Best Laid Plans

by D. P. Prior

  The dead lurched through the fissure, jamming each other in the opening as they blindly sought out prey. Finally, one of them squeezed through and lumbered forward, right into Albert’s trip wire. Flame shot across the passageway, melting flesh and filling the fissure with acrid smoke.

  Albert nodded his satisfaction before setting off after the hybrids, dragging the box with him.

  What the hell was he doing? He should never have been here. First Master Frayn’s madcap scheme, and then Shadrak’s double-edged rescue. This wasn’t Albert’s kind of work. He was a poisoner, not some desperado making a last stand just to save a bunch of freaks worshipped by savages.

  Strong hands grabbed him and pulled him further up the slope.

  ‘Give me the box,’ Baru said. ‘You must move quickly.’

  Already, the dead had passed through the flames and were closing inexorably.

  ‘How far have we got to go?’ Albert asked.

  ‘A long way. We will tire before we reach the top, but these dead things will not.’

  ‘You go,’ Albert said. ‘I’ll see if I can slow them down.’

  Baru glared at him and then nodded, clambering up into the darkness.

  Albert carried the box around another bend and then scooped out the rest of the orbs. He’d used up all the fire cylinders and had no time to rig another trap. Instead, he placed all the orbs but one on the ground— fifteen of them. Holding the last orb, he backed away and waited.

  Within moments, groping hands appeared, followed by a great swarm of cadavers lumbering towards him with frenzied eyes.

  ‘Here we go,’ Albert told himself. ‘Trusting it all on one last throw of the die.’

  He hurled the sphere into the midst the others and threw himself around the corner. The passageway shook as a thunderous roar rolled along the fissure and a blast of heat scorched his back. Howls went up from the undead and the smell of burning flesh followed.

  Albert waited for the heat to pass, found his feet, and ran as fast as his chunky legs would allow him.

  The hybrids waited further up. Baru dropped behind to guard the rear whilst Thindamura kept the lead, hopping ahead and then crouching impatiently as the others caught up. At first, Albert thought he’d stopped the dead, but after half an hour of arduous climbing he could hear shambling and groaning pursuing them up the fissure.

  The hybrids seemed deflated by the death of Murgah Muggui, but still they kept moving upwards, although Albert had the impression they did so purely for his sake. To his mind, they had given up.

  Finally, Thindamura climbed some knobs in the passage wall and disappeared from sight. A moment later he reappeared.

  ‘It is here,’ he said. ‘The opening to the summit.’

  The groaning of the dead echoed up behind them as first Mamba, and then Albert, followed Thindamura up the natural chimney. Baru brought up the rear.

  ‘They are close,’ he said, his crocodile jaws clacking. ‘And they are many.’

  Daylight spilled through an aperture above them and Thindamura leaned over the lip to offer Mamba a hand. The snake-man did the same for Albert, who emerged into blinding sunlight with Baru climbing out behind him.

  Albert blinked and saw that they were on a vast rocky surface high above a sprawling red desert. The expanse of limestone was immense, like a giant’s tabletop that ran for hundreds of yards in every direction. The clouds were so low it looked like he could step on them.

  ‘Keep moving,’ Thindamura said, leading them away from the opening.

  The first of the dead poked its head out and hissed, and soon corpses were spilling from the hole without end.

  Albert was too exhausted to run, but he managed to stumble along behind the hybrids as they vainly sought a way to escape. They’d made it no more than a hundred yards when Thindamura stopped, his eyes goggling, tongue hanging flaccidly.

  A figure had appeared upon a ridge at the far end of the Homestead. It was more bone than flesh, and wreathed in strips of mildewed fabric and dust-clogged cobwebs. Red eyes blazed at them across the distance.

  A grey creature flapped down beside it on bat’s wings, and a shadowy shape drifted to its side.

  Mamba hissed, his tongue tasting the air.

  ‘Is it him?’ Baru asked.

  ‘I think ssso,’ Mamba said.

  Albert looked behind where the undead were still pouring from the hole. There were already hundreds of them, and yet still they came.

  ‘Look,’ Thindamura said.

