the rightness of my plans. I watched from the tallest of my four bright towers as the dead smashed it and tore it and pummelled it and I felt gladness. I watched them take the timbers and the stones and begin to build high walls around the farm. It might be difficult to do, I thought, but it was best if the neighbours did not yet know of the goings on in the Old Sharpetzi Place. Once the wall was finished I had them prepare the land. It had been a greenless, dusty ruin for so long that I did, at first, question whether we would have a chance of reviving it. “I have revived the ancient dead to serve me. One little farm should not be so difficult.”

There were certain things I could not have my servants do, however. They could not go to market to buy the seeds and beasts one requires to build a farm from scratch, at least not yet. Even if people accepted them, they would be incapable of negotiation and would be somewhat prone to being cheated. For now, I would have to handle any face to face dealings with other people. Even the idea of this made my heart race and the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I once made a vow to myself to stay away from other people at all costs so that my curses would not fall on them and, although my outlook on life had changed since the Fae-Mother touched me, I had not forgotten this promise. I shook it off. “Well, if one person comes to harm I will honour them for their sacrifice in my cause.” This is what I told myself. I believed it too.

So, I went to town. Pitch Springs had changed not at all, unsurprisingly, though I noted the damage my earthquake had done and the absence of the old washerwoman’s house where Primula used to work. By the black burns on the walls of the adjacent houses I took it that it had burned down. I had to go early on a Saturday morning to get to the market before the largest crowd had gathered there. If I were to be recognised by any of the locals, it would be difficult to explain myself. An illusion worked to disguise me as an old man. This was not such a difficult trick considering how I already resembled someone four times my age. A slightly more difficult trick was to make the merchants believe I had paid them when I had no form of currency. I had considered taking a cartload of superfluous furniture from the fortress and trading it but I did not imagine that many of the agricultural traders and farmers who manned the stalls would have enough knowledge of art or joinery to offer a fair price for them even if they wanted them. All of that was academic, of course, because I had no way of transporting it all. Among other things, I was there to purchase beasts of burden. In the long term, I fully intended attaching the dead to carts and carriage and having them transport goods and even people without the need for expensive horses and donkeys. In the short-term, I had to keep my activities secret so the animals would be a necessity. Also I would need them to pull the cart-load of supplies I was about to purchase. I did perform magic to fool the merchants at the market that day. I had some qualms about this as thievery seemed about as low an act as one could perform. However, I told myself that once my plan was entirely successful I could repay them what I owed them and more.
I decided to start relatively small. I purchased several bags of seeds for grains and tubers and also some for a variety of hardy greens like cabbage and kale. A dozen laying hens I got at a very good price off a farmer from out near Priest’s Point (or would have, had I paid him for them at all.) The horses I purchased were two large, sturdy drays, white and brown of coat and they were more than capable of drawing the cart (conjured.) I also stocked up on food for myself so that I did not have to live on nothing but eggs and the Markinsons’ stolen produce from.

On my way back to the fortress, sitting atop the cart, I considered how lucky I was that I ran into no-one who knew me in Pitch Springs. This made me wonder, but I took it as a good sign and continued on past the place of Grey Steel’s death. My spirits were high and I hummed a tuneless tune the rest of the way.

When I got there I was forced to strike the Markinson boys blind. The two of them had come sniffing around the gate of the farm this time. Since my servants had erected the wall and the gate in it they could no longer make it all the way up to the fortress. I saw them from the road. They had brought dogs and scythes with them. Watching them from the safety of the shadow under the trees, I considered murdering them. I still despised them for their unwarranted cruelty to their own dog all those years before and the very sight of them caused a rage to rise in my chest. Instead, I decided that I would punish them and rid myself of them in another way. Since they acted as though they were blind to the suffering of their animals, I would make them blind in fact. Blind was the sort of spell of which Master Gedholdt would never have approved. It seems that the old Fomori Emperor rather enjoyed using it as a punishment for those who disobeyed him. It was the most fitting treatment I could imagine for those monstrous boys. I performed the spell as quickly as I could but just at the end, right before the final movement in which I had to cover my own eyes, the Markinsons heard me and turned my way. They glimpsed me. I was the last thing they would ever see. I watched them for a while after that, fumbling and crying for their mother and for me, “Old man! Old man! Help! We are blind!” I stayed quiet until they regained enough sense to catch their dogs by their collars and tell them to go home. Then I proceeded the rest of the way up the road and summoned my servants to open the gate for me. As the gate opened I ran over the pair of dropped scythes and never even looked at them.

