City of the undead, p.1
City of the Undead, page 1
part #3 of Zombicide Black Plague Series
Zombicide Black Plague
City of the Undead
Bones littered the ground. Though the earth was soaked in blood, not so much as a scrap of flesh remained on the hundreds of skeletons strewn across the pasture.
“These bones weren’t gnawed. They were pecked,” said Helchen, “keep as far away from those trees as you can,” she ordered.
“Too late,” Gaiseric whispered, pulling Cryptblade from its scabbard.
Shareen followed the rogue’s horrified gaze. The trees edging the pasture erupted into animation. A dark cloud rose from the branches, loose feathers drifting down as a black multitude swarmed into the air.
The bones, pecked clean of flesh, stripped of the last morsel. The birds were the culprits, a vast murder of crows. Shareen saw the gleam of bone showing through the rotten, feathery bodies. Not living animals at all, but a horde of winged zombies, ravenous for living flesh.
More Zombicide from Aconyte
Zombicide Black Plague
Age of the Undead by C L Werner
Isle of the Undead by C L Werner
Zombicide Invader
Planet Havoc by Tim Waggoner
Terror World by Cath Lauria
Death System by S A Sidor
Zombicide
Last Resort by Josh Reynolds
All or Nothing by Josh Reynolds
Do or Die by Josh Reynolds
First published by Aconyte Books in 2024
ISBN 978 1 83908 284 9
Ebook ISBN 978 1 83908 285 6
Copyright © 2024 CMON Global Limited
All rights reserved. The Aconyte name and logo and the Asmodee Entertainment name and logo are registered or unregistered trademarks of Asmodee Entertainment Limited. No part of this product may be reproduced without specific permission. Guillotine Games and the Guillotine Games logo are trademarks of Guillotine Press Ltd. Zombicide, CMON, and the CMON logo are registered trademarks of CMON Global Limited.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Cover art by Dany Orizio
Distributed in North America by Simon & Schuster Inc, New York, USA1
ACONYTE BOOKS
An imprint of Asmodee Entertainment Ltd
Mercury House, Shipstones Business Centre
North Gate, Nottingham NG7 7FN, UK
aconytebooks.com // twitter.com/aconytebooks
Prologue
The surf crashed against the sandy beach, washing foam over rotting flesh and exposed bone. The stink of decay wafted across the island, seeping into every corner of the waterfront buildings and spilling out into the forested interior. The few seabirds that soared in the sky quickly fled when they dove landward and realized the nature of the carrion they thought to consume. The red-shelled crabs scuttling across the shore gave a wide berth to the enormous carcass.
Even the lowest forms of life were repulsed by the aura of black magic that saturated the carcass sprawled across the island’s beach. Periapts crafted from human skin and inked in human blood were plastered to the rotting corpse, the charms serving to slow the decay. Other talismans such as spikes crafted from human bone and etched with infernal sigils had been hammered into the body at precise intervals. From these talismans, the malefic contagion of the Black Plague was drawn down into the carcass, spreading through its dead flesh, steadily swelling the infusion of necromantic corruption.
Lounging in the shadow of a boathouse, Gogol the necromancer sipped wine he’d found in the cellars of Yandryl’s castle and waited for the energies he was gathering to completely saturate the carcass on the beach. The smell of decay was too strong to savor the wine’s bouquet, and his long years practicing the black arts had left his body with a perpetual chill that negated the warmth of even the strongest liquor, but he could still savor the taste. That much enjoyment was left to him.
“For a half-mad elf-witch, you had an appreciation for wine,” Gogol commented, turning in his chair and saluting the ruins of Yandryl’s castle. “I’m sure you don’t mind sharing, seeing as how you’re dead now.”
When exploring the castle, he’d found Yandryl’s charred remains. The elven sorceress had been well and truly immolated, beyond even his powers to resurrect. A lethal case of dragonfire, for certain. He dipped his glass and turned his attention back to the beach. There wasn’t any mystery about what had caused the sorceress to die as she did.
The carcass on the beach was the remains of Flamefang, the mighty wyrm that Yandryl had enslaved. It was an imposing monster, even in death. Leathery wings as wide as a galleon’s sails, claws as long as pikes, teeth as big as swords… no, there was no mistaking the terrible power of a dragon. A crew of fifty zombies were pulling on ropes to drag the body up and away from the tide, but those nearest to the reptile’s maw had to be frequently swapped out because the caustic drool that dripped from Flamefang’s mouth gradually burned away their feet. Gogol had been stunned to discover that the brew was still potent after the dragon’s immersion in the sea, so vitriolic that even his spectral walkers, immune to any mundane weaponry, were affected by the draconic spittle.
The wyrm had been a formidable beast. And now it belonged to Gogol. The thought brought a smile to his pale visage. He drained the last of his wine and reached for the bottle with his other hand.
“Caskets and coffins!” the necromancer cursed when the neck of the bottle shattered under his grip. He glared at the brawny green limb. Twice now he’d been forced to mend his body after an encounter with his hated enemy, Alaric von Mertz. This time, he’d replaced his missing arm with that of another necromancer, one that had happened to be an orc. An arm already exposed to occult conjurations was certainly beneficial, but he wasn’t quite used to the increased strength it possessed. It would need some getting used to.