  Albert turned back to the three figures. The skeleton held its hands high, amber light suffusing them. A jagged black crack rent the air before it, widening like a colossal maw. In the opening, armoured riders appeared astride skeletal steeds. There must have been nearly two hundred of them, all in rusty chainmail and corroded helms. Flames flared from the horses’ nostrils and an icy chill rolled out across the summit.

  The skeleton then looked up at the sky, power pouring from its hands in pillars of amber fire. The heavens split like ripped fabric and admitted a cobalt wash. Black flecks filled alien skies, swooping nearer, until Albert saw they had the faces of feral women and broad leather wings. There were so many that the sky turned black.

  The hybrids looked at each other, shoulders slumped in defeat.

  ‘The Kryeh,’ Mamba said, his voice flat and lifeless. ‘We are undone.’

  As scores of winged demons dived from the sky and a horde of undead closed in from behind, Albert could only watch in terror as the knights on fleshless horses charged.

  THE BATTLE OF THE HOMESTEAD

  General Starn felt out of place, but that was nothing unusual. The Emperor was issuing demands to General Binizo of the Templum army and Binizo was politely, but doggedly, rebuffing him. The Ipsissimus stood back from the arguing, his attention focused on the antics of the Dreamer shaman and the boy. Huntsman was standing on one leg shaking a gourd whilst the boy scrabbled around on the ground and occasionally cast dirt into the air. Both seemed enraptured, their eyes almost pure white, their mouths frothing. The Grand Master of the Elect, Ignatius Grymm, looked on with barely suppressed disdain, and Deacon Shader was talking with a sandy-haired lad, his eyes all the while flicking towards a white-robed woman with long black hair.

  Rulers, commanders, and heroes, by all accounts. And then there was Starn. Oh, he was officially a general, but titles meant nothing, not when you knew yourself as well as Starn did. He’d always worked hard, he granted himself that, but he was under no illusions about why he’d risen so high. The Emperor considered him a bit of a dullard, a “yes man”, and who was Starn to disagree with him? He’d masqueraded as someone important for too long. Once this battle was over, he was slipping off with Mrs Starn somewhere the army couldn’t find him. He’d saved enough money for a bit of land, and Mrs Starn was as green-fingered as they came. A nice little smallholding outback where no one was likely to disturb them—

  ‘Don’t you agree, General Starn?’ the Emperor said.

  Starn nodded automatically and puffed out his chest as he turned back to the strategic debate. So far, his only role had been to concur with the Emperor. He’d missed whatever was under discussion, but his opinion didn’t seem to carry much weight in any case.

  General Binizo was watching him with one eyebrow raised. The man was as proud as a peacock and dressed immaculately in a red jacket and white breeches. His knee-length boots were polished so much Starn could see his reflection in them. Now there was a real general, he thought to himself.

  ‘You realize what you’re agreeing to, General Starn?’ Binizo asked.

  ‘Uh, yes. Quite.’ Starn put on his best gruff voice.

  ‘You’ll be blind to whatever lies on the other side of this…this magical doorway our friends are conjuring.’ Binizo nodded at the Dreamer and the boy, both of whom were now chanting in some indecipherable tongue and making circular motions with their arms. ‘There’s no telling what you might run into.’

  Oh. Starn hadn’t thought of
that. If only he’d been listening.

  ‘Not a problem for the Heavy Foot, eh, Starn?’ the Emperor said, clapping him on the shoulder.

  ‘The Foot, Emperor?’

  ‘That’s right, General. Haven’t you heard a thing we’ve been saying? I need my best man in the vanguard. You take charge of the regiment, and I’ll coordinate the bulk of the army.’

  Starn stroked his moustache and felt his cheeks reddening. ‘You’re relieving me, Emperor?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m entrusting you with the most crucial role.’

  Starn straightened up and saluted, all the while feeling like one of those canaries his father had told him about as a child—the one’s Pop and his colleagues used to carry ahead into the mines to check for poison gas.

  ‘I’ll go ready the men, then,’ Starn said, bowing and leaving Binizo and the Emperor to decide whose army was going to achieve the greatest glory. Starn dreaded what they’d be like once this was all over, once they had spoils to divide. Hopefully, the Ipsissimus would be as good as his word and the Templum army would just sail back to Aeterna. It didn’t seem likely, though, not if all the things Starn had heard about Nousians were true. He was dreading telling Mrs Starn about the campaign. He knew only too well what her thoughts would be on an alliance with Aeterna.

