The murmur of voices rose in the room as each talked with a neighbor, wondering what they were to do. The king slammed his fist on the table, getting their attention back where he wanted it to be. “Listen people. The count has more to say. You need to listen to him, since what he has to say may save your lives.”
“Thank you, my liege,” said the count, bowing his head to the monarch, then looking out over the table. “They can be beaten, but not with the same tactics we use to fight our civilized opponents. Or even what we would normally use against the barbarian cavalry.”
Tengri looked up, his eyes blazing to lock onto the face of the count. Brian looked his way and nodded. “I understand that they have their own civilization, my Lord Tengri, but most in our lands would think them barbarians. But they are disciplined and cunning. I still think we can beat them in a stand-up fight, but first we must get past the dead.”
“And our pikemen won’t be able to stop them?” asked an army brigade commander, shaking his head. “Musket balls. Cannon?”
The count shook his head, a sad expression on his face, before continuing.
“The dead will impale themselves on the pikes and claw their way forward, until the pikemen can no longer hold their weapons. I can’t tell you how terrifying it is to see the rotted bodies moving forward, pike shafts transfixing their bodies, to reach their dead hands for the living. And every man who falls will rise again to become the enemy. As far as firearms go, I saw a dead man with half his head blown off by a musket ball walk forward as if nothing had happened. Artillery will destroy them, but there aren’t enough cannon in the world to take all of them out before they close.”
“So what do we do, if our weapons won’t hurt them?”
“I didn’t say that weapons wouldn’t hurt them,” said the count, putting his cup back on the table after taking a swig of whiskey. “But we need to attack them in a different way. Our infantry will have to go into battle with shields and crushing weapons. Sword, ax, mace. Weapons that will break bones, sever limbs, cripple them. They are not alive, and cannot be killed as we understand it. But they can be damaged. I saw Frankish knights destroy hundreds of them before being pulled from saddles. Tight formations should be able to weather that storm.”
“Then that is what we will do,” said the king, all eyes turning his way. “Tomorrow, start training the men in combat with crushing or slashing weapons. Once they get that down, we will work on them transitioning from pikes to shields and crushing weapons and back again. We need to be able to handle both threats, and the men must be able to move quickly to both modes of combat.”
“I’m not sure the new people will be able to get all of that down in the time we have, my liege,” cautioned the duke, shaking his head.
“Then any who can’t become proficient by the time we march can become front line shield holders. That, or they can help guard the train.”
The duke bowed his head. He obviously didn’t like that command, but it was a directive from his king, and he would obey. Or he would be relieved of his position.
“Why don’t the damned zombies attack the nomads?” asked another of the officers. “Don’t they attack all of the living?”
“They attack living men, though I have seen them bypass horses,” said the baron. “They are under the control of something, probably the evil magicians that raised them. But as to why they bypass the living on their side, I can only offer this.”
Brian reached into a pouch he wore on his belt and pulled out an amulet on a chain. He held it up, letting the medallion turn on its chain. It was actually a beautiful piece of work, with intricate symbols worked into a silver surface. It shone in the lamplight in the room, and with a light that didn’t seem to come reflection.
“The Turks wear these when they go into combat, and the zombies ignore them. If fact, they will move around a nomad wearing this even if there are unshielded humans behind them.”
“And you know that it works?” asked the duke, raising an eyebrow.
“I wore this one myself, after taking it from a Turk I killed. And rode untouched through the horde.”
“Can I see that, young count?” asked a burly man with the look of a metal worker.
“Of course, Master Alchemist,” replied Brian, tossing the amulet to the man, who caught it with sure hands.
Master Alchemist Donnel O’Seanasea turned the amulet over in his hands, closing his eyes and feeling the surface. “I think we can duplicate them, my liege, though I will need the help of the clergy to duplicate its magic.”
“Patriarch?” asked the king, looking over at the once Father Trevor.
“I think we can help them out, your Majesty,” said the primate of the Eirish church.
Rory studied the man for a moment before nodding his head. Trevor had changed since his elevation, no longer the shy, unassuming priest. Now the power of the goddess lived in him, and while the man could never be said to be arrogant, his confidence was now a palpable thing. A good thing, since they would need a confident patriarch when they met this enemy.
“How many will you need, my liege?” asked Donnel, still looking over the amulet and weighing it in his hands.
“Enough for the entire army, lord count?” asked Rory.
“At least that many. Probably enough for the army and our allies. Say, a hundred thousand.”
“A hundred thousand,” squeaked the master alchemist in a rising voice, his eyes widening. “Your majesty. Even if we pulled together every alchemist in the realm, and don’t do anything else, I doubt we can have more than ten thousand of these things by the time you march. And that’s only if we stop work on anything else, including armor and weapons for your new soldiers.”
“Then give us five thousand, and we’ll have to find a way to make do,” agreed the king, staring at the amulet with a look of desire.
“The farm boys we’re training really won’t be worth improved armor and weapons, my king,” said the duke, eliciting a frown from Rory.
