The Curse of Troius: A Zombie Fantasy Novel

By Alan Edwards

When a fantasy world is overrun with a mob of ravenous zombies, there are no guns to stop them. No tanks. No airstrikes. Just a man with a shovel.

Book Description:

In the last of the Arcane Academies, the actions of a powerful and corrupted wizard sets into motion the events that will turn the mundane world against the practicioners of magic and mark the end of the Dreaming Tower. Shunned and cast out by his fellow mages, Troius curses them all and dedicates himself to creating a scourge that will sweep the world and earn him well-deserved vengeance.

North of the bustling port city of Anticus lies a tranquil backwater, populated by independent-minded rural folk making a living among the foothills of the Kronspine Mountains. In the centuries since the fall of the Dreaming Tower, these farmers and townsfolk are unaware of a lonely, isolated tower standing alone at the foot of a forgotten mountain.

When the tower is breached by power-hungry outsiders, the final curse of the wizard Troius is unleashed on a land unprepared for the stalking horror of undeath, one that grows with every bite of its shuffling horde.

THE CURSE OF TROIUS is a zombie novel set in a unique fantasy world. Combining strong horror elements and a low-magic fantasy setting, it tells the story of the villages that get in the way of a zombie invasion and the ill-prepared people who can only hope to survive the onslaught.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan Edwards
• Release date: Mar 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781451575293

Book preview

The Curse of Troius

A Zombie Fantasy Novel

Alan Edwards

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 by Alan J Edwards

This book is available in print at most online retailers.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual living, dead, or undead persons is strictly coincidental.

Cover art © 2010 by Christopher Stewart. All rights reserved.

www.knightinkarma.com

Acknowledgements

Not a word of this story would have existed without all of the lovely and amazing people I have known and loved and hated and gamed with and avoided and all that. Without the characters that so many brought to vivid life over the years, none of the inspirations for their pale imitations would exist here. I also owe a debt of thanks to my proofreaders and unpaid editors, but most of all to my wonderful wife. Without her patience and gentle insistence that I finish what I started, I never would have reached the end.

A last thank you to the people of National Novel Writing Month. Without their inspiration, I never would have taken the madcap plunge into their world of complete hubris and exuberant imperfection. I just hope the story doesn’t make anyone vomit. Well, not for the writing, anyway.

Prologue

"The spread of the contagion varies greatly in speed and volume based on the circumstances of the surrounding environs. Even so, in a densely packed area a single individual can soon form a mindless mob of surprising size."

The Journal of Troius

Elder Patrician Merrus, head of the Circle of Magi of the Dreaming Tower, sighed and pressed the fingers of his right hand against the short grey hairs at his temple. This man, who could engulf an entire village in fiery ruin, summon and bind the Demonlords of the Void, or raise a tower of stone from bare dirt at a gesture, could do nothing to quell the rising rage of pain in his own head. He briefly considered turning to Nicoreus for succor, but allowed the notion to disappear. As the first Elder Patrician in five centuries to head a Trial of Expulsion, Merrus could not afford to appear weak. Even if the trial itself was threatening to turn into sham, as Elder Patrician he had the dignity of the last Arcane Academy to uphold.

Through the throbbing counterpoint in his head, Merrus listened to Escalion as he continued to enumerate the charges being leveled against one of their own. Merrus could not help but cringe inwardly as the pompous mage’s voice, so dreaded, detested, and widely imitated by a generation of students, merged and danced with the pounding in his head. The Elder imagined the loud ringing tone winging its way up into the ever-shadowed heights of the huge domed ceiling, awakening old ghosts of Patricians past. Escalion, oiled beard gleaming and short point thrusting out as punctuation, was oblivious to the fact that few in the room were actually listening to a word he said. Merrus’ quick glance confirmed his suspicion, as each of the Patricians of the Circle found means of diversion from the litany and avoided the spectacle of the orator and his presumed target.

