“Torture?”
“Much worse,” said the officer, closing his eyes and shaking slightly. He pulled his head away from the rifle to look over at the master trader. “They use magic to suck the life from you. And afterwards.” The officer let it go at that.
“By the Gods, no,” gasped Seamus, looking in horror at the officer, then back at the advancing nomad warriors, who now appeared much more monstrous.
Now they were close enough to pick out their individual features. They were swarthy skinned, with dark eyes, black beards, and sweeping mustaches. Turks then, thought Seamus, studying the faces. He had seen a few before, ones who had come to trade with the Scythians. But these were here for anything but peaceful trade.
One of the Turks yelled out something, and the hundred or so warriors in sight raised their bows to arc arrows into the stockade.
“Fire,” yelled the officer, and forty odd rifles and muskets spoke, sending up a wall of smoke that completely obscured the enemy.
Seamus was caught off-guard by the command, though most of his men had fired. He was left with a loaded weapon and no visible target, and decided to wait until he had something to shoot at, not wasting what could turn out to be a scarce resource.
A flurry of arrows came through the smoke, fewer than expected, and a couple of horses ran into sight, one with a limp body on its back, the other sans rider. Someone shot at the already dead Turk and hit the horse, and Seamus cursed the man for a fool for wasting powder.
More arrows flew in, and the trader’s own few bowmen sent their shafts back. A man on a wagon was hit, the arrow flying through the canvas to strike him in the upper chest, and Seamus’ crew took their first casualty.
“Here they come,” yelled out Borislaw as the sound of hooves came through the smoke.
And then they were there, ninety men on horseback, long curved sabers in hand, leaning over their saddles while looking for targets to strike. They rode up to the wagons, rising in their stirrups to swing their blades.
Seamus shot the first man to come near him, one with blood in his eye and a saber thirsting for the life of a civilized soldier or drover. The Eirishman’s bullet struck the Turk over the right eye, just below the rim of his helmet. The man’s eyes went from fierce to blank in an instant, the life driven out of him by the heavy bullet.
The master trader dropped his rifle to the wagon and pulled his brace of pistols from his belt, noting that the Bulgaran officer was doing the same. The Turks who got within their range paid the price of their lives.
The men under the wagons reloaded, a slow and laborious process that allowed more of the Turks to range in and strike at the people on top of the platforms. The drovers up there had the advantage of height, the Turks the skill of arms, and minutes into the attack it became readily apparent that the trading of blows would not last long. Then another volley from underneath the wagons cleared most of the Turks, knocking dozens from their horses, either hitting them or bringing down their mounts.
And suddenly there were no more of the nomad warriors in front of them. Those on horse had retreated into the thinning smoke, while those not ahorse were dead on the ground.
“We beat them off,” said Seamus, a smile on his face. The smile left swiftly as he looked at the face of the Bulgar officer, who seemed anything but happy. The man was staring out into the smoke, which was blowing away from a freshening wind.
Seamus turned to see a couple of Turks riding forward, the smoke dissipating around them, revealing the hundreds of warriors to their backs.
“Do not let them capture you,” said Borislaw, his face drawn and pale. “Do not let them capture me, by the mercy of the Gods.”
Seamus nodded and reloaded his pistols, one after the other, his eyes darting from that task to the two Turks riding slowly forward. These had a different look about them. They wore no armor, no helmets, and carried naught but daggers at their belts. Both had necklaces of finger bones about their necks, and their faces were painted white, as if they were skulls instead of the heads of men. In their hands they held wooden staves, with human skulls on the ends.
By all the Gods, these men worship death, he thought, pushing the bullet down the barrel of the last pistol.
“Shoot them from their saddles,” yelled the Bulgar officer, pointing one of his pistols at a shaman. “By all that’s holy, kill them, before they kill us.” He pulled the trigger and the wheel lock rotated, sparking into the pan and igniting the powder. The pistol went off with a crack, and the bullet sped straight to the chest of the shaman, to no effect.
The other guns spoke, again sending their smoke clouds out to obscure the nomads. A moment later a wind that seemed to come out of nowhere blew it away, then abated, showing both of the Shamans sitting their horses, unharmed. The warriors behind them voiced a blood curdling cry, and Seamus felt a shiver of fear run up his spine.
“They can’t be killed,” yelled a panicked voice.
“Of course they can,” called out the master trader. But not by musket fire, obviously, he thought.
Now the true horror appeared, forms shambling forward out of the smoke obscured grasslands. Most of them were dressed as Scythians, some holding swords, others weaponless. Among them were women and children, and Seamus wondered how these nomads were forcing the proud Scythians to fight for them. Then he noticed the Bulgars among them, and as they came closer he could see that all of them, barbarians and civilized men alike, bore horrid wounds. And to seal the horror marched the headman that the Trader had seen lying dead days before, his lopsided head and ruined face showing he was the very same man.
“By the Gods,” hissed one of his men, and the fear that ran through the defenders was palpable in the air.
Undead, thought the master trader, a shiver running up his spine. Even if they kill us, or we kill ourselves, we will still end of in service to these devils.
