There was a woman with downcast eyes who held a little girl by the hand. The girl clutched a rope tied around the neck of a scruffy, disgruntled goat.
Siggrun stepped onto the road and approached the woman. She glanced up at his approach, then returned her gaze to the muddy road before her.
“Excuse me,” Siggrun said. “Brynhelm. What news?”
The woman looked at him, anger flashing in her eyes.
“There is no news. There is no Brynhelm. It has fallen. The men, the fighters are dead.”
“So quickly?” Siggrun said, then regretted it.
The people plodded past, not speaking, no eye contact except for one small boy who rode on his father’s shoulders. Siggrun looked back and met Gahspar’s gaze. The two of them shook their heads.
A man with battered leather armor walked among the refugees. As he got closer, Siggrun could see that his right hand was bandaged, his arm nothing more than a stump. He was pale and unsteady on his feet, but he pressed on with the others. As he passed he looked at Siggrun, eyes roaming over the big axe. The man stopped.
“It is an army of corpses, of dead men who have long since moldered in their tombs. They rise again to destroy us,” the man began, voice quavering. “They can fight in the darkness,” the man shook his head, “they can fight at night. We never stood a chance.”
The man didn’t wait for a reply, but kept moving. Siggrun led Gahspar back into the woods and stopped.
“This army. Dead men who know no fear, feel no pain. And to fight so well in the darkness …” Siggrun said, trailing off.
“For men it’s difficult, with no light, not knowing friend from foe, but these … things, they just kill anything that lives.” Gahspar said.
Siggrun nodded.
“No wonder Brynhelm fell so quickly. I had thought they would hold out at least a few days,” Siggrun said.
He leaned heavily against a tree, head down. Through the trees, Gahspar watched the ragged line of people struggling along the road.
“The invaders, they’re going north, to Errborg.” Gahspar speculated. “We need to go there, we need to go help.”
Siggrun looked up in surprise. “You want to fight?”
Gahspar’s eyes went wide.
“No. I … I was thinking I could help with the defenses, tend the animals,” Gahspar said quickly. Then his voice dropped to a mumble “I told you I’m no fighter.”
Siggrun grinned.
“You are a brave man, Gahspar,” Siggrun reached out and clasped Gahspar on the shoulder, which made Gahspar flinch. “You need only some training, some practice. I will help you.”
Gahspar wondered what he was getting himself into. Then again, living in a musty cave and eating roasted vermin was not so attractive. What options did he have?
“This legion of death, they will attack Harvat next, then Errborg. Better to protect their flank that way,” Siggrun said. “We can’t get to Harvat in time, but we can fight in Errborg. The final stand for Surgaart will be there.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Prepare To Fight
Siggrun helped tie Gahspar’s small axe to his right hand.
“These leather strips are wider, hopefully they won’t dig in so much,” Siggrun said.
“It’s no use. I tried to fight like that once, and if you hadn’t come along to save me, I’d be dead,” Gahspar said.
Siggrun just smiled.
“Done.”
Siggrun led Gahspar over to a wide tree at the edge of the clearing.
“Reach out and touch the tree, here on this knot. Just touch it with the blade,” Siggrun said.
Gahspar did as he was instructed.
“Now turn it left, like this,” Siggrun said, demonstrating.
Gahspar turned the handle until it was parallel to the ground and touched the tree. He didn’t know how this was useful. Then Siggrun had him turn the axe the other way, one hundred and eighty degrees. Another touch.
“Okay the first way … the second … now the third,” Siggrun said, repeating the sequence several times, the pace always increasing. “Nothing wrong with your wrist. Now pull the axe back and do the same …“
Gahspar repeated the three hits, with Siggrun sometimes mixing up the order. They repeated the process one step back, with Siggrun now showing Gahspar how to set his feet. By now Gahspar was hitting the tree hard enough to send little chunks flying.
Then Siggrun stood before Gahspar, making him swing at the center of his shield while Siggrun moved left, right, and back, all the while reminding Gahspar to keep his feet beneath him. When Siggrun finally stopped, Gahspar was breathing hard, his right arm shaking from the exertion.
“That is enough for now, I think” Siggrun said. “You’ve given that tree a pretty good beating.”
Gahspar looked at the tree. There was a crisscross of axe marks on the trunk, wedges of bark missing, small slivers of its inner wood showing through. He had managed to do some damage. He looked down at his wrist as Siggrun helped remove the leather strap. His arm was stiff and tired.
Somehow, it made Gahspar feel good.
Siggrun trapped a few small creatures for their supper, while Gahspar gathered wood. Then they trained a bit more. When long shadows began to stretch across their clearing, they started the fire and made their dinner.
After they ate, they sat in the waning light, each man absorbed in his thoughts.
“How long until the invaders get to Errborg?” Gahspar broke the silence.
Siggrun looked up. There were times when he went quiet, sullen almost. Gahspar guessed that the outlaw was reliving his past in his head. Siggrun’s face didn’t look happy at these times. Like now.
“Oh. Well, it’s two days march to Harvat, a battle at night, another three days to Errborg. I’d say five, six days, at the least.”
“Will I be ready?” Gahspar said.
