“Do what you can.” The general spurred his horse forward. At first the beast refused to move, but the application of spurs forced movement. He rode to the position of his master of cannon, who was busy yelling at his people to mate the guns to their carriages.
"Stop what you’re doing,” yelled the general. “I need you to aim some of the larger guns at those things.” He pointed out at the fast approaching golems, then to the demon, who was now hovering close to the ground.
“We need to get ourselves out of here,” yelled the wide-eyed officer, obviously terrified.
“You need to follow my orders,” yelled the general, pointing a finger at the master’s face. “Damn your hide, if we can’t stop them, we’re going to lose the entire army. Your people too.”
The frightened officer nodded, then started yelling at a couple of his thirty-two pounder crews. The general was satisfied that the officer would do his duty, though he wasn’t sure if it would do any good. He waved for another messenger. Rory needed to know about the new threats. And perhaps his mages, the one he had disapproved of, could do something about them.
Chapter Twenty-four
The zombies came on, hitting the shields of the northern warriors. Only a very small percentage of the Norse warriors were professional soldiers, but all had been trained in the use of ax and shield, their traditional fighting art. All but the few professionals wore scale mail hauberks, open faced helms on their heads, round shields on their off arms. While not as well protected as the other armies, they were fighting for revenge, rejecting all fear, even the magical type, which rolled off of their rage. Hundreds of zombies went down in an instant as fresh arms brought heavy smashing weapons down on them, breaking bones in shoulders and arms, rendering their attacks useless. Those zombies continued to press forward on their legs until the next blows broke those as well.
Tengri leapt into battle on the flank of the Norse infantry, weaving among the lancers of their cavalry. Freya was already at work, her divine blade slicing zombies, at every hit turning an undead creature into a statue of dust that fell apart instants later, if not smashed to flakes by the movements of the demigod. While no longer a goddess, she still had the touch of the divine, augmented by the worshipful looks of her people who gazed with adoration as their deity fought with them, feeding her energy.
Tengri ran to the far flank that was anchored in nothing, where Freya was holding off the zombies that were trying to come around the cavalry. It would seem like a lost cause to any mortal soldiers, but the walking gods were anything but ordinary. They blurred in their movements, their blows were too strong to be blocked, even by those undead who still had armor or shields. They downed a hundred zombies in a few minutes, holding the security of that flank for the time needed for the Eirish reserves to get there.
It looked like the zombies were going to finally get around, when the shouts of oncoming soldiers came like music to his ears. The first rank of the Eirish infantry marched forward, slamming their shields into any of the zombies that got in the way, pushing them back, those further to the right slowing their pace to maintain the line. Tengri had never seen such a disciplined force in his existence. It was hard to believe that over half of these men had been pushing plows, putting up buildings or tending stores less than a year before. It was a testament to the skill of King Rory’s drillmasters.
The demigod turned to see where Freya was. They both needed to get out of the press, back behind the lines, before they became overwhelmed by the weak but numerous undead. Freya was surrounded by the undead, clawing at her from all sides. They could not penetrate her divine armor, nor her helm, and her round shield seemed to cover her front and sides, while her blade licked out to totally destroy its targets. But her Norse style armor did not give her complete coverage, and long claw marks marred one side of her face, while her knees and calves bore multiple wounds.
“I’m coming,” he yelled at the top of his lungs, fighting his way to her side, his mighty thews slamming his own shield against zombies and launching them like catapult stones, while his sword sliced them in half, through the middle or at angles as the blade cut through.
Freya redoubled her efforts, shoving undead away, her sword a blur of motion, killing a zombie every moment that passed. Tengri fought his way to the woman, one of the few of his kind on this plain of existence, and not one he was willing to see ended. Zombies were hitting him from all sides as well, his exposed flesh was ripped open, but the sting of wounds were almost below his threshold of feeling as his adrenaline fueled body pushed through the horde.
“Back to back,” he yelled at her as soon as he could touch her shoulder. The woman nodded and pushed back against him as he turned. Like they had been fighting together for years they moved back to the lines with perfect coordination, clearing all the zombies away from their fronts and sides. It took some minutes, but they made it to the Eirish lines, which opened to let them in and through.
Tengri stumbled as they got into the clear space behind the troops, and Freya was there to steady him. She still seemed as fresh as when the combat started, and he thought it most likely due to having a number of her people near. Not enough to thrust her back into the heavens, but sufficient to give her much more divine power. While his only power came his still tenuous connection to the heavens, and it would take time to get his energy back. In fact, Freya was healing quickly, the wounds on her face already closed and the scars starting to fade.
“Tengri. Lord Tengri,” called a loud voice from across the field, the timbre of one using mage voice. “We need you in the center. You and Freya.”
“Coming?” he asked the beautiful woman, reaching forth his hand.
“I will stay here and fight with my people,” she said, shaking her head. “They empower me, and here I am at my best.”
“The king who leads this army commands it,” said Tengri, raising an eyebrow.