Now, farm supplies secured, the work could begin in earnest. It would take a year, as I saw it, to really see the benefit that my untiring workforce could bring to folk. All seasons are important on a farm and there is always work to be done, no matter the weather. I remembered very well having to muck out the sheep sheds in the winter with frozen-solid fingers and mud in my boots. The skeletons had no feeling in their fingers anyway and no boots to get muddy. They worked night and day all year round, ploughing and sowing and feeding and collecting and reaping and harvesting. I went back to Pitch Springs several more times to “purchase” more supplies, each time with the illusion of a different disguise. If the merchants realised I had cheated them the last time they might be loathe to accept my custom again. I bought livestock and not just chickens, a hundred sheep and a couple of cows and goats for their milk. Before the year was out I was self-sufficient and I never had any work to do except trying to keep the locals off my back.
Inevitably, the Markinson’s were not the last folk to come and knock on my gates. I had the local constable visit one day. I watched him in the mirror but did not even consider allowing him entrance. What was he going to complain about? Building code violations? A number of travelling traders and tinkers came to the gate. I was tempted to treat with them but decided to just let them go on their way rather than reveal myself to anyone too soon. One morning a whole gaggle of Kor worshippers arrived. Kor was a god from Bruschia in the North who was supposed to protect folk from magic. I saw that Mrs Markinson was among them. Maybe she had converted to Korism after her lads came home blind. It wouldn’t help them now. Prayers and entreaties to their god did no good, the wall and gate remained standing as did my home. I watched them leave, downcast, and wondered if they had any inkling that I was trying to help them and improve their lives. How could they? These religious types were always so narrow-minded. Acceptance from them was, almost certainly, impossible. No matter. Once everyone else saw the results of my works and the labours of my servants, they would be forced to acknowledge that I was right and that I would be able to help them progress to a new cultural level just as the Fae-Mother had done with her own people. Except I would be even more successful.

During this whole year I did not see the Fae-Mother even once. For me, I think this was a blessing. She had provided me the impetus to take up my great work and I was always grateful for that but I did not need her now. I was going to reshape human society with the help of my servants. Dead humans helping living ones, as it should be. I did not need the involvement of the Fae in this work.

I decided on a date that I would show my works to the people of Pitch Springs, my birthday seemed appropriate. In the dark recesses of my ego I imagined the date becoming a feast day in the future, to commemorate my good works. Benefactor, philanthropist, sage; these were all the titles I imagined my people bestowing upon me. In dreams I had even imagined a new name applied to the square where I had spent so many years of my youth: “Saint Maryk’s Square.” It made no difference to me that my opposition to the parochial and myopic religion of the common folk would preclude any such beatification. I imagined a new religion in my dreams and my day-dreams both. I imagined myself at its head and the worship of power and magic as its basic and most dearly held tenets. “Mad,” you say? Yes, I think that is a fair description of my state of mind. As it happened, the common folk were more likely to curse my name than bless it and burn me in effigy on my birthday than toast my generosity and genius.

Came the anniversary of my birth, November first. I had spread the word about my revelation that was to come that day by talking to travellers, traders, minstrels and tinkers who were due to visit Pitch Springs. I spied them on the road with Farsee and went out to meet them before they reached the gates of the farm. “A great celebration at the new fortress” I called it, “Some wonderful news from the new owner of the Old Sharpetzi Place on the first day of November,” I told them, “An introduction to the master of the place and his servants will be offered to all who attend along with some well deserved food and drink for his neighbours,” was the news I sent them off with. The people of the town would be unable to help themselves. The curiosity alone would be too much for most. And I was right, of course. They arrived in droves and they were ushered up the newly built road past the old farmyard and up to the gate of the fortress. There I met them. Many of them I knew, some I knew well. None of them knew me though I did not wear a Disguise illusion for a change. Truly my physical appearance had deteriorated even further during my years as a forest hermit. I was sixteen now but resembled a decrepit sixty year old. That is what the folk saw when they met me, an old man, bent and grizzled but with surprisingly bright and intelligent eyes.
“Welcome all to my farm. It is my honour to play host to you this fine autumn day. My name is…Davus, Davus lu Fae. Please, please enter the courtyard, the feast awaits.” I made a signal with my hand and the skeletons, hidden on the wall behind the ramparts turned the mechanism which opened the huge wooden gates. The folk of Pitch Springs and the surrounding land rushed in to get a look at the great keep and to be the first to get to the food. They were led, unsurprisingly, by the Mayor, Yan Wassiltzi, a broad man of prodigious height and an appetite that was known throughout the valley. It was rumoured that he had eaten an entire pig in one sitting. I hoped I had had enough food prepared.

Mayor Wassiltzi approached me as he watched the other folk fill out the benches. There were five conjured long tables which occupied most of the courtyard’s space; all were heavily laden with meat and vegetables, all from the once dead Sharpetzi farm.
“As Mayor of Pitch Springs I would like to welcome you to the area. I don’t know how you managed to put all of this together so quickly but it is damned impressive! Damned impressive!” said the mayor before hurrying off to join the rest of the townspeople who were already feasting happily. I attended each of the tables in turn and talked amiably to their occupants. They were in high spirits and were very complimentary of the repast I had provided and the beer I had had brewed.
“So, Master lu Fae! You run this place all by yourself, then? Must be a lot stronger than you look, eh?” interjected one wit, Elger Gottzi, who had always had a mouth too big for his brain.
Nodding, unfazed, I said, “All will be revealed shortly, good sir, all will be revealed.”

