“Ah, but you see, it is not the necromancer you should be worried about.” The brother turned to stare at the ground before looking solemnly back at the elf. “It is the Nightstalkers that you should concern yourself with.”
Ulle stared at the brother. Was he speaking honestly? Commander Sindfar had warned them all about the potential presence of Nightstalkers, but what did a human know of them? His kind thought them nothing more than tales to scare their young. Could this Anselmo know the truth of what they were?
“What do you know of the Nightstalkers?”
“The Nightstalkers can attack through dreams; they can enter a person's mind and tear away at the consciousness that links a person to this world. You must shield yourself against them – both your kin and dragon alike.”
Ulle looked the man in the eyes, staring at him for a few seconds before speaking. “Just what sort of man are you?”
“Just a simple cleric, but I have studied the ways of the undead and the old legends.”
It was against Ulle's better judgment, but after a few moments he sighed, running a hand through his long blond hair. It was tangled up from too much time in the field – matted in several areas, which made him realize he had not seen a hot bath in many weeks; not much better off than the urchins. “Very well, stay here until the commander arrives. I will let him speak to you about what you know of the dangers at hand.” He turned to look at one of his troopers. “Thorn, take a few men forward and see if you can find anything.”
Thorn nodded and took six men with him into the fort. Ulle kept his distance from Anselmo and his vagabonds. He was cautious to keep them in his sights from the back of his band; he made sure to put his best men at the front of the group between himself and the strange monk. It was rare for a human to understand the truths about the Nightstalkers. For this man to speak about them in such plain words…
Thorn returned an hour later, about the same time as Commander Sindfar came striding up with the rest of his guard.
“Commander!” Ulle saluted as Sindfar approached and dismounted, confusion evident on the latter's face.
“Ulle, what is this, a town meeting? Who are these people? We have a battle coming and these are mouths to feed and no arms to fight.”
“Apologies, Commander, but this is something that I had to bring to your attention. This man's name,” he indicated to the priest as he came limping up through the elven soldiers, “is Brother Anselmo, and he has information that I think you will find important.”
*** * *
The priest, Anselmo, as Ulle had called him, led Sindfar and his retinue into a large room with a table and chairs. At one point in the fort’s history, this area was probably used for planning and strategizing. Sindfar stationed his men outside the room as he and Anselmo sat down.
“So, my commander says that you have information that would be vital to us?” Sindfar gestured with one hand for Anselmo to speak.
“Yes, Commander Sindfar, was it?” When the elf nodded, Anselmo continued. “My refugees have come from across the area, each speaking of various horrors that you would call the undead. Many of them have spoken about a vampire lord that rides a nightmarish beast into battle. He attacks with reckless abandon, his thirst unquenchable, but he does not seem to be the one in command of the forces. Some have spoken about a withered man, robed in black. I believe this to be the necromancer that you are concerned with. As you have predicted, they seem to be heading this way. While I have not seen any of them face to face, with each new person I take in here, they seem to have come from closer a location than the last.”
“Hmm,” Sindfar tapped the fingers of his other hand on the table. “That is disconcerting. I would hardly believe the word of vagabonds and children, but for their stories to coincide, that is something indeed dreadful, but not unexpected. Where do you think they are most likely to come from?”
“These are the best approaches to this area.” Anselmo had sketched a small map in the dirt and pointed to some poorly-sketched locations. “I would suspect they might camp in this hollow up above the ridgeline. We wouldn’t see them easily and it allows access to the valley.”
Sindfar tapped his fingers on the table once more. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the brother, thinking back on what he had said.
“I find this all very coincidental, sir. A man that knows so much about our enemy just so happens to be at a fort that has long since thought abandoned. How do you know so much? Why should I believe what you have told me?”
