The Brave and the Dead

by Robertson, Dave

  Gahspar awoke in darkness. His room in the barn was little more than a stall with straw bales stacked around to form extra walls. It wasn’t much, but it was cozy and the bales kept it warm. He got up and started his chores; Gahspar liked to have the animals fed and watered before breakfast, which tended to be just after sunrise.

  His tasks went quickly: gathering water, feeding the animals, checking on the cows and the horses. He had done it so many times he could do it in his sleep, and nearly had, once or twice.

  The sun was coming up as he returned to the barn. He had empty grain sacks tucked under each arm and an empty bucket in each hand. He set them down and put everything where it belonged, then headed for the house. His stomach rumbled as he stepped out of the barn. The day was chilly, the kind of early, biting cold that let you know that winter was just around the corner.

  Gahspar glanced out past the fence line, thinking about breakfast. Panic rose in his chest. In the distance he could see smoke, black plumes rising into the morning sky. Oakbridge. Oakbridge was burning.

  Gahspar ran for the house. He sprinted alongside the barn, then turned the corner - and almost ran into his uncle. The older man caught Gahspar by the shoulders just before they collided.

  “Oakbridge is burning!” his uncle shouted.

  “They’re burning Oakbridge!” Gahspar shouted, almost simultaneously.

  The two men looked at each other for a moment, surprised.

  “The army, they’re real. They’re burning Oakbridge!” Gahspar said.

  His uncle Ingfred held onto his shoulders and studied Gahspar’s face, as if deciding what to do.

  “Your cousin will take the cows into the forest. You and Helga take the horses. Go.”

  His uncle turned and ran. Gahspar went to the barn and started putting saddles and bridles on the horses. His Aunt Helga would ride the grey mare, which was calm and steady. He would take the younger one, a buckskin with a blonde mane and tail. It had a different temperament, high spirited, but it was strong and fast.

  Gahspar was leading the speckled grey horse out of the barn when his aunt appeared, her face ashen.

  “We’ll take the horses and hide in the woods. Ingfred doesn’t want them to take the animals,” Aunt Helga said.

  Gahspar helped her onto the horse. He smelled smoke and looked to the southeast, toward Oakbridge. There was another fire, across the fields.

  “The Gernsons’,” Gahspar said.

  His aunt turned in the saddle.

  “Oh Gods, no,” she said.

  Just then his uncle came out of the house, his eyes darted about, his hair disheveled. He looked like a man whose world was crumbling.

  “They’re getting closer!”

  Gahspar ran for the barn and led the other horse out. It was stomping and blowing, protesting its hasty preparations. He didn’t have time to baby the horse today. As he stepped out of the barn, they heard the sound. A low, distant thumping. The thud of a constant beat.

  Thump, thump, thump. The sound of an army beating on its shields.

  The army of skeletons was preparing to attack.

  “Go. Go to the woods,” Ingfred shouted to his wife.

  Gahspar pulled himself up onto the other horse.

  “Gahspar, go to the jarl. Tell him the news. Go!”

  His aunt spurred her horse one way, his uncle ran another. Gahspar looked over his shoulder. A rank of warriors was coming out of the trees on the other side of the farm. From this distance, Gahspar couldn’t see them clearly, but he knew what they were. He turned his horse and raced out of the yard.

  Gahspar travelled as fast as he could, as fast as the horse could go without exhausting it. Even so, the trip to Brynhelm took three hours.

  Brynhelm was much bigger than Oakbridge. More buildings and people than Gahspar had seen in one place. In Gahspar’s eyes it was a living, breathing, sprawling thing. The movement here, all the people, it was a little overwhelming for a simple farmhand. He slowed his horse to a trot.

  Jarl Torbad lived in a large wooden house on a hill just east of the town. He was the ruler of everything from here to Oakbridge and some miles beyond. Jarl Torbad mitigated disputes, collected fees, and provided protection for the people. He was the only person in the area who could raise a proper army. He was the only hope for Oakbridge, for the farms. He was Gahspar’s only hope.

