The evening fell on them like a veil of cloud. In the distance, they could make out a landscape that was growing greener all the time, dotted with crests and valleys. The road was not in such good condition as it was in the North.
The horses were beginning to show serious signs of exhaustion. The general decided they had to stop if the animals were not to die. The riders dismounted and allowed them to search for grazing, which in that area was plentiful. The young girls grew weaker and sicker. One was feverish, and the other two looked as if fear itself were strangling the life out of them. They could not be older than five. As for the baby, it had stopped crying altogether. Perhaps it would have been better to bring the mother so she could feed the babe, Lulita thought. She instantly regretted not having thought about it with more care. Reality, however, pulled her back into the moment and she realized there was no way the mother could have come. This was indeed the best chance the baby had to survive—although it was a slim one.
Leandro could not stop thinking about his family. He would have given anything to know where they were. He was also worried about the philosopher.
Lulita, beside Tomasa, remained alert to the possible dangers they might meet.
“Gonna hunt sumting, Lulita.”
“Don’t be too long, Tomasa. I don’t think we’ll be staying here much longer. It’s not safe.”
Luchy was sitting on the ground, at the edge of the road. She hugged herself and rubbed her arms, making the most of the sun’s last rays. The nights were cold, and her cotton clothes were not warm enough. She looked at the girls and felt pity for them. She went up to them and huddled closely beside them. No words were exchanged.
Savarb, pale as a corpse, was shivering. The infection was growing more serious and spreading. Death was certain. Strangelus did not take his eyes off him. Without food, without herbal medicine, his wound would not heal.
“Leandro, there’s no time left.”
“Someone’s running!” Lulita shouted.
Leandro unsheathed his sword, Strangelus raised his staff. Luchy got to her feet and seized a dagger. The grandmother readied her bow and tensed the string. She aimed, then saw that the figure approaching had only one arm.
“Wait! It’s Mowriz! He’s followed us. Is it possible?”
For two days they had ridden practically without stopping. It was impossible for a human being to have caught up with them, and yet here was Mowriz with his sword, and he was not even panting.
“Sun, little sun,” Mowriz said as he came up to the group of travelers.
“By all the holy gods!” Lulita cried. “What are you doing here?” She was glad to see the boy, as well as worried. She looked into his eyes, empty and inexpressive, but deep.
Deathslayer came over to them. “How did he catch up with us? It’s impossible.”
Tomasa came running with something in her hands: two decapitated snakes. Her face was pale, which alarmed the others.
“There are walking dead over there!” she cried out in terror.
“Hell!” muttered Leandro. “That means there’s a sáffurtan somewhere nearby. Come on! We need to get out of here now!”
The horses were reluctant to leave after their brief rest. Deathslayer gave the order to go on foot for a while to give the animals a chance to recover fully except for Savarb, whom they put on the white mare. The three young girls were mounted with Tomasa and Leandro.
***
Lomans and his group stopped in an area of flat land. They were approaching the foot of the Marsemayo Volcano in the northeast of the Empire, and the great city of Vásufeld, where they were headed. They expected to find shelter, supplies, and comfortable beds, even if it was only for one night. He would notify the duke of the danger the Empire was in and, with the forces of the city, they could join those of Kathanas to face the war.
There were problems during the journey. They lacked water, food, and rest. With the dead and a group of duj on their heels, they hardly dared to stop. It was a surprise to all to find that one of the most resilient turned out to be the sacristan. With his skinny body, his face that revealed his lack of experience, and his obvious weakness, how could the captain have imagined that the boy could run like a hare, wield a sword ferociously, and face the dead with rarely seen courage? Lombardo even thought that Argbralius belonged to a new category of missionaries, one which not only spreads the good word but is also capable of defending the faithful with a deft hand. If that was so, the farmer was thinking about changing his opinion about religion.
