The Brave and the Dead

by Robertson, Dave

  There was an axe in the grass near the man’s head. Gahspar picked it up. He studied the sharp edge, the handle wrapped in worn leather. Gahspar stuck it in his belt. Maybe if he had to, he could use it with his left hand.

  A distant sound caught Gahspar’s attention. He looked up, scanning the trees past the fields. A figure emerged, shield and sword held at the ready. Gahspar saw the bony, grim face as it began to march toward him. A skeleton. A rotting, hideous, dead thing intent on killing. A profound fear gripped Gahspar

  The dead farmer’s shield lay a few feet away. Gahspar picked it up and backed toward the house. The skeleton was closing. Its lipless mouth made it look like it was grinning. Gahspar held the shield in his left hand, bracing it with his forearm as he had seen other men do. He knew his right hand couldn’t hold the axe, but he might be able to protect himself with the shield.

  The skeleton snarled and rushed forward, sword held high. Gahspar raised the shield and set his feet. The blow was hard, rocking Gahspar on his heels. The force of it hurt his forearm, even through the shield. The skeleton turned his sword in a quick figure eight and Gahspar had to jump to the side to avoid it. The dead warrior swung with speed and fury. Gahspar had his hands full, just blocking the blows. He kept moving, circling. He knew that moving was his only chance.

  The raging dead thing didn’t seem to tire. He rained down blow after blow on Gahspar’s shield. The vibration hurt his arm. His shoulder ached. The shield was starting to crack and splinter.

  Gahspar circled, and dodged, then backed out of range. The skeleton smelled of mold and ancient dust. It’s eyes shone with evil light, and that’s when Gahspar realized the thing had eyes. Not physical eyeballs, but bright orbs that hovered in the dark sockets. Gahspar shuddered.

  The repulsive thing attacked relentlessly, swinging from all angles. Gahspar wasn’t sure how long he could survive.

  The skeleton paused, looking Gahspar over. He circled left; Gahspar circled away. The thing began to raise its sword, then suddenly stopped. The lights in its eyes blinked, then went dark. As Gahspar looked on, a sliver of bone fell from the skeleton’s forehead. The bones in its right arm came apart and fell to the ground with a clatter. The skeleton began to shake violently. Shards and fragments of bone began to flake off. Joints came undone. Gahspar stepped back and saw the thing’s head start to collapse, chunks of its skull falling into its empty head. The skeleton gave out an unholy groan as the bones of its spine rattled loose. It fell in a heap.

  Gahspar stood in awe, looking down at the pile of bones. He looked around, expecting more of the dead to come out of the trees, but the fields were empty. He was alone.

  He reached down, thinking to take the sword and the shield, which was better than the one he had. As he did, the air above the bone pieces swirled and moved. A dark mist whirled up, churning and spinning, until it formed a column taller than Gahspar. Suddenly a dark face appeared in the spinning column, a leering, ugly face full of malice and anger. The face roared at Gahspar.

  Gahspar decided it was time to go.

  Vorus opened his eyes. Something was wrong. He could feel some of his warriors disappearing. One moment they were linked to him by invisible psychic threads then … nothing.

  He slowly became aware of a pounding on his carriage door. He leaned over with a scowl and pushed it open.

  “What? What is it?”

  A man stood outside the carriage. He was a bulky, formless man with a head that was unusually large, even for one his size. He had shaggy hair that hung over his eyes, eyes he kept fixed on the ground as he talked.

  “Well, I … I wanted to know, um …”

  Vorus’ patience reached a fast and vicious end.

  “You were told not to disturb me! Now I’ve lost my connection. Some of the skeletons are down, and … Just go, and don’t bother me again!” Vorus snarled.

  The door of the carriage slammed shut and the big man turned and walked away. As he did, another man who looked remarkably like him approached. The twins, Mik and Mek, had worked for Vorus for years.

  “What’d he say?” Mek asked.