  Gahspar pulled up to a wooden fence in front of the jarl’s house. He unwound one of the reins from his right wrist. When he rode he could trap it between his thumb and forefinger, could control it somewhat, but he had to use his wrist and arm to pull with any kind of force. It was awkward, one rein being used differently from the other. The horse tended to veer slightly to the right, but Gahspar had learned to make it work. Dismounting was difficult, having to sit and unwind before getting off. It ensured that people were watching him, pitying him, even before he touched the ground.

  Gahspar tied the horse to the rail and looked up at the jarl’s place. The house was a long, t-shape of wood and stone. There were two hefty, bearded men on the porch that looked up as Gahspar approached. They were not dressed for battle but wore simple tunics and pants. They did have swords on their belts, but no armor, no helmets. These men were not expecting trouble.

  Gahspar stood at the rail and spoke to the nearest of the two men.

  “Excuse me. I need to see the jarl right away. It is urgent.”

  The two men looked at each other in surprise.

  “The jarl is very busy. He is not accustomed to seeing every visitor who shows up at his door,” the first man said.

  “Please. It’s very important.”

  The man looked him over, a hint of a smile on his face.

  “The jarl does not heal cripples, and he does not have time to chat. Get back on your horse.”

  “Oakbridge is under attack. We need the jarl’s help.”

  The first man’s eyebrows went up and he looked at the other man. The two men stood shoulder to shoulder, looking down at Gahspar. Their tone was suddenly serious.

  “If this is some type of farce, some bad joke, I will beat you to a bloody pulp,” the second man said.

  Gahspar kept his gaze on the man’s face. The man thought he was a helpless cripple, but still he would beat him? What kind of men worked for the jarl?

  “This is no joke. Oakbridge burns as we speak.”

  The first man looked at Gahspar’s horse, still damp and shaking from exertion.

  “Wait here.”

  The first man left and Gahspar remained under the watchful eye of the other man. He had a jutting chin that made him look determined and a little mean. He stared at Gahspar, who made a point not to look away.

  The two stood there without speaking until the first man returned. He ushered Gahspar into a small room with stone walls. There was no furniture except a long wooden bench.

  “Sit. Wait.”

  Gahspar sat and began rehearsing what he was going to say. He had never met a man as powerful as a jarl, and he was nervous.

  Time stretched. Seconds became minutes and the minutes became an hour, at least. No one came to acknowledge him, or to tell him what was going on. Gahspar was getting angry. His farm was probably burning as he sat there. Certainly Jarl Torbad was a busy man, but what was more urgent than this? All Gahspar could do was sit there, powerless. Frustration and worry threatened to overwhelm him. He thought of the farm, the animals and his family. He hoped the animals were safe somewhere. People, they could fend for themselves, or at least they could try. The animals were helpless. Someone had to take care of them and Gahspar wished he could be doing that instead of sitting here in this drafty little room, waiting. More time passed. Anger gave way to dejection. The farm would be burned to nothing by now, the animals scattered. Perhaps he would never see his family again.

  Some time later, Gahspar heard the door opening. Instinctively, he hid his disfigured hand behind his back. A man stuck his head in the room. He looked Gahspar over, then stepped in.
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  “Come and see the jarl, my friend.”

  The man smiled. Gahspar was taken aback by the man’s friendly demeanor, but he stood and walked toward the door.

  “Those are the clothes you wear to see Jarl Torbad?” the man said, shaking his head.

  Gahspar followed the man into a long room dominated by a huge oaken feasting table. Sturdy benches ran along both sides and a large, elaborately carved chair sat at the head.

  They passed by the table and went through another door into a smaller room. A fire burned in a hearth on one side and a large banner of gray and green hung on the opposite wall. The jarl’s colors. Crossed swords hung beside the banner.

  At the far end of the room, a gray haired old man sat on a sturdy throne. His chair was flanked by two men who wore chain mail over their tunics. Their metal helmets gleamed, their polished weapons hanging on thick black belts. As Gahspar got closer, he could see that even their boots were shined.

  When he was several feet in front of the jarl’s chair, his escort stopped and motioned toward Gahspar, then backed away.

