by A J Dalton
He shuddered involuntarily. He’d seen fighting in his relatively few years, having done his first year’s service in the mountains holding out against troglodytes and the mountain clans. But nothing could have prepared him to face this scene of carnage. He’d joined the King’s Guardians because he’d wanted to get away from the savagery and brutality found at the edges of their kingdom. He now began to realise that the evil was inside as well.
‘Well?’
Young Strap jumped. ‘Erm… obviously, the weapons are worth a goodly amount. I imagine desperate locals will be tempted to come looting. Plus, there must be rings and coins upon the dead. Chain mail. Perhaps even some plate mail if a noble was struck down.’
There was a movement out of the corner of his eye and Young Strap span. He sighed. It was just a pennant lifting on the breeze. Another movement. A crow stood on a bloodied head and pecked at the eye sockets.
‘Jumpy, lad?’ the Old Hound asked blandly, but didn’t really have the heart to mock the youngster too much. ‘It’s alright. Gets to every Guardian, no matter how many fields they’ve stood a watch over. It’ll get worse once night begins to fall. Anyway, where were we? Oh, yes, rings, coins, armour and the like. Well, to be honest, we don’t get many people in search of such things. It’s stealing from the King, see? Treason and instant execution. No, not so much of that. But others come.’
‘Others? What do you mean others?’
The Old Hound smiled grimly. ‘It’s mainly why we’re here. To stop them in particular. Come on, lad, you’re smart enough. Have another look around. What is it they come for?’
Young Strap reluctantly turned his eyes to the field again. What the old timer going on about? And how had he suddenly put him so much on edge that he startled at the slightest thing? Well, at least I’m not bored anymore, he thought wryly to himself.
‘Let me see: a dead body, some mud, a dead body, some blood…’
‘Precisely!’ said the Old Hound as if genuinely pleased with the answer.
‘You don’t mean…?’
The Old Hound nodded.
‘Cannibals?’
‘What? Cannibals! Shakri’s paps, lad! The locals aren’t that desperate!’
‘They had cannibals in the mountains!’ Young Strap said defensively.
‘Aye, I suppose they might have at that. Anyway, lad, what we’re mainly guarding against are the creators of the living dead – necromancers.’
Now it was Young Strap’s turn to scoff. ‘Come, now! Necromancers? That’s a tale for simple country folk. Or to scare children.’
‘What?’ the Old Hound growled in warning.
Young Strap checked himself. ‘I mean to say… you haven’t actually seen… have you?’
‘Aye, lad, I have. You always lived in the city then?’
Young Strap looked at the Old Hound warily. ‘Apart from a year in the mountains, yes.’
‘Those in the city have never had to concern themselves too much with zombie-makers. Just stories to them. It’s the villages and remote areas that have to live with such things. Necromancers live on the margins of human society… predictably.’
Young Strap frowned. ‘I’m not doubting your word, but…’
‘But?’ the Old Hound asked mildly.
Young Strap didn’t answer.
The elder man relented. ‘But you find it hard to get your head around it. How could it happen? Lad, why else would the King’s Guardians exist? It’s our job to keep the necromancers in check, to ensure we don’t get too many of ’em springing up. If everyone were to start doing it, most of the people walking around would be the living dead. Then necromancers would start murdering as many people as they could so that they had more people to rule. The world would become an actual hell. It would be the end of the world, lad.’
‘B-but… sh-sh-surely… why doesn’t the King just hunt down all the necromancers?’
‘What do you think it’s our job to do when we’re not sorting out battlefields of the dead?’
‘No one told me any of this! Tell me you’re kidding, just having a laugh at the new Guardian’s expense!’
‘Wish I could, lad, but I’m afraid I can’t. We don’t bruit around what we do because it would upset the city folk, those that pay the lion-share of the King’s taxes. When people get agitated, you get all sorts of problems – civil disobedience, drunkenness, looting, and the like. It’s not good for the kingdom. Best to keep it quiet. Now I know this might all be a bit of a shock to you, it being new and all, but they wouldn’t have let you join the King’s Guardians if they didn’t think you could handle it and were particularly good at soldiering and hunting and the like.’
