Bacca and the Skeleton King Read online

  “I thought we should discuss this away from your friend,” the Skeleton King began. “I wouldn’t want to offend him.”

  Bacca wondered what the king could possibly have to say that he didn’t want Dug to hear.

  “Tell me, how much do you know about zombie leadership?” the Skeleton King asked.

  “Uh, they have a ruler, just like skeletons do,” Bacca said. “A king or a queen.”

  “When do they choose a new king or queen?” pressed the Skeleton King. “And before you answer, ‘When the old one dies,’” remember that skeletons and zombies do not suffer from old age in quite the same way crafters do.”

  Bacca was stumped.

  “I guess I don’t know,” Bacca said. “Do you know?”

  “I’m afraid I do,” said the Skeleton King. “With the zombies, their king or queen stays in power only while their kingdom is prosperous. If there is a problem—if their fortress collapses, say, or they lose a war, or they run out of yummy crafters to eat—they believe that the Overworld is telling them that it’s time for a new king or queen. So they pick a new one.”

  “And what happens to the old one?” Bacca inquired.

  The Skeleton King stopped walking.

  “The Bonesword happens,” said the Skeleton King. “I thought that was obvious.”

  “Yikes,” said Bacca, feeling ever gladder than usual that he wasn’t a zombie.

  “And losing the Bonesword has the same penalty,” the Skeleton King continued, resuming his gait. “They just don’t use the Bonesword to carry it out.”

  “No wonder the Zombie King wants the sword back so bad,” Bacca said. “I’d be the same way if my neck was on the line!”

  “He is in a very hard position,” agreed the Skeleton King. “If he admits he has no idea where the Boneword is, then he’s saying he’s lost it. And you know what happens then. So he has to say that we have it, and he’s just retrieving it from a temporary hiatus.”

  “Now this situation is becoming a little clearer,” Bacca said.

  “You can say that again,” replied the Skeleton King. “We were wondering why these armies of zombies were attacking us so aggressively.”

  An idea occurred to Bacca.

  “One more question,” Bacca said. “Supposing the zombies do get rid of their current ruler. How do they choose the next one?”

  “Oh, it usually goes to another high ranking zombie,” the Skeleton King explained. “Like a general or a diplomat or …”

  “The king’s top advisor?” interjected Bacca.

  “Yes, exactly,” said the Skeleton King. “Whichever one is closest to the throne.”

  A piece of the puzzle fell into place in Bacca’s mind.

  “In that case,” said Bacca. “I think I know what Dug and I need to do next.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was a very dark time of night. The darkest, in fact. That which comes directly before dawn.

  All in all, a bad time of night for a zombie to be out and about.

  Which was exactly Drooler’s problem.

  The moment the sun’s rays crept over the horizon, he would—like all adult zombies—start burning. It was a prospect he very much did not look forward to. Still, he tried to steel his resolve and be brave. He reminded himself, this was an important task, and a risk worth taking.

  So that no one recognize him, Drooler had removed his distinctive diamond armor. Now he wore only rags, and while it was indeed very unlikely that anyone would ever believe that the king’s top advisor would be dressed in such lowly attire, the costume made him even more vulnerable to the sun.

  Drooler looked nervously up at the horizon. Was it his imagination, or were there already traces of pale blue in the sky?

  The disguised zombie was standing near an arch of stone bricks and polished andesite along the outer perimeter of Gravehome. Snow was gently falling and the wind whipped his rags around. It was very cold. It was also quiet and empty. This was a remote part of the fortress exterior where almost nobody ever went. That was intentional. Drooler had selected the spot exactly for this quality.

  Where were those witches?! he thought to himself.

  In an ironic twist, the very same moment that this question crossed Drooler’s mind, he saw movement in the shadows nearby.

  Three mysterious figures stepped out into the dim moonlight. They wore purple robes with green stripes down the middle. They had long, bulbous noses. On each of their heads was a tall black hat, pointy like a cone, and with a big brass buckle on the front.