  “What’d he say? What’d he say? He said piss off, leave him alone,” Mik kept walking. “The precious master can’t be bothered is what he said. You and I ‘aven’t ‘ad a proper meal all day, but the master can’t be interrupted. All day he sits there in the dark in his prissy little carriage and we do all the work.”

  “Did he say that? The part about the prissy carriage, I mean?”

  “No. He didn’t say that, I said it. He said the other part.”

  “The part about not bothering him? He said that part, right?”

  “Yes. We shouldn’t bother him. He is all important and we are just grunts that do all the real work.”

  The twins walked for a moment in silence, then Mek spoke again.

  “You shouldn’t talk about Master Vorus like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s a powerful man. He could use his powers to kill you, send you to some nasty realm of dead pigeons and skeleton pigs.”

  “Well, once he figured out that I do most of the work, he would bring me back, I’m sure.”

  There was another silent pause, before Mek spoke up again.

  “I guess that’s the good thing about working for a necromancer.”

  Vorus sat in his carriage, curtains pulled over all the windows. He sat in the darkness, feeling the distant fury of his skeletons in the fields. When he concentrated, he could feel their power, could sense their actions. He knew which ones were injured, which ones had fallen. A few had even come apart completely, the power of their souls too much for their failing bones. The concentration required was huge, though, and Vorus felt thoroughly drained.

  Vorus was the one that had found the tombs of the ancient warriors, had located their souls and summoned them to him. He was the one, the only one, with the ability to reunite the souls with the skeletal bodies. Now he had an army of the region’s best warriors, men who had been wronged, betrayed, deceived. He had an army of angry souls bent on vengeance. Their horrid and frightening appearance was a nice bonus.

  Marek was the one in charge of formations and tactics. He was the leader in the field, but Vorus, Vorus was the real power. He could communicate with the dead, could keep the souls motivated. Vorus was the one with the vision, the one with the plan. And now the plan was coming together.

  The necromancer rubbed the bridge of his nose and breathed deeply several times. The darkness of the carriage enveloped him.

  Across from him, the other bench of the carriage had been removed. In its place stood a three foot statue of dark stone on a heavy base. The figure was a man, perhaps, or a demon.

  As Vorus sat in rapt concentration, the darkness of the carriage began to flow and move. It slithered around him, filling every inch of the carriage’s interior, sucking up every bit of light.

  Vorus focused his attention on the statue. He heard faint, echoing voices and the far off dripping of water on stone. A musty, dank smell permeated the carriage. He heard what sounded like a great flapping of leathery wings and then, suddenly there was a figure across from him: The Goddess of Shadow and Bone had arrived.

  Vorus sat with his eyes closed, sensing the great figure before him. He heard a vast rustling, a sound of inhuman bones and limbs settling into place. Claws scrabbled on hard stone. Vorus waited patiently.

  There was a noise like stone blocks grinding against each other, and for a moment it seemed the ground beneath him had come loose from its moorings. Everything shook slightly. The grinding stopped. There were more sounds, subtle ones. Minor shifting and readjusting. The Goddess of Shadow and Bone settling in. Then there was silence for several seconds. Absolute, complete, terrifying silence.

  “You may look upon me,” said a powerful voice with a gravelly undertone.

  Vorus opened his eyes. The room was lit with a faint glow, though Vorus could never figure out where it came from. Before him, and slightly lo
wer, sat The Goddess of Shadow and Bone. She had taken the form of a pale, thin woman with high cheekbones and bright eyes sunk in deep sockets. She wore loose white pants and a coat made of bones that clacked together each time she moved. She wore a white hat with long, colorful peacock feathers trailing out of the band.

  “Do you like the outfit?” The Goddess said.

  “Yes, very much, Goddess,” Vorus answered without giving it any thought.

  “The coat isn’t a little too … obvious?”

  “No, Your Highness.”

  “The hat? Stylish, eh?”

  “Yes, Goddess,” Vorus said. He didn’t always understand the things she said.

  The Goddess of Shadow and Bone clicked the bones of her fingers together, thinking.

  “Well, from your point of view, this style hasn’t even been invented yet. In several hundred years, this look will draw raves, believe me.”

