Conflict

by Pedro Urvi

  Albust ran as fast as his ill-treated body would allow, trying not to trip in the darkness of the night. As they ran for their lives they kept looking back to see how far it was between them and the abominations. They saw several farms behind a low hill and ran to them in search of help. There was light in the windows of the houses. They would find help! Hope began to grow inside Albust, like the flame of a candle being lit at night. Behind him the abominations kept coming, chasing after fresh meat. But they had nearly reached the farms and shelter. They came to the first house and ran to the door.

  The soldier at the head of them stopped suddenly, and his partner stumbled against him. Albust, who was in the rear, stopped on the stairs of the porch, trying to get his breath back. His lungs were on the point of bursting from the effort.

  “Oh no!” cried the first Lancer shrilly, and began to retreat.

  “By the Light, what’s this nightmare!” the second one said, retreating in his turn.

  Albust looked up and saw three living-dead coming out of the door of the house, dressed in simple peasant clothes, their eyes lost on the horizon. Their death-wounds were clearly visible, and their panting and grunting as they moved forward in search of flesh were terrifying.

  They retreated in terror. Albust began to feel he was trapped in a horrible nightmare which would not let him escape. He turned to the left to start fleeing once again, but saw to his horror that more living-dead farmers were coming; he looked to the right and saw with overwhelming terror that from here too, more living-dead were coming after him.

  They retreated helplessly, half-paralyzed with terror.

  The living-dead advanced in a half-moon with outstretched arms. In panic, the three fugitives looked around for an escape route.

  An appalling grunt from behind them made them start and turn. Their pursuers had caught up with them.

  They were surrounded!

  Seeing the Necromancer arrive, Albust shouted desperately:

  “Stop them, Necromancer! I’ll give you more riches than you can dream of, I’ll give you whatever you want! But stop these abominations!”

  The Necromancer lifted his ceremonial axe and pointed it in his direction.

  “My name is Narmos, my dear Ambassador. I’m a Priest of the Cult of Imork. Your riches are nothing beside the power of my lord, beside the rage of the Dark Lady. My lord Isuzeni has ordered your death, and your death he shall have.”

  “Who? My death? Why?”

  The living-dead closed the circle around the three humans.

  The Necromancer lifted his axe and spoke a word of power.

  The living-dead lunged at the three Rogdonians.

  Albust thought how unfair life was while they butchered his body and those of the Lancers amid screams of agony. Now that he finally had the riches he had dreamed of, now that he could enjoy them and give himself over to his innocent vices, the thing he had always defended had failed him: Peace. His last thought was for his beloved family: Lita and Loctun in Rilentor, and Olga and Octen in Silanda.

  May the war not reach you.

  At that same moment, many leagues away at the other end of the Kingdom, less than a day from the walled city of Silanda, the second part of Isuzeni’s orders were being carried out, just as the cunning slant-eyed strategist had planned. Gelbin, Ambassador of Rogdon to the Nocean Empire, was running in terror in the middle of the darkness across the small camp the Lancers had put up for the night.

  Gelbin ran past one of the fires where a copper pot was still hanging, with the dinner stew in it. A Lancer fell before him, run through by an enemy sword. Gelbin dodged him and tried to make his way to the west of the camp, where the horses were tethered in a corral.

  I have to get away from this nightmare, get to the horses and flee.

  Two Lancers fell behind him under the greater number of enemy swords. The Lancers could not stand, the superiority in numbers of the enemy was obvious and Gelbin knew it.

  They’re coming for me, they’re coming to kill me. I must get away!

  Gelbin ran without looking back, passing through the bloody fighting in the midst of the Lancers’ camp. Nobody got in his way; they were all caught up in fighting for their lives. He reached the horses, where two Lancers were fighting the enemy in an attempt to protect the mounts. The first one was run through by two enemies and crumpled to the ground, eyes open wide in disbelief which even death could not wipe away. The other Lancer finished off one enemy, then attacked his other two assailants. He fought with skill and energy and managed to finish off one of his enemies, but with a treacherous stroke the other skewered him through the back with his sword. He collapsed like a felled tree, and as he did so his eyes met Gelbin’s.