  The wind shifted, and even Drooler—who, being a zombie, did not have a great sense of smell—couldn’t help but catch of a whiff of chemicals. It was the scent of the powerful potions that witches were always brewing. It stuck to their clothes. You could smell it on them wherever they went. Drooler didn’t want to be impolite. He fought the urge to hold his nose. (Drooler’s nose had actually rotted off years ago, and was now removable. But he didn’t want to hold it in his pocket. He wanted to pinch it shut to fight off the horrible smell.) Drooler reminded himself that witches could be dangerous. Each one of them probably carried several powerful Potions of Harming in her inventory, along with other dangerous things that Drooler didn’t know about. Or want to know about. Offending a witch could be dangerous. A good way to do that, Drooler reasoned, was to let them know you thought they smelled like a chemistry set gone bad.

  The witches did not look happy to see Drooler. Despite this, he tried to contort his zombie lips into something approaching a smile. He fought off the urge to gag.

  “mmmmGood evening, ladies,” Drooler said in his most pleasant tone of voice. “How lovely to see you again! You’re certainly looking well. It’s remarkable the way you’re all able to keep those exquisite hats on your heads in this wind.”

  “Can it!” barked one of the witches. “This is no time for small talk. What do you want?”

  “Yeah,” barked another witch. “Why did you need to see us again? We’ve got busy schedules. Potions to brew. Crafters to annoy.”

  “And why are you wearing those ridiculous rags?” said the final witch. “You look like a pile of clothes somebody left outside in the rain.”

  To Drooler, the witches appeared almost completely identical. He had given up on telling them apart individually. Because of this, he was always careful to address them as a group.

  “mmmmYes, ladies,” Drooler said. “Of course, I wouldn’t want to waste your valuable time. I called you here regarding a very important matter.”

  “Out with it!” hissed one of the witches. Drooler could not tell which one had spoken.

  “mmmmWell … erm … you know that thing that I asked you to do for me?” Drooler began, suddenly sounding less sure of himself.

  “Of course we remember,” said one of the witches. “Don’t be stupid! That’s the whole reason you came and found us. It’s not like we’re neighbors who bumped into each other at the store!”

  Drooler had gone out of his way to arrange a partnership with the witches in the days leading up to his crime. He had heard they were good at keeping secrets, and also that nobody messed with them (namely, because they were quick to throw potions at anybody who did). And while both of these components of their reputation had proved accurate, Drooler had realized too late that witches were also very grumpy and hard to work with … which actually made a lot of sense, the more he thought about it.

  “You’re not trying to change our bargain are you?” one of the witches said accusingly. Her hand hovered near her inventory. Drooler knew that the wrong response would mean a vial of something nasty thrown in his face and several hearts of damage. Witches were said to draw their potions with startling swiftness, a claim supported by the fact that a witch had taken home the gold medal for Quick Draw in every Overworld Olympics dating back as far as anyone could remember.

  “mmmmNo, of course not,” Drooler said. “You will still get all the diamond blocks in the zombie treasury … just as soon as they make me
the new king.”

  “And all the fermented spider eyes in your laboratories,” added one of the witches. “So we can make more potions. Don’t forget about them.”

  “mmmmYes, absolutely,” Drooler said. “You will get those too.”

  “Well … okay then,” said the witches, more or less in unison. “In that case, what do you want?”

  “mmmmYou know how I asked you to hang onto the Bonesword for a while—to keep it safe for me?” Drooler began carefully. “What if, instead, I needed you to get rid of it? Like, forever?”

  The witches did not immediately respond. They looked at one another, then looked back at Drooler. The zombie could almost hear the dangerous potions steaming and burbling in their inventories, waiting to splash all over him. He squinted his eyes, and prepared for some splashy-burny pain.

  “mmmmIt’s just that this has gotten much more complicated than I ever thought it would,” Drooler cried, hoping the witches would not fire.

