“Even still,” Timothy replied, “they marched on without making a sound. Not even a grunt! So, as I said, tough bunch of bastards!”
“That they are. I’m especially impressed by the ladies in our ranks,” Zachary replied, also putting in his own chewing tobacco. “Opening up our order to the fairer of the species was a good idea, sir.”
“There is nothing fair about the women in our ranks. I’d wager they could take any of you in a fight if you felt like tempting your fates,” Tiberius replied with a chuckle.
Traditionally, the rangers had only been exclusive to only the men of the empire. But times change, people change, and Tiberius reasoned he needed all the people he could get to join after the grueling war across the sea. Though he had met resistance from the less forward-thinking members of the Imperial military, it was ultimately not up to them, for he alone held complete authority over his rangers. And if a woman wanted to live and fight and die like a ranger, then gods be damned she would be a ranger. Besides, who was he to deny someone the honor and privilege to defend their homelands if their will compelled them so?
“Do you know what today is, sir?” asked Zachary while he restrung his bow.
“Twenty-first of Golds Harvest,” replied Tiberius, his smile melting.
“Aye, sir. I bet down in the capital there are grand parades and feasts to mark this occasion,” Zachary continued, thoughts of a warm bed and a belly full of beer and steak flashing before his mind.
“A year of peace after so long a war is reason enough to feast,” Tiberius said, dark thoughts and memories appearing before his waking eye.
“Across the ocean, they are probably cursing us as invaders and mourning their dead. Especially at Vermillion Pass,” replied Trevin grimly, taking a deep drink of water from his deerskin canteen.
Silence permeated the group. Timothy and Zachary’s own smiles began to disappear from their faces in the same manner as their commander’s had. The four men began to think about that day at the pass when their lives had irrevocably changed. After many heavy moments of silence, Tiberius’s three companions stood in turn and bid him farewell, each wanting to be alone with their thoughts. Tiberius leaned his head against the tree he was propped on, closed his eyes, and stretched his memory back a year ago to the pass.
In his mind’s eye, he could see the pass clear as day: the large chasms of red and orange mountains and dirt, the unrelenting sun that beat down on them over a blackened sky. None of the Narzeth dwelt in that land, for they had long believed it to be cursed. Not even flora and fauna native to their country would grow there, leading many in the empire to believe it was, in fact, an unholy land to walk upon. Regardless of the superstitions that were carried, it had long been known that the pass was the most important and strategic piece of terrain in the war. If the empire could take it, then nothing would stop their impending march on the Narzethian capital, Xartel. As predicted, once the empire arrived, it became the site of the largest and bloodiest battle in the Great War.
Both sides had thrown countless soldiers at one another in an effort to secure the pass. Thousands of infantry, cavalry, and artillery rained down all around them from both the empire and their ancient foe. Knights from the empire clashed with the knights of the Narzeth, mangling their bodies inside their steel armors. Spears and arrows flew in every direction, sometimes finding their mark against their own men. It was a bloodbath in the truest sense, but that was not the memory that now plagued Tiberius and his friends. It was what came after. For it was there all the assembled from the empire, and the Narzeth witnessed magic for what it truly was. Witnessed magic at its most powerful, and at its most terrifying.
The High Sorcerer of the Magi Cycret had arrived in the Imperial camp two days into the fevered battle and pleaded with the emperor to use what he had learned in the Library of Beaumont, the ancestral home of the Magi. It was widely known that before the founding of the empire, and the evil of Narzethians had reached its pinnacle, the Magi had called the city of Beaumont their home. And it was in that city that they chose to remove themselves from the affairs of the Narzeth. They had no mind for war, and conquering, and politics, preferring to dedicate themselves to the study and practice of magic.
Over time, the Narzeth’s hate and distrust of magic and things beyond their control grew uncontrollable. In the end, they sacked the city and forced all the Magi into hiding and exile from their homes. The ancient tomes and tools were seemingly lost to the desert city for all time until the empire in their wrath invaded and reclaimed the city for the Brotherhood, and ever since the High Sorcerer had been holed himself inside. At first, he was giddy with the prospect of studying and learning all the forgotten knowledge that had long been thought lost to the Magi when they first came to the empire. But over time, he began to realize that the mystery of magic was deeper and more powerful than he could have possibly imagined.
He was determined to stay within that place until the empire had won the war and withdrawn from Narzeth. But it was the intense fighting and bloodshed at the pass that compelled him to leave and join his emperor. For many days, the emperor had resisted using the magic Cycret had learned, yet when all hope for anything other than a stalemate was evident, the emperor finally conceded. The fury and magnitude of magic Tiberius saw that day had rendered him speechless, for nothing of that kind of power had been seen in the world.
Some of those who lived to see the power displayed before them had started to laugh like men possessed. Others openly wept as if mourning the loss of a loved one. Most though, were as silent as the field of death in front of them. As for High Sorcerer of the Magi Cycret, his body and staff were turned to dust along with the enemies of the empire from the sheer magnitude of power he conjured that fateful day. Only his robes of ebony and grey were recovered so as to be returned to the Citadel.
