The Brave and the Dead

by Robertson, Dave

  Chieftain Kari Henilsere stood in front of the men, awaiting the enemy.

  Marek Bartal strode alongside the front rank of his army. Up the road they could see torches burning and a dark line of men, waiting. Marek and his men marched steadily forward. The sound of their pounding boots was the only break in what was otherwise an eerie silence. Not a whisper or a single hushed question passed between the ranks. They marched onward without hesitation.

  They were close now. Marek could make out individual forms in the mass of shadows, hastily built spikes jutting into the pale moonlight, the occasional glint of torchlight on a shield or sword.

  Marek shouted a single, terse word. There was the metallic scraping noise of dozens of swords being unsheathed. Scores of boots rose and fell, rose and fell. Another shout rang out and suddenly the dead men were rushing forward, running, swords out, racing toward the dusky figures ahead of them.

  Chieftain Henilsere was surprised. It was usual for an army to stop, to gather itself and assess the enemy before a battle. An army coming off a long march often wasted hours or even days with false diplomacy, just to get a rest.

  The army of the dead didn’t stop.

  They came on like a cataclysmic force, a juggernaut. The defenders might as well try to stop a tidal wave, or a rushing river as stop this force of skeletal black death.

  The skeletons charged forward en masse, scores of them rushing at the chieftain and his men.

  For the first time in his life, Chieftain Henilsere was truly afraid.

  To their credit, the Norsemen fought well. There was no retreating and no hesitation. They hacked and slashed with sword and axe, bashing shields and cleaving skulls, but they were overwhelmed. The skeletons, the hideous, frightening dead warriors of old, were too much. They closed ranks as soon as the battle began, each grinning monster protected by the shield of the one beside it. They formed a hissing, stabbing wall of shields and armor which pushed forward, knocking the men of Harvat back on their heels. Blood flew and heads rolled as the dead warriors pressed relentlessly forward.

  The Norsemen attacked ferociously, but it was no use. There was no opening in the wall, no weak spot in the formation. The dead men moved as one big, impenetrable unit, with new legions forming in the rear and moving to either flank. The norsemen attacked as individuals, brave and aggressive, but not together.

  Marek was a terror, his sword a crimson covered blur. He swung, ducked, stabbed and parried; a one man undead killing machine. He left Chieftain Henilsere lying face down in a pool of blood, trying unsuccessfully to push his intestines back into his slashed midsection. Soon after, Marek sent the son’s head flying in a burst of blood.

  The fight raged on for what seemed like hours, the Norsemen steadily pushed back, physically, and eventually crushed under the undead machine as it drove ever forward. The battleground became a sticky, muddy mess, covered in gore and shit and muck. Swords sliced through flesh. Axes cleaved through bone. Men screamed, grunted, died. Skeletons clacked their rotting teeth and hissed as they fought, breathing decay and doom in the faces of their enemies.

  Long after the battle was clearly lost, after the chieftains lay dead in the cold, hard dirt and the men had been driven to the center of town, the few remaining Norsemen made their retreat. They exchanged shouts, backing to the edge of town before turning to run for the woods. The skeletons chased them to the edge of town, onto the Errborg road, then stopped. Those were their orders and such was Vorus’ control over them that they could not disobey. They halted, swords raised, bone faces managing to show hatred and contempt.

  The Norsemen headed for the hills.

  Marek watched as the Norsemen disappeared over a nearby ridge. Vorus stood next to him in dark purple robes, his long hair pulled into a single braid.

  “Should I form a group to follow them?” Marek said

  “No. Let them go. Let them tell others of the terror of fighting the dead,” Vorus said, his mouth rising slightly at the corners.

  Marek formed the troops into four lines that stretched all the way through town and back past the battleground, past the barricades even. Dead Norsemen lay sprawled about, their blood staining the battlefield a dark red. Some were the victims of head wounds or other fatal blows. Some were missing limbs, their deaths slow as they watched their lives leak out onto the soft dirt. A few groaned in pain, probably wishing they had died in battle, knowing that someone would be along soon to finish them. Did that count as dying in battle? Did such a death get them a place in The Great Hall?

  Marek liked to think that their last thoughts were full of doubt and fear.