The king needed the soldiers and understood that the new men would not be up to the standard of his professionals. But he wanted to give them every advantage he could. His intent was to bring back as many of them as possible, and not leave their bones to bleach in the sun. Or to rise as new undead to continue the enemy crusade.
“Just give us what you can, Master Donnel,” he told the alchemist. He then looked over at his old friend Seamus O’Rourk, the master trader he had placed in Admiral Connely’s command. “And how goes our logistics, Seamus?”
“The first wagon trains are moving as we speak, your Majesty,” said the trader, who looked like he was finally recovering from his ordeal in the east. “We will have the dumps established before you march, don’t you doubt.”
Rory didn’t doubt that Seamus and the admiral would do as they promised. Ships had left the harbor the week before, to bring supplies to offloading points along the coast, where they could be moved up to the depos the army would need. Armies needed supplies, and the force he was marching would strain the resources of any lands he marched through. Since he didn’t want starving and outraged people at his back, he would have to feed his men and animals from his own resources.
“We still have the problems of the other armies, your Majesty,” interjected the duke. “We have forces from at least four other nations who will be marching to join us, and we can’t supply them all.”
“I know, Duke Connor. And I have sent messages to their leaders informing them of the problem. What they will do about it is anyone’s guess, but it is their problem.”
Connor shook his head, and Rory knew how he felt. It was asking for problems dealing with allies who couldn’t supply themselves. The choice would either be to share, and go without themselves, or to not, and risk the ally attacking their supply train. They would need the soldiers, but what Rory didn’t need was the headaches they brought.
“We will make do, Duke Connor. We will make do.”
“And what is this I hear abou
t us using magicians now?” asked the count, sitting back in his chair now that his presentation was over.
Duke Connor turned and pointed a finger at Aepep. “I cautioned the king about bringing those into our midst. No good will come of it.”
“And it was my decision, Duke Connor,” yelled Rory standing from his seat and grabbing the duke by the shoulder, pulling from his chair and spinning him around to face his monarch. “And if you don’t like it, you can stay at home when we march, and I will appoint another general to lead my army.”
“But..” stammered the duke, realizing he had gone too far and unsure how to respond.
“I am sorry so many of your nobles still don’t trust us,” said Aepep, bowing to the king. “Hopefully we can gain their trust on campaign.”
“Mages?” said Brian, his eyes widening.
“Don’t you start, count,” said Rory, pointing a finger at the man.
“Oh, I don’t have a problem with them, your Majesty,” said Brian, shaking his head. “After seeing what I saw in the east, I’m for every bit of power we can bring to the fight. Hells, if they can raise demons, I’ll kiss them.”
“That is not something to joke about, young man,” said Master Aepep, waggling a finger.
“Who said I was joking,” said Brian with a barking laugh. “If we could get a demon on our side, it might be worth the price.”
“Nothing is worth that,” said Aepep. “If you pay that price, you will regret it for eternity.”
The smile left the count’s face, and he nodded his head while his eyes widened at the thought of regretting something for eternity.
* * *
“The Turkish horde is sweeping the lands of the Franks, my Lord Erlic,” reported the chief necromancer, looking into the darkness floating over the flames on the altar. “The horde of undead are frozen in place. They won’t be able to move until the thaw.”
That was the problem with a horde of undead. Being dead, they didn’t produce any body heat. Their bodies assumed the ambient temperature around them. Still, being made of organic matter, they froze, unable to move, until warming temperatures thawed them out. The good thing was that they didn’t continue to rot during the cold months, and very little until the temperatures reached above forty degrees. During the winter campaign they were of no use, though the Turks, tough bastards that they were having grown to adulthood on the eastern steppes, could handle the effeminate western weather like it was a mild cold snap.
“My people will be unable to take the fortresses of the Franks and the others,” said the God, his displeasure coming through in the rumble under his words. “Until we take those fortresses, the Franks will maintain enough worshippers to preserve their gods.”
“They will die soon enough, my Lord,” said the necromancer quickly, trying to calm his god. “When spring arrives, the undead will be able to scale their walls. It is just a matter of time, my Lord.”
The God huffed his displeasure, then faded away, unwilling to waste any more time on those he saw as failing him.
“You would think a god would have more patience,” said one of the younger priests, raising his head, then scrambling up from where he had been kneeling on the floor.
“The god will do as he will,” said the chief necromancer in his sibilant voice, raising his bony hands up to pull back his hood, revealing the almost skull that was his head, pieces of thin parchment like skin still adhering in places, eyes of fire burning in the eye sockets. “And I would careful what you say in the temple of Erlic. He hears what he wants to hear, and he is much less forgiving than I.”
That caused the eyes of the lesser priest to widen as he gulped. Their leader was a lich, powerful and immortal, and possessing nothing of human kindness. If he said the god was merciless, that meant the being was a level of magnitude more cruel than the chief necromancer. And that was enough to scare anyone.
“Good weather should be here in two months,” said the woman who was their weather witch. “The winters in this land are laughable, at best.”