Gramal did not disappoint, despite his heavy white armor. His training in Omen showed. He was agile and very malodorous. All that sweat, murk, and grime had accumulated under the heavy armor on his cotton tunic. If only the smell could be used as a weapon. But however smelly he was, the Brutal Fark-Amon warrior was extremely agile. This was no surprise to soldiers like Lomans, who had seen many battles. For less-experienced soldiers and civilians, it seemed almost a miracle. His whole armor and claymore together must have weighed nearly fifty pounds.
Elgahar struggled to run, staff in hand, and keep himself out of the hands of their pursuers. He also carried a short sword, but Strangelus’ lessons had never involved the use of weapons. On the other hand, it might be true that he had studied magic a great deal, but he had barely put his knowledge into practice. He knew that with his knowledge, he could char those walking corpses to a crisp, but he was not so sure he could manage to do so under so much pressure. He could die if the casting failed. The whiplash of a failed spell of power could turn him into cinders. Still, he was aware that the moment was fast approaching when he would have to cast some sort of spell. Could he use the sword as a means of transferring energy? In theory, yes. He had seen Gramal do it! But the Brutal Fark-Amon was a far more experienced spellcaster than he was himself and was trained specifically to wield a large weapon like a claymore energetically. The bigger the weapon, the more easily the spell would hold. What he certainly was not going to try was to generate the spell using his own body. Up until now, only legendary mages like Tuetón the Gray had managed it, but that sort of thing could result in death.
Elgahar thought about his family, his mother in particular, who had urged him not to join the school of magic in Omen.
“Be a good son and learn your father’s craft! We’ve been butchers for nearly two centuries now! Be a good lad and serve your city!”
Elgahar was sure butchery would have served him better than magic at this moment. He would at least know how to cut! Immediately he heard a voice in his head: it was his own. Magic is my calling It's my duty to serve my empire as a future magician!
As he took stock of the group, Lomans felt worried; they would not hold up much longer. As a result, he found himself in a dilemma: They must either keep on running despite their fatigue or choose a spot to wait for their enemies and confront them. Both possibilities were equally dangerous.
They left the dense, lush forest and moved on to a plain dominated by the magnificent Marsemayo Volcano. Its wide base spread across the horizon like a huge tablecloth. The bulk of the volcano rose several leagues above the ground, and its peak was an unattainable forge. Through the crater issued shreds of smoke, as though it were a man constantly drawing on a pipe.
Their pursuers too came out of the forest. There must have been about fifty of the walking dead, evil men, and a handful of duj, all of them looking like rabid dogs. There were no voj in sight, which was a good thing. Those great hybrid orcs were very strong, and their humanoid features were uncanny. The dead walkers’ bodies were dismembered, torn with their innards spilling out.
The sun was going down behind the mountains; soon they would not be able to see a thing. The soldiers panicked like caged pigs whining in the face of their imminent end. Lomans and his team went on up the volcano for nearly an hour. When the slope became too steep, he decided to set up a barricade. The land gave them the advantage. Also, the lava flowing on both sides made it impossible for the pursuers to take a
ny route other than straight ahead, and they could always throw them into it. Although they might fall in too.
“This is where we’ll wait for our enemies. It’s now or never! Today our fate will be decided!”
Gramal shouted a war cry. Elgahar felt a positive inflow of energy and marveled at the war cry. Was it magical? Did the war cry infuse the allies with positive energy? He was convinced it did. And he marveled at its glorious power, as his spirit and his desire to beat the enemy rose. The Brutal Fark-Amon unsheathed his claymore and held it up in the air. Words of power came from his mouth.
“Annacera!” The enormous blade gleamed with blue energy. Elgahar was not the only one marveling at the display of power. The sacristan was also drinking in the scene, power-hungry.
The assault group of walking corpses was already climbing the slope, scratching themselves, opening new wounds, and falling and getting up again. The soldiers in their armor were suffering from the high temperatures of the nearby lava. The evil men were deterred by the terrain. Duj tried to push those men up the slope, to no avail.
