The drumming from the forest grew louder, and Rancor’s men drunkenly contested the din, screaming at the trees in blatant challenge. Dim shapes began to hem the tree line, but the amorphous figures advanced no further, carefully halting so that they were concealed by the dark shadows thrown by the eaves of the forest. The drums ceased with a final solemn thwack that echoed across the meadow. The black outline of men encompassed their position on three sides. It was impossible to discern the enemy’s true number.
“Far too many,” said Bailrich gloomily.
“We can’t fix the numbers, only the odds,” replied Rancor. He quickly arrayed his men about the crown of a hill, belting out orders and reassurances as he situated his men. A meandering bog protected one of their flanks, and the river, another. Finally, he settled at the center of his army, surrounded by his guard and their looming tower shields. There he waited. The Capernican forces would pay a dire price if they attacked their elevated position.
A herald was sent forward to the central plain between the two armies. He held up a white flag, signaling that Rancor would parley if the Capernican leader was willing. For a long while the two armies faced one another. Nothing moved, save for the parley flag waving lithely in the wind. Murmurs rose up from the elves. “Will they not treat?” whispered one. Others began to pray in the ancient tongue.
A horn blared a long monotone note. The Capernicans emerged from the shadow of the forest and began forward. There would be no negotiations.
The herald wheeled and ran for the safety of the Luthuanian line as quickly as he could.
“Wait for my mark,” barked Rancor over the heads of his men. He eyed the intruders with disdain. Many of the soldiers wore suits of red, the colors of the Capernican king, but in amongst them were other colors that Rancor found odd. They more closely resembled an unruly mob of brigands than an army.
The enemy broke into a full sprint. The thunder of a thousand stampeding feet shuddered the plain. Five hundred paces, four hundred, three hundred.
“By the gods, they’re fast,” cried Bailrich. He frantically motioned to the flagmen. “Notch arrows! Ready bows!”
“Hold,” yelled Rancor, belaying the hasty order. A deft warrior he may not be, but he understood battle tactics. The enemy had yet to enter the bog. He held his hand parallel to the ground, holding his men at the ready. He was watching for the telltale sign of the front lines slipping in the mire. The enemy’s pace suddenly slackened. Men began to crowd into dense packs as they sloshed through the thick mud.
“Now! Now! Let loose, let fly!” screamed Rancor.
The signalers waved their flags and the first volley went hissing through the air. All across the field the men of Caper fell in a silent tumble of bodies. Founts of blood painted the drab earth red. A cold shiver ran down Rancor’s spine from the unnerving crack of steel cleaving bone.
“Again!” he commanded.
Still the enemy came on unabated, clambering over the bodies, until the dead became a ghastly carpet, crushed into the mud beneath the press of pelting feet.
“High Lord,” cried Captain Nerso, directing Rancor’s gaze to the center of the field.
The first of the enemy had cleared the quagmire. They closed the distance to the fleeing herald in an instant. A nonplussed look was planted squarely across the elf’s face as he fell. A dozen men pounced, like wolves feasting on a dying deer. They beat at him with fists and tore with tooth and nail. The herald let out a wrenching scream that knotted Rancor’s gut.
Rancor felt his skin go ashen. “What is this?”
“Treachery, my lord. Unforgivable treachery,” replied Bailrich. He crossed his hands across his neck and face in a warding gesture of the faithful.
These were not the men of Caper, realized Rancor, as their savage pinched faces and emaciated frames suddenly came into focus. Many amongst them appeared as the living, wearing armor and bearing swords or spears. But most did not. Some were missing arms and flesh, while others came on naked, as if long dead and freshly disinterred from the grave. The forerunners charged as fast as galloping horses. Hundreds more trailed behind them, slowly leaking out of the woods like molasses from a sluice. They were hardly able to propel themselves, draggling forward on wasted joints and shrunken legs.
Rancor could hear some of his men openly weeping at the nightmarish sight. A few laid down their bows and began to pray. One man became hysterical and screamed into the air, repenting his sins. The Luthuanian line began to waiver.
“There is a deserter, High Lord.” Captain Nerso pointed to the east.