The accused, and object of the accusations, Merrus noted, was the only person who did appear to be listening. Troius the Jewel Pated, Wizard of the Nine Pointed Stars, Binder of the Ten Demons of Georathe, stood in the center of the Circle, disdaining the chair offered to him. The rotund and feared wizard listed like an overloaded Siltrosi scow from side to side, his twenty or more stone of body mass coming dangerously near the tipping point more than once. Despite that, the huge tankard of Ammenian fortified wine never spilled a single drop, until the massive sweating mage brought it to his lips when like as not twin streams would pour from the sides of his mouth to join the older stains on his yellowed robe. When not taking a pull, Troius stared blankly ahead, mouth quirking into a smile as a recitation of one of his crimes seemed to touch upon a fond memory. He looks, Merrus thought, like a man being feted, the stories and legends of his grandest achievements sung before us all.

With a near-silent sigh Merrus looked down at the list of offenses each Patrician had before them. Some of the charges were superfluous – Study and Practice Of Necromancy was illegal in name only, a way to placate the outsiders who knew little of the true ways of the arcane. Others, however, were troubling, and still more actually chilled the Elder Patrician to the core of his being. The lists of murders, mutilations, and worse were bad enough, but the indifference displayed by Troius at every step made Merrus question the obese wizard’s basic humanity.

The sharp voice cut off Escalion’s flourishing recitation and jerked Merrus’ head up from the paper. Ridiculous, Troius said harshly, beady eyes now locked on Escalion. That charge should be stricken. Lord Nesior had his lovely daughter returned to him. Merrus, like the other Patricians around him, sat in shocked silence. His mind turned unerringly to the horror of seeing the once-beautiful girl shuffling around the nobleman’s estate, marks of strangulation shadowed black on her pale neck, her dead eyes and dead limbs moving about in a parody of the life she once enjoyed. After seeing her daughter’s return, Lady Nesior was held under restraint at House Nesior’s seaside villa for a month before she reportedly died peacefully in her sleep. Merrus believed that report as much as he believed in Troius’ innocence.

Merrus licked his lips as he stared at the renegade wizard. With Troius’ head turned to face Escalion, the blue gem in the side of his head sent shards of reflected light into Merrus’ eyes, increasing the throbbing in own his head. Even here, he could feel the power of the gem that Troius had hammered into his own skull. Was this, the Elder Patrician wondered, the cause of this once-promising magus’ downfall? Or did it only increase his power and danger to us all?

The Elder Patrician was more relieved than pleased that his voice did not betray a quaver as he answered. The charge will stand. The voice, strong, smooth, and assured as ever, visibly relaxed the others of the Circle. Troius simply shrugged and returned his gaze to his tankard as if he had never uttered a word. Escalion, suddenly pale and mercifully quiet, looked at Merrus, who responded with a slight shake of the head. The pompous and once-confident Accuser now scuttled thankfully from the Circle.

Merrus had no desire to draw the affair out any longer. He rose and forced himself to keep his eyes on the accused mage. The charges are well known and understood to us all. For these acts, which we know you are guilty of, there are only two punishments. Exile or death. Troius of Lacor, you are hereby stripped of both title and privilege. You are exiled from the Arcane Academy and the Kingdom of Cor Andronus. You are denied bread, roof, or succor, upon pain of death. May the blessing of Ban find you and redeem you, for you will not be redeemed again in the sight of Man. Merrus sat, pronouncement complete, and guardedly waited for the response from the insane wizard before him.

Troius’ shoulders began to shake. Moments later, his mad laughter boomed and echoed in the vast chamber. Death or exile? he managed at last. Two charges you have not the power to enforce. You assuredly cannot do the one, and you offer the latter in the hopes that I will scuttle meekly away and pine for the opportunity to return to your precious halls. He laughed again as he turned and eyed each of the Patricians in turn. Mad though I be, one day you who presume to visit judgment upon me shall walk the path I set for you. Like sheep behind the shepherd. His eyes again settled on Merrus. Even you, Elder. But you shall be last.

