The Waystation Ch.30 (Patreon)

Chapter 30

The City of the Dead. II

Bert J Hudson woke up the next morning with his face pressed against the dirt. He coughed, watching dust puff into the air, and groaned. His head felt like it had an entire foundry busily working away in it. He sat up slowly and stared blearily back across a stretch of open ground to the Waystation.

The fuck did he end up all the way out here?

His stomach roiled when he tried to stand up. He collapsed and waited out the nausea until he was sure he would keep the contents of his stomach. He shaded his eyes.

Headache, light sensitivity, nausea… that meant a hangover. Did he remember drinking last night?

His mind was blank. While he took a minute to dust off the dry pale dirt that made up the dead zone around the city, Bert looked around. There had to be some clue around here somewhere.

A few meters away, to his left, he saw a body. Crawling carefully across the dry ground, Bert crept towards the unmoving form. It was one of the orcs, the big guy, Gor’tal. He was lying in a pool of his own vomit. Bert fought the revulsion and lost, turning away and spending a painful few minutes losing the contents of his stomach. Once he was done, he checked on Gor. The orc was breathing fine; Bert rolled him over and immediately regretted it as loud snores rattled his sore head.

Finally able to stand, Bert stumbled back toward the Waystation.

He noticed two more bodies strung across the wood as he approached the drawbridge. Two more orcs, Sal and Tru. They were lying face down, with what appeared to be flowers platted into their hair.

The fuck happened last night?

A brief flash of the two orc girls singing on the slightly raised stage in The Bear’s Fall flashed through his head. The lodge had been packed, standing room only.

That couldn’t be right. They had planned a quiet evening. A get-to-know-you meal.

Bert found Trav, in Satyr form, hanging upside down from the gatehouse parapet and snoring contentedly. Bud was leaning against the tower, his skeletal fingers trailing in the crystal water around its base. He had a pot on his head and what appeared to be a feather boa made out of… skin?

Bert stumbled on in search of a glass of water. Anything to make his head hurt less. The Bear’s Fall, when he pushed open the door, was a scene of chaos. There were chairs and tables everywhere, with very few still on their legs. There was also a large number of dead bodies. Very dead bodies.

Zombies were collapsed everywhere. Three of them were lying in a heap on the stage, with a flower placed gently in the hand of the topmost one.

Bert turned and walked toward the Barn instead. On the way there, he found the last two orcs, Mic and Ric, in the remains of the first fields they had ever had in the Waystation. They were sleeping peacefully in the bottom of two neatly dug graves. They were also not alone. Each one had a pair of ghostly forms resting against them. They looked… wraithlike.

Another memory surfaced, with four ghostly women singing a haunting melody as everyone danced outside the Waystation.

Why the fuck were they outside the Waystation?

He slumped through the door to the barn and collapsed at the table. He groaned softly and passed out…

“MORNING, ASSHOLE!” A voice screamed in his ear what felt like seconds later. The pain in his head almost knocked him out again before a bucket of ice-cold water hit him. Bert gasped and shivered. There was a familiar sensation.

“HOW'S THE HEAD?” She screamed in his ear.

“Bell, please!” He begged as the pixie dissolved into giggles. His stomach lurched as she dumped a hunk of bleeding deer on the table in front of him. As he gagged, she yelled about Reclaim Flesh.

In his ear.

Yelled.

In desperation, he complied, feeling the healing energy pour into his body as the meat disappeared into his body. When the healing wave reached his head, he breathed a long, relieved sigh.

So much better.

“Better?” Bell asked quietly.

“Much, thanks.” Bert smiled. “Who knew-” He cut off.

“Here it comes!” Bell giggled in joyous expectation.

Bert went pale.

Memories returned in a slow trickle that sped up until it was a torrent. He remembered a small group of undead coming to the Waystation. They were hesitant initially but loosened up over a long dinner with plenty of Blood Berry Wine. It was all going so well until someone asked if any other undead-friendly drinks were on the menu.

Bud had mentioned the Death Mead. It had been a big hit.