  ‘General.’

  Starn stopped, took a deep breath, and wondered what he’d done wrong now.

  ‘Yes?’ He turned to see Deacon Shader walking towards him. The sandy-haired lad was on his way back to his Order, a group of a dozen or so knights attired in the manner of the Templum Elect.

  ‘We have your back. No telling what you’ll run into on the other side. I was hoping you’d have a minute to discuss how this is going to work.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Starn said. I’m glad someone’s taking this seriously. ‘You have any experience of these portal things?’

  ‘A little, although maybe not quite the same as this. Tell your men to expect a moment’s disorientation. With any luck we’ll emerge in the open, but just in case we walk straight into conflict, it might be best if they adopt defensive positions.’

  ‘Thank you, yes, I had already thought of that. We’ll be going in testudo. I believe the term’s Aeternam in origin.’

  ‘Tortoise,’ Shader said. ‘Sounds like a good plan.’

  A flare of green drew Starn’s gaze. Shader turned with him. The Dreamer and the boy now stood before a vast disk of swirling green light a hundred yards across. Starn strained his eyes, but could see nothing through the glare.

  ‘This is it then,’ Shader said. ‘Good luck, General.’

  ‘Yes,’ Starn said. ‘You too. And, uh, Ain be with you.’ He winced inwardly as he said the words. He was definitely leaving that bit out of the tale he told Mrs Starn.

  ***

  Shader rode Gaston’s mare like a talisman through the portal, Barek on his right and Justin on his left. Elgin was behind with Solomon and Gord, the lads at the rear forming the base of the wedge. Fourteen in all, including Shader. Not nearly enough.

  They emerged into chaos—screams from up front, curses, and the sickening reek of decaying flesh. The line of infantry immediately before them was pushed back onto the horses as those up front tried to retreat. Someone was yelling above the din of battle, ‘Press on! Press on!’

  Shader looked for Starn, but couldn’t see him in the throng. The ranks up ahead began to buckle, the weight of some unseen enemy forcing them back. ‘Forward! Give no ground!’—It was Starn’s voice, hoarse and insistent. The troops in the rear leaned into their shields in an attempt to drive their unit forward, but the front line sagged and terrible screams rent the air.

  ‘Sound the charge, Barek,’ Shader said.

  As soon as the first trumpet note blasted out, the foot soldiers parted down the centre. Starn was bellowing, ‘Make way, make way!’ and Shader thought he saw the General dragging a blood-soaked comrade to the right. As a channel opened, Shader drew his longsword and charged.

  The White Knights stayed with him as he sped along the corridor between the foot men straight towards a surging tide of corpses. He hacked left and right, pulping rotting flesh like ripe fruit. The mare trampled corpses underfoot and carried on into the thick of the putrescence. Cold hands groped at Shader’s boots, but his blade was a whir of flashing steel that bit through flesh, severing limbs. Barek’s horse stumbled and nearly fell, the dead tugging it down into their writhing mass. Shader could do nothing, or else he’d lose momentum as he tore straight through the centre with Justin on his left. He saw flashes of white out of the corner of his eye and risked a glance to see Elgin and Solomon in amongst Barek’s attackers slashing their swords in murderous arcs, their horses kicking out and crushing ancient bones.

  Inevitably, the charge faltered before the endless rows of the dead. The ones in front had their backs to Shader as if they engaged another foe, but then they wheeled cumbrously to face him. Gord forced his way alongside and Justin trampled a cadaver to resume his place at Shader’s left. Barek, Solomon, and Elgin had made it, too, and glimpses of white still moved amongst the corpses behind.

  ‘There are too many,’ Barek said.

  Shader stuck his sword through the mouth of a raving zombie. The mare was bucking and whinnying, trying to turn in a futile bid to escape. Elgin made two vicious cuts, felling a couple more corpses, and Solomon ripped a severed hand from his boot and cast it aside.

  A great roar went up from the foot soldiers to the rear and rows of undead dropped like scythed wheat.