Silence reigned in the Chamber of the Circle of the Dreaming Tower for a long time after the crazed magi stomped heavily from the chamber with another booming laugh. Eventually the other Patricians stirred themselves and spoke bold words to comfort themselves and their fellows. Merrus alone remained silent, feeling the words of Troius sink deep into his bones, feeling their truth biting down into the marrow. The Elder Patrician felt old and frail as he sat alone in the vast chamber, another ghost among the shadows.

*

Brusen, thick-limbed and of middle years, sat heavily at the rough table. His hands, abraded and scarred from decades of handling rough stone and years-old tavern brawls, gripped the heel of yesterday’s bread as his mind, slowly but inexorably, awakened to face another dawn. The still air of the apartment was already hot in his throat, promising another brutal day of sun beating on him like the Hellion’s own foreman. It had been two weeks since the sea breezes had refreshed the city of Anticus, let alone stirred the foul air of the Gutters, the district of laborers, beggars, and whores. Sails hung limp in the harbor atop stranded ships and the tempers of the sailors and cityborn alike were shortening by the day.

He barely registered the sounds of his wife Sahra stirring herself from their bed as the unchanging ritual of morning continued, even as his mind dutifully catalogued their movements and rhythms. The splashing of water in chamberpot, the rustle of Sahra’s dress donned, the cooing voice waking their prize and delight, a son both thought themselves too old to have. Next, the babe would either gurgle and laugh, or snuffle and cry, depending on the whim of the gods.

Sahra’s shrill scream lanced into his skull. Brusen stood to see his wife clutching their child against her bony frame as her inarticulate wails and shrieks wrenched from her throat. The boy’s face, stiff and waxy, stared sightlessly at his father. Parted blue lips would not suckle at the breast thrust against them. Undeterred, Sahra desperately offered her body as nourishment for a child well past needing it as her husband stood like the stone walls he assembled.

Neighbors ebbed and flowed around the wall as time passed. The screaming woman refused to give up her child, raving and biting at those that tried, until old Meedra managed to force a mouthful of some elixir down Sahra’s throat. Shortly after, the wise woman gently wrapped the child in his blanket while the other women guided the now docile mother to the bed. Later, when the once-mother seemed asleep, the womenfolk gathered to whisper of demons and curses, ignoring the man frozen mere steps away, one hand still clutching a hard crust of bread.

Brusen’s mind, like a millstone, turned slowly as the events swirled around him. His eyes rested on the form of his wife, skin drawn cruelly over her bones, glimmering eyes still open displaying the only sign of life in her. Undaunted, his mind turned, taking in the words and world around him while pulling images from the past. Damned wizards his mind caught from the whispering woman, demon lovers in their tower, like stones dropping into a slow-moving river. The ripples spread through his thoughts and produced an image of an event – a day past? A week? A swaggering group of youths, brash, soft-handed, wearing cloaks held shut by silver pins shaped like a tower. Loud, sneering voices, words which meant nothing to Brusen sprinkling their speech. Exclamations of disgust and anger as a barrow of squared stones tipped carelessly, sending dust and grit along their finely polished boots. Words of scorn and warning dripped from unshaven lips shadowed by curled nostrils. One set of green eyes fixing on his, mouth forming silent words, punctuated by pursed lips and a gob of spit.

Brusen’s thoughts ground on to the tales being told by flickering candlelight, of the exile of the Mad Wizard who still stalked the torchlit streets, stealing the life from the innocent. The stoneworker thought of Dessie, a prostitute but sweet nonetheless, dead at that insane conjurer’s hands years ago. His exile had been reported by the shouting newsbearers on their stands three hard winters ago, but the stories multiplied like lice. Just last night, Brusen had heard a man mutter Mad wizard? Like one a whit differin’ off the next.

Damned wizards. Demon lovers in their tower. Like a millstone, which once set in motion will grind down whatever is fed to it, Brusen’s mind completed its work. The huddled women paid no heed to the door creaking back and forth in the morning breeze, nor the half-chewed heel of bread on the floor.

