All that Glisters...

It was said of Archibald Leopold Thudd that he had sold his soul to the devil at a very early age, and that the devil had given it back because he felt he had got the poor end of the bargain: most people liked to think that hell was not ready for a boy like Thudd.  Wherever there was trouble, you could guarantee that Thudd was involved.  Local bookmakers took to running a pool on him for a while, taking bets (and making a fair bit of money on the side) on when he would pick a fight with the wrong bull-necked barbarian, or seduce the wrong mob-connected merchant’s daughter.  The fact was that the boy had little or no respect for pain, and was almost entirely lacking in fear - his scruples were sadly wanting too.

All this changed when the brash youth reached maturity.  All the inadequacies and shortcomings were transformed into strengths and virtues, transforming the young thug into a wily rogue with a silver tongue and a knack for ‘finding’ money other people had lost.  He even gave it back, sometimes, proving once and for all that he had reversed his fortunes and grown beyond his foolish beginnings.   He went by many names in his travels.  In sunny climes, he was known as ‘Leo’; when consorting with outlaw friends, he used ‘Thudd’ (which was apt for the noise his enemies made when they hit the ground); to the ‘ladies’, he was ‘Archie’, named for the bow-wielding love sprite whose influence on the reformed Thudd was obvious.

By the time he reached eighteen, it was clear that the youth had a roving foot.  Once he had exhausted the opportunities local for adventure (and fallen foul of every constabulary across the four island nations of his home), he took to the sea.  Over the years that followed, he made quite a name for himself amongst both the pirate brotherhood and the merchant guilds of the known world – a name which should not be repeated in polite company.  But whatever name he went by, even if his heart was a little too easily seduced by gold’s glitter or a maiden’s thigh, his deeds were well-meant, and for this, he was assured of a warm fire and a cold ale wherever he went.  

It was on one of his many forays to the temperate equatorial lands that our tale begins.  Leo (for that is the name he was using this week) was wedged into a narrow crack in an almost vertical rock face, his knees tucked under his chin and his left buttock peeking precariously over the edge.  In one hand he idly twirled a rather fine and expensive-looking goblet.

“Etruscan, I’d say,” he commented to no-one in particular.  He tested the lip of the cup between his teeth then nodded knowledgeably.  “Ruby encrusted solid gold, fashioned in the characteristic style of the late Posh Dynasty. Probably used for the consumption of wine, mead and other alcoholic beverages.  Current value - ”

His left buttock shifted, and a small cascade of pebbles and dust skittered down the wall.  Fifteen feet below the niche where his frantic climb had deposited him not five minutes ago, the hungry moans increased in ferocity.  Leo peered over the edge at the animated corpses queuing up for a tantalising and out-of-reach meal, and gave a wry smile.  “Not a bloody lot.”  

He affected a feminine accent and gave it a sarcastic twang.  “‘It’ll be a doddle,’ she says, ‘in and out before anyone’s the wiser’, she says, ‘easy pickings’, she says.”  He puffed out air from between dust-grimed lips. “If I ever get out of here, I’m going to show her just what ‘easy’ means.  Ignorant pig-tailed hippo of a wom…”

His left foot slipped against the edge of the minute nook into which he had wedged himself, and for an infinite second he teetered on one buttock with his hands flailing wildly for better purchase.  It was a testament to his love of gold that the goblet remained firmly in his grasp while he fought with gravity for supremacy.   When he had triumphed, and restored his balance - much to the annoyance of the walking dead below - he carefully tucked the goblet into the left side of his jerkin, where the finely moulded corners dug uncomfortably into his ribs.

“Why couldn’t it have been a ruby encrusted hip flask?”

With a shake of his wild-maned head, he inched his dagger from its cramped home in his boot-sheath with his little finger, and managed by some feat of contortionism to manoeuvre it so he could grip it lengthways between his teeth.

“Wew, I can’t shstay here aww day.  I’ge got a goglet to shell and a ngerchant to exshtort.”  With these erudite words alone to serve as his epitaph, Leo rolled sideways from the cosy safety of the cranny and plummeted gracefully towards the waiting horde.

Leo had picked his first fight with the Neuenheim city guard at the ripe old age of fourteen. The day the boy had first learned to pick pockets had been the same day he learned to stand his ground, to fight, and most importantly, to flee shamelessly and duck into the nearest sewer when the situation demanded.  It was one of the reasons he had lived so long.  In those days he had taken on the best of the city’s overpaid and pot-bellied guard with whatever came to hand: planks of wood, sacks of vegetables, and on one unforgettable occasion, an unfortunate pub-goer’s wooden leg.  These days, he went out rather better prepared.  He had – by means best not discussed in this telling of the story – procured himself a lightweight falchion, etched with ancient runes that a drunken elf had once told him meant ‘I am my own worst enemy’.  Leo liked to think it was the whisky talking.  For his off-hand, he preferred an oversized cleaver to the more traditional and safer shield – it was truncated, but trusty, as he was wont to say to anyone who would listen.  

