The Fire Islands

by Gilbert M. Stack

  It’s Time to Prove You’re Worthy of the Legion

  Claws of panic raked the legionnaires as they saw not a mere dozen but hundreds of the skeletal creatures assemble themselves and begin to rise. The grip of terror took hold not only of the inexperienced greens but of the solid reds and blacks as well. Marcus felt the gibbering madness of all-encompassing fear gnawing away at his own rapidly depleting store of courage, but like the best of his men—Severus, Acteon and Calidus, he also knew that the only chance they had to survive this madness was to maintain their discipline and fight as a unit. A man on his own in this torrent of undead would die in mere seconds.

  “In ranks!’ he shouted forcing down his fear and flooding his voice with all the authority of his office. “In ranks!”

  He grabbed hold of a couple of greens pulling them into their places in the line.

  “Remember your training!” Severus shouted behind them. “The Tribune knows how to defeat this hell-spawn!”

  The blacks were in ranks facing east and west and cleaving the skulls of any skeleton unfortunate enough to form near them. Acteon had the reds back in line and the veterans were starting to follow their black band brothers’ examples and clear the ground of the nearest creatures before they were fully formed. The green band however was a chaotic mess and Green Vigil Janus was doing nothing to restore order, slashing about him right and left, not even aiming for the skulls that were the key to putting these monsters down.

  “In ranks!” Marcus shouted again. He forced his way in front of the green band, knocking half made skeletons down with his shield and his sword to clear the path in front of him.

  “Eyes on me, green band!” he shouted and fully half of the men listened. “We have one chance to survive this and save the army and all of Mokupani from this evil.”

  He glanced backward to make certain the mouth of the cave was directly behind him—the cave in which the skeletons could only come at them from front and rear—the cave which had disgorged the native warriors and which he hoped led directly to the mad remnant of the Rule of Twenty who had raised these damned undead creatures against them.

  He turned back to his men. “The legion will advance!”

  “Advance?” Green Vigil Janus shouted as he leaped out of his band’s lines to confront Marcus, sword raised in rage. “Are you mad? We have to get away! We have to run!”

  Marcus had no more patience for the fool. They were likely all going to die because Janus didn’t have the sense not to sleep with the Praetor’s wife. He didn’t try and reason with him. He didn’t point out that they could see far more of the skeletons between them and the rest of the legion than between them and the mouth of the tunnel. He didn’t explain that without the walls of the cave to protect their flanks, the skeletons would descend upon them from all sides and pull them down. He had no more time to waste on Green Vigil Janus.

  With a sharp blow of his right fist, Marcus dropped the younger man to the ground and left him lying stunned. “Calidus Vulpes take command of the green band,” he commanded.

  Without hesitation, Marcus’ adjutant left the solid ranks of the reds and sprinted to the front of the greens. “In ranks you green bastards!” he shouted. “It’s time to prove you’re worthy of the legion!”

  “The legion will advance!” Marcus shouted one more time, then turned to find a fully formed skeleton reaching for him. With speed born of equal parts rage and terror, he swung his sword at the monster’s skull, taking a chip out of it as he sent it flying across the Killing Basin.

  Without looking back to see if his men followed, Marcus strode purposely toward the cave mouth, using shield, sword, and boot to knock the creatures in front of him out of the way. They punched and clawed and grappled at him, but not enough of them had yet risen to pull him down.

  Behind him, the screams of his men told him that not all were as fortunate as he was.

  He stopped at the mouth of the cave to assess the situation. The black band had closed tight against the red and turned to guard the rear. They were fighting furiously now, trying to hold back the horde of undead warriors, no longer trying to destroy the monsters but only striving to break them and hold them back. As Marcus watched, Fabius Julius was pulled down. His brother legionnaires to either side tried to help him but his screams cut off too quickly and they abandoned him to keep their place in the formation.

  Calidus had the greens filing into the cave where other skeletons—far fewer than were in the basin—were marching out of the darkness toward them.