After the second round of drinks, one of them had gone to get a friend or two… then a while later, they went to get a few more. Bert and Bell had been running around getting drinks and meals for everyone, as were two Multi-Bells. The two orc girls had decided to help out by singing to entertain everyone while they waited.

They were a hit.

More undead had began to turn up, including four wraiths that joined the girls on stage. Before long, the Bear’s Fall was too small for everyone.

Then the Waystation was too small. By then, the Wraiths and the Orcs sang in separate areas. The undead had a few bards as well, so they joined in.

He groaned as he remembered using Chill runes to make fog and heat runes to make a series of glowing, pulsing lights.

It only got worse when the Banshee arrived. She was a stunning creature with a voice they literally made legends about. Things got a bit blurry at that point. The music was… was… there were no words. He remembered the Banshee singing with the orcs and wraiths as backup singers and dancers.

Unfortunately, he also remembered making Death Mead chasers with Blood Berry wine bombs.

The final image he had was a conga line. An actual conga line of the dead, winding through the streets of a large city while Trav dispensed Death Mead from barrels on his back.

“How did they even know what a conga line was?” He wondered aloud in horror.

“You taught ‘em.” Bell giggled. “That was after you declared Bud King Pothead the First and before you took most of your clothes off.”

Bert blanched and looked down. He was wearing his trousers but nothing else.

“Sweet merciful heavens, why?” He groaned as the pixie chortled.

“That was nothing,” Bell giggled. “The best part was the impromptu poetry.”

Bert didn’t want to know.

“Ode to Gwen,” Bell said. “You made the undead cry, and I didn’t know they could even do that.”

Bert groaned. “Any idea why there are orcs with twin wraith girls in shallow graves outside?”

“Oh, yeah. Wraiths can’t sleep above ground, and they were big fans of the brothers.”

Bert banged his head against the table, trying to make it all disappear.

“I can’t wait to see what happens next.” Bell giggled.

“How come you aren’t hung over?” Bert grumbled.

“I said I wasn’t drinking Death Mead again,” She shivered, “I meant it.”

“Put me down for the never drinking Death Mead list as well,” Bert sighed. “I better go and try to sort this out.”

“I’d give it a few hours,” Bell giggled. “Most of the undead haven’t even come around yet.”

============

Barlay hurried over to the Waystation just after noon that day. He seemed almost frantic, and Bert braced himself to be asked to leave the area.

“I’m so sorry,” They said at the same time. Then laughed.

“Please, please!” The old zombie raised a hand. “It is our fault entirely. You open your lovely establishment to us, and we act like children.”

“I’m pretty sure we had an equal share in that,” Bert said guiltily.

“The city leadership feels differently,” Barlay grinned. “The Chancellor is refusing to leave his rooms. No one can even find the Mayor, and the Chief Marshall was found upside down in an empty barrel of Death Mead.”

“Oh, Gods.” Bert gasped. “It got a little out of control, didn’t it.”

“A little?” Barlay beamed. “The conga line was voted as the official dance of the city at a meeting just before sunrise by a parliament of entirely drunk ministers.”

Bert just hung his head.

“Young man,” Barlay gave him a long look. “We have existed for the last few years. But last night? Last night we remembered how to live!”

Bert smiled, “I’m glad.”

“May I see that delightful Farmer? Our farmers are all in a tizzy about meeting her.”

“This way,” Bert froze. “Damn, she wasn’t at that party, I hope?”

The two looked at each other and hurried over the bridge toward Trailer One.

They found Scruff perched on Slothy’s shoulders and giving strident orders to several undead as they moved amongst the rows.

“Afternoon!” She waved merrily to the two frantic men.

“Scruff, are you all right?” Bert asked. “That party last night….” He trailed off.

“Was that what all the noise was?” Scruff asked. “I wondered why Slothy slept over here last night.” She bent down and scratched the giant sloth bear between the ears. “She’s been helping Aunty Scruff show these people how to grow my crops!”

“Is it working?” Barlay asked anxiously.

“Somewhat?” Another elderly looking undead said. “We won’t be able to get her quality or quantity, but we should do well enough.”

“What seems to be the problem?” Bert asked.