  “So,” Jarl Torbad said, “You have urgent news for me.”

  The jarl wore dark clothes and no visible weapons. His hair hung to his shoulders and he had a thin, crooked nose. His eyes seemed too close together. Other than that the jarl was fairly unremarkable.

  Jarl Torbad shifted in his seat.

  Gahspar hesitated to answer, sensing that the jarl was not finished speaking.

  “What important business does a one-armed man have for me? Eh? What does this manure scented farmer have to say? Please, tell me what is so urgent that you have disrupted my day.” Jarl Torbad’s tone was sarcastic, but he spread his arms wide as he finished, his palms raising up, signaling that Gahspar was now welcome to speak.

  “Jarl Torbad, I have come with news. Oakbridge has been attacked. Troops have set fire to the town and they have overrun the farms. I was sent to ...”

  “Whose army?” the jarl interrupted.

  “I’m sorry?” Gahspar said.

  “What army is supposedly attacking? Where are they from? Whose banner do they fly? Are you stupid, as well as crippled?” the jarl demanded.

  “Um .. I …” Gahspar stammered. All his rehearsed lines had left him.

  “Well? Some mysterious army shows up, unprovoked, and you don’t know who, or why?”

  “I saw the smoke. A neighbor’s farm was burning. I heard them beating their shields, saw them come out of the trees.”

  Gahspar was not going to mention the skeleton part. That, he was sure, would end the meeting right away.

  “You saw this so-called army,” the Jarl said resting his chin on one fist. He seemed to look right through Gahspar.

  “Tell me, then, what did their shields look like?”

  “Their … shields?” Gahspar asked.

  Gahspar’s confusion was met with a sigh of disappointment from the man in the big chair.

  “Obviously your mind is no better than your body, so I will explain it to you. Different clans and different tribes, they each have their own shields. Different colors. Some are decorated with shapes, or animals, or a certain stripe. These fighting men you saw. What. Did. Their. Shields. look like?” he said the last part emphasizing each word.

  “They all had different shields,” Gahspar said.

  Jarl Torbad leaned to one side and spoke to one of his guards. The guard replied quietly. Gahspar couldn’t hear what they were saying.

  “Thank you for taking the time to see me today,” the jarl said “I’m sure you are very busy with your crops and your pig shit. I feel honored that you took the time to see me.”

  The nearest guard stepped forward. He grabbed Gahspar by one shoulder, spun him around, and walked him toward the nearest door.

  The guard walked Gahspar out a side door.

  “You have wasted the jarl’s time. Get out of Brynhelm. Do not come back,” the guard said.

  The man gave Gahspar a shove.

  “What about my horse?” Gahspar asked.

  “We keep your horse, for the time wasted.”

  The guard stepped back through the door, which slammed behind him. Gahspar was left feeling dejected, angry with the Jarl and angry with himself. If he’d been born normal, maybe someone would believe him. Instead people assumed his mind was as feeble as his arm. He hurried around the building to where he had left his horse. One of the men from the porch was leading it away.

  Gahspar seethed. He had been treated poorly, he was used to that, but taking his horse was another matter. They would not get away with this. Gahspar walked to the street, following the large man leading his horse. He had no time for a plan, he just acted.

  Gahspar ran to the right, around a small building. When he had gone around three sides, he was now heading back toward the man leading his horse. Gahspar slowed to a walk and headed straight for the man. He walked slowly, keeping his right arm out in front where the man could see it. Gahspar wanted all the sympathy he could get.

  He began to plead with the man for his horse. He got closer. The man stopped. He stood, relaxed, the poor cripple was no threat to him.

  Then Gahspar kicked him square in the crotch.

  The man doubled over and Gahspar grabbed the reins. He swung himself into the saddle. His left hand grabbed the horse’s mane, his other hand gripping the reins. The horse, frightened and confused, began to turn in place. Gahspar began to slip off its back. He threw his arms around the horse’s neck and managed to get centered on the whirling animal. People were shouting and the jarl’s man was back on his feet, cursing loudly. Gahspar nearly slid off again, caught himself, then the horse was running with his left hand tangled in the mane. Gahspar held on tight as the horse headed for the edge of town.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Vorus

  “Well, now what?”