Seamus wondered for a moment how that slow-moving zombie that had been the headman had gotten here, then thought that maybe they walked through the night. Did the dead tire, or could they keep putting one foot in front of the other until they finally fell apart.
The shamans raised their staffs and chanted words, and the temperature seemed to drop around the wagons. Steaming breath came from the mouths of the terrified men, who must have thought they were already in hell. Hell visited a few moments later as the dead in the camp and on the grasslands began to stir.
“Destroy the risers before they can get to their feet,” yelled the Bulgar officer. His men and some of the traders hacked into those dead who were stirring, making sure that they weren’t intact enough to get to their feet and attack. There was nothing they could do to the undead rising outside the lager. Those got to their feet and shambled forward with the rest.
The camp started firing at the undead, blasting holes through them, in some cases blowing most of a head into ruin. And the undead continued to move forward, unconcerned by the rifle fire.
“Don’t waste your ammunition on them,” called out Borislaw. “Hack them to pieces.”
The firing stopped, and the men hacked at the zombies as soon as they came within blade range. The undead fought back, swinging weapons or grasping with hands, but their attacks were uncoordinated. Still, a few men were pulled out of the stockade and ripped apart, while one was slain with a sword. Otherwise, the undead didn’t seem to be doing much, until a flight of arrows came in and took down a half dozen of the defenders who were now exposed as they stood on the wagons to hack down at the zombies.
The shamans now rode forward, reaching out with their staffs to touch the first wagon before them. A drover shot an arrow at one of the Turks, and all watched in amazement as the weapon stopped in flight, inches from the shaman, and fell to the ground. The staffs touched the wagon, which exploded inward with force, wood splinters flying everywhere, and the bulk of the cart flew backwards through the open area, running down a couple of screaming horses, to strike to a stop against the wagon on the other side.
The Turks screamed again and rode forward, while one of the shamans yelled something in their incomprehensible language and pointed at a group of men still on the wagons.
Seamus fired one of his pistols, knocking a warrior off of his horse. He thought of using the other, but something stopped him, and instead he swung his sword into the shoulder of the first warrior to shoot the gap. The man was only wearing leather armor, and the razor edge of the sword cut through easily enough, drawing blood and dropping the man from his horse. And then the warriors were in the stockade, slashing about them.
Lieutenant Borislaw had his own blade out and was dueling with a man on horseback. The Turk had the stronger arm, the Bulgar the better technique. Technique won out, and the Turk fell from his horse with a slash across his throat.
Elsewhere the soldiers and drovers were not doing so well against the blood mad warriors. It wasn’t long before the only men standing on his side were himself and the lieutenant, both wounded with superficial slashes.
Seamus felt something, a power he could not recognize or resist bearing down on him. He turned his head slowly to see that the officer was feeling the same compulsion. He looked away, forcing himself to move against the stiffness that was stealing his strength, to see the two shamans staring at them, their staffs pointed their way.
“Remember what you promised, Trader,” said the lieutenant, forcing the words out. “Do not let them take either of us prisoner.”
Seamus’ hand sought his medallion, his out, which would only work for one. There was only one other way out for the officer, and he forced his hand, with his head the only part of his body he could move, to his belt. He pulled the wheel lock from his belt, raising it and pointing it at the officer, who gave a slight head nod as he saw the gun.
The force beat down on him with renewed fury, and the gun shook in his hand. Gritting his teeth, he squeezed the trigger until the wheel mechanism rotated and the gun went off, pushing a heavy ball through the face of the Bulgari officer, who fell instantly dead.
The shaman yelled, and Seamus felt the strength leave his legs. He fell to the floor of the wagon as that shaman rode up and reached forward with his staff. Seamus could feel the life leaving his body, a sensation of agony as his energy fled, and he knew that when he died his soul would also be imprisoned, for whatever foul use the nomads intended for it. They would use his body as well, but that was nothing compared to his eternal essence. He forced his head around, to see Gunther laying on the ground, the other shaman standing over him and pulling the life from the guard captain.
Darkness was forming before his eyes, and he knew he didn’t have much time. Grasping the amulet, he said the trigger word. The darkness enfolded him, and when he opened his eyes he was sitting on the rear porch in his house in Doblas, looking over the large bay that served as harbor. He closed his eyes and started crying, and people in the house shouted in alarm at his appearance. I will avenge you, he thought, picturing the faces of all of his people, and the face of the young Bulgari noble. No matter what it takes.
Chapter Two
“The pirates are almost upon us, Master,” said the ship’s captain, his fear filled eyes looking into those of the wizard. “Is there not something you can do?”
I thought you were afraid of us, thought Marcus of Aegypt, one of the young men and women apprenticing under Master Aepep, the dusky skinned native of that land.
Everyone had seemed to be afraid of them when they had been forced from the land of the master’s birth, which was the adoptive kingdom of Marcus. The priests had forced the king to ban all magic of a non-divine nature, like so many other lands in the west. And the wizards, once honored above all others, had become pariahs, forced to flee. Forced to take passage from whatever captains they could bribe, most charging an extravagant price.
“You cannot flee them?” asked the master, a man in his eighties who looked no older than middle aged.
