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As she felt the particularly brittle neck bones of a well-aged unmentionable shatter between her fingers, Elizabeth Darcy pursed her lips in contemplation. "Do you think, Mr. Darcy, that the sorry stricken have evinced some particularity in their attacks, of late?"
"Indeed, I have noticed certain peculiar tendencies in their behavior," he replied, deftly stepping over a mound of tattered entrails to decapitate the next unmentionable. "Should you say that these traits had emerged over the past two months?"
"The very date I had supposed!" Elizabeth exclaimed. Though sensible of the impending threat of the two-score undead encircling them, her romantic nature could not but take note of the play of muscles in her husband's blood-spattered wrist. "But can you imagine what might have provoked this change? I recall no particular change in climate at that point, nor any other event of note -- yet I am certain that attacks here at Pemberley have increased several-fold, whilst those in Barlborough have positively decreased."
Darcy's blade beheaded two undead with such swiftness and precision that they trembled in place, then toppled to the ground in unison. "An apt observation as always, my dear. I do not doubt that Lady Catherine has noticed this very trend, and has some no doubt wise observation on the subject. Though I know your acquaintance has often been marked by a mild coolness, I believe that a journey to my aunt must be our next excursion, now that these unfortunates have been returned to their unlives."
With that, the happy couple's katanas sliced through the center of the final undead -- a freshly-unearthed young lad, still clutching his toy wooden dagger -- to meet precisely in the center, as in a perfect kiss.
After a journey unmarked by incident, save a few stray unmentionables easily dispatched by musket, the two arrived at Rosings Park, only to discover that Lady Catherine had already extended her welcome to another of her nephews: Colonel Fitzwilliam, in his first return to the country since the happy union of Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy. Fitzwilliam was swift to inform them of both the nature of his journey and the cause for his return. Declaring himself dissatisfied with the single-handed approaches of Oriental techniques against the undead, he professed the superiority of the wisdom of Arabia. The tales of his journeys seemed too fantastical for belief; he spoke of war engines, of cunning medical advances against the plague of undead -- only recently introduced to those far regions -- and even of machines built in the form of enormous birds with steam-filled pipes for veins, strong enough to bear armed men into the air. Only one of such character and intelligence as Colonel Fitzwilliam could have told of such miracles without being laughed in scorn, but as Elizabeth listened, she realized that he had brought back more than mere tales; between the plans copied from Arabian scholars, Fitzwilliam's mechanical skill, and the wrought iron of English craftsmen, their land might finally see a turn in the tide of fortune.
Sadly, the tidings that brought him back to England's shores were hardly as felicitous. Lady Catherine had summoned Colonel Fitzwilliam home, owing to a trend remarkably parallel to that at Pemberley; the attacks of the unmentionables, previously predictable only by the frequency of corpses in an area, had begun to concentrate themselves upon her own estate as with some dire purpose. Though any one of the sorry stricken appeared no less shambling and dull-witted than its predecessors, their distribution -- indeed, their deployment -- spoke to a greater mind directing their advances.
By the time that Colonel Fitzwilliam and Lady Catherine had completed their explanations, the tea that Elizabeth drank seemed corpse-cold to her chilled lips. "Pray, then, what approach do you suggest against these fiends' assault? Though the intoxicating rush of battle may sustain me more heartily than food or drink, Mr. Darcy and I cannot both protect Pemberley and investigate the cause of this peculiarity."
Lady Catherine raised one delicate eyebrow, as if to insinuate how very far from Elizabeth's abilities she considered the tasks. "Particularly given the scarcity of good ninjas to be had these days --" and here her gaze upon Elizabeth intensified to a glare "-- I can hardly absent myself from Rosings either. My intention, therefore, was to dispatch Colonel Fitzwilliam to join you at Pemberley; I have perfect confidence in my ability to guard my own estate, whereas the three of you shall have enough numbers to find and eliminate the source of this new threat."
The plan was found acceptable to all -- not the least because it allowed Elizabeth to maintain the furthest distance from her disapproving relative -- and Colonel Fitzwilliam set forth with the pair the very next morning. On the journey home, Elizabeth had much occasion to be reminded of Fitzwilliam's skill with both pleasant conversation and razor-sharp rapier, and she could not but respond with many a laugh and a blush (a fact which could not go unnoticed by her more taciturn husband).
The days that passed, following Fitzwilliam's arrival at Pemberley, afforded the three friends little opportunity for those lighter forms of socialization which might once have filled such a visit. By the time of their return, full half of their servants had perished in the effort to preserve the estate in the absence of their master and mistress. As a result, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy alternated watches, such that one of them guarded the manor at any hour of day or night. Meanwhile, Colonel Fitzwilliam had been given free reign to the empty wing of the manor, whence strange sounds of hollow clanging, ticking, and hissing began to emerge at all hours.