  “What… are…those monstrosities?”

  And he died.

  Gelbin had asked himself the same question when the savage battle had begun. He looked at the victorious enemy, that ghoul from the underground that was looking at him with non-existent eyes.

  It was a skeleton warrior.

  A soldier, only the bones of whom remained. He carried sword and shield, and his armor and helmet were half-eaten away. It was unreal, as though a long-dead soldier had risen from his grave. To kill him.

  But what are these things? Bewitched skeletons? Fleshless corpses come back to life to fight against men? This has to be a nightmare, it can’t be real!

  The skeleton came at him. Gelbin watched it, still not believing what he saw. There was no flesh, muscle or tendon on it, only bones, bones of a corpse which had been well and truly dead for a very long time. What powerful magic had raised such a creature? Death Magic, forbidden magic? But no-one in Tremia practiced it now, and the last worshippers of the ancient Lords of the Dead had been hunted down and exterminated. Although it was said that a sect of the Nocean Sorcerers still practiced it in secret, but then those enemies were not Nocean.

  The skeleton raised its arm to attack, and Gelbin tightened his grip on the hand in which his faithful Rogdonian sword waited in readiness to join fight. He blocked the skeleton-warrior’s blow and counterattacked. As a Court noble he was well versed in the use of the sword and had taken part in many training duels, even in tournaments. But this was not a duel, and his opponent was not alive. He struck the wraith in the rib-cage, piercing the ancient copper armor. The skeleton paid no heed and went on attacking, without a word or sound of any kind, without a breath, nothing.

  That stroke would have killed any man, but this creature is already dead, there’s no life left in it. How do I finish it off? How?

  A sweep of the skeleton’s shield struck him in the chest, and he felt a stab of pain. He stepped back, disconcerted. The enemy lunged at him, and by sheer instinct he crouched to protect himself from a horizontal stroke of the black sword. He looked at the enemy’s feet and saw the unprotected femurs above the worn-out boots. He hit with all his might at knee-level. The skeleton-soldier bent under the force of the hard kick. Gelbin hit it again on the side of its knee until it gave and the skeleton fell to one side. He stood over it and cut the head off with one powerful stroke. The skeleton warrior did not rise again.

  Gelbin breathed with relief.

  A sepulchral silence reached him from the camp at his back. There was no sound of fighting. The screams, the sound of metal against metal, had all stopped. Gelbin turned round slowly, fearing the worst.

  Before him stood a score of skeleton soldiers. In the center, commanding them, was a man wrapped in a purple cloak. His face was covered by a violet mask decorated with a silver line at eye level. In his right hand he held an ornamented short axe decorated with silver and gold, with precious stones on the handle. In his left he carried a skull with two red opals for eyes.

  “Well fought, Ambassador, it gladdens me to see you’re no court-dandy like most of the nobles of your kingdom.”

  “You wouldn’t dare harm an Ambassador of Rogdon. King Solin will cut your head off if you lay a hand on me. I’m on an official mission, I have an audience with Mu
lko, Regent of the North of the Nocean Empire.”

  “I have no fear of your petty King, and you’ll never get to speak to the Noceans. So my master has ordered, and so it shall be.”

  “Don’t be a fool, if you kill a Rogdonian noble on an official mission for the King you won’t live to tell the tale.”

  “That, little man, doesn’t worry me in the least…”

  “But who are you? What’s this death magic? What do you want?”

  “Very well, I’ll grant you this one last wish. My name is Cenem, I am a Priest of the Cult of Imork, and I am here because my master, the High Priest Isuzeni, has ordered your death.”

  “But why? I don’t understand…Who’s Isuzeni?”

  With a movement of his axe he ordered his skeletons to attack.

  Gelbin fell, pierced by a dozen swords.

  “There will be no peace for Rogdon. My master has so decreed.”