“No one can say that but you,” Siggrun said his mood lightening. “None of us is ever completely ready for war, as war is never what you think it will be. You prepare as you can and you do your best. The Gods will see the effort you have made.”
Gahspar hoped that would be enough.
The Army of the Risen marched along the road under a pale sliver of moon. Rank after rank of dead, moldering warriors walked in step, relentless. The tramping of their boots was hypnotic, powerful. The sound of it echoed off the dark forest.
A few miles ahead, a small running figure headed for the tiny community of Harvat, which was really only two buildings, a blacksmith shop and a wheelwright shop with its small barn attached. The people lived in farms scattered among the rolling green hills on either side of the road.
The figure reached the two dark buildings. She’d been sent to warn the town, but how? Both buildings were dark. Where was the chieftain? Where were the fighting men?
The lone girl, the hastily appointed messenger, was rooted in place by indecision. She and her mother had retreated from Brynhelm when the horror had threatened. Dead things, nothing but bones and armor and pure, unstoppable evil. The two of them had fled with the clothes on their backs. They had guessed that the vile army would go north, to Errborg, so they took the road to Harvat instead. They had guessed wrong, and now the cadaverous army was marching toward Harvat.
The girl was fast and light. “Go to Harvat,” they had said. “Go and warn the men.”
The girl approached the closest building and knocked, tentatively, on the door. There was no reply, no one stirring inside. Her knock became a slow pounding on the thick wooden door. She tried the other building, then the barn. She pummeled the door with her little fists, but nobody answered. She looked around, hopeless, wishing someone would happen upon her. Anyone would be welcome as long it was someone who could take the burden from her narrow shoulders.
She walked up the road, looking off toward the fields on either side. No torches burned, no lanterns revealed houses. The dead men would arrive soon.
In the darkness she saw a faint path t
hat led off across the fields. She took it, and ran.
The Chieftain, Kari Henilsere, hurriedly secured his belt and sat to put on his boots. He was a man of average height, but remarkable girth. He was young for a chieftain but he had earned the honor. He was the head of the region’s biggest family and he had proven to be a fair judge of people and their problems.
He ground the palms of his hands against his eyes, trying to rub away the sleep. As he stood, he knew his two grandsons were running from farm to farm, alerting every man he could, just as the little girl had showed up at his door to alert him.
They had expected this evil army; they had just not expected them so soon. To most, Harvat was a two day trip from Brynhelm. These dead men, they must have marched all day and all night.
A sick, squirming feeling settled in the chieftain’s gut. How does one battle the dead? The question was like a riddle with no answer.
The men would come, that he knew. If the chieftain asked, they would fight for him against whoever and whatever came.
The chieftain checked the sword in his scabbard and pulled on his cloak. He picked up his shield, looked at the familiar pattern, half blue and half green with the black stripe down the middle. For generations his ancestors had fought behind shields just like it. He stepped out the door. He would likely see those ancestors very soon.
At Marek’s command, the dead men stopped as one. They stood in the road, the bright orbs of their eyes staring straight ahead. Marek glanced over the ranks of his troops, row after row of skeletal, soulless warriors wearing the tattered armor of their past lives. None moved, even a hint. They stood silently, full of black magic and dark rage, waiting for the next command. They were the perfect army.
Marek walked back along the road, surveying each column as he went. His plate mail made a quiet scraping sound as he walked, the leather straps creaking along with his stiff, bony joints.
He went back to the black carriage, Vorus’ carriage. As he approached, the door opened. The necromancer stepped out, eyes roaming over the army of bone and steel arrayed before him. A quick smile played over his face, then disappeared. He stepped down from the carriage, nodding toward Marek.
“Everything ready?” Vorus asked.
Marek looked at Vorus, struggling to form words. When he spoke, his voice was low and rough, like someone dragging a body along a gravel road.
“Ready. What is your wish?”
“Charge the village. Kill everyone who lives. Afterwards, Re-form your men on the northwest road,” Vorus said. “Attack whenever we’re close enough, no stopping, no forming up. I want a quick strike and an element of surprise.”
Marek nodded, a perpetual scowl on his face.
“If there is nothing else?” Marek said, the hint of an accent in his voice.
Vorus shook his head. Marek gave a slight bow and walked back toward the troops.
Vorus watched Marek as he walked along beside the army of dead men. The warrior had been the final piece of the puzzle, the piece that made everything else work. He was the field leader that Vorus needed.
In his life, Marek had been a great warrior. When the Norsemen of Surgaart and Estgaart launched their shallow boats to raid the lands to the south, across the high waters, it seemed no one could stop them. They raided one land after another, defeating all who challenged them.
Until they met Marek.
Marek had led the army in one of the southern lands. He was smart, aggressive, calculating. His army was like nothing the Norsemen had ever seen before. The men wore metal clothes, and walked together, in step and in formations. They stood close, with each man’s shield helping to protect the flank of the man next to him. At a signal they formed columns or squares or other shapes. They moved together, fought as one great being. There was no chaos, no individual fear. It was a type of warfare that confused the Norsemen.