So, as he landed amongst the rotting dead with their stiff-legged gait and terrible dress-sense, Leo had already drawn both weapons, with the third stashed safely between his teeth for emergencies.  He had once been in a fight with a barb-tailed scrub beast, and the act of bending down to pull out his boot-knife had led to a month of sitting on soft cushions and avoiding spicy food.  Leo rarely made the same mistake twice.  Unfortunately, the animated corpses who faced him now were unlikely to use similar tactics; in fact, Leo doubted that they were able to form a cogent group, never mind attack from behind when his guard was down.  They all seemed to be functioning individually, rather than working together to overcome their common enemy. However, since this meant that they all attacked at once, it didn’t make a lot of difference - except that they were all obviously keen to get at this delicious morsel for themselves.
       
Aiming a few head-height slashes at the nearest, Leo noticed that although not about to win any prizes for intelligence, their survival instinct was above reproach, and the sluggish pace they normally assumed was replaced by frightening speed when threatened with dismemberment.  Leo retreated to a boulder and shortly hit upon a dangerous tactic.  He sheathed both his weapons, and keeping only his dagger in one white-knuckled hand, dropped to the ground close to the smallest gathering of zombies.  Instantly, the foremost closed with him, reaching its tattered arms towards him as though begging for a hug.  Leo let it touch him, and immediately cried out, “Oh no, it’s got me.  Argh.  Oh no.  It’s eating me alive.”  He glanced about to see if his acting was paying off.  It was apparently not yet time for him to give up his day-job in thievery.  He let out an impatient breath and added in a very clear and obvious tone, “It’s going to eat me all up and there’ll be none left for anyone else.”

Some of the closer corpses tilted their heads as though trying to understand his words.  

“It’s such a GREEDY zombie,” he added pointedly, “It’s going to have me all to itself!”  The unfortunate creature’s lipless jaws were inching nearer to his throat, and a light sheen of sweat broke out on his brow.  He had had a few close calls over the years, the more memorable of which generally involved irate fathers with pitchforks or cavalry swords, or curmudgeonly misers in nightcaps who had squandered at least part of their fortunes on demonic treasure-guards.  The horde shuffled closer, their combined stench filling his nostrils and lungs with dust and decay.  Leo wondered whether this might be a good time to panic, and tried to remember if the Gods owed him any favours.  If anything, it was the other way around.

Just as he was about to give up on this tactic and sink his dagger into his assailant’s one remaining non-desiccated eye, the creature was yanked away from him with such force that its fingers, along with its wrist and a good portion of its forearm, came detached from the rest of it with a dry ‘pop’.  Leo held his breath as the heavier-boned zombie who had intervened leaned towards its mate and yelled an inarticulate and rather lacklustre reprimand into his face.  He then proceeded to wrench the hand from where it still gripped Leo’s jerkin and slap its owner about the head with it.  Leo’s eyes widened and a snigger sneaked out unbidden.  At that, the walking corpses remembered him.  Leo swallowed audibly.  The distraction had earned him but a little space and a smaller amount of time.  While his rotten enemies were collecting their scattered wits (and limbs), he turned tail and sprinted for the entryway, marked by a patch of amber light that was reddening as the sun rose above. He had entered the cavern quite easily, once he had found the right lichen-covered rock in a certain flowerbed in a certain garden, and it had been a matter of little effort to drop the twelve or so feet to the sandy floor below.  But Leo had been in such a rush to bathe in the glow of the fabled hoard beneath that he had not considered how he would escape.

“Sometimes violence IS the answer,” muttered the youth, and with that, he swung around with a wild grin and set to work.  Presently, the mound of bodies was high enough for him to stand on and reach the first foothold below the hole.  From there he scrambled upwards, skinning his knees in a way that he had not done since he last played pickpocket with the clergy at the age of seven; tearing the silk shirt that had been a gift from a girl in a nearby port, who was even now convinced that he was dying of a rare nail disorder; and dislodging his cleaver, which fell and embedded itself in the skull of one last would-be diner: trusty to the last.  However, his plan was working against him, for where he climbed, the dead could follow with little trouble, and as he clawed his way out from the grassy hole into the fresh dawn air, one of his pursuers grabbed at an ankle.  If anyone could have seen him, dusty, grimy, splattered with liquids of varying putrid shades, torn of shirt, mussed of hair, they would have wondered what he was doing in this part of the Mayor’s flower garden at six in the morning.  Leo’s eyes widened and he stuck his tongue out in concentration as he aimed blind kicks at the corpses that were trying to crawl up his legs.  

Eventually, Leo struggled free and flopped his way out of the hole onto the verdant sward like a beached whale running ashore.  He drew his falchion awkwardly from his position on the floor, ready lest the zombies make another appearance, but it seemed the sun deterred them, and he resealed the hole thankfully.

Lying back on the posy-speckled lawn, he laughed aloud in relief and tugged out the item for which he had almost paid too high a price.  He grinned as the sunlight glinted from its flawless surfaces and refracted in the facets of the rubies.  Abruptly, his face fell.

“No-one’s ever going to believe this,” he complained aloud, his eyes creasing shrewdly even as he did so.  “Until I add some embellishments, that is!”  He tossed the chalice into the air and watched it turn and glint in the sunlight before catching it deftly and secreting it in about his person.  He stood, brushed the dust fastidiously from his clothes and smoothed his hair into a more desperado style.  Licking his finger, he raised it to the wind, glanced at the sun to get his bearings and set off for his camp with a spring in his step and a jaunty tune on his lips.