  The Goddess turned one way then the other.

  “Trust me, it’s smashing.”

  Vorus could see that the Goddess was sitting in a slight depression. Nobody was to be seated lower than The Goddess of Shadow and Bone, not here anyway.

  “I assume you have an update,” the Goddess said. “How goes the war?”

  “We’ve sacked one town and several farms. They burn as we speak, Goddess.”

  The Goddess of Shadow and Bone nodded almost imperceptibly, the bones of her coat clattering slightly.

  “We’ve secured a blacksmith and a leather worker. We have everything we need. We’ll take Brynhelm by morning, the rest of the central towns by midweek.”

  “Good. Good. The central towns, then on to the highlands and the country to the north. Soon darkness will rule.” The Goddess grinned slightly.

  “Yes, Goddess.”

  “The men of the southern lands have a saying: A rising tide lifts all boats.”

  “Yes, Goddess.”

  “It means that when darkness rules, we will both benefit.”

  “Yes, Goddess.”

  “Do not fail me.”

  “Yes, Goddess.”

  There was a bright flash and then darkness. Vorus saw spots behind his eyelids. He blinked once, twice. His eyes adjusted to the gloom. He was alone again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Fight or Flight

  Gahspar decided to keep to the woods. He had spent plenty of time in these little patches of forest. He had gathered mushrooms and firewood here, had played here as a child. Plus, he hoped, less chance of meeting another of those horrible, frightening skeletons.

  He wondered about the one he had seen back at the farm. How it had suddenly just … come apart. Gahspar considered himself lucky; the next encounter may not be so easy.

  Now he had no place to go. He had lost his home, his family. He’d even had to flee from Brynhelm. Where would he go? Where would he sleep?

  There was a dense patch of woods, bigger, deeper. It was farther from the farms, a nice, out of the way place. Gahspar rode slowly through the trees, his horse scratching through the dense brush. He found a stream and dismounted. He let the horse drink while he stood listening to the sounds of the forest: the chirping of the birds on the branches, the gurgling of the stream. It sounded peaceful. Normal.

  Gahspar found a small clearing. He tied his horse to a tree, rubbed its nose.

  “It’s been a long day,” Gahspar said, to himself as much as to the horse.

  He sighed heavily and stretched out in the grass. He knew he wouldn’t be able to relax. Fires. Jarls. Skeletons. His mind reeled trying to take it all in.

  Ten minutes later, Gahspar was asleep.

  Gahspar woke up, suddenly alert, though he didn’t know why. Then he realized what had awakened him: the horse. His horse whinnied nervously and shifted its feet. Danger.

  Gahspar expected to hear hideous dead things crashing through the undergrowth, but the forest was quiet.

  He crawled silently over to the horse and gently patted its rib cage. The little horse stiffened and pulled back, but relaxed slightly at the sound of his whispered voice.

  “It’s okay. Okay, my friend.”

  The horse stood quietly, blinking, while Gahspar rubbed his long nose.

  Moments later Gahspar heard someone, something, crashing through the brush nearby. He crouched low, one hand still on the horse, praying it would stay quiet. The thing that stomped through the woods fought the close branches and slashed at the limbs. Gahspar could smell it. The stench of decay hung heavy in the air. He listened as the noisy creature passed him by and continued on its way.

  Gahspar stood there, stroking the horse’s mane and wondering what to do. He could expect no help from the jarl, or anyone else. He had nothing but the clothes on his back, the buckskin horse, and the farmer’s shield which he had taken. He looked down then and remembered the axe he had stuck in his belt.

  Gahspar had fought for his horse, at least. He had kicked a very big, very angry man to save his horse. For once Gahspar had not been a total coward. He had even been willing to face the skeleton back at the farm. He had carried only the shield, but he had been willing to defend himself. He had wanted to run, but hadn’t. Didn’t that count for something?

  Gahspar looked through the small pack that was tied behind his saddle. He had grabbed it in his rush to leave and wasn’t exactly sure what was in there. He found some dried meat, a few old mushrooms, and some thin rope.