  Drooler was telling the truth. Initially, his evil plan had seemed so simple. How could it not work? He would steal the Bonesword from the ceremonial chamber, and give it to the witches for safe keeping. Then he would blame the theft on skeletons. In accordance with tradition, the Zombie King would be removed from office. And the next most important zombie (Drooler!) would be made the new king. After that happened …

  Well, like most criminals, Drooler had not thought much past the part of the plan where he got what he wanted. He assumed that he would eventually be able to “find” the Bonesword somewhere in the Overworld—possibly by pretending to get it back from the skeletons, possibly by pretending to win a glorious battle against them (Yay, Drooler!)—and then return it to its rightful place. The other zombies would doubtless take this “victory” as another sign that Drooler had always been meant to rule them.

  And, at first, it had looked like he was going to pull it off. He took the Bonesword out of the ceremonial chamber without a hitch, and he got his friendly (well, at least it started out that way) local witches to take it off his hands until the heat died down. So far, so good. But then it started to spiral out of control. Instead of making him the new king, the other zombies hesitated. There was no call for the current Zombie King to step down. Many top zombies argued that the Bonesword was not truly “lost” if they knew who had it. And because of Drooler’s lies, they did. Or thought they did. Then things really got out of hand! The zombies’ armies were called up and marched out to fight the skeletons. Everyone suddenly felt very proud to be a zombie, pulling together to fight for their zombie history, and the current Zombie King became more popular than ever. Drooler was further from the throne than before!

  As if all of that weren’t bad enough, the nearby crafters had gone and complained to Bacca. Now he was on the case! (Despite the failure of this latest plot, Drooler was actually quite clever and worldly. You didn’t get to be the Zombie King’s right hand man without keeping an ear to the ground. Not only had Drooler heard of Bacca, he’d heard enough to know that Bacca was the kind of crafter who could solve very tricky mysteries. Like, the mystery of who stole the Bonesword.) Now Drooler was nervous. Very nervous. It was only a matter of time until Bacca figured out what was really going on.

  So Drooler decided it was time to do something drastic. It was time to get rid of the evidence. Even if that meant …

  “mmmmI want you to get rid of the Bonesword,” Drooler repeated his request to the witches.

  Each one of the high-hatted ladies flashed the same evil, Cheshire grin.

  “Where?” asked one of the witches. “We can’t just throw it in the trash.”

  “mmmmI don’t know,” said Drooler. “In fact, I think it’s better if I don’t know.”

  The witches began to whisper confidentially. Every few moments, one of them cast a look in Drooler’s direction. The zombie waited hopefully. Before long, they seemed to have reached an agreement.

  “We will be able to perform the service you request,” one of them eventually said.

  This was a great load off Drooler’s mind. He exhaled deeply, for dramatic effect. But, because—being a zombie—he did not actually need to breathe, Drooler was actually quite out of shape to perform a task many people did every day without even thinking about. So some cobwebs and a large hairball came up from his lungs. It was not very pleasant (for Drooler or for the witches).

  “But there will be an additional charge,” the witch continued.

  “mmmmOf course,” Drooler said anxiously. “Whatever you want. It, er, might take me a little longer than I originally planned to become the next zombie king. But don’t worry. As soon as I do, you ladies can have anything you like from the treasury.”

  “This is not just about your treasury,” one of the witches said. “If we dispose of the Bonesword, then you will have to do an extra favor for us.”

  “mmmmA favor?” Drooler asked. “What kind of favor?”

  Then the witches began to tell the zombie exactly what they wanted him to do. As they spoke, their grins grew more and more wicked. Their teeth seem to glisten evilly in the moonlight, like long, sharp knives. It gave Drooler the creeps, big time.

  “mmmmThat?” the zombie said when they had finished. “But … but why do you want me to do that?”

  In the distance, they heard a rooster crow. Looking up, Drooler saw that the sky had begun to lighten.

  “There is no time to bicker,” said one of the witches. “Do we have a deal? Yes or no?”

  Drooler was filled with anxiety. Still, he had come this far. If one more deal was what it took to fix this mess, then he would do it. There was no turning back.

  Drooler gave another superfluous sigh and nodded to the witches. They began to cackle loudly in excitement.