Lombardo decapitated the first of the dead with his long sword; the head rolled and ended up in the stream of lava. Gramal did not attack like a bull on this occasion. He stayed his ground and waited for several corrupted corpses to get near enough to cut through them with one fell swoop. Lomans took courage, and the urge to hunt came over him. He spun his morning star at the first to come near him and buried his skull between his shoulders. He seized one by the chest and another by the abdomen and threw them into the burning river.
The first duj reached the group of survivors. Argbralius had never seen an orc before the village was attacked. Seeing one now, so close to him, stirred up sheer desperation and anger in him. These creatures were foul. And also very strong. He fell to the ground as he wrestled the orc. He was not the only one to be surprised. The orc found that the lanky human was stronger than expected. Even more, the human emanated strange energy. The orc’s desire to kill this human dwindled. He was not sure if this human was evil or not. The energy coming from his eyes was unmistakable. The orc was about to salute him, even bow to him, but Argbralius took advantage of the moment and buried his sword in his neck.
Elgahar hit a cursed corpse with the flat side of his sword, causing it no damage at all. The sacristan ran and sliced the dead cursed woman in half. The pupil in magic had no time to wonder at the religious man’s capacity for violence. He did his best to stay away from the action.
Lomans and his people defeated the living dead with ease, but they were accumulating, pressing upon them. More duj advanced. Two and three at a time, the remaining villagers were butchered. The orcs attacked them for preference, as they were easy prey and a potential source of food. The dead villagers soon rose as living, corrupted corpses.
“We keep killing them! But they keep on rising!”
Lomans killed one of his former soldiers. The soldier had died. His eyes were red now, powered with the glowing embers of the rotten soul that had wormed itself into the body and animated it.
Gramal saw his opportunity. He was surrounded by the enemy. Three orcs were approaching behind him. The dead, more than ten, had surrounded him. He grinned and tensed, then summoned a spell with a word of power. The magic-wielding soldier spun like a whirlwind, and the sword ripping through the air in a spiral route. All the enemies fell at his mercy. But the task was not without a price, as in magic there is one constant among all practitioners: a price has to be paid for the casting of every spell. The soldier was suddenly utterly weak. The fifty pounds of weight of his armor threw him to the ground, and his claymore lost all energy. The great soldier groaned in pain as his joints and muscles cramped. He had overused his mana.
“Defend Gramal!” yelled Lomans. “Lose the armor, you idiot! Or else you’ll die in it!” Typical of the Brutal Fark-Amon. They can be so cocky, think themselves better than the common soldier, and yet here we have one of them curled up on the ground like a crying babe.
More and more corpses advanced, and evil men made their way to the defending party as Gramal fell. He was indeed a powerful Brutal Fark-Amon, but inexperience had led him to follow the example of powerful and at the same time inexperienced soldiers. He had consumed his energy reserves too fast. If Lomans had learned anything from the young general, it was that economy of movement was key to winning any battle.
Gramal took off his armor, painfully slowly. The soldiers focused their energy on defending the fallen warrior. The pressure was mounting. On one front, the survivors were dealing with the living enemy while on the ground, the dead walkers were crawling to feast on the living.
A soldier was caught by the crawling corpses, who immediately began to chew through his legs. The screaming soldier infused fear into the handful of survivors. Elgahar tried to issue a spell of power, but fear struck his mind numb. He was unable to and gave himself up to frustration. They were going to die.
A croak, guttural and unhinged, rent the air. It had come from Argbralius’s throat. In his hands there shone a red sword, made of energy in its raw state that he began to plunge into his enemies with ease. The sacristan was a whirlwind of unstoppable rage and strength, destroying everything it met in its way, dead and living alike. Argbralius was aglow with a strange energy, and he killed with such passion that it almost appeared he was savoring every kill. What was worse, or better, was seeing how the duj went almost limp before dying, how the evil men simply stopped fighting. What the hell? There was more. Lomans felt a surge of energy in himself. He sensed a need for violence that he had felt before, but somehow it now flourished in him in a raw state. The massive captain hurled himself forwards, beating the dead to a pulp and the living to sure death.