  “Green band, push in deep enough to get the whole hand in the cave then stop and have two ranks hold the front line while others in the back light torches. Then we’re going in search of the heart of this mountain and Kekipi. He’s the key. Forty years ago, when they killed the Rule of Twenty the undead fell with them.”

  Calidus nodded and led his men deeper into the cave, making room for the reds and blacks to follow him.

  Out in the Killing Basin, as the black rain of ash continued to fall, Marcus saw a horror far worse than the skeletons rising up all around them. Fabius Julius of the black band regained his feet, his head tilted at an unnatural angle, blood soaking his tunic. Sword still in hand, the no-longer-living Fabius joined with the skeletal army to pursue the legion into the depths of Keahi.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Let’s Get Out of Here

  Great Tribune Xanthus Aurellius fumed as he stomped his way back up the black rocky ground of the arroyo toward Praetor Castor and the rest of Xanthus’ phalanx. “I’ll break him for insubordination!” he promised his adjutant.

  The man wisely said nothing, keeping his mouth firmly closed.

  “I’ll break him and then I’ll execute him for disobeying my orders during combat!” Xanthus swore.

  The nerve of that tribune—to think he had a stiff enough spine to stand up to him. It was more evidence that the Praetor was right to get rid of Marcus. The man was infecting his entire cohort—getting far above himself—bedding a woman who had dared to reject Xanthus, himself!

  He kicked one of the dozens of skulls littering the gulley and took some small satisfaction as it ricocheted off a rock and bounced against another pile of bones.

  Beneath him, the earth suddenly shook, drawing a gasp of concern from his adjutant and making Xanthus wonder if an earthquake might be coming. He glanced apprehensively at the rocky walls of the arroyo but there was no cascade of boulders sliding down toward him.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said to his aide even as the ground shuddered again.

  The two men quickened their pace. Damn Marcus and Festus both! If either of them survived the battle with the rebels, he’d make certain that the Praetor executed them. They could construct a report that brought shame on both their names so that their families wished they’d never been born. No one humiliated Xanthus Aurellius and got away with it.

  The ground shook a third time, knocking several small rocks loose from the arroyo walls so that Xanthus had to jump back to stay out of the way of them.

  “Great Tribune, look!” his aide cried out.

  Xanthus found the man pointing back toward the mountain which was vomiting a huge black cloud into the blue sky.

  He frowned. That mountain hadn’t erupted in all the time Aquila had owned this island. He tried to remember if it had ever spit forth black clouds like this. He wondered if it meant that other things could be about to spew forth. This area was called the Fire Islands for a reason.

  As the growing black cloud blotted out the sun and cloaked the arroyo in darkness, it occurred to Xanthus that he and his aide were alone and that even though neither he nor the praetor had thought it likely that this rebel, Kekipi, would actually send a force to counter attack the legionnaires, it was possible.

  “Let’s get back to the Praetor,” he muttered as he began walking again as quickly as he could manage without technically breaking into a run.

  Black ash began to fall from the clouds overhead. It struck
his face and arms, still warm from the heart of the volcano behind him. He was tired of this barbaric backwater. It was time to write to his uncle and pressure him to find a way to get Xanthus reassigned to a real legion where there were civilized white women in plenty who would enjoy the attention of a real man.

  His aide gasped. “Great Tribune! The bones!”

  Confused, Xanthus glanced over at the man and saw the starkest look of terror he had ever imagined—worse even than the expressions of many of the men he’d had executed over the years. “What is it?”

  “The bones!” the man cried again, pointing this time at the ground ahead of them.

  Xanthus’ blood curdled in his veins. The bones upon the ground were moving, wriggling, drawing toward each other as if pulled by invisible strings.

  Xanthus was so shocked—so horrified—that he stopped dead still to stare at the unimaginable horror. He had seen many works of magic in his lifetime—many quite impressive. He’d heard the stories of the legions’ battle against the dead when they first conquered these islands from the Rule of Twenty. But he hadn’t quite believed the scope of things. A few skeletons bolstering the armies of the primitives was one thing, but who could believe that anyone could raise thousands of the things?