  Leadership

  Prince Gerart, heir to the throne of Rogdon, watched the deployment of the enemy troops from the top of the battlements. It was midmorning and the sun was shining high in the blue sky, mottled with small puffs of cloud. He was at the Fortress of the Half Moon, where he had arrived the night before, riding furiously from Rilentor. His father’s orders still sounded clear in his mind: the Norghanians must not invade Rogdon, the fortress must not fall, they must fight to the last man.

  He looked at the imposing outer wall, more than sixty feet high and four hundred paces long. It went from one end of the wide mountain pass to the other. This was the only place where an army could cross into Rogdon from the East. The great fortress had been built to seal the entrance to the Kingdom. Built of huge blocks of grey and black granite, mortar and lime, the imposing wall was more than twelve feet thick. It had been built to withstand the punishment of assault machines and any attempt at demolishing it.

  The Prince looked up. The high peaks of the wide mountain range rose on both sides in the shape of a semicircle which ran all along the entire eastern part of the Kingdom: the mountains of the Half Moon. These formed the backbone of Rogdon, protecting her from the aggression of the wild Norghanians, from the peoples of the steppes and from the greedy kingdoms of the far East. The huge range was interrupted by several steep, narrow passes, but these were very difficult of access and not suited for the crossing of an army.

  Gerart went up to one of the ten round towers which projected outward along the battlement. He saluted the three soldiers on duty there.

  “Everything in order?” he asked quietly. He could tell they were as tense as a newly-strung yew bow.

  “Everything in order, your Highness,” said the eldest of the three a little nervously, then the three came together to present arms to the Prince.

  “At ease, soldiers,” The three soldiers relaxed somewhat, but not entirely. There were men on duty along the whole wall, one every three merlons and three at each tower. All were expectant, alert to the slightest movement from the enemy, and very, very tense.

  Gerart looked at the great pass. The flat open valley of the wide pass opened out at the other end into the plains of the Nomad Tribes, after crossing the Mountains of the Half Moon. Gerart knew that the distance from the walls to the opening of the pass was two thousand paces, the great Norghanian war camp began scarcely eight hundred paces from the fortress. With a heavy heart he gazed at the sea of men and tents in the characteristic red and white colors of Norghania. They were getting ready, waiting for the order to attack.

  Seeing that the men were watching him out of the corner of their eyes, he straightened himself. Looking toward the Norghanians, he asked his men:

  “Any suspicious movement so far this morning?”

  “No, your Highness, none,” the veteran soldier said. “They’re just sending their light cavalry scouting… I guess they’re spying on our forces and studying our positions.”

  “That’s right, soldier, well spotted. They’re spying on us. And not only to know how many combat forces we have here, but also much more: our reserves of food and water, the western supply routes from the cities and villages nearby, the reinforcements which might be on their way, and plenty of other valuable information.”

  “I didn’t think of all that, your Highness.”

  “A siege requires a great deal of crucial information if it’s to be successful.”

  “If I may, your Highness…”

  “Speak freely, soldier.”

  “Do you believe they’ll attack? Will they really dare to declare war and invade us?”

  “What’s your name, soldier?”

  “Jonas, your Highness.”

  “You look like an experienced soldier, Jonas. Have you fought in a battle?”

  “Yes, Sire, although not so much in battle, more in a couple of skirmishes, but yes, I have shed enemy blood, your Highness. On the other hand my two companions here are novices.”

  Gerart looked at the two beardless soldiers. They were young archers, newly trained. Nervousness was visible in their eyes, and they were unable to conceal it.

  “I don’t know whether they’ll attack, Jonas, but I can guarantee you one thing: if they do, they’ll pay with their lives for their audacity. This fortress won’t fall into enemy hands as long as I’m in charge. I promised my father King Solin that the Norghanians wouldn’t take it, and they won’t. Of that you can be sure,” Gerart said with such passion that even he was surprised.

  Spurred on by the Prince’s words, Jonas stood tall and replied: “For sure, your Highness! Of course they won’t take it!”

