“Stop this, now,” roared a commanding voice. Rory marched up, a score of men with wheellocks behind him. “I order you to stop this madness.”
Freya stepped back for a moment, spear at the ready, her attention turned on the king. Her ice blue eyes blazed as they looked at the mortal who didn’t back down an inch. “Who are you to order me? Do you know who I am?”
“I’m assuming another once god, now on earth. As to who I am? I am the king of this land, and Tengri is sworn to my service. And I will not see him die on this field.”
The king turned his gaze on Tengri. “Master Tengri. Will you obey my command and end this fight?”
“Aye, your Majesty,” agreed Tengri, his eyes never leaving Freya, who he expected to attack as soon as he lowered his guard.
“You are not my king,” yelled Freya in a voice like an avalanche in the northern mountains.
“Musketmen,” said Rory after nodding at the woman. “Take aim at her and prepare to fire.”
“Your shot will not penetrate my armor,” said the sneering woman. “Fire away, and I will see all of you dead.”
“Aim for her head,” said Rory with a cold smile on his face. “I’m sure some rounds will strike.”
“You dare. I was a goddess.”
“You are a goddess no more. And you were never the goddess of my people.”
“I told you this was a bad idea,” said Perun from where he watched.
“But, his people killed mine,” said the woman, her shoulders slumping, her voice cracking, rage warring with sorrow.
“And they are no longer my people,” said Tengri, lowering his sword but staying alert for another attack. “Why do you think I am walking the earth, just like you.”
Freya fell to the ground onto her buttocks, the spear dropping from her hands. She buried her face in her hands as she started to sob. “What am I to do?” she cried between sobs. “I want revenge. Is it to be denied me?”
“It is as I told her,” said Perun. “There is no revenge to be had here, since our enemy is to the east.”
Tengri sheathed his sword and squatted down beside the once goddess, putting a hand on her shoulder. “My brother is responsible for your fall, and the suffering of your people. We will be fighting him and his soldiers. If you would have revenge, join us. I guarantee nothing, but the chance to get even.”
“You would have me?” asked the woman, looking up into Tengri’s face with tear filled eyes. “Even after I attacked you.”
“Walking this world in a mortal body is a new and disorienting experience for our kind,” said Tengri, patting her shoulder. He looked up at the Slavic demigod. “And would you fight for us?”
“That is what I came for,” said the huge man in his rumbling voice.
“I would have your oaths of fealty,” said Rory, waving for his men to lower their weapons.
“Me, swearing loyalty to a mortal,” exclaimed Freya, her eyes narrowing as she looked up at the king. “Never.”
“Then you can leave my country and fight the enemy yourself,” said Rory. “I will have no one in my army that I cannot depend on.”
“You will have my oath,” said Perun, smiling. “I’m no longer a god, and have no illusions about what I can do on my own.” He looked over at Freya. “If you refuse, my Lady, you are on your own.”
Make the smart decision, thought Tengri, not daring to say the words aloud lest the haughty once god dig in her heels in stubborn refusal.
“We can get what we want,” said Perun. “And I have no doubt that this once god is on our side.”
Freya got to her feet and nodded, turning red rimmed eyes on Tengri. Those eyes still reflected some of her rage, but it was overwhelmed by sorrow.
“Very well,” she said after some hesitation, looking at the king. “You have my oath of loyalty. I will follow your orders, as long as you don’t give in to this enemy. In that case, I will consider myself relieved of this oath.”
“Fair enough,” agreed Rory, smiling. “And worry not. The only way I will give in to this enemy is when I am dead.”
The once goddess nodded again, looked at Tengri and gave another head nod, then turned to walk away.
“I hope you weren’t expecting an apology,” said Perun, walking up to Tengri and offering his hand. “She has only been in her current form for a couple of weeks, and still has not settled into this mortal existence.”
Tengri gladly took the offered member, locking into a strong forearm clasp with the Slavic demigod. He wondered once again if they were really mortal, since the legends of the mortals were that walking gods in the past had walked the earth for thousands of years. That they could be killed he had no doubt. But how much would it take to kill them? At least I didn’t find out this day, he thought with a smile. That was a good thing. They needed all the forces they could get, and from what the woman had shown, she would be as mighty a warrior as he.
* * *
“Concentrate,” counseled Marcus, holding the young woman’s left hand as he pointed her arms at the target. “Let the power flow through you, almost released, held back for the moment.”
The young Eirish girl, not yet fourteen, nodded her head, her face a mask of the concentration that had been called for. The girl was a little old for beginning mage training. Marcus had started at eight, just after he had been bought from the slave market by Master Aepep. And even that was considered outside the optimum range for beginning to learn to manipulate magic. There were some very young students entering training here in Doblas, but they didn’t have time to wait five or six years for them to become emotionally mature enough to endure combat.
Also, this lesson was well advanced for someone who was just a beginner. Again, they couldn’t wait for years of basic magical training, such as all of Master Aepep’s students, before they were trusted with this kind of power. They were needed, and needed now.
