The Chronicles of the Eirish: Book 1: The Lich's Horde

by Doug Dandridge

  Conner O’Kelley wondered when that was going to happen. They had been marching all day, and instead of taking their well-deserved rest, here they were marching through the night. To make matters worse, because they were in ostensibly enemy territory, they were in full armor, carrying their pikes, with shields over their backs and crushing weapons attached to their bodies. The night was cool, but the armor and activity generated a lot of body heat.

  And to make matters worse, there was the oppressive feel of the night. Everyone knew they were heading toward an enemy that was as evil as could be. Evil in a way many of them couldn’t imagine. And who knew what was waiting out there in the dark. Conner kept looking outwards, unable to stop himself. Of course there was cavalry out there, screening the army. Anything that attacked the infantry would have to get through the horsemen first. They would have warning, and his brain recognized that. But his nerves didn’t.

  One man stumbled for a couple of yards, then fell to the ground, breathing hard, sweat pouring from his face. The sergeant jogged up, also obviously strained from the forced march, and knelt by the man that the rest of the company was angling around.

  “Hold up,” yelled a commanding voice. A horseman rode up, also in full armor, and looked down at the men on the ground.

  “The men are done, your Majesty,” said the captain, bowing a bit before looking back up at the horseman.

  The king, thought Conner, turning and looking at the man he had sworn allegiance to. He had seen him a few times in the past, but never this close. He looked like an ordinary man, and one who had lived a hard life. One who had also gone through a hard day. The expression on his face indicated that he cared about his people, and was caught up in the dilemma of leadership.

  “Send word down the column,” ordered the king. “We will take a break.”

  “Are you sure, your Majesty?” asked another older man on horse. “I would hate to be caught out here on the road.”

  “And we can’t afford to leave exhausted men strung out on the road to straggle behind, Duke Connor,” replied the king. “And we can’t afford to meet the enemy with an exhausted force. We can risk hourly breaks from here on.”

  “Very well,” said the duke, spurring his horse forward and yelling for the column to stop to take a rest break.

  The companies started to move to both sides of the way, most plopping onto the grass. There was some cursing as long pikes were laid down on other soldiers, but most were too tired to do much more than shove them aside where they could fall on others, starting another round of cursing.

  Conner pulled the remainder of a loaf of bread from his belt bag and took a bite. It had been freshly baked the day before by the field bakery that traveled with the army. Now it was hard crusted and stale, but he chewed away. Though not really hungry, he thought the food would help him regain some energy for the long march ahead.

  “On your feet,” called a loud voice coming up the line. “We have a ways to go, and it’s not coming to us.”

  Men groaned, but got to their feet as quickly as possible. A few minutes later they were swinging along the road.

  “What happened to him?” asked Conner, looking at where their fallen comrade had been in the formation, but was now missing.

  “He’s riding on a wagon,” said one of the veterans.

  “Maybe I need to fall out,” said Conner under his breathe, but not quiet enough it seemed.

  “If you fall out just to get a ride, you will get a ride all right,” said the veteran with a smirk. “And see if anyone covers your back.”

  Conner thought about that for a moment, then decided it was better to just keep putting one foot in front of the other and continue to move forward. He still needed to prove himself to these people. Mostly that would happen when they finally saw combat, but he could work to establish his toughness through sticking with his comrades, no matter what.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Well, things seem to be going about as well as could be expected,” said Duke Kalbo, the leader of the Iberian faction. Iberia also had an old king, with a very young heir. The duke was the leader of the largest subdivision of the kingdom, so command had fallen to him.

  The king felt strange marching with the soldiers of his old enemies. Eireland had fought many wars on land and sea, but none had been as fierce as their conflicts with the Iberians. He knew them to be fearsome warriors, and was happy to have them along, though he was sure they would again become foes when this campaign was over.

  “And that worries me,” replied King Rory, standing on the hill with the rest of the leaders, watching the army pass below. The men seemed to be in good spirits after resting for an entire day before moving on. They were still meeting scouting parties of the Turks, with no sign of the main force. Well, maybe not no sign.

  “One of my apprentices thinks that she has caught glimpses of the horde with her mage sight,” said Master Aepep, his gaze far away. “And I’m getting some signs that they are moving toward us.”

  “Any idea of when we will collide with them?” asked Duke Lauren. All could tell that the duke and his nobles were anxious to be about routing the nomads, since it was their kingdom, their people, who were being ravaged by the horde.

  “We should be at the battle site by tonight,” said Rory, looking over at the duke, who had to know that as well as anyone. “And the Turks will get to us by, when?” he asked, looking over at Aepep.

  “They could arrive as early as tomorrow afternoon,” answered the master. “But only if they leave their undead minions behind.”

  “Which they are unlikely to do,” said Duke Connor, putting his flask away after taking a swig of whiskey.

  Rory, who had never been loath to spend a night in his cups, worried about officers who drank during the day on campaign. But as long as it didn’t affect their military efficiency, he was willing to let it pass.