‘Tracking.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Tracking. They always used me as a tracker in the mountains. Could find anything.’
‘There you are, you see. Weapons?’
‘Good with a bow. Even in a strong wind.’
‘Great! Now, if you make sure you do exactly what I tell you, then you’ll make a splendid Guardian. You’ll get all the village girls as well, if your tastes run that way.’
‘Great!’ Young Strap said numbly.
‘If you do as I tell you, mind. Things are always tricky at first. Take some getting used to. We can always start now.’
‘What?’
‘Pick up your bow and nock an arrow.’
‘What?’
‘Just do as I tell you, lad.’
Young Strap span and regarded the field. The Old Hound sighed. A humped figure was making its way among the dead, pausing now and then to examine something.
‘Might just be someone looking for their son who hasn’t come home yet.’
The Old Hound spat. ‘Maybe. My instincts tell me otherwise. Will you be picking up that bow, lad?’
The figure stopped.
‘Shit! Knows we’re here. If they run, we go after ’em, understand? If they don’t run, then things are likely to turn pretty ugly. You do exactly as I say, hear?’
‘Sh-sure!’ Young Strap said with wide eyes. He began to reach for his bow.
The Old Hound stalked forwards, a throwing knife in each hand. Young Strap hastened after him, trying to keep his footing while fitting an arrow to his bowstring. A hand reached out and grabbed his ankle. He fell sideways with a scream.
The Old Hound barely glanced at him and began to run for the figure. The battlefield began to churn to life.
‘Don’t leave me!’ Young Strap pleaded. He stared in horror at the dismembered limb affixed to his ankle. Its grip was tightening and he could feel his bones grinding together. A carcass nearby rolled over and looked at him. It smiled.
‘Ahhhh!’
He whacked at the dead hand with his bow, but to no avail. Casting it aside, he scrabbled for his belt knife and plunged it into the pale flesh. Thick, black blood oozed from the forearm, but its grip did not slacken. Breathing raggedly, he cut between the hand’s fingers and knuckles. He worked the blade around until a finger became detached. He repeated the exercise on another digit. With a whimper of relief he finally flung the limb off him. The carcass had dragged itself almost within reach of him now. He rolled away, snatching up his bow in the process.
He made his feet, pulled an arrow, drew and released in one fluid motion. It hit the chest of the carcass dead centre. The dead soldier moaned and rocked backwards. The cadaver coughed, which Struck Young Strap as a surprisingly living and breathing response. Then it began to clamber to its tottering feet.
‘To me!’ yelled the Old Hound, who was busy plunging a knife into the eye of a particularly large zombie with one hand, and casting his other knife at the necromancer with the other.
Young Strap needed no second bidding this time. He leapt away from his clumsy opponent and moved to the aid of his older companion, whose partner seemed to be trying to engage him in some sort of dance. The necromancer had narrowly avoided the Old Hound’s blade and was beginning to chant loudly.
‘Neve
r mind me!’ shouted the Old Hound. ‘Kill him! Shoot him in the throat!’
The necromancer stumbled over his words and then screamed in frustration. He began his chant again. Young Strap coolly drew an arrow and took his time fitting it to his bow. The necromancer chanted more quickly and with panic in his voice. Young Strap raised his weapon calmly and took deliberate aim.
‘Nooo!’ screeched the scrawny magician and threw himself sideways into the mud.
Young Strap still hadn’t fired. He walked towards the gibbering, prone figure.
The zombie grappling with the Old Hound seemed to lose its focus and co-ordination. The Old Hound booted it away from him and watched it slump to the ground, apparently incapable of rising again. He grunted, went back to it and retrieved his knife from the eye socket, barely having to slap its arms away, and then collected the knife that had missed the necromancer. Then he walked over to the necromancer and slit his throat.
***
Young Strap stared into the fire and pulled his cloak more tightly around himself. The charring twigs in front of him popped and curled like blackened fingers on a burning hand. He scrubbed at his face and tried to think of something else.