“Make sure you’re anchored, just like I taught you, and then release.”
The girl nodded, thinking about what she was about to do, the pushed her hand forward. The air rippled with the force displacing it, the ball moving out at the same speed as a material one thrown by a person. It smacked into the target, a straw representation of a human on a pole, and pushed it back.
“I didn’t break the pole,” said the disappointed girl, opening her eyes and scowling at the target.
“One thing at a time, Bridget,” said Marcus, patting her on the head and smiling. “You need to crawl first. In no time you’ll be throwing cannon balls.”
The girl nodded and turned away, knowing that her turn was over. Marcus hoped that she was not too disappointed. A mage needed confidence as well as humility. Lack of confidence could interfere with her control of the power, while arrogance could lead a mage into trouble they wouldn’t be able to deal with.
The next student stepped up from the group. Marcus frowned for a moment as he looked over the young man, Conel, one most thought too old to learn rudimentary magecraft. He shook his head, then smiled at the man. They needed everyone they could get, and he had the talent, if not the discipline to control it. And so far he had proven to be nothing but a pain in the ass.
“Step into the circle and connect with the power,” said Marcus, gesturing to the ring of stones they had erected to mark the launching point.
Doblas was a grid of power lines coming together, earth, fire and water. Such places were rare, and Marcus hoped they could find at least one line to set up on during any of the future battles. The king had cautioned the mages that such might not always be possible, since engagements often happened where the armies involved least expected them, meeting engagements they were called. But it would be a consideration when the army was able to plan its deployment.
“I know what I’m doing,” said the young man in an angry tone, gesturing for Marcus to leave him be.
“So, you know everything?” asked Marcus, receiving an angry head nod in return. “Then show us how you have mastered this lesson with
your great inborn ability.” You jackass, thought the mage. Marcus stepped back, wondering if he was doing the right thing. But the apprentice mages needed to learn the lesson, even if it was a hard one.
Colen assumed the stance and closed his eyes. Marcus could feel the power flowing from the ground into the man. Colen had obviously mastered this part of the process, as the power flowed easily into his body. Marcus’ eyes widened as he realized that the young man was absorbing too much energy.
“Wait,” he yelled, reaching a hand for the man, trying to interrupt the flow.
Too late. The power flowed from the hands of the man and sped unerringly to the target. The straw figure blew apart, the air filled with swirling strands, the pole blasted into splinters. And Conel flew back through the air as if he were propelled from a cannon, on a trajectory that would land him on his back from a great height.
“Dammit,” hissed Marcus under his breath, stepping into the circle of power and reaching out, using the inertial force in a manner that the apprentices wouldn’t be able to manipulate for many years. He grabbed ahold of the flying man, gently, and pulled on him, lowering the form to the ground.
“You idiot,” he yelled running up to a stunned Conel. “You didn’t anchor yourself before releasing. And you used too much power. What in all the hells were you thinking?”
Conel sat up, shaking his head, his eyes unfocused. There was no telling what internal stresses his body had absorbed, but it looked like he was going to live. Marcus turned to the other students and pointed at the man who had almost become more of a lesson than he had planned.
“You need to watch how much power you absorb. You saw what happened to him, and it could have been much worse. He could have blown apart as the inertial stresses tore through him. And he didn’t anchor himself.” And it was a good thing he hadn’t, or he would have been broken in half, his lower part still attached to the ground while the upper went flying, while his soul flew on its way to hell.
Marcus shook his head, then turned to walk away. “Lessons over for the day. We will resume again in the morning.”
When Marcus reported for his own lesson that night, Master Aepep had words with him.
“Your job is to train these people. Not to let them kill themselves to make examples for the others.”
“I’m sorry, Master,” replied Marcus, looking down at the ground. “I didn’t know he was going to release that much energy.”
“But you had an inkling that he might not do everything he was supposed to do, didn’t you?”
“I did,” said Marcus, hanging his head.
“We need living mages, not dead examples. Please remember that.”
Marcus sat down and put his face in his hands. Disappointing the master was one of the last things he wanted to do. He was the senior student, the one Aepep needed to depend on above all others. And he let his dislike for a student almost lead to disaster.
Aepep sat next to Marcus and put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I will not always be here. I have already lived longer than most, and soon my time will be done and I will be gone. You will one day be master. And you need to have the wisdom to lead our people into the new age. Can I count on you?”
“Yes, Master,” said a despondent Marcus, looking up into Aepep’s eyes.
“I know it’s unfair,” said Aepep, shaking his head. “People develop wisdom over time, but you are being asked to become wise without the advantage of age. But if anyone can do it, you can. No other student of mine has such innate talent. And none have gone through what you have in early life. That gives you a strength beyond that of the others. You must remember that, and use that strength.”
Aepep stood and started to walk away.
“Are we not having lessons tonight, Master?”
“No,” said Aepep, half turning. “All of us are tired. I think the night would be better spent in rest. Tomorrow you have apprentices to teach, and tonight I would talk with the king.”