  “We could take their cavalry on the march, if it came to that,” continued the duke, pulling his telescope from the saddled horse he was standing next to. “They have to have their undead along to beat us, or any western army.”

  “I’m not sure that is true,” said Duke Lauren, shaking his head. “The Turks are hardy people, and good horsemen. In the proper circumstances I could see them routing a western army, especially if the numbers are on their side.”

  “But the numbers will not be on their side in this fight,” said Connor, fixing the Frankish nobleman with an appraising eye.

  “They were not with them when they fought the armies of my king,” replied Lauren. The man shrugged once, then looked back to the east, the direction from which the nomads would be coming. “But then again, we faced the undead horde both times.”

  Rory panned his telescope over the mountain range they were heading for. The peaks rose seven or eight thousand feet above the high plains, making them about twelve thousand feet above sea level. Many were snowcapped, and some would stay that way throughout the year. From here he couldn’t see the pass they were going to use to try and trap the enemy army. The mountains swept to the horizon north and south, falling into masses of rolling hills that passed the area they were now at.

  “Then let us get about it,” said the king, turning to walk to his horse, nodding at the soldier who was holding the reins.

  In moments all were mounted and heading down the hill, back to the road where the infantry were plodding along. The mass of cavalry was ahead of the infantry, raising a cloud of dust that the foot soldiers had to eat as they walked. It had been that way for generations, if not millennia. It wasn’t because the cavalry was considered the betters of the infantry, though most would say so if asked. The cavalry was in position to screen the infantry from the enemy force, able to hit, then turn around and head back to the safety of the pike wall. The infantry lacked their mobility, and could be hit from close cover before they could fully deploy. Nothing was deadlier to the foot soldiers that getting caught off guard by cavalry, and they needed the horsemen as much as the
cavalry needed them.

  Rory and his party rode to the front of the marching formation, pulling into the command group, staff on horses, wagons rolling along behind him. He, too, would eat the dust of the cavalry ahead, since it really made no sense to place the command group in danger just to make them more comfortable. Some of the less experienced nobles might not agree, but he had made it plain that they were welcome to ride ahead and take their chances. None had taken him up on the offer.

  The mountains grew throughout the day, becoming clearer with each passing mile. Rocky peaks, still covered in snow, shone in the sun that was moving toward the horizon behind the army. About two hours before dusk they came to a curve in the road. Passing around the curve the pass became apparent, a slash through the mountains that seemed to end in more massive formations.

  “The pass moves through about ten miles, then shifts to the right,” said Lauren.

  “What’s to stop them from riding through the mountains and getting around us?” asked Duke Connor, frowning. “Aren’t there more passes?”

  “Oh, they could ride around us,” said a smiling Lauren. “Its three days ride to the north, two to the south, and you would have to triple that time for the zombies, if not more. As for passes, there are a half dozen, all so high that they are still below freezing at this time. If they march the undead through any of the passes, they will be frozen in place for at least a couple of more months.”

  “So we depend on them having to come through this pass,” said Rory nodding. We hope, he thought, reining his horse to the side of the road for a moment and taking a look through his telescope.

  He thought the chances would be good that the enemy would indeed come this way. A week or two out of their way was not in their nature, not cavalry that was used to striking fast and getting to where they were going. And their most powerful weapon slowed them down to half the speed of the Western army’s infantry. He had to remind himself that this enemy was not stupid, not fools. They might do the unexpected and pull a march on him. He had to depend on the arrogance of their god to lead them into his trap.

  “Our light cavalry should be into the pass by now,” said Connor, guessing some his king’s thoughts.

  “Then let us ride to the pass,” said Rory with a nod. “Guard captain. On me. I would have a strong escort.”

  In moments they were spurring past the heavy cavalry at the front of the formation, the king and a dozen nobles, along with fifty of the king’s guard. It took some time to pass the mass of heavy cavalry, then it was back on the road and bringing their mounts into a fast trot.

  The road continued to rise as they moved forward, thick masses of trees to both sides of the dirt track. They continued to rise, until the pass opened before them.

  It was a beautiful image before them, and Rory felt the breath catch in his chest. Mountains rose to both sides, jagged rocks leading up to snowcapped peaks. And the pass itself was almost totally flat, like an angry god had stomped on the mountains and crushed them into the ground. There were some low hills on each side, and a few rises in the middle, otherwise it looked like someone had poured water in a valley and turned it into solid ground. A small river flowed along one side of the valley, bordered by the hills.

  “What do you think, King Rory?” asked Duke Lauren.

  “Let’s get to that rise in the middle, Duke Lauren. But so far I like what I see. It’s just as your map described.”

  The view was even better from that vantage, and Rory could see exactly where he wanted his infantry to set up. He could see where the cannon would go, where the pike lines would stand, where the cavalry reserves would sit. Some of the light cavalry stood by their horses a distance ahead, protecting the area while they took a rest.

  “How far is that turn?” asked Rory, bringing his telescope back to his eye.

  “At least a couple of miles, your Majesty,” said Count Gunther. “Possibly three.”