“He is not the leader of me,” said the woman, her eyes flashing blue fire, her arrogance coming to the fore once again as she moved closer to the divine. “No mortal commands Freya. Run to him if you must, but here I stay.”
And someday you may learn that you are no longer the center of your universe, he thought before he turned and ran to where the king and his advisors sat their horses. Or one day she would ascend back into the heavens. She still had people, worshippers. If enough could be found, or converted as primary adherents to her faith, she might be able to regain her godhood. And there was nothing to convert people to a faith like an earthly manifestation of a goddess fighting among them.
* * *
The first of the flesh golems hit the Eirish line to the left, near to the Geats, who were also trying to prepare for the charge of another of the giants. The first two ranks tried to set their feet and hold their shields to the front. The next two, pikemen who had moved forward, reached out with their long spears, their intent to try and take out the legs of the giant.
They didn’t succeed, and the large foot, made up of three zombies fused together, swung into the line, kicking half dozen soldiers back to knock down those behind them. Some spears made contact, a few splintering, a pair sinking into the leg, the pikemen then pulled off their feet. Axemen swung their weapons at the lower leg, sinking blades deeply into the flesh. The golem’s power came from its mass, its substance no tougher than any other once living undead. But an ax cut that could slice halfway through the human sized zombie could barely cut into the huge limb of the flesh golem.
The great demon came flying toward the line, its aura of terror sweeping out before it. The line of infantry was already shaky, what with the flesh golem hitting it. Now it broke, one half of the Eirish front, turning to run away. The flesh golem swung its arms and kicked its feet, sending a dozen soldiers flying through the air, increasing the panic. Some of the men dropped their weapons to lighten their load and run faster, mostly the newer men. The professionals held onto their weapons for dear life, the reflex trained into them to where there wasn�
�t enough panic in the world to make them fling them away.
A second flesh golem struck the line, or at least the backs of the men trying to move away through a fleeing crowd. Further down another golem strode into the Geats, tearing a great gap in the line. A fourth monster joined it, and in moments the Geats were reeling back under an assault they could not handle. The Iberians also took the charge of a couple of the golems. All along the line the soldiers were being routed.
The monsters ignored the second brigade of Eirish infantry, and Rory, looking on, could understand why. If the Franks on the far left, and his own troops in the center, could be isolated and surrounded, they would be destroyed. And as long as those huge monsters were attacking the other brigades, he didn’t see how they would rally.
And now the demon came dropping out of the sky, landing in the middle of the routing Eirish regiment. Its clawed feet crushed men to the ground, stomping the life from them. Its great hands swept up more men, pulling them to its mouth where the great jaws widened like a snake’s and swallowed them whole, their bodies disappearing into the maw with horrified screams. As soon as it swallowed the men it opened its mouth wide again, a gout of hellfire playing across the soldiers before it, torching scores of screaming men.
“Get those guns in action,” the king yelled, looking over at the four thirty-two pounders lined up almost wheel to wheel. Most of the gun crew were loading the weapons, which had just been unlimbered and wrestled into place. Some were standing in place, staring at the monsters that were tearing into the infantry.
“Dammit, move your scurvy hides and service those guns,” he yelled at the men who were frozen in fear. He jumped from his horse, almost falling under the weight of his armor, then running up and grabbing a terrified man, pushing him toward the cannon. “King’s guard. Keep these guns from being overrun.”
The heavily armed and armored horsemen spurred their mounts to get between the oncoming rout and the guns, slapping with the flats of their swords at anyone who looked to be heading into the emplacements.
One of the gun captains lined up his gun, yelling at the men to push one side, then twisting the elevation wheel. He backed off, then raised his hand. The gunner ran forward, placing the match to the fuse. A moment of sparks and the gun fired with a flat roar, belching a cloud of smoke.
One of the monsters, a flesh golem, staggered as a hole appeared in its upper chest. It started to step forward again when another hole appeared, a moment after a second gun fired. The other two fired moments later, scoring two more hits on the large target that was hard to miss.
Rory stared at the monster that refused to go down. It wasn’t alive, so putting holes through its upper body was accomplishing nothing. “Go for the legs,” he yelled at the gunners.
“That’s a much harder target, my Liege,” called back the gun captain.
“You’re doing nothing by hitting them in the body. So go for the legs.”
Another of the huge zombies stumbled, hit by a trio of guns further down the line. Before it could get back upright from its stumble something else hit it, a force pushing into its lower legs and knocking them out from under it. The monster fell forward, landing on over a score of soldiers, cutting off their screams. Before it could get to its feet it was swarmed over by the most courageous of the soldiers, their axes and maces rising and falling over the patchwork body. It tried to push itself up, one arm going out from under it, having trouble handling the extra weight. It was almost to its feet when the rearmost leg went out from under it and it fell backwards. As soon as it landed on its back it burst into flame, a white-hot fire that swept through the undead that made up its substance.
Thank the gods for the wizards, thought the king. He hadn’t actually seen the mages who had destroyed the monster, but he recognized their work. He could only hope that they were getting ready to work on another target.