“That is not important. Every moment we spend talking brings the enemy that much closer.” When the elf continued to stare at him and not speak, Anselmo sighed. “Very well. I have lived here for the past few years. I am a simple man of the woods. I keep an eye on the valley. I help those who flee the darkness. If you do not believe me about those who have escaped the undead, ask them yourself. They will tell you exactly the same as I have done. I have told you all I know, and what I know is that there is danger coming.”
Sindfar stood and looked at the depictions of the area that Anselmo had drawn in the dirt of the table for some time. If he trusted this man and it turned out that it was a ruse, then the elves would be doomed. But if this priest was indeed just a normal man, and the heavens had taken this opportunity to smile on Sindfar and forge fate to work positively, then perhaps they could actively prepare for the enemy. He turned to look at Anselmo and inclined his head toward the soldiers waiting in the hallway. “Kew!”
An elven cavalryman hurried into the room and saluted. “Sir!”
“Kew, you and Dingle carry this message back to Commander Greybar as quickly as possible.” Sindfar grabbed an archaic stone tablet on the table. He looked around for a writing utensil, but Anselmo was quick to hand him one. The priest smiled, and Sindfar nodded his thanks as he took the tool and began scratching a message onto the tablet. When finished, he handed it to the soldier. “Go, and don’t stop. One of you must get through to him and bring some help here.”
The soldier took the message and saluted as he left. Sindfar led Anselmo back outside, and they walked around the courtyard as the elven commander collected his thoughts. He knew Lemar stalked several paces behind him, so as not to make him feel she was on top of him, but also to make him aware that she was keeping him guarded. He was thankful for her vigilance, especially when he did not fully trust this Anselmo; who knew what he had set up around the fortress?
Sindfar stopped and turned to the priest. “What is the state of this place? How are the walls? Has anyone kept it up? This used to be a garrison station; are there any supplies left?
“You can see, Commander,” Anselmo said, motioning to the walls, “I have made some effort to prop it up, but it will not withstand a prolonged siege.”
Sindfar looked around the fort. There was a small gateway and tower facing the ridge that seemed to be the main gate. A curtain wall surrounded the exterior with towers in the middle of the side walls, and the keep they emerged from was in the rear of the fortress. For the length of time this place had been abandoned, most of it seemed in good shape, except for various parts of the walls that were in various states of disrepair, as if locals pulled out some stones for other buildings. Some gaps were plugged with wooden stockade fencing and were not in terrible shape – the cleric knew a bit about engineering.
“What about supplies or armory? The lords used to keep this place stocked in case of an emergency.”
“There are some foodstuff and ale. Much of it I stockpiled.” The priest shrugged. “There is some armor and arrows but not much in the blades. There are three disassembled onagers as well.”
The sound of galloping hooves made Sindfar turn. The horse skidded to a stop, whinnying loudly, as the scout all but fell off the saddle. “C-Commander...! We were scouting about ten miles on the other side of the pass. We stumbled across a pack of ghouls in the forest. They... they killed Sinqua, one of our lead scouts! We found them eating him and made sure we killed the bastards, but there a
re surely more on the way! We left a string of outriders to keep an eye on them.” The scout's face hardened as he took a deep breath and looked at his commander. “They are coming!”
Sindfar nodded, placing his hand on the elf's shoulder. “Thank you. Go, and rest. We will take it from here. We will need your strength.”
When the scout left, Sindfar turned back and sketched out a map of the post in the dirt. He turned to Lemar and pointed to the map as she approached. “Start shoring up the walls here. The keep gives us a wide view, so let’s get someone up there to make use of it. Brother, you and your ward have just been conscripted. You know where the weak spots are, help us get this in order. It’s too late now to flee, but I have a feeling you were all too aware of that.”
*****
The army of the dead did not care about stealth; they shambled on toward their commanded destination with deadly purpose. Troops of skeleton warriors marched on behind eyeless faces, but the remnants of their armor clanged on the bony frames, and their feet pounded earth in which the vegetation died as they passed over. They surely did not notice the trail of bare trees and dusty soil that marked their passage, but Yarik, the vampire lord, was not as oblivious as the mindless minions.