  Yet, that was what was happening all around him. As the ash fell, bones came to life and skeletal figures began to rise off the hard black ground and—

  “Run!” he hissed at his aide. “Run!”

  Together the two men sprinted down the arroyo, dropping their heavy shields, hoping desperately to reach the safety of their fellow legionnaires. In moments, the aide had outdistanced the Great Tribune whose forty years of age could not keep pace with the much younger, much fitter, man. Hot air rasped in Xanthus’ lungs as he swerved to avoid a half-formed skeleton that reached out for him from the middle of the arroyo. His detour let a second undead creature take a swipe at him, bony fingers scraping against the grieve protecting his right shin.

  He couldn’t even see his aide now. The sweat poured off of him and his heart pounded as much from terror as from exertion. He drew his sword, squeezing his fingers tight around the pommel to keep it from slipping in his sweaty hand.

  A fully formed creature lunged at him, its bones clacking grotesquely as it moved.

  Xanthus hacked at the extended arm and kept on running. He daren’t look back to see if the monster pursued him because there were three more on the path directly ahead of him.

  He tried to run up the side of the gulley to avoid the monsters, but they proved to be just as nimble as he and cut off his angle.

  Dry bones clutched at him as he hacked to all sides, nearly mad with terror. His heart burned in his chest. A hand fell to the ground only to clutch at his foot. He split a head from its neck but the body only staggered backward a moment before reaching down and putting a new skull in place upon its shoulders.

  “Die! Why won’t you die?” Xanthus screamed.

  A skeletal warrior grabbed his left arm and pulled him off balance. Before he could fall, another grabbed his right and yanked him the other way. For a moment he thought they would pull him in two but mercifully another approached from behind and broke his neck.

  ****

  Tribune Festus Migellus pressed his hand against the stitch forming in his side and prayed they would reach Marcus and his men soon. Fortunately, most of his men—especially those of the green band—were in better shape than he was, but all of them were showing the strain of the quick run on top of three days of hiking in full kit. How much longer could the arroyo go on? They could hear the sounds of battle echoing ahead of them. He wanted to get there in time for Marcus to know that he had come to help—not grab the glory.

  A rumbling sound rolled down the arroyo and Festus almost lost his balance. “Was that?” he gasped. “Did the ground just move?”

  A black band veteran grabbed his arm to steady him. He wasn’t in the best shape either—none of them seemed to be—but he was still doing better than Festus. “Earthquake,” he said in his short clipped speech. “At least, I think it was.”

  A second shaking reinforced the man’s suggestion. The earth was moving. Festus glanced apprehensively at the walls to either side of him and almost pitched head first onto the black rock beneath him when he tripped on an old bone.

  Once again, the legionnaire caught and steadied him.

  “Thank you,” Festus said. “I guess I’ve had too many meetings with the Praetor—not enough training.”

  The legionnaire flashed him a tired grin as the earth shook a third time and a huge plume of smoke and ash erupted from the summit of the mountain ahead of them.

  “Sol Invictus save us!” the legionnaire swore.

  Without orders, the whole cohort staggered to a halt as men watched the plume rise higher and higher, blotting out the sun.

  “Is that thing going to blow?” one man asked.

  “This is a fire island, isn’t it,” another answered.

  As if of one mind, the entire cohort began to edge backward.

  Festus knew he ought to do something but other than shout orders he didn’t know what that should be.

  Fortunately, one of the black vigils did. “Hold your ground, curs! Were you ordered to view the sights or go to war?”

  The whole cohort hesitated and Festus stiffened his resolve and gave new instructions.

  “Form for battle! Vigils spread your men! Keep the hands side-by-side so we can spread out north and south as we enter the basin ahead.” It was called the Killing Basin, he remembered, but he thought it wise not to remind his men of that.

  Above them, the roiling black cloud began to pour ash down onto their heads.