‘We were lucky.’
‘What?’ Young Strap snapped. For reasons he didn’t quite understand, he felt betrayed and dirty.
‘He was old. Necromancers are stronger when they are young. It’s got something to do with the toll the magic takes on the body. Perhaps they give some of their life-force to the dead they bring back to life. An exchange of sorts.’
‘Whatever!’ Young Strap said tiredly.
The Old Hound paused. ‘You did well today, lad!’
‘Hmm.’
‘Truly. Don’t worry. You’re not supposed to enjoy it. In fact, if you did, I wouldn’t be letting you continue. But you should be proud that you have served your King faithfully. What’s more, you’ve protected the innocent living and spared the souls of the innocent departed from further suffering.’
Young Strap, who felt anything but young at that moment, sighed heavily. ‘Let’s not talk about it for a bit.’
‘Of course, lad, I’ll give you some time.’
After a while – though how long it was he couldn’t say – Young Strap asked, ‘What do you think it was he was looking for out there?’
The Old Hound shrugged. ‘Beats me! It doesn’t really matter all that much anymore. Maybe he was looking for a particularly young and handsome soldier, one that would smile sweetly at him and be a pretty bed companion.’
‘That’s sick! If you hadn’t been so quick to murder him, we could have asked him.’
The Old Hound’s face hardened. Coldly, he said: ‘No necromancer deserves to stay alive even for the time it takes to answer a question. The work of a King’s Guardian is hard, and we all deal with it in our own way. You will have to learn to respect that if you are to be one of us.’
‘I hear what you say, Old Hound, and you have my respect. But I need to ask this.’
‘Very well, I will not blame you for asking, if you do not blame me if I refuse to answer. Go ahead!’
‘I can see that what necromancers do is wrong, evil even. But, tell me, why do you hate them so?’
The wind blew hard and buffeted Young Strap where he sat. The flames were flattened and had to cling desperately to the twigs. He leaned forwards and asked again.
‘Why do you hate them so?’
Was that thunder approaching? Or the millions of wild horses in Shakri’s herds? Were they coming to flatten the world of the living beneath their hooves?
‘Old Hound, why do you hate them so?’
On the last word, for the third time of asking, the wind died down and all was relatively still, as if waiting for the Old Hound’s answer. He looked into the fire, or was he looking beyond it, at something far away or a long time in the past?
Young Strap waited, becoming more and more afraid of the answer. He wished he hadn’t asked but it was too late to unask it. The world was different now.
‘I will tell you. But not yet. I will tell you when we have been through more together, when you will be more capable of understanding the answer in the way that I need you to understand it. Right, time for me to get some sleep. You’ve got the first watch.’
‘Why me?’
‘There are many reasons. You can choose which you prefer best. First, I suspect you wouldn’t sleep much tonight anyway. You’ve got that look in your eyes. Next, I’m older than you and need my sleep more. And lastly you still need to learn to do as I tell you. Now, while on watch, sit with your back to the flame so that…’
‘Yes, I know. So I don’t lose my night vision. It’s also better if I don’t sit anywhere near the fire, because marauders will always be drawn to it. In a way, you’ll be lying here as bait.’
‘That’s a comforting notion, lad. Thanks for that. But you’re right. Good night, then.’
Young Strap watched the strange, old man wrap a cloak around himself and roll over to sleep. ‘Old Hound, how many necromancers have you killed?’
Finally, the Old Hound’s voice came back: ‘A goodly number. Less than a hundred, though. A few have escaped me lately. I’m not as quick as I used to be. When I was young, nothing escaped me. I was known as the Scourge.’
Young Strap stared at the back of the recumbent figure. This was the Scourge? The warrior who figured in tales to scare children as often as necromancers did themselves? The Scourge will get you if you’re not good, his mother had always told him. Young Strap had suddenly stepped into a world where stories were true. He walked away into the night.
***
His nose smelt pulses boiling gently in a pan. Some cubes of meat – presumably from dried army rations – had been added. A sprinkling of dried herbs. And was that wild garlic? His stomach rumbled and squirmed until it had succeeded in waking the rest of his body.