“We are trying, Master Wizard,” said the captain, shaking his head, glancing over his shoulder at the stairs leading up to the deck, as if something would come down those steps any moment. He turned back to the wizard. “We are but a merchant ship, built to carry the most cargo possible, with only four small cannon to defend ourselves. And the ship that comes after us is a hawk of the sea, with many guns, and fierce pirates who would like nothing better than to send our bodies to the bottom.”
“And what of the warships that are supposed to patrol these waters?” asked one of the apprentices, Bastet, a girl several years less advanced than Marcus. “Are not the kingdoms that border this sea charged with safeguarding the commerce that flows upon it?”
“I do not know, Mistress,” said the captain, rubbing his hands together in nervous tension. “All I know is they are not here, and the pirates are, as are you.”
“Let us see what you can do, Marcus,” said the master, looking at the most advanced of his apprentices, who was on the verge of gaining the mantle of full wizard.
“Are you sure, Master?” asked the young mage, not all that confident now that he was being asked to handle a real threat.
“You know that school of magic better than anyone else aboard,” said the Master. “Even better, daresay, than myself. I would see what you can do with it.”
Marcus swallowed and nodded his head, then followed the captain up to the deck. Ishara was alive with activity. There was a freshening breeze coming from astern, and all the sails on the three masts were straining to pull the four-hundred-ton ship along. Some of the crew were pulling at the lines of one of the sails, trying to get it into the optimal position. Other crew were loading the four small cannon, two to each side of the ship. Only twelve pounders, they were really not that much in the way of naval ordnance, but all that the ship had. Yet other crew members were bringing pikes and bill hooks on deck, preparing to repel boarders. Or at least to make the attempt.
Marcus walked to the stern and looked at the ship that was trailing them. It was much larger, though of a leaner cross section, and was obviously gaining on them. The deck was crowded with men, in all stages of dress, some in barbaric clothing, others in light armor. Most were brandishing blades, while the snouts of cannon poked from the hull on both sides.
The majority of the faces looking over the rails of the other ship were various shades of dark, from brown to almost ebony, men of the southern seas and continents. There was a sprinkling of other faces among them, some the lighter brown of the northern shores of the middle sea, others the pale of the northern continent. Being pirates, race and origin didn’t matter as much as utility, and they were an egalitarian bunch, willing to kill all outsiders for their own gain.
“What do you think?” asked Master Aepep, his own eyes roaming the deck.
Marcus looked at the cannon, his eye stopping for a moment to look over the other passenger of interest on this voyage. The man looked like a steppes nomad of some kind, though with finer lamellar armor than most, fine silks falling from the armor of his upper arms to flow until cinched at the wrist by guards. Silk pantaloons pushed into high boots completed his clothing, that and a sheathed long sword at his side. The eyes turned to look at Marcus, and the young man looked down without thinking to escape the intensity of those orbs.
Dress and gaze were not the only things of note about the stranger, whose name had never been given to the refugees. The way he moved did not seem natural, there was too much grace and fluid speed in even his most casual motion. And there was a feel about him, something that Marcus had never experienced in another human. Almost like he was touched by the divine, and not in the same way as priests and shamans.
“The mystery warrior will not save us all,” said the master, interrupting Marcus from his thoughts. “Though he may intimidate the pirates into leaving him be.” The master looked back up at the pirate ship, now not more than three hundred yards to the stern, well within bow shot. Or the range of guns.
A puff of smoke appeared at the bow of the pirate and someth
ing poked a hole in one of the lower sails. Marcus looked at the hole overhead, then at the cannon, and made up his mind.
“You must move all of your cannon to the port side,” said the young Mage, waving a hand at the starboard side artillery.
“And what will that do?” asked the man, his expression one of fear warring with disbelief at what he was hearing. “We don’t have enough cannon to do more than kill a few of them, before they board us and slaughter us all.”
“Do you want our help, Captain?” asked Aepep. “If so, do as the young man asks.”
The captain nodded, then ran off to harangue the men into moving the two small guns. In moments the gunners were releasing the blocks and tackles, and a minute later the sound of the trucks rolling over the wooden deck was the loudest thing on the ship. The captain was back at their sides in a moment, the expression of confusion writ large on his face.
“I don’t know what this is going to accomplish,” said the sailor.
“Just make sure you steer the ship so that they come up on your port side,” said Aepep. “It will do us no good to have them approach from the other side.”
The captain shook his head, looking at the wizard like he was a crazy man.
“You three,” yelled the master, pointing at a trio of the apprentices. “We need an illusion spell, so those people don’t see what we’re doing.” He looked back at Marcus. “It won’t do us any good if they avoid our trap.”
Marcus looked over at the sweating sailors who were manhandling the guns into position.
“I will back you up, boy, in case this doesn’t meet your expectations.”
“Thank you, Master,” said Marcus. “Now excuse me.”
The young apprentice walked over to the first gun and gestured for the gunners lower the barrel, making himself understood to the Ionian sailors by hand signals and the few words he knew of their language. He moved to the next gun and did the same, while noting that the ship was heeling slightly to starboard, making her port side more approachable to the pirate vessel.
The Chronicles of the Eirish: Book 1: The Lich's Horde Page 2