When two days had passed without an appearance by the Colonel at any meals, Elizabeth ventured into his wing, following the sounds of clanking and scraping to a large sitting room. Colonel Fitzwilliam stood within, bent over a figure of curious appearance: in size and rough form like a brass statue of a man, yet of oddly angular appearance, with pipes and gears peeking through the gaps in his armor-like skin. Utterly perplexed, Elizabeth burst forth, "In all my travels, I have not seen its like; what, pray tell, is this creature you have made?"
Fitzwilliam smiled, in a manner that seemed to soften his craggy brow and oil-smudged cheeks. "This, dear Mrs. Darcy, is my automaton. Once his gears have been wound and his furnace has been filled, then -- if my designs have not gone awry -- we shall have an ally against the stumbling unfortunates who is impermeable to tooth, claw, or even the strange plague itself. Though I admit to altering the schematics of Al-Jazari to suit our own peculiar needs, I should not be boasting to say that I have full confidence in this creature's stalwart strength."
Elizabeth marveled at the creature for a moment, then placed her hand upon Fitzwilliam's shoulder in a daring impulse of gratitude. "Wonderful indeed! I should never have dreamed that a creature of metal could aid our battle. You have outdone yourself, Colonel Fitzwilliam; I can hardly wait to observe the foul unmentionables fall before its might."
Fitzwilliam blushed charmingly at her praise, but merely inclined his head in thanks. After a moment of silence, almost made awkward by its length, Elizabeth said at last, "But if I may inquire further -- this creature will surely aid our defense of Pemberley, but I cannot see how it might further our knowledge of the source of the recent attacks. Have you any thoughts on its application toward that end?"
The Colonel's smile only broadened. "Ah, but here I am delighted to have beaten even your ever-swift wit, Mrs. Darcy. Follow me, and you shall soon see the second tool I have devised."
Arm in arm, the two ascended to the upper floor of the manor, where an even more unusual machine stood upon a ledge overlooking Pemberley's gardens -- once renowned for their profusion and floral artistry, but now rank and littered with the decaying limbs and organs of the undead. The strange machine resembled an enormous bird, with white canvas wings stretched upon a wooden frame, attached to a lumpy brass box. "What can this be?" Elizabeth asked. "A mechanical bird of prey, designed to attack the horde from above?"
"Far more useful!" Fitzwilliam replied. "The framework may be attached to a man, and the mechanism wound like a clock; then one may be borne aloft like a veritable angel, all the better to cross the mass of undead and investigate their origin."
"A marvel indeed," Elizabeth exhaled. Her Shaolin masters had spoken betimes of legendary heroes, so advanced at the deadly arts that they seemed capable of flight itself. Humbled by their harsh training, she had despaired of ever reaching such heights herself, yet here stood the opportunity to meet and surpass such wondrous achievements.
"I fear that its engine has but limited strength," Fitzwilliam continued, "and only one of your delicate frame would not overburden its abilities. Thus, I had thought that Mr. Darcy, the automaton, and I might essay forth to hunt down the origin of these unfortunates, while you soar above to surprise their creator at his source. I know the pleasure you attain from the rustle of a katana as it carves through flesh, but might I persuade you this once to employ your talents elsewhere?"
Elizabeth found herself too speechless to say yes.
Two days later, as she soared on canvas wings, Elizabeth could see the unsteady shamble of a disemboweled unmentionable, the glint of Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam's katanas flickering through the swarm of undead, and the tangled knot of bodies surrounding the brass automaton as it dispatched one creature after another. Her spirit longed to be on the ground, fighting with her own blades and limbs, but she comforted herself with the thought that there would always be another wave to combat. Meanwhile, she tore her eyes from the combat and looked further ahead, scanning the fields and light woods from which the army had seemed to emerge. All appeared normal: trickling red-tinged brooks, scattered half-devoured livestock, fields of grain burned to ash. Then, half-hidden by a cluster of lumbering unmentionables, she spied the glint of polished metal.
Gently maneuvering her wings, she floated downward to perch on the upper branches of a nearby tree, balancing delicately upon its twigs in the posture of the Alighting Crane. The metal figure had been concealed once more by the horde of undead, but after a moment, the masses parted, and Elizabeth concealed a gasp. Standing in the zombies' midst, clad in an armor-like suit of bright metal, stood Mr. Wickham -- the last person Elizabeth had expected to see, over a year after he had been lamed and whisked to northernmost Ireland. As she watched, the situation became clear: Wickham had replaced his crippled legs with legs of iron and brass, and he now stood upon them, commanding the throng of sorry stricken.