  Gahspar took the rope and sat in the clearing near his shield. The shield would need to be kept in his left hand, to defend himself, but perhaps there was something else he could do. He took the hand axe from his belt, and held it up, studying it. The sharp edge gleamed in the dappled light. He grasped the handle with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. His forefinger was curved and stiff and couldn’t bend to wrap around the handle, but he could keep the handle trapped between it and his thumb. He slid the end of the handle down between his palm and his other malformed fingers. He could hold the axe in this manner, but he couldn’t swing it, let alone strike anything with it. His grip was just not good enough.

  He held the axe as best he could and picked up the rope with his other hand. He wrapped the rope around his wrist, then up and around his hand and the axe handle. He wrapped it as tight as he could, pulling taut, trapping his wrist between his thigh and his upper body, not letting any slack into the rope. He managed to make a knot using his left hand and his teeth, as he had hundreds of times over the years. When he was done he sat back and looked at his work. The rope had slipped somewhere and the knot was not tight enough.

  On the second try, everything was tight. He held up his right hand, the axe tied to it.

  Gahspar was ready to fight.

  He walked through the forest leading his horse, not sure where he was going. He thought that he might sleep up in a tree, that would be safest, but what about the horse? Gahspar couldn’t very well sleep up there in safety knowing his horse was on the ground, vulnerable.

  He was pondering the problem when he saw something moving. Gahspar caught a glimpse of a skeleton moving between the trees. He tied the horse to a tree and tried to lead the evil thing in another direction. He didn’t bother to be quiet, hoping the horrid thing would follow him and leave the horse alone.

  It worked.

  Gahspar ran through the trees, slipping through the undergrowth and ducking branches. He hid behind tree trunks, heart beating ferociously in his chest. The skeleton searched. Gahspar was second guessing himself. Maybe the decision to fight had been a bad one. What made him think he could fight one of these god-forsaken things?

  As he hid behind a thick tree trunk, Gahspar heard the skeleton coming closer. He couldn’t run now, the thing was too close. Gahspar could only hope it didn’t see him. He put his back against the trunk. He heard the rattling of dry bones, the crunch of the forest duff under heavy boots, and his own blood racing through him, thumping and pounding, rushing in his ears. He closed his eyes.

  The dead warrior was heading str
aight toward him. He could hear each footfall, every movement of rusty armor and moldy bones.

  The thing stopped. It rested one hand on the tree trunk, Gahspar’s tree trunk. The frightening creature was just inches away.

  Gahspar didn’t dare turn his head, but he moved his eyes far enough to the side to see the skeletal thing. There was only a slight curvature of the tree trunk between them.

  The skeleton looked forward, the light in its dead eye sockets scanning the forest ahead.

  So many things were racing through Gahspar’s mind that he thought he might faint. Fear, adrenaline, anger. The skeleton lifted its foot, beginning another step forward. For Gahspar, it was now or never.

  Gahspar lashed out with the axe, hitting the grim thing hard on the chin. His axe splintered bone and he saw a small chip of it fly as the thing’s teeth clacked together. Gahspar swung again, but the ancient warrior knocked aside the blow with its shield, stepped, and swung on Gahspar with its sword.

  It missed.

  Gahspar was already running the other way.

  It was a harrowing game of hide and seek.

  Gahspar would take refuge in shadows, behind trees, in the dense thickets. The skeleton kept finding him. When they came together, the undead beast would slash and stab. Gahspar would avoid the blows, taking his own swings when he could. Usually, he would miss and have to run again.

  Gahspar had, so far, managed to keep from getting swiped or stabbed, but he was tired and shaky. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep it up.

  He was hiding behind an old log, and the warrior corpse was closing in again. The skeleton climbed over the log, momentarily looking the wrong way. Gahspar jumped up and smashed his axe down on the evil thing’s right wrist. There was a crack of bone and the skeleton turned, sword lashing out in a wide arc. Gahspar jumped back out of reach. The skeleton grabbed its wrist, glaring at him.