“I love that movie,” Thrasher said, his voice no more than a whisper. “But I love you … more.”

And then his eyes closed, and he went limp.

Scapegrace’s body was incapable of producing tears, but he cried nonetheless. He cried for his friend, his companion, for the one person who always stuck by him, no matter what. He cried for the man Gerald had been, the man he had become, and the man he would now never be. And he cried for himself, for the loneliness that was now gripping what was left of his heart, a heart that didn’t beat, suddenly realising that if by some miracle it started to pump blood once again, it would have probably beaten for Gerald.

Scapegrace got up slowly, seized the hilt of the Guardian’s sword, and with great effort he pulled the blade from the head of his friend.

Immediately, Thrasher opened his eyes. “Oh. I think that did it.”

Scapegrace yelped, dropping the blade as he jumped back.

Thrasher sat up. “These new brains are remarkable,” he said. “I suppose there’s something to be said for having the brain of a vegetable after all, eh?”

Scapegrace stared as Thrasher got to his feet. The idiot grinned at him.

“Those were some pretty nice things you were saying to me. Maybe we needed this. From this moment on, Vaurien, maybe we can be equals? If we’re careful, we have a hundred lifetimes to look forward—”

“Shut up.”

Thrasher blinked. “Vaurien?”

“You call me Master. I was just being nice to you because I thought you were dying.”

“I was dying.”

“You’re not any more. Now you’re just an idiot with a hole through his head.”

“But … all those things you said to me … You called me Gerald.”

“Gerald is a stupid name for a zombie. Your name is Thrasher. Your name will always be Thrasher.”

Thrasher slumped. “Yes, sir.”

“Now give me the map. I’m getting out of here.”

“Uh … sir?”

Scapegrace looked up, and froze. They were surrounded by blurred figures, their faces indistinct and their shapes hazy. Ghosts.

Two people, two solid people, stepped to the front. They were dressed like the Guardian, with robes and porcelain masks.

“We have been waiting for you,” said the first of them. He spoke with a Scottish accent. “I am the Inquisitor. You have proved yourself worthy and you are, of course, entitled to leave Meryyn ta Uul at your discretion. Before you do, however, I beg a moment of your time.”

Scapegrace glanced at Thrasher. “OK. Sure. What can I do for you?”

The Inquisitor’s porcelain face appeared hopeful. “You are a Zombie King, are you not?”

“I used to be,” said Scapegrace.

“He still is,” said Thrasher.

“I gave that up,” Scapegrace insisted. “Now I’m just me again. Just normal old me. I’m no Zombie King. Not really. I don’t think I ever was.”