Last Stand of Dead Men

“Oh.”

“Very odd.”

“We could ignore it, if you want.”

Scapegrace looked at him. Thrasher was acting weird. Even weirder than usual. He appeared to be blushing, for God’s sake. Scapegrace frowned. “What was I saying before?”

“Becoming a warrior, Master.”

“Yes. Soon, I will unlock the secrets of the deadly arts and I will become the greatest warrior the world has ever known.”

Thrasher looked at him. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why become a great warrior? What are you going to do afterwards?”

Scapegrace sneered. “You ask an awful lot of questions.”

“I just … I was just wondering what—”

“I don’t pay you to wonder.”

“You don’t pay me at all.”

“I am a sorcerer, Thrasher. Among the many things that separate us, that is but one. There is no magic in you, but in me? Magic seethes within me. And now that I’m no longer a zombie, I can feel it again. It is reawakening.”

“What kind of magic is it? I’ve always wanted to ask.”

“But you haven’t asked, have you? Not until right now. Why is that, I wonder? Is your new body giving you confidence, Thrasher?”

“What? No, Master!”

“Is it filling you with self-worth? With self-respect?”

“Never! I swear to you!”

“Because if I find out it is …”

Thrasher fell to his knees. “Master, I hate my new body. I do. Granted, it’s perfect in every physical way, but it’s … it’s not the body you attacked and killed on that warm September afternoon, those few short years ago. It’s not the body you bit. It’s not the body that came back, that opened its eyes and saw you, gazing at it …”

“This is getting weird again,” Scapegrace muttered.

Thrasher stood up. He was so tall and good-looking it was stupid. “Master,” he said, “we’ve been through a lot, you and I, and if I could switch bodies with you I would. I really would. Maybe then you could see me the way I see you.”

Scapegrace tried to ponder that one and quickly gave up.

“You are the only important thing in my life,” Thrasher continued, “and I … sir, I …”

“This conversation is boring me,” Scapegrace announced. “Take out the rubbish bins.”

Thrasher sagged. “Yes, Master.”

While Thrasher trudged out with the bins, Scapegrace picked up his fallen sword and returned it to its sheath. Back in olden times, a Samurai would never put his sword away until the blade had tasted blood. But that was the olden times, back when they didn’t understand things like basic hygiene. These days, Scapegrace was sure, a Samurai would much rather break this nonsensical little rule than risk a variety of unfortunate infections.

He heard a scream and, before he knew what he was doing, Scapegrace was running for the door, his sword once more in his hand.

Thrasher was struggling with something in the gloom behind the pub, his back jammed up against the wall while he tried to keep the creature at bay. It was big, as big as a Doberman but with longer hair, and it had a snout and sharp teeth and it snarled and snapped and Thrasher squealed.

“Hey!” Scapegrace shouted, because he could think of nothing else.

The creature turned its head, its eyes flashing. From this angle, the face almost looked human. Then it leaped at Scapegrace and Scapegrace slipped on fallen bits of rubbish and the creature impaled itself on the sword as he fell.

Scapegrace blinked as the creature gave a last rattling breath before it died. He pushed it off him and got to his feet.

Thrasher looked up at him. “Master!”

“What?”

“You saved me!”

“No I didn’t.”

“You rescued me!”

“It was an accident.”

“You saved my life!”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Thrasher bounded to his feet. He was so happy he looked like he was about to cry. “Master, you have no idea how much this means to me. I am a pathetic mortal, not worthy of being saved—”

“I know.”

“—and yet you saved me anyway. You risked your life, which is vastly more important than mine—”

“Vastly.”

“—and you rushed into danger, into the jaws of death … I don’t know what to say. I don’t have the words to … Oh, sir, forgive me, I may cry.”

“Well, do it somewhere else,” Scapegrace said, scowling. “What the hell is that thing anyway? Some kind of dog?”

Thrasher was too busy crying to answer.

Scapegrace pressed his foot against the creature’s body, rolled it into the light. “That’s no dog,” he said. “It looks like a monkey and a dog fell in love and had babies and this is the ugly one they didn’t want.” He crouched down. “Maybe it’s an alien. Maybe we’re being invaded by aliens.”

“Oh, I hope not, sir,” Thrasher sobbed.