  Rory imagined a cannon ball hitting some distance away and bouncing along the ground, taking out lines of undead along the way. He thought the cannon could get off four or five shots before the undead reached them, maybe six if they were lucky. And with the mages adding their power, they might get in nine or more.

  “How far can your people send a ball, Master Aepep?” he asked, trying to get the information to make his guess an educated one.

  The master sat his horse and squinted his eyes, looking down range, then mumbling some words that Rory thought was mathematical in nature.

  “Most of my people could send it maybe twice as far as an unaugmented shot,” said the master. “Marcus could do much better. Probably three times.”

  Rory nodded, his guess substantiated. And the master had just said the Marcus, his most powerful adept, could send one three times as far. As long as that young man’s power held out, he could send the balls from multiple cannons out to a range that added three more shots to the total.

  “We need to get the engineers to lay out ranging stakes at first light,” ordered Rory, pointing downrange. “I want to be able to visualize the entire battle, so I can have an idea of their casualty rates as they approach.”

  Duke Connor nodded in understanding, while the Geat and Norse leaders had looks of confusion on their faces.

  “Our two biggest advantages over the enemy, gentlemen,” said Rory, trying not to sound condescending to the proud nobles, “are our artillery and our magic users. Combined they will make a devastating weapon. The more we can use their powers to whittle away the enemy before they get within arm’s reach, the better.”

  Rory looked ahead to where the light cavalry was resting. That wasn’t all of them, so the rest must be further ahead, still scouting.

  “Send a message to the light cavalry commander. I want them scouting our flanks at first light. Let’s see where our other risks might lie, as well as our advantages to flank them during the battle.”

  The whole thing was beginning to make sense to his leader’s brain. If everything worked out, they would bleed this army they were facing, crush them, and pursue them back to the steppes. Of course, when that thought struck him he started worrying again, since no battle he had ever heard of had ever gone completely to plan.

  * * *

  “I hear that this is where we will be fighting,” said one of the veterans as they sat around the fire and ate what the cooks had produced. “No more marching.” No man gave a sigh of relief, wiggling the toes on his bare feet while his boots sat to on the ground to his front.

  “Thank the gods,” said Conner, reaching for a fresh loaf of bread to tear off a chunk. “I feel like my feet are blistered from front to back.” He too had his boots off, glancing at the blisters he had just mentioned. Some had burst, and were open bleeding sores, with the medicinal salve spread over them to toughen his feet.

  “Don’t get too comfortable, boy,” said another of the veterans with a laugh. “You can be sure that King Rory will have us working our asses off on the morrow.”

  “Doing what?” blurted Conner, hastily swallowing a chunk of still hot bread.

  “Downing trees, building artillery positions, making back up positions.”

  “It means some sweat, son,” said a grizzled older veteran, Caiside by name, who looked like he had been campaigning for forty years. “But more sweat means less of our blood. And don’t you worry. King Rory will let us have plenty of rest before the fighting starts. That one is like his father, and, so it’s said, his grandfather, and neither were fools.”

  And sweat they did the next day, Conner’s company, along with others, felling trees and dragging them to the front line. Other units dug pits further back behind the lines in order to trap horsemen who might try to attack from the rear. Conner himself, as a trained carpenter, found himself put to work with an adze, trimming trunks to flatten them and make bridges the army could retreat over if need be. He listened in on one conversation of the leaders while he moved the adze back and forth, taking of wood a layer at a time. He thought
the king knew what he was talking about from what he heard. But the disagreements of the other nobles made him wonder if the leadership would really work that well together when the battle was joined.

  * * *

  “Why spend so much time planning for defeat?” asked Duke Kablo, pointing to the men digging the deep trench. He looked over at Rory with a belligerent expression on his face. “This behavior instills defeatism in the soldiers. We must prepare for victory.”

  “I prepare for victory,” said Rory, staring at the other leader in disbelief. “But I’m a realist, and I prepare for eventualities. If we are defeated, I intend to still have an army on the field, for another battle.”

  “No,” growled the Iberian noble, throwing his hands in the air. “We must focus on winning. Focus on winning. That should be the only thing on our minds. My soldiers will not participate in preparations for defeat.”

  The other noble stormed off, shouting for his generals to pull his men from the construction efforts. Rory stood shaking his head, staring at the back of the Iberian duke. No wonder you haven’t won a border clash in recent memory, thought the king. The Iberians engaged in wishful thinking. A wise leader recognized that not everything would go their way and prepared for all possibilities. A foolish one thought the battle won before it started, and their plans for victory assured.

  “What do you want me to do, your Majesty?” asked Duke Connor, walking up to the king, his eyes locked on the Iberians. Connor was wearing a light mail hauberk, the same as most of the nobles. The uncomfortable sweaty plate would wait for when it was needed.

  “Keep the men working,” said the king, shaking his head over the behavior of the nobles of the other powers. “They may grumble for now, but if the enemy somehow gets horsemen behind us, they will be happy enough to have put in the effort.”

  “Duke Lauren says it is impossible for the enemy to get people behind us,” said the duke in a reasoning tone. “They know this area better than we, after all.”