“Well, first, we don’t have access to freshly dead bodies like this young genius.” He motioned to Scruff, who blushed slightly. “And secondly, we don’t have access to a Waystation and, therefore, to her powerful class.”

“Hmm.” Bert looked thoughtful. He excused himself and left them to it as he went to ask Bell about something.

===========

A couple of hours later, Bert and Bell accompanied Scruff into the city. People leaned out of windows on either side of the spotless cobbled roads, waved, and cheered at the group from the Waystation. It was a pretty warm welcome.

The City of the Dead was different from what Bert had expected. His dim and blurry memories from the night before had not prepared him for the magnificent city. Stone buildings with ornate wooden balconies lined cobbled roads and paved sidewalks. Every few feet, a tree grew in a marble box. Each one was a work of art. Everything was spotless and smelled faintly of flowers. That included the people themselves. If you ignored the obvious signs of death on them, they could have been people from one of the more upmarket areas of a high fantasy novel.

The house's design even had that understated elegance that spoke to a taste mixed with humility.

The city's layout was remarkable, with concentric rings with main roads running through each ring before splitting through ornate gateways into the next.

A market square caught his eye as they walked where fabrics, leathers, foodstuffs in cages, and more traded hands as people haggled with smiling faces. As they passed the market, one man apologized because his arm had fallen off and into a box on the stall. The shopkeeper made a joke and helped him reattach it with a quick thump to put it back into its socket.

By far, the most curious area of the city was the Crafter’s Quarter. Here, they watched as various body parts were sculpted out of liquid flesh and various shapes of bone. Artisans worked with dark black mana edged in shining green, shaping the flesh and bone before putting the finished limb or other body parts aside to dry on a rack.

Barlay looked a bit nervous, and Bert asked him what was wrong.

“Watching people work with liquid flesh can’t look good to living people.” Barlay fidgeted. “It must look evil.”

“Not at all,” Bert laughed, “it is a bit like my Reclaim Flesh ability.” Bert patted the man on the back. “It uses liquid flesh to heal me.”

After that, the old man calmed down and brought them in to meet the craftswoman in charge of the Fleshshapers.

“Evgeni, may I introduce Bert Hudson of the Waystation.”

The woman looked down at Bert and narrowed her eyes. She reached out and turned his head this way and that, “Quite nice bone structure; I wouldn’t mind your bones after you die.”

Barlay paled.

“You're welcome to them unless I happen to be using them myself.” Bert smiled up at the seven-foot-tall woman. She had a long thin frame, and he realized belatedly, a third arm on her back. Short-cropped, bone-white hair framed a face that screamed danger. She smiled.

“I like him; he doesn’t scare easily.” She chuckled.

“Do you want to start another Crusade?” Barlay scolded the woman, despite being almost half her height.

“Crusade? You have Crusaders in this world?” Bert asked carefully.

“Hah! Yes. They declare you unholy, and you will meet them.” Evgeni offered her hand, “Evgeni Loomis, nice to meet you.”

“Charmed,” Bert said distractedly. “Where do these Crusaders come from?”

“The Holy Church of Purity,” Evgeni spat to one side. “Why?”

“We had crusaders in the world I came for once,” Bert said levelly. “They exterminated whole peoples who didn’t believe what they did.”

“Yes, that sounds like them.” Barlay nodded.

“They wiped pagans like me from our world for a while. Some families kept the traditions alive, but… so much was lost.” Bert said as anger made his voice shake. “I always wanted to meet one with an axe in my hand.” He smiled widely, “Looks like I may get my chance.”

Evgeni roared with laughter. “This is one breather I like, Barlay.” She slapped them both on the back and returned to her work.

As they walked on, Barlay whispered to Bert, “She never likes anyone; well done.”

==========

It was evening when they got back to the Waystation, and Bert and Bell headed into the back to prepare dinner while their guests trickled in. The two orc brothers, Mic and Ric, were currently sat in one corner being told off by their sister for their antics the night before, having finally awoken. The young orcs looked like little boys caught stealing cookies as their sister raged at them.

Even the visiting undead edged themselves carefully away from the righteous fury in Sal’s tone.

