Eralia, the Brain-Eating Zombie

The Commons, Krastas. October 18, 1434.

Laufa collapsed into the dirt with a muffled thud. Behind the cloud of dust from her fall, the captain’s stena gemstone pulsed. His smirk vanished.

* * *

A sickening, wet scraping. It vibrated up from the ground.

That was the first thing she heard.

Next were the muffled sobs. Immediately, something was horribly wrong. Her fingers twitched. She felt dirt against her back, rough and cold, as a warm wetness spilled from her. Her breath gurgled in her throat with thick liquid. And her mouth tasted like blood. I can’t breathe.

Suffocating.

“Laufa, Laufa!” The sobs formed a name.

…Laufa? The name felt familiar, but she didn’t completely recognise it. She tried to reach for her own name, but couldn’t remember anything. Anything at all.

Warm droplets splattered her eyelids. She pried them open, and the world slowly came into focus on a young boy. He sobbed above her, his mouth twisted in grief.

“…Killed her…”

“…Survived?”

Hushed whispers. A woman wept nearby. Blurred figures circled her, gawking. Her head throbbed and her limbs felt heavy. She didn’t even have the strength to move them. Hospital, someone…

She blinked. Her vision cleared, landing on the boy’s clothing. A brown tunic and leather clogs. Behind him, a man watched them intently. The blue crystal in his silver pendant shone with an almost artificial light. Like it was battery-operated. She glanced down.

Ah. Blood. She was drenched in blood. Her hands fumbled for her chest, her fingertips barely obeying. They felt like they weren’t even hers. Slippery, lifeless, and slicked in blood. Litres of it.

“H—huagh,” she choked.

The boy’s swollen eyes darted to her face. “L…Laufa?”

Stop calling me that.

Help. Please, I can’t move. Somebody help! It hurts, it… It, it doesn’t hurt?

Her fingers probed her body, stumbling on a soaked cloth, then soft skin. Her own chest. She squeezed her eyes shut and braced herself.

Huh?

But it felt completely fine. There wasn’t a wound, or even any pain. She hacked up the liquid clogging her throat and breathed in. The icy air stung at her lungs.

She wasn’t dead. She definitely wasn’t dreaming, either. She was… Alive?

“Captain, she’s breathing.”

“Indeed… She is.” The man adjusted his glove. “Laufa, was it? See to her induction.” He waved his hand.

Two men pushed through the masses, their eyes fixed straight onto her. Their rough hands clamped down on her arms, hauling her up. She lurched forward, her knees buckling under her.

They dragged her through the crowd. The onlookers’ faces were split, somewhere between fear and awe. A father snatched his child back as her heels scraped across the dirt. The awful scents of sweat and blood flooded her nostrils.

“…The order for her brother is still valid.” The captain turned on his heels. “Take him as well. A conscript, and a volunteer.”

Brother? She strained her neck, past the trail of bloody footprints she’d stamped in the dirt.

“Fiann! No!” A woman cried out.

A guard wrenched an arm behind the sobbing boy’s back. His terrified eyes darted around wildly before meeting hers. His tears fell, mixing with the pool of blood on the ground. He mouthed a word, but she couldn’t be sure what.

She couldn’t be sure of anything.

No, that wasn’t true. There was one thing. The captain’s parting message. The word that boy had sobbed. Even if she didn’t remember it, her name was, probably, Laufa.

* * *

The Krastas College of War. October 18, 1434.

The Royal College’s library smelled stuffy, equal parts parchment and leather. An afternoon light highlighted the dust between its twisting shelves. Its silence was broken only by the creaking of a history book’s spine where Eralia Adeus sat alone.

…The treacherous southern lords saw the royal establishment of the Stena Merchant Guilds in 1146 as a threat to their traditional privileges. Led by House Miarties, they sought aid some twenty years later from the Garath Empire, whose humid marshes had long harboured envy for Lodran’s vast stena deposits.

“Amateurs.” Eralia sneered. “Overplayed their hands and went begging for foreign support. That’s hardly how you start a revolution.” She turned the page, coarse with age.

Their banners were torn down, their names struck from the rolls of nobility. The vast holdings of House Miarties were divided amongst the Houses of Lesnick and Rustes, whose support of the Compact had proved their unwavering loyalty…

She paused. Her slender finger rested on the name Rustes.

“Loyalty?” Eralia muttered to herself. “More like better opportunists.”

She closed the tome with a thump and opened her own leather-bound notebook. Inside the front, her fingers traced the sharp crease of a folded letter. She didn’t need to read it, her cousin Corvan’s words were already burned into the back of her mind.

…I pray that allowing your enrollment into the Royal College was the right choice. Should your ambitions of military command fail, a noblewoman such as yourself has other uses at the capital.

She whipped past the letter and her pages of military notes, landing on a list of names in her own scratchy handwriting.

House Vellen. House Pasaulis… House Rustes.

She uncapped an ink pot. Her quill scratched against the paper as she scribbled beneath in small letters: ‘Miarties.’