* * *
“I’m not sure I believe in gods walking the earth,” said the man in front of Connor as they lined back up for drill.
“I saw Morrigan myself in the cathedral square,” said Connor, still in awe of seeing the goddess of his people in the flesh. So why not other gods? Though from what he had heard these people were not really gods, at least not anymore. They had fought with a strength, speed and grace he had not before seen, and from the talk of the professional soldiers training them, they had been impressed as well.
“I don’t believe it,” said the man, turning to glare at Connor.
“Jealous because you weren’t there,” said another man, giving the doubter a leering grin.
“I’m jealous of nothing, you…”
“In line and at attention,” yelled their training sergeant, walking up to the men. “It doesn’t matter what you people believe. The king believes, and so we will go forward as if the gods walk the earth. Now, everyone fall out and grab a pike.”
They weren’t really pikes, just eighteen foot long poles with a weight on one end to simulate the spear point. Just as the armor they wore was not really armor, but coats weighted with sand in pockets, getting them used to carrying the weight.
“When do we get real armor, sergeant?” asked the man who had doubted the gods could manifest on earth.
“When you have shown you deserve it,” growled the sergeant, walking over and poking a finger in the chest of the man. “Now everyone fall in. Let’s see if you can march without falling over your pikes.”
There was some laughter from the soldiers in training. As soon as they started marching some of the trainees indeed fell over their pikes, or the pikes of the other men. As soon as they were told to change from column to line half the men were yelling out as pike staffs got in their way. It was never their own fault, always that of the other trainee who had gotten in their way.
The walked up and down the field, the sound of beating drums setting their pace. In the near distance muskets cracked as men practiced loading and firing. With them it wasn’t so much a matter of getting off an aimed shot as getting off as many as possible in a time period. That was an arm Connor would have loved to work with, that or artillery. But they had only taken men with some experience in firearms for that training and he had none.
The sun was going down before they were released for the day. Everyone was hot and sweaty, and there were plenty of bruises to go around from running into the pike shafts.
“I swear to the gods, I don’t think any of you will be of any use to us in combat,” yelled the sergeant after they had been dismissed. “Unless it’s to take arrows so the real soldiers don’t have to.”
Dinner that night was the usual fare, plain but filling, with a good helping of meat. Connor could feel the muscle that he was piling on. He had been strong and wiry all his life, but to carry weapons and armor he needed more. And they were making sure he was getting it.
“I wonder when they’re going to let us swing a sword?” asked one of the men in the training company. “I’m tired of carrying these long sticks around.”
“Your being trained to be a pikeman,” said Connor, surprised the man didn’t know that. “The pike will be our primary weapon, to stop cavalry and other pikemen. If we have to draw swords we are in the shit.”
“And how do you know, farm boy?”
Connor glared at the man, who he thought had been a failed shopkeeper who had signed on to stay out of debtor’s court. “My father was a soldier, city boy. And he told me stories about fighting with the king’s father.” Connor recalled those stories during his training days, though the technologies of war had changed somewhat since his father had served. But many things seemed to follow the tales his father had told him.
“What did he tell you about standing in a pike line?” asked another man.
“That it scares the hell out of people to stand there and look at lancers charging them,” said Connor, closing his eyes and seeing the image of what his father had
told him. “But the only way to survive is to hold the line and take the charge on the points.”
“I hear we will be facing the dead,” said the shopkeeper in a quiet voice. “Did your father tell you about standing up to things that can’t be killed.”
Connor shook his head. He didn’t think anyone in the kingdom had any experience like that. In that assumption he would have been wrong.
Chapter Sixteen
“Count Brian Borai would speak to us about his experiences with the Franks, watching them engage with our enemy,” said King Rory after he had gotten the attention of the people at the table, striking his fork against his wine goblet.
The king was having a working dinner with his higher-ranking officers and some few of the civilians who would be responsible for his logistics. They still had some months before the winter, though he expected to be on the road before the actual start of spring, so as to be in position to begin campaigning as soon as the good weather arrived.
Everyone turned their full attention on the count, who rose from his seat and looked around the table.
“I have already briefed his Majesty on what we will face, but I think no one here will like what I have to say. Because we are not just fighting living men, but also the dead. And the evil sons of bitches who control them.”
“And have you determined a way to kill the dead?” asked Duke Connor Flannery, the general in chief of the Royal Army.
“How in all the hells do you kill the dead?” asked Lord Ronan, looking wide eyed at the count.
“They can be killed with divine magic,” said the count. “I saw the priests of the Franks destroy them by the hundreds.”
“Then that is how we will do it,” said Duke Connor with a smile.
“But there were tens of thousands of the damned things,” continued the count. “The priests exhausted their power, and the undead overran them. And every soldier in King Adalwolf’s army. Though his majesty was already dead, killed in an earlier battle where he tried to ride over the nomads with his knights, only to be ambushed by the dead.”
The Chronicles of the Eirish: Book 1: The Lich's Horde Page 15