The sun was beginning to fall through the sky again and the guests at my little party were starting to feel the effects of the strong beer. I decided it was time to reveal the nature of my servants. I climbed the steps to the great door of the keep and standing before it, I struck lightly on the side of a glass with a silver teaspoon. The general chatter and hubbub faded until I could make myself heard without shouting.

“Thank you, honoured guests, for your attention. You humble me, truly by your presence here today. While you are here, I hope you will do me the service of treating this place as your own home.” There was general applause, cheers and one call for more beer. “Thank you, thank you. You are too kind. I do not deserve such good neighbours. I hope I can continue to repay you for your generosity, you, and all the good folk of this valley. In fact, I believe I can.” A hush had settled completely now and all eyes had turned from tankards and plates to my face. I saw them squinting, trying to make out what I was talking about. many of the faces I spied were still wary of me, even after having partaken of a great deal of my food. I could see the question lying unasked in their eyes, “Who is this strange, little man with his riches and his fortress on a farm?” No, I had not yet earned trust but there was no turning back now.
“Many of you will remember this place from before. Once it was a thriving sheep farm owned by a well respected family but its fortunes turned. The animals died in their dozens. The fields dried up and then washed away. It was abandoned when I came upon it. I knew it was exactly the place I was looking for. This successful farm, producing the delicious meat and vegetables…and beer (a cheer went up) you have enjoyed today was built in just a year. You are looking at me now thinking, how could this old duffer have achieved all this? You are right, of course. I could not have done it all on my own. I had a great deal of help. My servants did most of the labour. I just came up with the plans for them.”

“So where are these servants of yours, Mister lu Fae? Are they hideous or invisible or all abed from working so hard! They have done a fine job and are to be congratulated for it.” The mayor rose from his seat and climbed the steps to stand beside me, chicken leg still grasped greasily in his prodigious fist. “Well, Your Honour, for you to see, first-hand the nature of my servants is the very purpose of this little party. I wanted you all to first see the very good work they have done, to taste the fruits of their labours and to know that, whatever they may look like, they are the most amazingly valuable resource that we, living, breathing human beings have ever had. What I am talking about is free labour! Not slaves, before you say it or even think it, no; the concept of slavery is abhorrent to me as it, no doubt, is to you good and gentle folk. No, it is the one, thus far, untapped source of free labour. My servants do not need to eat, they do not need to sleep, they do not require shelter though it may be best to keep them out of the rain and the hot weather if you are to avoid undue decomposition. They are the answer to all your prayers. My servants and more like them will make a life of labour unnecessary. From today on you will be able to follow, instead, any pursuit you choose to: art, music, poetry, prose, history, beer, gambling, sleeping! Anything at all! You will never have to work another day in your lives. My servants and their kind will do it all for you. In the last year they have made a dead farm live again, and today, they prepared this feast for you all. Would you like to meet them?” I asked, warming greatly to my role as host and soon-to-be saviour. The mayor struck me so hard on the back that I almost fell down the steps. “Hah! Well, of course we want to meet them, man! If they’re going to do all our work from now on, we should at least be introduced!” I recovered, coughed, and clapped three times, slowly. I did not watch the skeletons emerge, I watched the faces of my guests. I knew where the skeletons would emerge from, the door right behind myself and the mayor. Only twelve of them were to make an appearance. The courtyard was simply not big enough to house the feast and all the ancient dead too. Twelve was enough, more than enough. Faces in the crowd below blanched and a silence descended briefly, oh so very briefly. In a moment a table had been tipped over, a child had been trampled into the flagstones, a beer barrel had smashed in the courtyard, townsfolk ran towards the gate or stood transfixed, one shouted, “the dead have risen again!”

Beside me the mayor’s smile quickly vanished but he continued the action he had just began as the doors behind us had been opening His open hand once again caught me between the shoulder blades. There was no strength in this slap and I was barely moved a foot by it. I turned back to him to tell him not to fear, there was nothing to fear, when the leading skeleton caught the big man by his back-slapping arm. I watched with a quickly rising sense of panic as the boney servant’s other arm thrust itself between the mayor’s own shoulder blades and emerged slightly left of centre of his chest clutching the still beating heart of Pitch Spring’s first citizen. A wave of hot blood washed over me along with a few splinters of sharp bone, not from the hand of the servant but from the chest of the mayor. A woman started to release a series of short, loud screams like a high-pitched donkey-bray and everyone not fixed to the spot started pounding on the inside of the gates to be let out. “Open the gates!” I shouted and watched my guests leave in a very disorderly manner. I looked out on the courtyard, just brief moments before, the site of a merry feast, now a ruin of upturned furniture, scattered food and beer not to mention the gore still pumping from the chest of Mayor Wassiltzi. This had not gone to plan. “Drop the body,” I said quietly. The mayor slumped off the lowering arm of my servant and then tumbled, like a string-cut puppet down the steps making a sound like a side of beef being punched by a sack of tomatoes. It landed amongst the detritus of the party, face up, jaw slack and eyes staring in horror at the beautifully reddening sunset sky.
I stood, looking at the corpse for a moment until struck by an idea. Then I took the murdering skeleton by the shoulder bone and said to him, “Plan B it is. Waste not, want not.”