*

Derud laughed along with his fellow students, although he hadn’t understood the joke. His reaction was automatic, a reflex born of a life where he never felt like he truly fit in. Although he was the same age as his fellows, he didn’t have their experience with women, wasn’t privy to the gossip they heard, and couldn’t match their ability to spin a tale. His modest upbringing didn’t help, as most of the better-born students looked askance at those who grew up with dirt on their hands. He was sure that his presence was tolerated only because of his ability to study and help those who hadn’t, and his willingness to laugh at the most stale jest.

The one who held their attention had made those facts very clear. Loccan Kor, privileged son of a prestigious member of a minor noble family, was speaking of his dalliance with yet another daughter of a rival house. This time, his escapade involved the first cousin, once removed, of the Prince Elect himself, a small dressing room, and a hasty glamour that prevented his detection. Derud’s fellows didn’t seem concerned that Loccan’s glamour was used to make him appear to be the lady’s betrothed, even to her, but Derud the Dullard (as they mockingly named him when his laughter rang ignorant in their ears) felt that using their improving skills in such a manner was nothing that their instructors would approve of, let alone Elder Merrus.

Derud’s foray into moralizing sent him into reverie long enough for his absent stare to be noticed. He was snapped out of it when he realized that the others were looking at him expectantly, while Loccan wore his most dangerous sneer. P-pardon? Derud asked, face flushing and head withdrawing, turtle fashion, into his shoulders.

The sneer deepened. I merely inquired, Dullard, what magnificent tryst you’ve undertaken that puts my little adventure so far beneath your attention? Everyone at the table laughed, except Loccan. Derud recognized the gleam in the young noble’s emerald green eyes, that glimmer that promised a painful retribution on its target. The stammering student’s usually nimble brain felt locked as his mouth formed inaudible fragments of words.

The loud crack as the tavern door rebounded from the wall saved Derud from further embarrassment as everyone turned to face it. As the door swung back, it was stopped in its arc by a large, scarred hand attached to a thick arm in turn connected to a wide bull of a body. The eyes attached to that body wandered around the dim tavern until they sighted along an outstretched arm, helpfully provided by those that crowded behind the large man. Tole ya, Bru, ‘e’s right there! Derud watched the pointing finger and dark eyes alight on Loccan as his stomach dropped and pulse began to hammer.

The man shambled into the room towards Loccan like an angry bear, fists clenched and mouth set in a hard, grim line. Derud wondered if the man was someone wronged by one of Loccan’s adventures, but the student dismissed the notion at the man’s obvious low station. The eager faces of the dozen or so men pouring through the door behind him brought Derud to his feet, before any of his fellows could begin to react. As someone used to feeling out of place and disconnected, Derud knew trouble, serious trouble, when he saw it, as if it were something he continuously expected. His lips whispered arcane words and he tossed a hand Loccan’s way.

Derud’s quick spell saved Loccan’s head from splitting on the table as the man-bear smashed a fist into the side of the noble’s head. Even with the sorcerous shielding, Loccan was knocked from his chair and behind the table. Prompted by the first blow, both sides exploded into a flurry of punches, kicks, and gouges. With no more time or opportunity for even the slightest mystical working, Derud and his fellows fought in the manner of their aggressors, striking out furiously.

Despite the attitudes most outsiders had of the wizards and their students, they were not frail nor fragile. The discipline of manipulating the unseen essence of the world and other dimensions called for stamina and strength of body as well as mind, and the students were exercised regularly to ensure their ability to hold up while they fine-tuned their abilities. Derud could tell their assailants were caught off guard by their resistance; the once-farmer’s son had needed to use his fists before, albeit not since joining the Tower. The scene blurred around him as he avoided blows and lashed out with his own.

A scant minute later a pair of his companions went down under the assault, their youth and fitness no match for their attackers’ fury. Loccan was still up, using the confusion of the brawl to keep distance between himself and the large brutal leader. Derud knew that the outcome would worsen the longer this went on. Thinking quickly, he ducked a blow and upended the table towards the bear-man, cutting off his pursuit of Loccan and buying himself some time. Grab Olybrian! he shouted as he scooped the unconscious body of Ennod from the floor. Blows rained on him as he sunk his head low and rushed towards the open door. Bursting into the sun and stench, he staggered forward a few steps before turning to see whether his fellows or their sudden enemies followed him.