A young elf had broken rank and was sprinting for the forest, sloughing his mail and armor as he went. A handful of the haggard figures sprinted after the soldier. Under his lightened load, there was a chance the elf could make it to the tree line and outrun the enemy in the tangled bramble beyond.
Nerso already had an arrow to his string. He looked to Rancor for guidance. His face was oddly impassive; training had made him an extension of Rancor’s own hand.
“Put him down,” said Rancor. But even as he did, he prayed silently to himself. Gods, forgive me. Not all men are made to face such horrors, but I cannot let this pass.
The bolt flew true to its mark and felled the elf at the edge of the forest, pinning him between his shoulder blades. His limp body had hardly struck the ground before the pursuing pack of men ravenously tore into his face and limbs.
Nerso nocked another arrow.
No other soldier broke rank.
“Stand your ground,” barked Rancor. “Spears abreast!”
The press of the throng was upon them.
The ghoulish figures crashed into the front line at a full sprint. Blades slammed into shields, spears tore through flesh, and all along the line the heavy twang of metal against metal rang loudly. The putrid smell of rot filled the air. The enemy, raw and adorned in remnants of armor and cloth, hacked into the Luthuanian line. Even the most vile of humanity could not match such brutality. They buffeted the soldiers with sword and fist alike, clawing with nails, biting with teeth.
Rancor was horrified.
“We must evacuate you, High Lord,” said Nerso, still oddly calm in the midst of the madness. “We have underestimated the enemy.”
“This is far more than an underestimate,” shouted Rancor, succumbing to panic. “This is a darkness never seen in this land.” The din of screaming voices and clanging steel made Rancor want to clamp his hands over his ears and flee. He couldn't take it, and his own strength wavered. He considered throwing himself into the river, but was certain the weight of his armor would cause him to drown.
Beside him, a soldier died in a spout of blood. Rancor stood wide-eyed and motionless as one of the enemy clambered over the dead man, grasping at him with black fingernails. Bailrich dispatched the foe with a flick of his long sword, beheading the wretched man.
“My lord! Retreat or fight!” shouted the general, his words sounding much like an order.
The sudden fear of dying a cowardly death overpowered all other instincts. What would be his legacy then? They were fully invested; the enemy was pressing them on three sides, and the river galloped mockingly to their rear. Even if it was false gallantry, his men needed to see him act.
Rancor unsheathed his sword and pointed it toward the battle waging before him. He tried to sound brave as he called out his decree. “My men have no chance to flee and so it shall be for me.” He swallowed his fear and jumped into the fray, forcing his guard to chase after him.
With teeth bared, he chopped into a wall of rotting flesh and rusted blades. He swung like a madman, trying to utilize the bravery his father had instilled in him. Yet his skills were not as grand as past generations and Rancor immediately found himself knocked off his feet.
A man with flesh like tanned leather fell atop Rancor. Hand over hand, the man clawed up Rancor’s leggings and then his torso. Rancor’s feet became entangled in his attacker’s trailing intestines. He couldn’t lift himself free of the man’s wei
ght. Rancor’s nostrils filled with the noisome reek of death. Yellow teeth wreathed by cankered lips flashed inches before his face. Certain he was going to die, Rancor shoved his forearm into the man’s face, anything to fend off that horrid mouth. Teeth latched onto his arm, and the man reared back with a strip of Rancor’s flesh dangling from his clamped jaws. Rancor blanched. The unnerving chill of wavering consciousness rolled over his body.
A spear suddenly punctured through the man’s eye socket, sending black blood dribbling across Rancor’s brow. Captain Nerso heaved the carcass off of him, wrenching the spear free. Bleeding and exhausted, Rancor regained his feet just as a massive shape flew by overhead. The sun was momentarily obscured. It took him a second to reconstruct the image in his mind.
“Blessed dragon,” cried out Rancor, as he watched another of the amazing beasts thunder by.