Her head lifted at the shuffle of boots from the corridor. She spotted a group of lectors and instructors marching just past the library’s arched doorway. A flash of silver thread on one man’s mantle caught her attention.

It was a royal sigil.

A Royal Inspector? Here? Her chair scraped against the floor as she shot to her feet. She jammed the stopper into her ink pot, flung it into her satchel, and slipped into step behind them.

Their colourful robes were simple enough to follow through the disciples’ uniforms clogging the halls. Though she fought the urge to shove the dawdlers aside.

Soon, her own footsteps were swallowed by the growing chatter ahead.

The dim corridors opened into a grand courtyard where the sudden sunlight nearly blinded her. Before her eyes could adjust, the crowd surged around her, a warm, disorganised mass of bodies, and her procession vanished into the chaos. She frowned and raised her head. Of course…

Eralia stepped back, leaning against a pillar as she caught her breath. Lodrian banners fluttered in the mountain’s wind. Spectators circled a large, paved square, kept behind by a low wall. A voice just a touch too loud chimed in over the chatter.

“Young Lord Rustes, what a pleasure it is to see you!”

Her head snapped towards the young noble. He had an eager smile, his bow just a touch too deep as well.

“…I wish I could say the same, Ottro.” The young lord in question, Mordhun Rustes, sighed before turning to respond. The scar on his right knuckles vanished as he clasped his hands neatly behind his back.

“Ah, Lord Rustes, surely you jest!” Ottro shifted from foot to foot nervously. “I wouldn’t expect a disciple of your importance to be here, watching the entrance ceremony, though!”

Mordhun turned his shoulder to Ottro, his gaze retiring to the line of recruits ahead.

Ottro gave an unsubtle cough before continuing. “Could it be, perhaps, you’ve heard the rumours surrounding that commoner?”

“What commoner?” Mordhun’s nose wrinkled.

“They say that she came back from the dead. Dozens of witnesses reported it!” Ottro leaned forward and whispered. “It’s possible she could be a manra—“

“I should have known not to expect anything of value from your mouth, Ottro.” Mordhun let out a sharp laugh. “What, you claim there’s some sort of vengeful revenant among the recruits? Do you take me for a fool?”

Ottro’s smile remained plastered on his face as he bowed again. “Of course. It was only a rumour—“

“Be gone.”

“Of course, Lord Rustes.”

As Ottro left, Eralia’s eyes remained on Mordhun. She followed his gaze to the recruits, their drab wools, the marching steps, and a flash of auburn hair.

Close, but if anyone were a revenant, it would be me. Still, revenant. How rude. A revenant was a zombie. Her case was more a takeover. Replacing a stranger’s consciousness at birth, before their life had even begun. Then again, this body would’ve been stillborn otherwise, so whether they even had a life to begin with was debatable.

She had inhabited the body for nearly eighteen years, eighteen long years of Lodrian nobility. Almost as long as she had lived on Earth.

Her fingers traced the spine of the journal in her satchel. Which life was the real zombie, now?

* * *

The Krastas College of War. October 18, 1434.

Laufa pinched her arm for what felt like the millionth time and slumped her shoulders in defeat. Nothing.

She flinched as a guard’s polearm grazed her skin, a reminder to fall in line with the rest of the conscripts. A massive iron gate opened, and the recruits were shoved into a courtyard where the city they’d marched from was visible far, far below.

Walled-off figures in robes moved through the courtyard, their gazes lingering on the new arrivals and her. Laufa rubbed a thumb against her palm, the reality of her situation finally settling in.

From the moment she’d woken up in this nightmare, there hadn’t been a single moment to rest, or even to just gather her thoughts. Not among these strange people with their strange clothes, strange gems, and scary weapons. She’d been keeping her mouth shut. Even a single, misspoken word might just go and turn them on her, after all.

One boy breathed in the thin mountain air and nudged his friend. “Can you feel it? This is our chance to crush those Forsgailte bastards!”

“It's a chance to not die to some spear, you mean,” another boy sneered. “Soldiers like us’ll get torn up. That’s all we’ll get.”

“Y—Yeah? Well, I’ll be different.”

A horn blast cut through the crowd’s chatter, making Laufa jump.

An imposing man stepped onto the altar ahead, dark wool draped over his shoulders.

“I am the Grand Master of Arms, Ochist Vellen. You stand here today because the Royal College has presented you with our Compact’s most prestigious opportunity. The opportunity to advance.” He paused, scanning over the recruits. “Today, we will discover whether you are fit to be a shield, or worthy of being the Compact’s sword.”

She had to squint to make him out against the bright midday sun, but all she could spot was the silver of his widow’s peak.

“Step forward, grasp the stena, and place your hand upon the stone!”

The recruits tensed up as the guards started sorting them. One jabbed a slow girl in the ribs with the butt of his spear while another boy stumbled forward.