Marek’s men had respected him. They would have followed him into the underworld, if he had asked. He repelled the Norsemen not once, but twice. The second time he and his army chased them all the way back to the coast, back to their boats. The Norsemen decided to find greener pastures, and easier pickings. They raided elsewhere and avoided Marek and his men.
Marek’s king had other ideas. He ordered Marek to gather his army and pursue the invaders all the way back to their homeland. Marek gathered his army and some neighboring rulers, seeing an opportunity to keep the Norsemen away for good, added their own men, boats and supplies to the pursuit. By the next spring, Marek had a great army outfitted with the finest men and boats.
Marek’s army landed on the southern coast of Surgaart: footmen in their gleaming metal coats, men with long spears of steel mounted on fine horses, and scores of archers. Somehow, Marek kept them all coordinated, all fighting under the same plan. The Norsemen attacked with vicious power, but they were scattered, dislocated groups. Each man, each group had separate goals. The Norsemen threw themselves at Marek’s army with all their might and fury, but it wasn’t enough. The discipline of Marek’s army won out. Soon Marek controlled most of southern Surgaart and a good portion of Estgaart. His war machine drove steadily north, crushing the local tribes and groups as it went. Marek’s army, the strange metal clad men who all walked together into battle, began to spread fear and doubt among the locals.
By the time Marek controlled half of Surgaart, the remaining Norse leaders saw the writing on the wall. Surgaart was by then a loose affiliation of jarls. They met with the King of Estgaart and formed a plan. They approached Marek, suggesting a truce. In exchange, they would fight with Marek against the much more powerful army of Orngaart to the north. It was a bigger land, they said, better farmland, rivers full of salmon, cities packed with riches. Marek agreed. The King of Estgaart invited his new ally for a great feast.
Rich dishes were served and the wine and mead flowed. The great Marek was toasted and speeches given. When Marek rose to acknowledge the praise, the king struck. Yes, the king himself stuck the knife in Marek’s back.
Vorus watched Marek surveying the troops. Marek fought with a vengeance, even after death. He still hated the Norsemen, that was obvious. He fought like he was trying to wipe out the descendants of every Norseman who had betrayed him.
After his death, the men of Estgaart took Marek’s body and buried it across the border in Surgaart. They believed that Marek’s angry spirit would haunt them, even from the grave.
As it turned out, they were right.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Armies Collide
Chieftain Kari Henilsere stood near the makeshift barrier on the edge of Harvat. There was a rough, unfinished fence and some sharpened logs stuck into the earth at an angle, to stop a charge. They had thought they would have another day to finish their defenses, but the army of dead men had apparently travelled all day and all night.
They didn’t stop for anything, the chieftain thought, and they never tired. Just what kind of monsters was he facing?
Chieftain Henilsere peered toward the road; it wouldn’t be light for another hour, at least. All around him, armed men were choosing positions, stopping to look up the road where the dead would soon approach.
A young man in dusty clothes walked the length of the makeshift barricade, lighting torches as he went. In the flickering light it was obvious that much of the barricade wasn’t finished. Men filled the gaps nonetheless, ready to put their lives on the line.
The chieftain heard hooves approaching. He turned to see three men arriving on horseback. As they neared he could see the crude, black raven on their shields: Chieftain Fenrig’s men.
“I bid you welcome,” Chieftain Henilsere said.
“Thank you,” the closest rider replied. “Chieftain Fenrig sent us ahead to tell you the rest of our forces are on the road. They’ll be here within the hour.”
“The chieftain’s loyalty is appreciated. As is yours.”
The men began to dismount.
“There is room on that side,” Chieftain Henilsere said, point
ing to the left flank. “Set up there. I will feel good in knowing that Fenrig and his men are there.”
The men nodded and began to look for a place to tie their horses. As they did, one of Chieftain Henilsere’s sons approached him. He was taller than his father, thinner, but still very strong. His reddish beard ended in short, elaborate braids.
“Is that all of Chieftain Fenrig’s men?” the son asked.
“No. These men were sent ahead. The rest are on their way.”
“Chieftain Yortung and his men are on their way also. They should be here soon.”
Chieftain Henilsere nodded, looking back toward the dark road.
“So many brave men. Perhaps we’ll all see The Great Hall of The Afterworld by day’s end,” the chieftain said.
Kari Henilsere clapped his son gently on the shoulder. All around them men were taking up positions and adjusting their gear. Their shadows twitched in the torchlight, their breath steaming out in small clouds. The chieftain turned back toward the village where someone was putting up a small altar of some kind. A group of men gathered around it, making their last minute pleas to the gods.
A sudden cry went up among the men, and the chieftain turned again toward the front lines. Men were pointing down the road.
The chieftain, short and stout as he was, couldn’t see over the other men. He began to push through the crowd. The men in front of him turned. In the dim light they saw the chieftain’s short, wide form and the familiar clan shield. They parted to let him pass, and soon the chieftain stood ahead of all the other men.
In the distance they could hear the marching of feet and the rumble of heavily laden wagons. The evil army was approaching.
Men drew their weapons and gathered their courage. Last minute prayers were muttered and final advice given.
The Brave and the Dead Page 5