  The men began to move, which added to their confusion at the worst possible moment.

  Something clutched at Festus’ foot and he looked down to see a disembodied skeletal hand squeezing his shoe.

  With a start of horror, he kicked the bones far away from him.

  Men began to cry out as they too found bones jerking awkwardly into life all around them. Swords flashed downward and shouts of pain quickly joined the peals of fear. Festus turned a full circle, watching skeletons assemble themselves all around his small army. “How? What?”

  “Orders, Tribune?” one of the vigils shouted at him.

  Festus couldn’t find his own voice. How could this be happening? He’d done the right thing! He’d run toward battle to help Marcus! How could this nightmare be happening to him?

  A man broke ranks and fled back up the arroyo followed quickly be a dozen more. Black and red vigils tried to restore discipline to the ranks, but the green vigils were as inexperienced as the men they commanded. They broke with their men, further disrupting the red and black lines.

  And then the skeletons waded in and Festus learned that his fears of imagined death had come nowhere close to capturing the true horror.

  ****

  “Do something!” Praetor Castor demanded as he wheeled his white horse about looking for some place on the horizon where bones were not knitting themselves together into skeletons.

  Master Magus Alena Adrastus pulled on book learning rarely needed in practice conjuring a ball of fire which she directed into the eyeless face of the skeleton assembling itself directly in front of her. Too late she realized that the monster was too close for such tactics. The ball expanded into a much larger globe of flame and a wave of heat lifted Alena off the ground and flung her twenty feet back where her head hit a black rock.

  She wasn’t alive when she got up again.

  Praetor Castor stared after her in horror while the men of the two cohorts he had kept with him attacked the rising bones in a frenzy of terror. Here and there, Black Vigils rallied small groups of men, but the skeletons were coming to life in the very midst of Castor’s army and there was no chance to organize for defense.

  In fact, there was no chance for any of these legionnaires Castor realized. They were already exhausted from the trek and the skeletons wer
e rising as far as the eye could see. But they were less numerous farther away from the mountain and in that he saw the faintest possibility of escape.

  Kicking his beautiful white horse hard in the sides Castor broke from his men for a chance at life. Triumpus was well named, charging forward with a burst of speed that knocked two skeletons and three legionnaires to the ground, he was a hundred yards out and moving rapidly almost before Castor signaled for him to run. He didn’t even need his master to guide him to veer away from the undead creatures converging on him from all sides. In the one moment it appeared he might be trapped he reared up on his hind legs and kicked the skull off the nearest monster. Then he stomped down hard on another set of moving bones and burst forward again with an impressive leap that nearly threw Castor out of his saddle. He dashed between two outcroppings of rock, screaming when a half formed skeleton raked the flesh of his belly as he passed, then was out in the open and running for home in far off Maleko.

  Horse and rider might have made it if the ash falling from the rapidly spreading volcanic cloud hadn’t covered a small dip in the ground that caused Triumpus to trip and fall. The mighty stallion staggered back to his feet, trying to shake off the hurt, but his rider, Praetor Castor never got up again. The force of the impact with the ground had broken his shoulder and the weight of his beautiful steed had crushed his leg. Unfortunately for him, he was still conscious when the skeletons reached him.

  ****

  Lesser Tribune Julian Maximus watched the Praetor, supreme commander of the legion, desert his men in a bid to escape. If he’d been thirty yards closer, he’d have ripped his pilum out of its sling and tried to kill the bastard. Not that he was ever that good with the weapon. He’d pulled his hand up onto a rocky hill to try and make their stand. Only about thirty of them had made it up here with him, the rest were already dead or dying. But with those thirty Julian was determined to make the undead monsters pay a steep price for his life.

  He’d dropped his shield to help him climb as had most of the men who’d rallied to him, but it wasn’t such a big loss. The skeletons weren’t wielding weapons and unencumbered by the significant weight of the defensive armament, his men were hacking off boney hands and arms with abandon.