Young Strap opened his eyes and looked over at the fire, where the Old Hound crouched stirring the food. The old man regarded his younger companion.
‘You snore.’
‘It can’t have kept you awake though, Old Hound. You were on watch, surely?’
The Old Hound sighed with irritation. ‘The point is people can hear you from miles away. If they don’t see the glow of the fire, then your snoring will certainly give us away.’
‘Oh!’ said Young Strap scratching distractedly. ‘Shakri’s paps, what’s that?’ he swore, pulling a bloated insect of some sort off his neck and flinging it towards the fire.
‘A blood flea,’ the Old One said mildly. ‘You get lots of them around a battlefield. This one’s drunk its fill. It would have dropped off you eventually. Fairly harmless, unless you get caught asleep and naked by a whole bunch of them.’ He used a stick to tumble into the fire, where it crackled, fizzed and then popped.
‘How long do we have to stay here?’ Young Strap complained, knowing he was close to whining but unable to stop himself.
‘Today we read the field. First, though, I’m going to have some breakfast. I take it you’d like to share?’
‘If you don’t mind. I can do the evening meals.’
‘Are you a good cook?’
‘Never killed anyone with my cooking that I recall. There was this one soldier who was pretty sick, to be sure, but that was probably the homebrew he’d gone and fermented with local berries.’
The Old Hound chuckled and dished up half the beans for the young King’s Guardian. ‘Here you go.’
‘It appears you made enough for two anyway.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s because I’m going soft in my old age. Get your breakfast down you and we can get you off this field before you drive me crazy with all your whingeing.’
Young Strap opened his mouth to retort but the Old Hound roughly fed him a hot spoon of beans before he could say anything.
***
‘What do you see?’
‘The dead, and little more. Young lives brought to a brutal end. In the m
ud.’
The Old Hound sighed. ‘Okay. This youth here. Tell me about him.’
‘Young Strap didn’t really want to look too closely at the corpse at his feet. It wore a frozen scream of pain on its face and stared accusingly at him. Its eyes even seemed to follow him. He resisted the desire to shudder.
‘We’ll call him Tristus, shall we? Was he rich or poor?’
‘Judging by the quality of his chain mail, fairly rich. But he was one of the enemy, so who cares?’
‘What weapon did Tristus use?’ pressed the Old Hound.
‘Well, there’s no weapon in his hand or on the ground near him. This other body near him, one of our guys, seems to have been killed by a sword… or a long dagger. It’s only the rich who can tend to afford a sword.’
‘What happened to Tristus’s sword?’
‘Obviously, someone took it… I guess someone who’d lost their own weapon in the melee… or someone who just liked the sword, some looter. We’ve been here watching, though, so it can’t have been the latter.’
‘Good, so someone took Tristus’s sword. Can you see any likely candidates among the dead round here?’
Young Strap looked around slowly, now genuinely interested in their task. ‘Him!’ he said excitedly.
‘Tell me why.’
‘Well, he’s one of ours but holding a sword of foreign design. He looks too poor to afford such a sword, what with his boiled leather armour, ragged hair and underfed look. He was quite old as well, whereas the sword is fairly new. It just looks better suited to Tristus, who was probably kitted out by his rich, loving family before he proudly left for his first battle.’
‘Good, good. Now, if you were a necromancer, would you raise Tristus or the man who’s holding Tristus’s sword? Remember, this old fellow may not have bested Tristus in battle – he might just have picked up the sword once Tristus had fallen to someone else’s attack.’
‘Hmm. Let’s assume this necromancer’s only come to the field because he or she wants to raise a formidable warrior. The old fellow would be a better choice. He’s clearly been in other battles, judging by the scars on his face, so must have some martial skill if he’s survived all the years just wearing boiled leather. Tristus, by contrast, has probably had just parade ground training. He might have been an officer, judging by that braiding he’s wearing. Probably not used to real fighting in the practice rings or anywhere else. Probably more used to just ordering people around.’