The two dragons jetted skyward like a pair of eagles wheeling on an updraft. They reached an apex directly above the center of the battlefield before crashing down to the earth. Each was as large as a house, with legs the girth of oak trees. With wings pluming like great sails, the magnificent beasts stood as sentinels before the Luthuanian lines. One was light gray with speckled scales and a pointed beak. The other was the color of white marble, marked by black streaks and a blunted nose. Blood-curdling roars rattled from their throats as they lashed into the throng of enemies, sending the haggard men flying like ragdolls. The press on the Luthuanian lines abated as the enemy turned their wrath against the dragons. Hands and teeth could do little against the dragons’ thickly-scaled hides.
Rising up on its haunches, the white dragon thrust her slender neck forward, letting out a swath of boiling air.
“Dragon fire,” said Rancor, in awe of what he was seeing.
The blast of superheated gas engulfed all it struck in vibrant flames. The surging fire licked over its victims, and for a moment it seemed all whom the fire touched were enlivened by some unheard melody. Arms flailed, legs kicked madly, heads swung to and fro. Flesh wicked away like wax, until finally the wretched bodies withered to the ground. There they gave a few more spastic jerks before succumbing to the flame.
“All is not lost!” roared General Bailrich, finding the words that were trapped in Rancor’s throat. “The dragons have come to our aid. Force the enemy from the field!”
Rancor’s world became awash in red light and depthless blacks. The meadow was a sea of flame. The sky disappeared behind a blanket of smoke. “The dragons have come to our aid,” Rancor repeated numbly. “Thank the gods, the dragons have come to our aid.”
CHAPTER
III
THE AVOFEW
Smoldering stalks were all that remained of the grassland. Mounds of charred bodies were heaped where the haggard men had piled atop one another in their flight from the field. A trill horn had sounded from beyond the forest wall almost immediately after the dragons arrived. The rotting men froze in place; swords stalled mid-swing, thrusting spears jerked to a sudden stop. A second burst from the horn sent the remaining foes shuffling from the field in retreat.
Most of the enemy didn’t make it to the tree line, their bodies too ravaged by the flaming breath of the dragons. A handful had wandered into the woods with their upper torsos wreathed in flames. Rancor could see that the forest had caught fire in a few places, kindled by the walking torches. Even now, a few men still crawled across the field, their legs burned to useless black stumps.
The two dragons stood their ground, their great barrel chests heaving with exhaustion. Their serpent eyes flickered over the throng of weary elves, finally settling upon Rancor.
The white dragon lowered her head out of respect, touching her chin to the ground. “High Lord Rancor, I wish we could have met under better circumstances.” She awkwardly fumbled with the words, as one unaccustomed to speaking in the common tongue.
“As do I,” said Rancor, finally finding his voice. He bowed, recognizing he was before the matriarch of one of the great dragon broods. “Although in truth, we have met before. Only then I was young, a child beside my father’s throne. But I remember you, Dain Baelac. It is an honor to see you again.”
“The honor is mine,” said Baelac. The leathery folds of her wing membranes rustled against one another, creating a sound not so unlike a cicada’s call. She gestured to her companion. “This is Dai Horan.”
“It is an honor,” said Rancor, bowing once more. The dragon made no effort to return the gesture, but instead regarded him with cold serpent eyes.
“My...my gratitude is truly unceasing,” stammered Rancor, unnerved by the dragon’s demeanor. “But I have trouble believing this was a chance encounter.”
“One of my clan spied the horde yesterday near the Capernican border,” explained Baelac. “There are things we will not allow. Necromancy is a banned practice. We had been following them for much of the morning.”
“You know what these are?” pressed Rancor, motioning to one of the enemy. A man lay supine, his legs hacked off at the knees. He groped blindly in the air, mindlessly champing his teeth.
“Vipapiant epicaji,” said Baelac, spitting out the words in the ancient tongue as if they were venom. “Carrion wights. But from where they originated we do not know.”
“Capernicus,” said Rancor, happy to be certain of something. “Only magics can do this.”
“Likely, but do not direct guilt blindly against King Johan,” said Horan, speaking now for the first time. His voice was low, drawing from his throat like the hiss of a serpent. “Once ignited, the fires of war are not easily quenched.”