Gogol handed off his wine glass to one of the zombies standing beside his chair. He groaned when the hulking creature dropped the vessel, and it shattered on the wooden deck. “Orcs,” he grumbled, glaring at the decayed brute. He was pleased to provide himself with a bodyguard of the brawny undead and had picked out seven of the biggest for that purpose, but he wished they were a bit more dexterous. Perhaps something to experiment with later.
For now, Gogol had grander and more important conjurations in mind. He was preparing to raise Flamefang from the dead, and he wanted something more than just a witless zombie incapable of acting with purpose unless under his direct control. What he needed was a deathless scourge that would be able to strike and kill his enemies from afar. A weapon to set loose upon von Mertz and his friends. The wider conquest envisioned by the great cabal of necromancers could wait. Gogol was focused upon revenge. He felt at liberty to indulge his desire after all he’d endured. When the last of the House of von Mertz was dead, then… then he could think about the downfall of the kingdom.
Gogol gazed out across the beach, biding his time while his zombies pulled the dragon away from the surf. The water might dissipate the magic necessary to animate Flamefang and he didn’t want to take any chances. He wouldn’t risk resurrecting the wyrm in a weakened condition. When the dragon took flight again, it would be as an undead engine of carnage.
The gleam of something shining further down the beach caught Gogol’s notice and drew him out of his dark reverie. Ever cautious, he sent one of his bodyguards to investigate. With clumsy, ponderous steps, the zombie orc trudged across the sands. Gogol couldn’t explain why, but he felt a sense of agitated excitement as the undead neared its goal. Closing his eyes, the necromancer transferred his sight into the brute, viewing the scene from the zombie’s decayed orbs.
Shock nearly disrupted Gogol’s spell. There was a body lying on the beach, buffeted back and forth by the waves. Someone who was not unknown to him. The armor, the torn tabard with its coat of arms depicting a dragon rampant, these could belong to only one man. Gogol didn’t know the exact details of the battle, but having found Alaric’s sword embedded in Flamefang’s carcass, he knew the knight had been involved in the fight. Now he also knew that his enemy hadn’t survived the encounter.
Dimly, Gogol knew he should feel exultant that Alaric was dead. Instead, he felt anger. The gods were laughing at him! They’d cheated him of his revenge! His enemy was dead, and it was too late to exact satisfaction from him.
Gogol started to shake his fist at the heavens, but stopped even as he made the gesture. That was the hazard of anger; it clouded the mind and dulled reason. What was death to a necromancer? A nuisance, nothing more!
“The tomes,” Gogol snarled at the zombies around him, snapping his fingers impatiently when the undead were slow to carry out his command. Yandryl had gathered an impressive collection of arcane lore and enchanted objects, although most of them had no bearing upon his own dark art. A few, however, inv
The zombies dragged the heavy chest containing the books to Gogol’s chair. Excitedly he threw back the lid and began rummaging through them. He’d only briefly glanced at their pages before, intending to make a more thorough perusal later. Now he struggled to remember which of them had contained the spell that inflamed his imagination. He hesitated when he came to a slim volume bound in yellow leather, a nasty-looking symbol with three curled tendrils branded upon its cover. This was it unless his memory failed him.
Gogol salivated as his eyes roved across the pages, his enthusiasm finally escaping in a peal of demonic laughter. He hugged the book to his breast.
“Bring von Mertz here.”
Gogol sent his command into the brain of the brute he’d left standing in the surf. He saw the zombie orc awkwardly lean over and heft the knight’s corpse up onto its shoulders. Then it began the stumbling, clumsy walk back across the sands.
“Put him down there,” the necromancer ordered, pointing at a spot only a few steps away from his chair. He stood up and moved to his dead enemy, studying the many wounds the knight had suffered. He must have followed the dragon down into the sea, Gogol decided, for the dragon’s fire would have caused the water to boil. How else to explain the hideously scalded condition of Alaric’s flesh? The distortions on the man’s body indicated broken bones. His helm was gone, exposing a face that had been ravaged by aquatic scavengers. Something had bitten off the nose and it looked like claws had torn bits from the cheeks. The eyes, however, remained intact.
That was something. It wouldn’t do for Alaric to be blind when Gogol forced his spirit back into his rotten flesh. He wanted the knight to appreciate the full horror of his condition. A broken, helpless shell…
Gogol stood up from his examination, a new devilish idea forming in his mind. He looked out to sea. He’d been able to watch the battle against Flamefang from a distance. He knew that the pirate vessel The Demoness had returned and taken on survivors from his own foundering ship. Certainly, Alaric had perished in the fighting, but some of his friends might have survived. That filthy thief Gaiseric and the witch hunter Helchen – they’d earned a full measure of his hate, too. It would be unthinkable for them to escape his wrath.