The chief necromancer nodded his skull like head. They couldn’t tell if he was smiling, since he teeth always shown in a permanent grin. But the mood he was projecting was one of satisfaction. The rest of the priests breathed a sigh of relief. All wanted to survive long enough to rise to the level of the chief necromancer. When breathing would no longer be a concern, and they didn’t have to worry about going to damnation after life.
* * *
“Forward at a run,” yelled the training sergeant.
Conner O’Kelly made sure he had a good grip on his pike staff and jogged ahead with the rest of the men in his company. He was faster than most, but had learned early on that he needed to stay in the formation unless he wanted to get smacked in the head by the training sergeant. When it was explained to him why they did it this way, he had to admit it made sense. A group of pikemen was a mighty force on the battlefield. A single pike was death waiting to happen, unable to defend himself against circling cavalry.
The company, two hundred strong, rammed their pikes into the rows of straw targets at the end of the drill field. Points went in at all angles, not a target escaping being penetrated.
The sergeant walked up to the targets, looking at the placement of the pikes, a smile on his face. “Not bad. Not bad at all. Though you still have some way to go before you become professionals, you will do for now. Now put up those pikes. We have something else to work on.”
Something else was heavy shields and weapons; sword, ax and mace. The shields were almost too heavy to pick up, and some of the smaller soldiers have great difficulty holding them in place. The weapons were also very heavy. Conner had handled his father’s swords at times, and didn’t remember them being this heavy.
“They are weighted, of course,” said the sergeant when Conner asked. “We need to build up your strength, so you can hold shields and swing weapons for hours at a time. The best way to do that is to give you something heavier and use it to train your muscles. You may hate it now, but you will appreciate it later.”
“I thought the idea of pikemen was to fend off cavalry,” said Conner, thinking about what the sergeant had said. “Why will we need shields and swords?”
“Because some of the things you will be facing cannot be stopped with pikes,” said the sergeant, slapping Conner on the shoulder hard enough to stagger the young man. “So why don’t you just do as we tell you, and everything will work out for the best.”
Chapter Seventeen
It was still cold as hell out as far as Conner O’Kelly was concerned. He would have liked marching better if the king had waited for it to warm before setting the army on the road. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the ear of the king, and doubted the man would listen to his complaints if he had.
There was still snow on the ground, though the last heavy fall had been more than a month before. There would have been ice on the road if not for the thousands of men and animals who had gone on before. His company, as much as he could ascertain, was about in the middle of the infantry, which was behind the cavalry but ahead of the artillery and supply train. He had been told that the army stretched out over twenty miles of road. Conner was not sure about that, since he had no way of telling from his vantage point. At least the road wasn’t dusty, something the veterans had told him would be the bane of their existence when on the march.
His company of two hundred was more than half professional soldiers, the ones who would be expected to know what to do in every circumstance. He and the new men were to follow the lead of the veterans. Hopefully there wouldn’t be a rout. If that happened, he was sure he and the other new soldiers would get the worst of it. The veterans were proven survivors, while the new soldiers hadn’t shown they would get through anything as of yet. Most of them would probably die before they became veterans, while those who already were would likely go on to the next battle.
A horseman galloped up the march on the side of the road, horse steaming breath as it ra
n. A messenger, telling the people at the front what was going on further back. Conner just hoped the news wasn’t something that would affect him.
The pikeman shivered in his less than sufficient winter clothing. They had been issued armor and weapons a month earlier, the real thing this time. Except for their short swords and daggers, those rode on the company supply wagons to their front, in easy reach if they needed them. Easy reach meant that they might be able to arm themselves in ten or fifteen minutes. Enough if they were not under attack, but too much time if enemy cavalry happened to come rushing in from the flanks. Which was why there were companies of light cavalry out there flanking them, miles from the road.
“This is as cold as a witch’s behind,” complained Caomh, holding his arms around his torso and shivering.
Conner nodded, looking at the thin clothing that was the only covering the other man had between himself and the cold. They had been given armor and uniforms. Oh yes. But they had not been given winter clothing, which each man had to supply on his own. For most of them that meant whatever they could get their hands on, from family, from friends, from what they could beg, borrow or steal. The veterans had thick winter clothing, with fur lined hoods and gloves.
“We are so damned stupid,” groaned Conner, looking at their baggage wagon. “What the hell are we thinking.”
He started to push out of the ranks so he could run to the wagon, looking back at the twins and waving them to follow.
“What in all the hells are you doing, trooper?” yelled their company senior sergeant, coming out of his position and heading for the three men who had broken the ranks.
“We’re going to get our blankets, senior sergeant,” said Conner. He was still cross at himself for not thinking of this in the morning when they first started out. Every man had a wool blanket and a canvas tent section for use at night. But the blanket could also be of use today.
“Get your sorry asses back in the ranks,” screamed the senior sergeant. “Extra duty tonight. And if you catch my attention again this day, you can expect to stand guard through all three watches tonight.”
The Chronicles of the Eirish: Book 1: The Lich's Horde Page 16