“Until I find evidence to the contrary, there is nowhere else that blame may lie,” said Rancor in exasperation. He walked away from the corpse in disgust. “All matters must be dictated by the authority of the crown. If Johan’s men acted without his approval, he is still responsible for their actions.” Rancor stamped his foot on the ground, trying to feign strength. “I want the head of the man who did this. And by the gods, if I find that King Johan ordered this attack, he will soon discover that his grasp is fingerless in these woods.”
“Indeed,” snarled Horan, causing the scales upon his neck to bristle. “Amass your army, stoke the flames of war. Respond to the provocation with force. The outcome will certainly prove satisfactory for all parties.” Horan began to walk away, flapping his wings slowly. “No, this is not our fight. Let the creatons have their wars, Baelac. We have done our duty here today.”
Baelac ignored Horan’s scorn. “I'm not asking you to capitulate. I'm asking you to wait. I made a promise long ago that I would act as an intermediary if it were possible. Gather your swords, for you are lord amongst your people, and it is not my place to interfere, but give me a few days. I have already ordered a messenger to the Nexus to meet with King Johan. You may soon find that he would gladly give you the head of the renegade who committed this treacherous crime.”
Rancor nodded, although it pained him to do so. He wanted blood. His men needed blood. Hesitancy to act was more likely to be perceived as cowardice than wisdom. “I will not halt my hand if those blighted creatures cross the Marlan.”
“I would expect nothing less,” said Baelac. “Now, if you will, let me have a hand at your injured.”
• • •
They buried the dead beneath the boughs of a tree. Those that could be saved were tended to by the dragoness. Baelac’s healing gifts were wondrous, and she breathed new life into men who Rancor feared were bound for death. The injured were laid upon makeshift stretchers. The undead carcasses were thrown into the Marlan River. Rancor was certain the floating corpses would send the appropriate message to his enemies downstream.
The weary army trudged east, every man eager to be out of the contested borderlands as quickly as possible.
Horan and Baelac transformed their figures. One moment they stood stalwart upon the prairie, the next, they melted into a swirl of mist only to reappear in the humble guise of elves. The transformation was not quite p
erfect, and there was a foreignness about their creaton masks that Rancor found unsettling. The skin of their faces was smooth and featureless, lacking pockmarks or creases. Their hair was silver and their eyes black as coal. They concealed their bodies in cream-colored cloaks that appeared to be made of liquid; the cloth shifted and rippled with each step. Rancor could read nothing from their expressionless faces, and he couldn’t help but feel a disquieting shiver whenever he stared into their fathomless eyes.
Baelac grilled him about the happenings of the day, trying to learn what Rancor knew of the carrion horde and its origin. Rancor did his best to accurately tell all that had befallen his men, but in truth, he understood it no better than the dragons. Horan commented rarely, choosing to mull the information in silence.
As evening neared, Rancor’s guard approached the village of Palmera, a sizable settlement that flanked the eastern bank of the Marlan. A shoddily crafted wooden bridge overarched the river. Beyond lay the village, wreathed by a low berm that ran its perimeter. The crest of the berm was reinforced with a wooden palisade. Looming behind the meager fortification stood dozens of white stucco buildings with red clay roofs.
Word of the army’s approach had preceded them and citizens crowded the bridge mouth, eager to welcome Rancor and his victorious men. As soon as he came into view a mob of awestruck children flocked around him, whooping and swinging wooden swords. Rancor patted the children on their heads. He smiled inwardly at their innocence. They know nothing of war and death. For a moment the image of the deserting soldier flashed within his mind. In truth, the man had not been much older than these children. He blinked away the troubling vision.
A portly man dressed in a fine silk surcoat and breeches came ambling through the crowd, using his great girth to plow people aside. This was the mayor, and he insisted that he be the first person to formally greet the high lord. The mayor fell to one knee. “Our village is indebted to you, High Lord.” He took Rancor’s hand within his own and pressed his lips to Rancor’s knuckles. “Word of the carrion scourge ran a terror through my people, but the arrival of your soldiers has eased many fears.”
The Guardian (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 2) Page 2