He sighed with relief as Loccan and Heruld exited the tavern, each with an arm of Olybrian slung over a shoulder. Derud turned and quickly shuffled away, ignoring the odd looks of the few wanderers on the hot dusty streets. When he reached Tridon’s Square, he turned left and pointed himself and his burden towards the Dreaming Tower and safety.

Dullard! Loccan’s sharp voice brought him up short. Where in the Void are you going?

Derud looked behind him, once again stammering and confused. The, uh, Tower…?

Loccan’s sneer cut him off. His green eyes flashed even brighter now, with fury and grim joy. Derud noticed that Heruld now supported Olybrian’s battered body alone as Loccan approached him. Idiot, he hissed, we aren’t going to the Tower. The Petal is this way. Loccan’s arm pointed the opposite direction Derud wanted to go; further into the city, where The Blushing Petal of Eve stood. Another tavern, and a favorite of the eldest students of the Dreaming Tower. This isn’t over. Loccan turned without another word and moved in that direction, drawing Heruld behind him with an imperious gesture.

Derud closed his eyes a moment. This isn’t over, he thought, and shuffled along in their wake, the toes of Ennod’s boots leaving twin tracks behind him. A chill settled over his heart despite the relentless heat.

*

The shouts and clanging mugs all around him could not penetrate the grinding mind of Brusen. The men around him, neighbors and workmates, were pleased by their actions and celebrating as if they’d won a victory. Ale flowed as deeds were recounted, particularly choice blows re-enacted, and the students’ ignominious retreat rehashed. Spirits high all around him, the stonelayer kept his fists at his side as his brow furrowed. In his mind he could feel the blow crunching into the green-eyed wizardling, his rage and grief pouring onto the head of the one who had cursed him. Brusen couldn’t understand how the man had gotten up and managed to avoid him thereafter, when the blow should have scrambled his brain and left him unconscious or dead. In the confusion after the table was flipped, his quarry had already fled by the time he pushed past the men in his way. After that, calls for drinks and cheers had stopped the momentum that had carried the group to the tavern in the first place.

Brusen knew he didn’t have the words to get the group moving again, to seek out the one who had brought such tragedy into his life. The few words he’d spoken earlier were enough to get men who were tired, hot, and angry to leave their work aside in pursuit of mayhem. Now, in the comparative cool of the tavern, with drinks in hand, their bloodlust had cooled. No simple words of his would get them out into the sun again. Brusen knew this, but his mind ground on, reliving the blow, seeing his wife’s dead yet breathing face, the cold blue lips of his son.

Eventually, the silence in the bar pricked Brusen’s consciousness. The men around him had turned and were facing the door. Slowly he turned around. Framed in the door, just visible in the dim light, his green-eyed nemesis waited. For the first and only time that day, Brusen smiled.

*

Derud wasn’t aware of the low, near-inaudible moaning he was emitting as he stood quavering behind his fellows. His words of caution, of reason, hadn’t stopped Loccan from going to the Petal, nor had they cooled the desire of Aristheus and the other students there. Derud had believed that the older students would have quelled Loccan’s ire where he had not, but he had quickly realized his mistake. The arrogance of Loccan was as nothing compared to that of the men who neared acceptance into the ranks of the magi of the Dreaming Tower. Upon hearing of the assault on their younger brethren, Aristheus and his cronies had agreed to upbraid the muckdwellers and piss-drinkers who’d dare to accost their betters.

Near panic, Derud had spoken imploringly of the lessons from the Dreaming Tower, that their Art was to serve the betterment of everyone, to help those in need. As his brethren had placed magicks upon themselves to become stronger and faster, or to thicken skin and bone, he’d talked of their strict laws against using magic in any way unless it was necessary to defend themselves, and even then only spells such as the one Derud had placed on Loccan were permissible. Merrus himself had spoken to all of the students and their masters every year, reminding them of their duty and responsibility. Magic was strictly prohibited from being used as a weapon against non-adepts; Merrus would remind them that this prohibition was the only thing