No cheers of victory were heard that day, nor songs and laments for their fallen brothers. The whole of the assembled Imperial military was silent as a graveyard that night while far over the mountains of the pass, a great blood-curdling wail of sorrow could be heard echoing from the Narzeth capital. It was then that Tiberius knew magic was not something to be taken lightly. Not something to be treated as entertainment and spectacle, but as something that should be guarded and revered. The war was officially over two days later, and all men of the empire departed that cursed land, hoping never to see it again. On their return to the shores from which they had disembarked, the emperor ordered the Library of Beaumont razed to the ground lest their enemy scour it for knowledge to use in their revenge.
For longer than Tiberius could remember, he had been fighting in wars and against people who had no value for life and decency. Against people who only wished to destroy the empire and claim the ten kingdoms for their own. His father had taught him about the enemies of their homeland. Over many years from his youth until his assumption of command over the rangers, his father had instructed him in all manners of combat and history and culture. He knew his son would be destined for greater things than he and was determined to ensure his son would not make the same mistakes he had.
“Why is there so much hate in this world?” Tiberius had asked his father one spring nearly twenty years ago. “It would be a much better place if we all put down our swords and reasoned with one another.”
“The world would indeed be a much fairer place without the strife of war,” his father had said. “Unfortunately, the real world is not like that. There is much beauty and hope around us, yes. But there is also evil and greed and hate, and those are the things we must fight. Remember this: it is easy to take a life, my son. It is much harder to get to know someone’s life.”
Tiberius slowly opened his eyes and smiled at his father’s words. His entire life of fighting and serving the empire had etched unimaginable horrors into his memory, but it was his father and his wisdom and love that always brought him back from the brink of despair. After one last long drag on his pipe, he removed his sword and sharpening
stone and set to work on the blade. Over the camp, slow wisps of steam were rising from the rangers’ mouths, and the fires around them were beginning to burn low.
It was near dusk when the rangers awoke from their sleep, their tired and worn faces refreshed by the much needed daytime slumber. They each, in turn, pulled rations from their bags and ate in silence. Tiberius observed all this from his perch, his bag already packed and his belly full of his own food. No words were exchanged amongst them, and none needed to be. They all had awakened from their much-needed sleep knowing there was to be a battle that night, and the thought of flying headlong into the unknown was beginning to harden their hearts and sharpen their minds for the deeds to be done.
After their dinner was finished, and the men had begun to pack, Trevin approached Tiberius, his own deep brown eyes refreshed and ready. “The rangers will be ready to march by nightfall, sir,” he said.
Tiberius nodded his approval. “Have them leave their packs. We must be swift and silent, and I expect we will be upon our foe in a few hours. We’ll come back for our things after.” And if not, at least the animals of the forest will have a few snacks from our food, Tiberius thought.
Trevin nodded in understanding and left to relay their commander’s orders. Throughout the small camp, Tiberius could hear a few of his men uttering last-minute prayers to their respective gods. Weapons and tools were removed from packs and secured to their bodies, and within a few short minutes the rangers stood ready and proud in front of their commander. Tiberius nodded in approval and finally stood to face his men.
His mind focused on their faces, determined to remember each and every one of them. These men and women had seen true horrors across the sea and yet continued to want to fight on. They were The Spirit of The Warrior, through and through. And the Spirit would always be with them. He was honored to be their leader, and he would lead them as he always did, from the front. He surveyed the assembled men for a moment before bowing his head in humility to them. In one unison movement, they returned his bow. As the night before, words were not needed. The time for words had long passed. Now was the time for action.
He lingered on them for a moment before turning and setting off on a jog through the woods towards his prey. His men were behind him in an instant their own thoughts hardened, and their faces blank. The path of the undead was clearer to them now that they were within striking distance. Soon the hunt would be over, and the fighting would start. He pushed his pace steadily on, determined to meet them unaware and open to attack.
Chapter 3
Battle Amongst The Dead
The last rays of the sun were barely peeking through the western tree line. Dark clouds were starting to roll in from the north, bringing a small gift of fresh snow. Tiberius could feel the temperature drop several degrees in a short amount of time. He took in a deep breath and quickened his steady pace to a light jog, determined to beat the weather. Though he easily outpaced even the youngest of his warriors at an easy run, he knew they would not falter and fall behind. As always, only his three friends were able to match his pace. Though he knew if he pressed any harder, they too would fall behind. But now was not the time for speed. Now was the time to conserve their strength and prepare their minds and hearts.
"How close are we, you reckon?" asked Trevin from behind him.
"We're still a few miles off," Tiberius replied without taking his eyes off the path. "Probably another hour or so." When no acknowledgment came, he turned to see that Trevin had already fallen back to begin relaying the information to his men. He nodded to himself in approval and turned back to face the path.
The tracks that they had been following were becoming more disjointed and messier, a clear sign that their enemies were not marching at all but rather shuffling in mass. A smart necromancer would have directed their undead to march single file to conceal their numbers. Clearly, this person had no interest in stealth, he thought to himself. A few minutes later, he raised his hand, bringing his group to a sudden stop. He stared ahead in the trees with his nose up in the air, a faint familiar aroma catching his attention. He motioned for his men to take a knee, and in a flash, Trevin and Zachary were beside him.