The ghouls and zombies snarled and moaned around him, creating a cacophony of noise like an undead choir when joined with the howls of the werewolves and vampires. Yarik, instead, chose to remain silent on the back of his proud horse of the damned. He was hungry and only becoming more infuriated and annoyed with every passing moment he did not feed. He stared at the 'human' element to the army with disdain; the coaches that carried the necromancers, their minions, and their thralls. How easy it would be, as he told Zar, to snatch one of them and suck the blood dry from the bones before it was even noticed.
The ghouls would stop for short periods, then speed on ahead along with bats and other malevolent spirits. As such, the columns of the dead moved in irregular patterns back and forth across the land. At any moment, sections of the army or the whole force itself might veer off in the direction of fresh souls.
The vampire lord was trying to keep his group moving – the lack of fresh kills combined with the meager rations the necromancer allowed them kept the vampires weak but able to move. Yarik had his suspicions that Zar was doing this on purpose. He must have been giving the vampires just enough to fend off the blood lust, but this made it so they would fight that much harder when the battle came.
One of the vampires had begun to wander off on its own, and just as Yarik was about to bare his fangs and give the offender a warning bite to drain some of its energy, his nostrils caught the scent of meat – fresh meat. There was a kill! Looking around, he noticed a small group of ghouls tearing at a carcass on the ground. He got off his nightmare steed and bounded over to them with determination. The ghouls turned, and he only had to hiss with bared fangs once before they parted for him. All but one.
He could make out an arm behind the crouched ghoul, and the scent of blood flooded his nostrils, his eyes enlarging.
“Move, peon,” Yarik hissed, trying to shove the ghoul aside. It turned to him, seeming to acknowledge he was a vampire lord, but it went back to gnawing flesh from bone.
Realizing that he did not have the physical strength to push the minion away, nor would his compulsion work on the undead being, Yarik drew his sword. With one quick slice, the ghoul's head rolled to the ground and then it fell limp. The vampire lord kicked the body aside and glared at the rest of the ghouls, who groaned and then shambled away. His vampires fell on the mortal corpse and Yarik was pleased to watch blood spurt into the air from the vampires’ incisors.
“Yes. Drink, my children. We feed, and we shall grow stronger.” He picked up the limb he had seen before and began to drain the precious liquid from the veins. The arm withered and grew limp quicker than he expected. He made his way up the shoulder to the neck, the spot his kin reserved for their lord. “Feast and grow stronger. For the next time we sup, it shall be upon the sweet blood of the elves.”
*****
“They are not the most articulate of creatures,” Zar remarked, staring at the ghoul staked out on the ground. “But Cilo can get what we need out of him.”
The ghoul continued to howl in pain and whimper while the cloaked figure circled it. Yarik tried to watch what was going on, but every time he stared at the figure that Zar referred to as ‘Cilo’, flashes of pure white light and divine winged entities bathed in that same aura entered his mind. He knew this Cilo was the furthest thing away from being of a holy nature; it was the nightmarish power that it was capable of, to conjure the mind’s greatest fear. Eventually the wailing from the ghoul stopped altogether, and the visions faded in intensity in Yarik’s mind’s eye.
“I do not like these emissaries of the Nightstalkers,” Yarik stated with his arms crossed. He noticed Zar looking funny at his mouth, so the vampire brought a hand up to wipe the remnants of his meal away. “The more I am around them, the weaker I feel. And I say that even after feeding. I should not feel as drained as I do.”
“You are a vampire lord,” the necromancer shook his head. “You must fight them, as we all do, from entering your mind. Their whispers might be tempting, and they might drain our energy in doing so, but steel your mind, Yarik. They have wandered between worlds so long that most of them appear only in dreams – that is how they enter this world. Those people most affected by magic are most susceptible to them. That is why elves, dwarves, and beings such as ourselves are affected. Keep your mind closed to them and you will be fine. “
The vampire lord watched the necromancer approach and stop in front of the emissary. The creature seemed to float just above the ground, and as it stood before Zar, Yarik thought he could see numerous skulls within the hood, all slick with some supernatural fluid, as well as a long tongue behind jagged teeth. But there seemed no eyes.