  Gerart looked at the two young archers.

  “I see those are good yew bows. How’s your marksmanship?”

  “I can hit a target at two hundred paces, Your Highness. But Elis here can hit the bull’s-eye three hundred paces away without fail. He’s a real eagle. Where his eye goes, that’s where he puts his arrow.”

  “Is that so, Elis?”

  “Well, Sire… not always, your Highness…I’d say nearly always.”

  “That’s impressive, you’re a better archer than I am.”

  “I didn’t mean to…” the young archer began, trying to excuse himself, but Gerart stopped him with a smile.

  “On the contrary, Elis, it’s an honor to have good archers among my men. Listen to me carefully, the three of you. If the Norghanians attack I want you to fight back without mercy. Make every arrow count, let them feel the punishment, let their blood soak our walls until the enemy corpses block the pass completely. They must all die at the foot of this wall. None shall cross to the other side of the pass, mark my words!”

  The three men looked at him with a renewed brilliance in their eyes.

  “They shall not pass! You have my word as Prince of Rogdon!”

  “They shall not pass!” cried Jonas.

  “They shall not pass!” cried Elis

  “They shall not pass!” the four cried.

  And the shout went throughout the walls as if carried by the invisible wings of a bird of courage and honor.

  All the men posted in the towers and along the walls burst into cries of: They shall not pass!

  From the walls, the cry spread through the whole fortress: men, women, soldiers, civilians, all dropped whatever they were doing to join in the cry, given new vitality by the warm breath of hope. The whole fortress rang with one voice:

  They shall not pass! They shall not pass! They shall not pass!

  The cries of thousands of Rogdonian throats filled the pass and reached the Norghanian camp.

  A few moments later the enemy began to shout in response. Thirty thousand throats roared from the other end of the valley, their voices reaching the walls and being repelled by twelve thousand voices crying out:

  They shall not pass!

  At that moment Gerart became fully aware that the Norghanians would attack, there was no possible solution, not now that this point had been reached. The certainty filled his heart with deep sadness, not only for the lives that would be l
ost in the battle for the control of the pass but for the war which would follow and the pain it would bring to the good people of Rogdon. What would happen to the helpless farmers, their wives and children, the fishermen, their families, the shepherds and woodcutters? Innocent people who would suffer indescribable evils because of the war.

  Who’ll defend them if we fall at the fortress? Who? The Norghanians will make their way across our land like a horde of savages, laying all to waste. I can’t allow it, I must stop them at all costs. They shall not pass, come what may. I have to prevent it even though I lose my own life in the process. If I must die, so be it, but this fortress will not fall. For Rogdon, for Aliana… At the thought of the Healer an intense pain knotted his heart, he knew nothing yet of the woman his heart yearned for, except that he wanted to be with her, to hold her in his arms, to kiss her passionately.

  But he did not let the three brave soldiers see his pain and worry. For them he had to be a rock, an example to follow, the leader they needed, and that was what he would be. By the ancient gods, he would be! He could not fail, not this time. He thought of the incomparable Sergeant-Major Mortuc and how he missed him, how he needed his energy, his leadership. But the great Sergeant was there no longer, he had fallen like a hero in the forests of the Usik. Gerart could no longer count on his man of iron, and without him by his side the fear of uncertainty, of doubt, of being unable to make the right decision at some critical moment, weighed heavily on his soul.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the old Royal Counselor Urien coming, as if the ancient gods had heard his doubts and uncertainties and were sending him the help he craved. Seeing him he realized that his father had sent him instead of General Drocus precisely because of that…

  My father doesn’t trust me to make the right decisions, and so he’s assigned me wise old Counselor Urien. But I’ll show him I can make the right choices, that he’s mistaken about me. On the other hand, Urien’s wise advice will be of great help, no doubt about that. I’m not so foolish or vain as to think I won’t need help in those crucial moments. I know I’ll need him, and I’ll listen with humility and respect to what the Royal Counselor has to suggest. I’m not a fool.