The thought that one who had done her family so much ill now attacked her new home set Elizabeth's blood to a boil. Casting aside any pretensions of stealth, she spread her wings and leapt from the tree, descending upon Wickham with a warrioress's shriek. By the time that her shadow enveloped Wickham, she had her katana in one hand and her dagger in the other, sweeping them through the necks of several unmentionables as she approached her target. An immodest but effective kick to Wickham's chest sent him flying to the ground, flailing his new mechanical legs, and Elizabeth took advantage of his incapacitation to dismember the remaining undead with haste.
At last, standing amidst a heap of rotting bodies once more relegated to Death's embrace, she faced Wickham, extending her katana to press against the gentleman's throat. Blood and pus, splattered from the undead, slid down her cheek like tears. "Wickham," she growled, twisting his name into a bitter slur. "I had once thought you a dishonorable coward, but now you truly go too far. Tell me now that Lydia has passed from this earth, for I should rather kill my sister myself than see her married to such a fiend!"
Wickham's voice was thick with rage. "Lydia? I had rather imagined that your family loved her even less than I, to judge by the fate to which you abandoned her! Expelled to the farthest reaches of the Isles, married to a man unable to regulate his own bowels -- indeed, she might have been happier dead." He shifted upward to meet Elizabeth's hard gaze, causing a slow trickle of blood to pulse out from beneath the katana's tip. "Yet at least dear Lydia was fortunate in this: lame and disgraced though I was, I vowed that I should not cease my quest to revenge the both of us! I traveled to the seminary to which you abandoned me, but there I read, and I learned; I crafted myself new legs, stronger and swifter, and I planned. Do not deceive yourself, Mrs. Darcy: I shall yet have my revenge."
Elizabeth scoffed. "Shall you indeed? That noise you hear is the sound of my two dearest friends, devastating your army with the aid of an unstoppable automaton, while here you lie, helpless, my blade at your throat. Admit defeat, and I might spare you for my sister's sake."
"Defeat? Nothing of the sort! You may kill me if you like, but I have spent the past months sowing the fields of Pemberley and Rosings Park with the distilled essence of human brains, obtained from my seminary's crypts. Their odor may be imperceptible to those living, but to the sorry stricken, the scent is as irresistible as it is impossible to mask. Think how the past weeks have tired you and your dear husband, and then imagine that weariness multiplied by months -- nay, years!" Wickham's voice had been rising steadily to a crescendo, until Elizabeth could listen no further. She raised her katana for the death-strike -- then paused. A man such as Wickham could not deserve such mercy. Without further hesitation, she cleaved his legs from his body, stepping aside nimbly to avoid the spurt of bluish blood that burst from his arteries. Calmly, she turned to join her friends in battle, impermeable to Wickham's screeches of agony.
To Elizabeth's surprise, given their once-great numbers, so few unmentionables remained that the battle was through after several pleasant minutes of swordplay. Once the last of the undead had been destroyed, the three returned to the spot where Wickham lay, the brass automaton lumbering behind. The blood still spilling from the stumps of Wickham's legs had stained the grass crimson, while his face was blanched a pale white. At last, Mr. Darcy spoke. "You have done me many wrongs, Wickham, and my only comfort is knowing that this shall be your last. Yet I have one final piece of news to tell you, that your passing may be the more bitter. I knew not of your poisoning of my estate, but now that I know, your threats carry little weight. You see, among the medicines discovered by my aunt, the Lady Catherine De Bourgh, in her battle against our country's present plague, was a simple concoction that utterly negates the sensual call of brains to the unmentionable. Pursuant upon its application across my properties, I shall be no more attractive to the undead than any other estate in England."
Wickham said nothing -- his screams had long ago faded to hoarse whimpers -- but his eyes grew ever more wide. Elizabeth turned to Fitzwilliam. "Dear friend, without the aid of your marvelous machines, we should not have halted this plague without a great deal more effort and loss. In gratitude, I would like to offer you the honor of completing his demise."
"With pleasure," he replied, giving Elizabeth a gracious half-bow. A thrust and twist of his blade later, and Wickham's heart lay exposed, pouring out his final life-blood upon his chest.
As the three began the pleasant walk back to Pemberley, Elizabeth graced Fitzwilliam with a cheerful smile. "I hope that the end to this unpleasantness will not signal your departure for another year, Colonel Fitzwilliam, for we would miss you sorely -- would we not, Mr. Darcy?"
"Indeed, Mrs. Darcy," her husband returned her smile. "This present crisis averted, I doubt not that there will be many further waves of undead to trouble our estate, nor that my cousin's aid will prove invaluable to our efforts."
In an impulsive impropriety, Elizabeth grasped Fitzwilliam's hand with one hand, and her husband's with the other. Their blade-worn calluses comforted her, promising many more years of shared battles and banters. Thus heartened, hand in hand, the three friends returned home.