  Gahspar patted the horse’s neck. One brown ear moved slightly.

  “Did you think I would let them take you? I would never let them do that,” Gahspar said.

  The reality was that Gahspar had surprised himself. He had never hit anyone, had never been in a fight in all his life. He shook his head and scratched the big muscles of his mount’s neck.

  “Let’s go home,” Gahspar said.

  As the words came out, he wondered if home still existed.

  He rode briskly, but suppressed the urge to run. The little buckskin horse was tired. It had been a difficult day.

  Gahspar was glad that the weather was bright, the sun almost at its zenith. He didn’t want to see shadows or darkness right now. It was a warm enough day, maybe one of the last of the season, Gahspar thought.

  He looked over his shoulder, wondering if the jarl’s men would come after him, but there had been no pursuers. Apparently he wasn’t worth chasing.

  He had been riding for only a short time when he saw another rider approaching. The person was riding fast, like someone carrying dire news. The sight of them made Gahspar’s heart sink.

  Gahspar turned his horse to the side of the road and pulled up. The rider began shouting before he reached Gahspar.

  “Attack. The farms are under attack. The dead are taking their revenge. By the Gods, the dead have risen up to kill us.”

  It was then that Gahspar noticed the rider was only a boy. Gahspar guessed that the lad had seen only ten or eleven summers at most. The boy spoke frantically, excited.

  “Warriors have attacked us,” the boy repeated.

  The boy had a certain look on his face. Gahspar knew the look because it was the way he had felt hours ago, determined to make people believe him.

  “Why have we not seen other messengers? Why have I not heard of this from others?” Gahspar asked.

  He fixed his eyes on the boy’s face. It was a question that he himself had pondered while waiting for his audience with the jarl. Why had no one else arrived with the same message?

  The boy spoke, breathless.

  “At the first farms, no one believed me.
Then the dead were upon us, killing and burning. Every man was needed to fight, to defend our farms. We could not spare even a single man. My father said I could ride, though. I am small, but I ride like the older boys. I can get to Brynhelm and tell them,” he said, keeping his chin up and looking Gahspar in the eye.

  Gahspar was about to speak, but the boy was already riding off, shouting something that Gahspar didn’t quite catch. Gahspar listened to the pounding hooves of the horse as it receded into the distance. He hoped the boy would get a better reception than he had.

  Gahspar rode to the top of the next hill and looked down over the valley before him. In the distance, plumes of menacing black smoke rose into the air. Down the long hill he saw people coming his way, people hunched and straining, toiling up the hill with carts, possessions, and animals.

  The main road was dangerous. It would be the best route of travel for any army. Even Gahspar knew that. He turned and headed across the hillside. He picked his way along, keeping to the hills and open places where the land was too steep or too rocky to farm. Eventually he turned south down a tree-lined gulch, watching as a woman and two young girls worked their way toward him up the slope. They carried heavy packs and kept their eyes on the ground as they passed. They moved up the slope and trudged out of sight.

  Gahspar came down out of the hills and found himself in a small valley. Ahead there was a farmhouse of stone with a thick sod roof. There was another farm across the road, also made of stone, with vast fields turning tan with the coming of fall.

  Gahspar called out, waiting, listening. There was only the rustle of wind.

  He rode around the house and crossed the dirt road to the other farm. No animals lowed from the fields, and no people appeared at the door. There was no sound of horses’ hooves or wagon wheels on the road. Just the wind rippling through the fields and the leaves on the trees, swishing in the silence.

  As he stood there the wind picked up, scattering dead leaves across the yard. They made a dry rattling sound.

  Gahspar dismounted and walked around the house. There was a low fence and just past it, a lump in the tall grass. As soon as Gahspar saw it, his stomach began to twist inside. He knew before he reached it that it was a body. The man lay on his side, blood crusted on his face and neck, open eyes staring up at the blue sky.