Even though it did not seem as if words were spoken, the necromancer nodded and backed away before turning and approaching Yarik once more. It had been no more than a few moments.
“Well, Cilo has done the trick, assuming the ghoul’s mind did not mistake the surrounding land, we have an idea where these elves are. Maybe not their numbers, but I suspect they have sent a sizable force to try and stop us. Let’s start to move this juggernaut of a force in that direction.”
Yarik stared at Zar with narrowed eyes, one arm across his chest and the other cupping his chin. “How do you communicate with them?”
“You need not concern yourself with that.” The necromancer stared expressionlessly at Yarik, as if in that moment he was devoid of whatever humanity he had left, a husk without a soul. From what Yarik had witnessed and known, humans were controlled by their emotions and based everything off of them. In that moment, there was no emotion on Zar's face or in his words. It unnerved the vampire ever so slightly. Finally, the necromancer turned and walked away, some of his usual voice returning. “Come, we must plan our attack.”
As the necromancer walked before him, the robe he wore caught Yarik's eyes. He had always thought it to be some exquisitely made, lavish human garment, trimmed in gold with detailed designs. But as he walked behind Zar, the closest he could remember being, he looked altogether different. The fine-looking silk was tattered and seemed to have been eaten by moths. The gold was faded and tarnished. The shadows at his feet looked stretched and unnatural.
Yarik had never trusted Zar – or any mortals for that matter – but he was beginning to question just what had been real and what illusion this trickster had pulled over his eyes. And then the question loomed of what was being controlled by the Nightstalkers, what aspects the necromancer had lost all control of.
*****
With the exception of some Gladestalker troops and some archers, there was nothing but cavalry in the encampment; however they were trained for fast action and movement – not for sieges. Yet, a siege was what they were facing. Meanwhile, Brother Anselmo directed his charges like a veteran tactician.
Sindfar believed that this was not the cleric’s first time in a fight, but then, very few in this world could have lived as long as he appeared without some combat experience. The garrison of elves worked alongside the humans through the day to patch the holes in the defenses.
When they were done, Anselmo approached Sindfar and wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.
“It would never pass elven muster, but it will give the illusion of strength.” The old priest bent down by a large rock that bordered on being a bolder. When he went to pick it up, Sindfar nearly leapt to stop the man, but he moved it with ease and placed it in part of a breach. “Of course, that only applies to the living creatures. The dead ones have no fear.”
“You are a book of surprises, brother,” Sindfar said, eyeing the man cautiously. “I hope you can fight as well as you can lift.”
Brother Anselmo smiled and nodded, leaving the thought in the air. The serenity of the night was broken as a Gladestalker detachment came in through the gate. A winded Captain Frebar came up to the commander and saluted despite the evident exhaustion.
“We’ve made contact, sir. I think we’ve identified the main body. My troops have eyes on them to track their movement.”
“Thank you, Captain Frebar.” Sindfar saluted the captain, and then he turned toward Anselmo and nodded. He stormed off toward the rest of his troops, Frebar close behind. It was time to prepare for the coming battle.
*****
Quequa could not hear his own footfalls as he hurried through the forest; the shadows that danced by his sides and in front of him were his fellow Gladestalkers, just as silent. He looked up and down the landscape, always prepared that an enemy was around any turn in the trees. Hikow, his leader, held his hand up, and the warriors came to a stop. There was movement. As a group, they all stooped down. If this was the bulk of the enemy forces they had been tracking, there would be too many of them to take them on directly. Their main task was to scout, locate, and report. They fought, but only when they needed to, and that didn’t need to be now.
Tales of Mantica Page 26