As the battle shifted and the group of enemies was slain, the religious man simply collapsed. He began to convulse in a seizure.
“He’s possessed!” yelled a soldier.
Lomans had no idea how to categorize what he had just witnessed. A sword of red energy? Was that even possible? Was he hallucinating from exhaustion? Gramal was already on his feet, wearing only his cotton tunic. He left everything else behind and ran to the fallen priest.
“I owe this man my life!” he yelled. He picked up the convulsing man like a sack of potatoes and slung him on his shoulders.
“Run!”
The few survivors ran down the slope, avoiding the few living corpses that remained with ease, and made for the distant forest line.
***
The horses were trotting, but despite the moderate speed and Tomasa’s care, Savarb was suffering greatly with the rattling and jolting, and his condition was worsening.
With the moon high in the sky, the general and his companions spotted a dying fire on one side of the road. They had passed the estate of Licaf and Atisbar, the residence of Trágalar Maximus.
“Looks as though a carriage has been attacked,” Lulita said. Her voice was charged with tension. The tension came mostly from the dying baby in her arms. She was sure the little creature was not going to make it. She had given him water, but he needed more than that. He barely cooed.
Leandro stared. Yes, it was a carriage with the flames devouring the remains of its wood. He leaped off Marlo, unsheathed his sword, and ran to the fire. As he approached it, he realized that it was the carriage where Karolina, the children, Nana, and the philosopher had been traveling.
He collapsed onto his knees, weeping. He took off his helmet and burst into a lament for the death of his family. Lulita, Luchy, and Strangelus too dismounted and looked on in silence. As they stopped, one of the girls, the older one with the fever, collapsed and died.
“They’re ill!” yelled the mage. The other two girls were already burning with fever. They already looked like death. The mage knew they would not make it. Not without a proper healer. Even with proper treatment, they might already be beyond help. They ought to leave them behind, especially if they were to avoid the spread of whatever illness was brewing in them. But he co
uld not even utter the possibility of abandoning a couple of girls, even though their death was a fact. The baby Saluem was also going to die very soon. But Lulita held on to him with all her might. The mage wondered about the old Wild Woman, how she had talked to Leandro. She seemed to be made of stern stuff.
There was blood everywhere. Lulita found the remains of the two horses which had pulled the carriage, as if a feast had been celebrated with their flesh. The general’s sorrow took hold of her, and she could not help remembering Eromes. Around the carriage were signs of an intense struggle: scratches in the wood, trails of blood, shreds of cloth, as well as gray and white locks of hair. Rufus’s. Poor faithful dog.
Strangelus was comforting his friend with a hand on his shoulder, but the general found no relief.
Mowriz appeared, smeared with blood. “Sun, little sun!”
They were the same words as ever, but there was an alarm in the tone of voice. In the distance, they could hear the advance of a multitude running. He could make out the gleam of their weapons. They had the hunched appearance of duj.
“I’m sorry, Leandro, but—”
“Misbegotten sons of bitches!” the general cried in an ecstasy of fury. “I swear on my life that those bastard sons of hell will pay for this!”
His face somber, full of hate, Leandro went to his horse. The only way to avenge his family was by reaching Kathanas as soon as possible, and so the general and his companions disappeared into the darkness of the night.
The corpse of the elder girl who had fallen started to twitch. Rigor mortis had taken hold of her. But the powerful spell that infused an evil spirit into her empty carcass was already fighting off the tension of death. The girl’s neck cracked. She began to crawl on all fours and eventually began to walk. She was not damaged by any fighting so her corpse walked easily and quickly followed the trail of the living enemy.
Archangel’s Ascension Page 12