The necromancer looked down at Alaric’s body, his fiendish idea now fermenting into a grisly plan. He could mend the damage that had been done to the knight, at least such injuries that would impair his ability to fight. What better way to triumph over his enemy than to make him serve as Gogol’s own champion?
It wouldn’t be enough, of course, to simply animate his body as a mindless zombie. No, he’d have to invest the man’s spirit into that body. The yellow book held that secret. It described the technique to create what its author called a “zombivor,” an undead that retained the mind and soul of its living self. Alaric would be incapable of doing anything contrary to Gogol’s commands, but fully aware of what he was doing and his inability to resist.
Gogol would repair and reanimate the knight, then order him to kill all his old companions!
Almost tenderly, Gogol set his palm against Alaric’s scalded brow. “You believed that when you died, you’d belong to the gods,” he told the corpse. A cruel smile split the necromancer’s face. His hand tightened in the knight’s hair, and he pulled the dead face upward until it was only inches from his own.
“You don’t belong to the gods, von Mertz,” Gogol hissed at his enemy. “You belong to me!”
Chapter One
“Well, there’s a welcome sight,” Gaiseric said, as The Demoness rounded a bend in the river and he caught his first sight of Korbara, the fortified monastery where so many of the kingdom’s survivors had fled to for safety. The wiry thief moved forward to the prow of the vessel, anxious to be back on land and able to avail himself of the security the refuge offered. Between ghost ships with zombie crews and fire-spewing dragons, he’d had enough seafaring to last him a long time.
The voyage had been undertaken with a goal both noble and desperate: find an orcish relic held by the elven sorceress Yandryl, which had the power to decimate the undead hordes roaming the kingdom and ensure the safety of those taking refuge in Korbara. On reaching the island, however, they found that it hadn’t been spared by the Black Plague and Yandryl herself was dead. Striving against the zombie minions of an orc necromancer and eluding the feral dragon Flamefang, Gaiseric and his companions had managed to find the enchanted drum, Mournshroud. Getting the artifact away from the island had pitted them against the villainous Brunon Gogol and his spectral walkers, but the heroes had prevailed over their old nemesis.
“If only that had been the end of it,” Gaiseric mused as he stared out over the river. Fleeing the island, they’d attracted the attention of Flamefang. The dragon pursued them out to sea, nearly destroying the ship and sending them to the bottom. It had taken everything they could throw at the reptile to fend it off, but making the wyrm retreat wasn’t enough. Unless killed, the beast would return.
Alaric von Mertz knew only the dragon’s death would ensure the survival of his friends and the success of their quest. Accepting his own doom, he’d leapt upon Flamefang as the monster tried to fly away, driving his sword deep into the scaly flesh. The dragon had strength enough to fly back toward the island with Alaric still doggedly hanging on and continuing his attack. Gaiseric blinked back tears when he pictured the moment Flamefang finally plummeted into the sea, taking the knight down to a watery grave.
“Of all the nobles I’ve had the misfortune to cross paths with,” Gaiseric whispered, willing his words to carry into the ethereal realm beyond the mortal plane, “you were the only one who was truly noble.” A sad smile pulled at his face as he considered Alaric’s sacrifice. He refocused on Korbara. The best tribute any of them could render the knight was to see that his last ambition was successful and that the refuge was made safe from the Black Plague.
A deep cough turned his attention momentarily portside. Gaiseric wasn’t the only one who’d reached their limit with regards to the sea. Ursola had her hands locked about the rail in a white-knuckled grip. The dwarf had bound her long hair back in a single braid that was tucked into her belt. Clearly, she didn’t want it hanging down in her face when the need to stick her head over the side came upon her.
“We’ll sink before we ever reach shore,” Ursola growled. “By the beards of my grandfathers, I’ll blast out the bottom of this scow if it doesn’t stop rolling.”
Gaiseric knew it to be an idle threat – the dwarf’s grousing was simply her way of coping with being seasick. The pirates who crewed The Demoness weren’t so certain, however.
He moved over to Ursola, resting his hand on her shoulder. “You might want to tone down the grumbling,” he advised in a whisper. He looked around at the ugly faces of the pirates who were on deck. More than a few of them were glaring at the dwarf. “Some of these scalawags don’t know you’re joking. They’re apt to heave you over the side.”
Ursola grimaced. “Bad choice of words,” she grunted before leaning over the rail and coughing part of her breakfast into the river. Gaiseric slapped her on the back to assist the process.
“I’ll be glad to get my feet back on firm ground,” Ursola said, turning back and wiping the corner of her mouth with the sleeve of her tunic. “There’s only so much of this sloshing and swaying that a dwarf can stomach.” The last word seemed to provoke her again and her head was thrust back over the rail.
Gaiseric patted Ursola’s back again. “I agree. It’ll be a relief to get back to Korbara.”
“Take a closer look.” The suggestion came from the captain of The Demoness, the ferocious Sylvia Samdei. The pirate’s face, painted white to resemble a grinning skull, wore a grim expression. Gaiseric gave a start, for he hadn’t heard her come up behind them. “Take a closer look,” Sylvia repeated, pointing her spyglass at the high cliff above the monastery.