"What is it?" Zachary whispered.
"A campfire," Trevin answered. "Can you not smell it?"
"No, I can't. How far off do you reckon?"
"A hundred yards or so," Tiberius answered, turning to face them. "Fan out wide and encircle them, we will attack them from all around. Secure the alchemist, but if he gets caught in the fray, so be it."
Trevin and Zachary nodded in understanding before returning to move their men in position. This was one of the many ambush tactics they taught in the ranger training, and his men would execute it flawlessly.
"Well, this ought to be interesting," Zachary said, returning to join his commander at the front of their group.
"Of course, it will," Timothy added, walking beside him. "They will sing glorious melodies about what we do here tonight. Songs of the intrepid Imperial Rangers and how we fought down undead soldiers from our empire's first invasions. Oh, I can already see the ladies when I tell them I was here in the fight."
A wry smile crept up on Tiberius' face, amazed that after all these years, these two fools still managed to make him smile in the face of death. Light snow began to fall on the men's cloaks, a small gift of luck from the unseen forces above. Tiberius pulled his sword, gave it a quick inspection, and readied himself. Victory or death, the glory of enforcing the empire's law, would be theirs, for such glory and honor are all the rangers needed in life.
"Stay with me," he ordered. "Fight fast, defend yourself and your brothers, and victory will be ours." He closed his eyes, steadied his breath, and focused his mind as he never had before.
But before he could move a high pitched, shrill cry rung out piercing the night. The sound of it forced the rangers all around to drop their weapons and cover their ears in pain. In a moment, the shrill cry passed but was replaced by blood-curdling, almost childlike screams of horror and agony such as he had not heard since the war. The sound of swords cutting through flesh, and bones breaking under heavy hammers cut through the cries of anguish. Just as abruptly as the screaming had overtaken them, it suddenly went quiet and still.
Without any thought, Tiberius ran at a full sprint towards where the smell of fire and the sounds of screaming had just been. In a moment, he was in a wide clearing, horror, and anger etched into his face. Dead bodies lay about him. Twisted and contorted in every direction, blood oozing its way out of thousands of cuts and stabs. Blood so thick and hot it melted the snow and raised steam into the frozen night air. Looking on the bodies, he recognized them only by their blue and red and green colored cloaks, all stained by the bloody attack. To his shock and horror, twenty mages were dead at his feet.
He knelt to inspect one nearby, determined to learn whatever he could from their slaughter when more screaming exploded directly in front of him. But this was not the guttural screaming of a dying man, nor the sound of fear. This was the sound he had heard all his life, a warrior’s cry. The sound of the clashing of steel against steel. This was the scream of battle. The undead had found his rangers from the other side of where they meant to pounce.
A deep booming bellow emerged from within him, such a sound he had not mustered since that day at the pass. "RANGERS! DEFEND YOUR BROTHERS! WITH ME!" he cried, charging towards the fight.
His body was in motion like a bolt of lightning amongst the trees. Snow from the ground was thrown this way and that under his relentless sprint. The branches nicked and scratched his face as he went yet did not deter him one bit. All thought was on his men and killing the enemy that was attacking them. Such speed and ferocity and anger he had not conjured up in what felt like a lifetime, but his muscles and spirit remembered. In an instant, he was upon them and beheld the most horrifying sight since the war.
To his horror, a black and rotting mass were throwing themselves against the rangers as wave
s beat upon beach rock. There were at least fifty of the undead, ancient soldiers reeking of putrefaction and soil. Their faces rotted to the bone, with no eyes in their skull, wisps of hair hanging off their heads, and small patches of skin dangling here and there. Their teeth black with rot, and their mouths pulled tight in the corners of their mouths in a twisted devil smile. The stuff of nightmares made real by the deeds of evil. With unchecked anger, he threw himself into that swirling undead nightmare.
Swinging broad to his front, stabbing to his left and right, parrying attacks all around, he was in the thick of the fray before he knew it. His body fluid and changing directions as he went, his sword poetry in motion. It would have been beautiful to see if not for the evil sight surrounding him. The undead swords of ancient iron were no match against his lighter, sharper Imperial steel. He met their frenzied attacks with masterful precision and cut down a swath of them as he went.
Alive, these undead abominations might have proven a match for him. Yet all they could do was try and swarm him without any tactics or thoughts in their mind. Their speed was great, but his was greater as he ducked their blows, cutting a group at their knees. Random spears pierced the cold air, but he effortlessly twirled in place, missing them. The element of surprise with which they had taken the mages was gone. Now they had to fight against a real opponent and one that would not surrender or run.
Arrows began to fly past him, finding their mark against three of the enemy that ran on him. His own group of Rangers had finally caught up to him, Trevin, at the front, followed by Zachary. In an instant, the rangers had the mass of dead surrounded, and were swiftly cutting through them. A new cry of volley went up over the ring as more arrows whistled past the melee finding their targets and dropping them to the snowy ground. Timothy had somehow managed to consolidate his bowmen and was directing their fire against the enemy.
The Spirit of The Warrior: The Axton Empire book 1 Page 3