  The zombie turned and hurried back along the perimeter of Gravehome, hoping to return to his room within the fortress before he was missed. As he hustled through the last moments of night, the cackling echoed in his ears. He wondered what he’d gotten himself into. Worry filled the pit of his stomach. And seeing as how Drooler had several actual pits in his stomach (along with holes, quite a few rocks, and at least one baby cave spider), this arrangement could only be more bad news for the zombie.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “MmmmThey were friendly. For skeletons.”

  Dug looked up at Bacca, wondering if his teacher would agree.

  “I guess so,” Bacca said. “But keep in mind, they had a reason to be nice. They want this war over as badly as we do. Once this is all cleared up, they’re going to go back to taking potshots at everybody and everything.”

  Bacca and Dug were headed away from the skeleton temple, and had already reached the edge of the jungle biome. The trees were not so tall here, and vines no longer hung down from above. The dawn was just starting to break. Up ahead of them, a battalion of perhaps five hundred skeletons hurried in the opposite direction, hoping to make it back before the sun crested over the horizon. As they passed, Bacca stopped one of the skeleton soldiers.

  “Fought any zombies today?” Bacca asked a skeleton. He looked like he might be high-ranking. The bones on his chest were polished to a gleam, like medals.

  “Funny enough, no,” the skeleton answered with many bony clicks. “Your friend here is the first one we’ve seen all day, and he looks a little young to be on the battlefield. It’s almost like the zombies have stopped fighting.”

  Pleased to see that the zombies were actually obeying the cease-fire, Bacca let the skeleton get back to his troops.

  Bacca and Dug continued on their way. As the morning wore on, they passed through several different biomes. There were fields full of lush flowers that waved in the breeze, deserts with only cacti and dead bushes, and plateaus that were perfectly flat, where you could see a very long way in every direction.

  “mmmmWhere are we going?” Dug asked as they neared a forest biome. “When you came back from talking with the Skeleton King, you seemed to know just what to do.”

  �
��I have a hunch where to find our next clue,” Bacca told his young apprentice. “That zombie Drooler is behind this, I’m sure of it. Didn’t it sound a little suspicious that he was the only eyewitness? And that the two guards who usually watch the Bonesword just happened to be out of the room?”

  “mmmmYes, the guards,” Dug said. “I forgot about them. Drooler said he fired them as punishment for losing the Bonesword.”

  “That’s pretty convenient, if you ask me,” Bacca said.

  “mmmmDo you know where they are?” Dug asked.

  “I have a hunch,” Bacca said. “A strong hunch. Have your zombie parents ever talked to you about Rotpit?”

  Dug cocked his head to the side, trying to think. (It was a very unnatural angle, nearly ninety degrees, which Bacca found a bit disturbing. However, to a zombie it was apparently quite comfortable. But Bacca was glad when Dug finally moved it back to its usual position.)

  “mmmmMy father has spoken of Rotpit, now that you mention it,” Dug said. “He says it is a good place. A place where he wants to retire some day. If there were a lottery for zombies, it’s where they would go after they won.”

  “Exactly,” said Bacca. “Rotpit is the deepest, darkest-roofed forest biome in the entire Overworld. Zombies never have to worry about the sun there. And it’s surrounded by villages. Whenever they’re in the mood, the zombies in Rotpit can venture out and have their pick of places to attack.”

  “mmmmWow!” Dug said. “That sounds like heaven for a zombie. Why don’t all zombies live there?”

  “Well, for one it’s not cheap,” Bacca said. “Your own plot of ground there costs a whole lot of money. Rotpit real estate is outrageously expensive.”

  “mmmmI guess that makes sense,” Dug replied.

  “So, if I were a low-level guard from Gravehome who suddenly needed to disappear … and suddenly had more money than I knew what to do with …”

  Dug nodded to say that he followed.

  “Anyhow,” Bacca said, “Rotpit is just up ahead. We’ll find out shortly if my hunch is correct. But I’m pretty darn sure it is.”