  ‘Again!’ bellowed Starn from somewhere in the phalanx.

  The wall of shields heaved and swords rose and fell. Within moments, the undead capitulated and the infantry reached the last of Shader’s riders just as a colossal wave of necrotic flesh was about to hit.

  The Heavy Foot opened ranks to let the white knights through and then locked shields to meet the onslaught. The undead slammed into them, but the back ranks pushed with their shields and the line held. Shader weaved the mare through the troops with the other knights following. They emerged to the left of the conflict and for the first time, Shader saw the wispy clouds surrounding the summit of the Homestead. Beyond the army of the dead he could see a man in a dark suit behind three unearthly figures with the bodies of men and the heads of animals. Facing them, a long line of cavalry was cantering towards a charge, and in the skies above hundreds of black shapes started to soar down.

  ***

  Albert searched every pocket of his suit as the black shapes swooped. Bugger all! No poisons, no darts. He felt like an unprepared rookie. Damn that little runt Shadrak. He should have allowed more time. A box of explosives was one thing, but for Albert, who was always so meticulous in his preparations, it was a one-shot wonder.

  His fingers closed around his cheese-cutter. Fat lot of good it would do, but he readied it just the same. If nothing else, it had the familiarity of an old friend.

  The hybrids paid no heed to the plummeting demons. All their focus was on the charge of the skeletal horses that was gathering speed with a cacophonous pounding of hooves on rock. Thindamura hopped from foot to foot; Baru growled and beat his chest, and Mamba thumped his fists together, his snake eyes glaring and venomous.

  Albert rolled out of the way of a diving woman with bat’s wings. He caught a glimpse of sickle-shaped eyes and fangs like daggers. He hit the ground and came up, wrapping the cheese-cutter around the creature’s throat and pulling. He expected the others to crash into him at any moment, but he meant to take at least one of them with him.

  Lightning arced through the sky and flesh smouldered. As the demon thrashed out its last, Albert saw dozens more plunging to their deaths, trailing wisps of smoke. The others banked up and then swooped below the ridge of the mountain.

  Just before the horses collided with the hybrids, Albert ran like the clappers, seeking the cover of rocks near the edge. A huge battle was raging back the way they’d come, the legions of undead fiercely engaged by
heavily armoured foot soldiers. He glimpsed a cluster of white-garbed knights skirting the edge of the melee, their leader in a broad-brimmed hat and long coat.

  Albert skidded to a halt and flung himself behind a boulder, his eyes flicking all around in case the demons returned.

  As the death-knights impacted with Mamba and Baru, toad-headed Thindamura bounded high into the air and came down upon a rider. With preternatural swiftness, he twisted the knight’s head off and tossed it aside. He sprang onto the next horse and did the same to its rider.

  Impossibly, Baru and Mamba met the charge with great clubbing sweeps of their arms and remained upright as the first horses disintegrated with the force of the collision. It was as if the hybrids were rooted to the rock of the Homestead; as if they were rock themselves. The riders encircled them—there must have been one…maybe two hundred—and began baiting the hybrids with bristling blades. Mamba and Baru fought back to back. The crocodile-man’s jaws tore through helms whilst his fists pounded skeletal horses to dust. Mamba unleashed gouts of venom that ate through armour and bone like acid.

  A sword pierced Baru’s side, but he roared and crushed the rider’s helm with a sledgehammer blow. Another blade took him in the hamstring and he went down on one knee, twisted, and ripped off the horse’s head with his jaws. Thindamura dived from horse to horse, wreaking havoc. His tongue whipped out dragging a rider from the saddle and then he somersaulted to avoid a scything blow that would have decapitated him.

  A hoof took Baru in the head and he swatted the horse aside. Another blade lanced into his shoulder and he fell. Mamba stepped over him belching venom and clubbing riders and horses with bleeding fists.

  Baru forced himself upright, hopping on his good leg, and Thindamura vaulted a horse to stand with his brothers.

  The knights drew back, and for a moment Albert thought the hybrids might prevail. But then he saw what was happening. The bones of the fallen were scuttling across the ground searching out their other members. With the patience of the dead, the knights waited for their colleagues to re-form.