A hand jostled Laufa, and she shuffled into line behind the boy she’d been enlisted with, Fiann. At least, that was what they’d called him.

Fiann snuck a glance back. “Laufa!” His hand flew to his chest. “Are you okay!?”

Laufa? Right, that was supposed to be her name. But… Whoever you think Laufa is, it isn’t me.

The words wouldn't come out. Were they even her words in the first place? The hope drained from his face as he waited for a response she didn’t have.

“Ah…” Fiann fiddled with the hem of his tunic. “I guess… We might have to miss that festival, after all.” His voice cracked as he tried to laugh.

The pair froze as a girl was jerked towards the altar. In front of her was a polished slab of obsidian. A guard handed the recruit a teal gem, the same colour as the captain’s.

“Illumine,” the Grand Master commanded.

She placed a trembling hand on the slab, and her face went red with effort.

But nothing happened. The stone sat completely still.

“Infantry.” A man beside the Grand Master marked a ledger, and another guard pulled the recruit aside.

“I’m sorry, Laufa,” Fiann whispered. “This is all my fault…”

The next recruit followed. He whispered something to himself before planting a hand on the stone.

Suddenly, a faint star of light appeared in the obsidian. One distracted recruit craned his neck to see, while another held his breath. Dozens of smaller dots followed, motionless, but arranging themselves around the first. Between them, crackling strands of light connected the points. It was… Magic.

The word felt stupid, like something straight out of a film. But there it was, right in front of her.

The glowing pathways splintered, and his light flickered out of existence.

“Infantry.”

Laufa recoiled. Even though the stone lit up… He didn’t pass?

The recruits shuffled forward as her eyes drifted to the next-in-line, Fiann.

“Don’t worry about me.” His voice squeaked higher than before “...I’ll—I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?”

He managed one final, brave look at her before being pushed forward. He approached the altar and carefully took the gem.

Fiann exhaled, clamped his eyes shut, and held his breath.

Laufa didn’t know why, but she held hers, too.

“Infantry.”

Fiann opened his eyes, staring wide-eyed at the slab, but it stared back unchanged. The guards roughly pulled him away. He looked back at Laufa, any bit of bravery gone.

“Step forward.” The Grand Master’s gaze landed on Laufa.

Ah. She slid a foot forward. Then, another. They felt heavier than concrete. If she tried running away… I’d definitely catch a spear to the back, right?

Laufa shook her head. Maybe nothing will even happen? Maybe I’ll touch it, and they’ll let me go home?

The guard pressed a gem into her hands. It felt smooth, like some sort of alien artifact. She stared at the obsidian slab in front of her, glossy, dotted by hundreds of tiny holes. If she had trypophobia, she might’ve fainted. Its surface warped her reflection, revealing a face she didn’t even recognise.

“Illumine,” he commanded.

What does that even mean!? Will you kill me if I can’t? Her gaze darted between the bloodthirsty eyes of the men surrounding her, the courtyard’s massive stone walls, and the beautiful blue sky that reminded her of home. Earth, not whatever layer of hell she was trapped in.

This isn’t fair. You can’t just drop me into this world and expect me to work magic. This isn’t fair at all!

Laufa poked the obsidian. It was like touching ice-cold metal. She nervously palmed the azure gemstone in her other hand, its edges already slicked with sweat.

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it! She thrust her hand forward.

Something strange coursed through her, first from her fingers, then into her chest.

Her reflection distorted, and her thoughts dissolved into a whirlwind. She remembered the smell of a room she didn’t recognise, the tug of a small hand on her sleeve. She tried to form a sentence in her head, but all she could come up with was a jumble of words and names that didn’t mean anything.

Would the real Laufa have known what to do? What would she do!? She gripped the gem tighter.

There was a searing flash of white, then everything vanished.

Her vision lurched back into focus on a small, blue spark in the obsidian. Murmurs rippled through the crowd. A familiar taste coated her upper lip. Blood. She’d become used to it, today.

Soon, the light began to fade, and the onlookers turned away. The Grand Master pursed his lips. Ah, no, no.

Her heart pounded. The spark flickered violently, like an out-of-control fire. I don’t want to die here!

She threw her entire weight onto the slab. It exploded with light, branching out into dozens of glowing lines, illuminating the obsidian’s dotted outside.

The current shooting up her arm felt like boiling water in her veins, and her headache had flared into a stinging pain right behind her eyes. She gasped, the pain too intense to function. An intense buzzing filled her ears as the obsidian shifted between a deep black and a bright blue glare. She squeezed her eyelids tight and lost track of time. Whether it was a couple seconds or minutes, she couldn’t tell. Then, she felt the light vanish.

“Bearer.”

What? Her eyes fluttered open.

The Grand Master’s expression had shifted from an indifferent frown into something else entirely. Before she could process it, a hand clawed at her wrist. She tripped over her own feet as the guards dragged her away from the altar and away from the other recruits. Her gaze wandered to them, where Fiann’s mouth gaped open in shock.

“LAUFA!”