The guns spoke again, and this time two of the shots hit the upper left leg of a golem, almost severing it from the body. The creature staggered, then started to fall forward, before some invisible force hit it in the chest and reversed the direction of the fall. Another wizard, throwing its force bolt into the creature at just the right moment.
Something roared, and Rory turned his sight to the demon, still ripping into his running soldiers. That was something that needed to be stopped, and now, before it destroyed the center of his army. “Get the priests up here,” he yelled at another aide. “It’s about time they started earning their keep.”
He turned back to stare at the demon, a creature that offended his sensibilities, the wrongness of the monster beating down on his brain. He was trying to figure out how to hurt the creature when a large form pushed its way through the fleeing crowd with inhuman strength, the heavy sword in its hand sweeping forward.
* * *
Conner staggered away, not fighting the enemy, but battling his way through the other men who were a part of the rout. He felt his face heating with shame that he had not stood and fought, but the terror that had come over him had been overwhelming. He still carried his mace, his shield was still strapped to his off arm. In other circumstances this would be a source of pride, but basically he hadn’t thought to throw them away, more concerned with moving his feet as fast as possible.
He had seen his friends, the two boys he had grown up with, the pair he had signed on to the army with at the start of this adventure. Caohm had gone down to the zombies, stumbling away from the lines and knocked back by a larger soldier, falling to his knees and overwhelmed. His throat had been ripped out, and Conner thought he was probably walking with those undead creatures, attacking his fellows. Faelan had been struck with the fire from the demon, then scooped up and eaten by the hellish creature. That young man would not be walking with the undead, but his soul was probably burning in torment in some unknown hell.
Conner didn’t want either fate to be his, so he kept stumbling forward, saying the words of a prayer he had learned when he still had aspirations of becoming a priest. He glanced back behind him, regretting that he did when he saw the demon heading in his direction. That was the ultimate of terrible fates to his way of thinking. He pushed ahead, running past soldiers who had fallen to their knees. People he could have helped back to their feet, but his fear drove him on to save himself, and the hells with others.
The demon roared behind him, and he couldn’t help himself from turning once again. The sight he saw rooted him in place for some moments, but it wasn’t the image of the demon coming after him. No, it was the sight of something he wouldn’t have believed if it wasn’t right here in front of him. He said another prayer, this one trying to petition the gods to give power to the one creature that might be able to save him, to save the army.
* * *
Tengri realized that he must have lost his mind to attack such a creature. When he had been a god he could have banished the demon with a thought. He was no longer a god, and the demon towered over him. The only way I’m going to beat this thing is to attack, fast and furious. With that thought he ran forward, blurring in motion, swinging his sword back, pouring as much power as he could muster into the divine blade he had carried down from the heavens.
The sword hit the demon on the shin, the blade glowing white as it sliced into the armored flesh of the infernal creature. He could feel the sword striking the bone, hard enough to actually penetrate, but not enough to slice through.
The creature roared its anger and pain, flinging the soldier it had just ripped from the ground into the air before it could bring him to his mouth and turning its baleful glare at the creature that had just harmed it. It reached down with one of its large clawed hands, the eyes that could burn the soul from most mortals glaring into its tormentor’s.
Tengri met that gaze, using all of his willpower to stop from cringing in terror, like any sensible mortal creature would. There was some fear in his heart, but not enough to stop him from bringing up his blade and slicing across the palm of that claw. The demon ag
ain roared as it pulled its hand back, hot black ichor flying from its wound. A drop fell on the demigod’s forearm, burning into the limb. It would have killed most mortals, but Tengri’s divine heritage protected him from the poison. He screamed out his own pain and brought his blade back into a ready position, then swung it again into a leg, this time the one opposite to that already injured. Again his blade sliced in, again reaching the bone and bouncing away with a minor tear into the iron hard structure.
The opposite foot came across, forcing Tengri to run back, bringing his sword up to point at the bottom of the foot. He stepped forward before the demon could remove its paw. The point of the sword penetrated the flesh on the bottom of the foot, driving deep into the appendage. The demon jerked the foot back, the sword slicing again on the way out in a draw cut. Its wings expanded and it rose slightly into the air as it flapped, the force of the air pushing the demigod back. Then it came down, knocking Tengri to the ground with a hard paw.
The demigod looked up at the glare of the demon, an infernal smile on its face as it started to press down on his chest. A normal human would already be dying from the touch of the creature, much less the weight pressing down. Tengri let go of his sword and grabbed the edges of the foot with both hands, muscles straining as he pushed up. He budged it just a bit, enough of a lift to allow him to draw a quick breath. He was trying to think of his next move, if he had one, when something smacked into the demon’s right shoulder with the sound of a Warhammer striking a skull.
The demon roared in fury and staggered back, allowing Tengri to roll from under the foot. He was on his feet in an instant, snatching up his blade. Before he could turn the reaching claws of the demon wrapped around him and lifted him into the air, turning him to get a look at its open maw before raising him toward that fanged death and its promise of eternal damnation.
The Chronicles of the Eirish: Book 1: The Lich's Horde Page 24