Barlay had managed to persuade the chancellor to come out of his rooms, although he had scurried through the streets to a chorus of mutters and tuts. Bert was tempted to know what he had done, but they ran out of time. A few of the Ministers had roused themselves and joined the group. They all sat at the far end of a large table Bell had summoned. They kept their eyes averted from the pair at the other end of the table.  Evgeni had brought the Banshee from last night with her, and not a single undead in the place could meet her gaze.

Another table was full of the leaders of the Undead Farmer’s Union, who were all gathered around a beaming Scruff who held court with the confidence of a duchess. Bert had caught her having a panic attack earlier over all the attention. He had given her the advice that worked for him so many times, ‘fake it till you make it.’

Everybody was now waiting on the final invited guest, one they were not sure would even attend. The Lich King of the City of the Dead. Bert had sent the invitation along just in case, as it would make his plans a lot easier.

Both Barlay and Evgeni had told him the Lich King never left their tower, but it was worth a try.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

So it was quite a surprise when a tall, thin figure in flowing robes ducked into The Bear’s Fall just as night fell. Glowing green eyes shone out from the shadows of the fine silk hood.

All the undead bowed their heads in respect as Bert bounded out from the back, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Hi, I’m Bert.” He offered his hand to shake.

“Do you not know I’m a King?” A raspy voice said.

“Yup, but not mine, eh?” Bert beamed back as Barlay whimpered in terror.

Evgeni laughed.

“Percy,” A thin-fingered hand extended and shook Bert’s hand. There was a gasp from the table of ministers. “Does Percy not meet your expectations for a Lich King?” The voice rasped.

“Percy is a great name, mate. I know a nine-foot-tall Immortal Moth called Larry, by the way. I prefer Percy, myself.” Bert grinned, and a soft chuckle came from the depths of the hood.

“Me too,” The voice rasped.

The dinner went well, with the Banshee even giving a small performance afterward. As the enraptured applause died down, The Lich King made to leave.

“Just a sec, Percy,” Bert called. “I have a plan I’d like to run past you if you have a moment.”

The Lich King nodded, and Bert followed him outside.

“He called the King by his name!” One of the Ministers hissed.

“Can he do that?” Another asked.

“He just did, many times,” Evgeni laughed as she took a long drink of her wine.

“How can the King allow that?” One of the ministers hissed.

“Because he is truly powerful,” the Banshee said softly.

“And has excellent hearing,” The voice rasped in the air as if the speaker was next to each person.

The ministers paled.

A soft chuckle carried on the breeze.

Bert came bouncing back through the door a few minutes later with a huge smile on his face. He strode over to the stage and whispered to Bell, who also beamed.

She perched on his shoulder as he coughed to get everybody's attention as if he didn’t have it already.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, first let me say thanks for coming over to dinner. It is nice to have a dinner that I don’t wake up the next day half-naked and hung over.”

A chorus of chuckles as the ministers and chancellor looked down in shame.

“But there is one more thing before you go. A small plan Bell and I came up with. The lovely people of the Undead Farmer’s Union tell us they can’t do what our resident mad genius Scruff can,” He had to pause as cheers to Scruff roared from the Farmer’s table. Scruff was crimson with embarrassment. “And that is because, of course, you don’t have a Waystation of your own.” Bert and Bell shared a pleased look, “So we aim to change that. With Percy’s help, we are going to create a brand new Waystation right here, in your city!”

Stunned silence.

“Our own Waystation, but the undead can’t….” The Banshee trailed off.

“Can’t bond with a living creature?” Bert asked.

“Yes,” The Banshee sighed. “No matter how much we might wish to.”

Bert noticed the sadness. There was a story there.

“We are well aware of that,” Bell beamed.

“Which is why we are going to try and create the first,” Bert beamed.

“The Very First!” Bell confirmed, “Ever.”

“Waystation of the Dead!” He finished.

Silence.

The room erupted into cheers.

Light speared into his eyes the next morning as he woke, feeling the dry ground against his face.

“Bollocks,” He said as he tried again to remember what happened last night.