  The army of dead men stood in their lines, grinning, wiping the blood and brains off their blades. They exchanged quiet comments, their sound like the low hissing of a mass of snakes. From time to time there was an outburst of dry, rattling laughter. Marek surveyed his fighters, stepped back and shouted a word of command. The skeletons went quiet. Weapons were quickly sheathed, shields were hung over their backs. The dead warriors stood motionless, silent. They would not move again until commanded to do so.

  The twins rolled up in an old hay wagon, watching the troops warily. During battle, the army tended to kill every living thing, so they did not dare to descend from the wagon until Marek had commanded the skeletons to stand at attention. Even then, they were terrified of the dead things.

  “Is it safe?” one of the twins asked.

  “Yes,” Vorus said. “We’ll stay here for the day.”

  The big twins cast one last look over the Army of the Risen. They were gruesome, unnatural monsters, worse when they were all bloody and waiting like this. They decided to sit on the wagon seat just a bit longer.

  Vorus surveyed the battleground. The camp followers were already driving up in their wagons, preparing to loot the bodies. Vorus shouted up to the twins.

  “Go back and tell them to wait,” Vorus said pointing at the cadaver robbers getting out of their wagons. “We’re going to take some of the bodies. I’ll show you which ones.”

  Mik sat holding the reins. He looked at Vorus, wide-eyed.

  “Take the bodies? What for?”

  “You let me worry about that,” Vorus said. “I have a plan for them.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Death and Fire

  Many miles west of Harvat, Gahspar was fighting a battle of his own. He and Siggrun were sparring, fighting with stout branches cut in the general shape of hand axes. Training axes, Siggrun called them.

  Siggrun swung on Gahspar from all angles, and Gahspar could only block, deflect, and backpedal. From time to time, Siggrun’s blow made contact. The branches were not sharp, but they were heavy and each hit was painful.

  Gahspar was bruised, tired and breathing hard. He backed up some more, hoping to regain some strength, to catch his breath. He ducked behind his shield as Siggrun’s fake axe beat against it. Siggrun lashed out with one foot, catching Gahspar on the ankle. He jerked his foot back, pulling Gahspar’s foot out from under him. Gahspar fell backwards, arms wide. He landed flat on his back, the impact knocking the last of the breath from him. Siggrun dashed forward, stabbing his branch into Gahspar’s chest.

  “Ummph. Hey!” Gahspar said.

  Siggrun smiled, then stepped back.

  “You can’t only hide behind your shield. Soon you start to watch an opponent’s weapon and forget the other ways he can hurt you,” he said.

  Gahspar sneered but did not answer. He had spent the morning being poked, beaten, and pounded. He was in no mood for a lecture.

  Siggrun looked closely at the branch in his hand, then tossed it into the forest.

  “Well, it’s time we were going,” Siggrun said.

  “Already? I thought we had a few days?”

  Siggrun shook his head.

  “We don’t know for sure if the invaders even headed for Harvat. We don’t really know anything,” Siggrun said.

  “You mean the great Siggrun could be wrong?” Gahspar said.

 
“I assume they are going to Harvat because it makes sense, strategically. Whether or not dead men follow that thinking is another matter.”

  A few hours later, Gahspar and Siggrun rode down a short, steep hill into a wide, brown field. The crisp air smelled of dead leaves and grass that had gone dormant for the season. It smelled like fall.

  Gahspar’s smaller buckskin horse struggled to keep up with Siggrun’s heavy war horse. The day was cool, punctuated by cloudy skies and a cold breeze. Gahspar pulled his cloak close about him and spurred his horse forward. The men rode down a gully, along an old stone wall, and through a meadow, where they joined a wide dirt road.

  Siggrun stopped, looking west along the road.

  “This is the way to Vastgaart,” Siggrun said.

  They sat there for several moments, the rugged outlaw lost in thought as he looked toward his former home of Vastgaart. Gahspar could only wonder what was going through his companion’s head. Probably thinking about the life he’d known there, the people he’d left behind, Gahspar thought. He hunched his shoulders to keep out the chill. Siggrun sighed, then turned his horse east and started down the road toward Errborg. Gahspar followed.

  Vorus stepped carefully between corpses, studying the fallen men and pointing out the ones he wanted. Mik and Mek then hauled the bodies up onto their wagon, for what purpose they did not know.

  Vorus had chosen the chieftains and some of the other leaders. He wanted men that would be recognized.

  When he was done, Vorus stood, surveying the field. He kicked at a blood-stained arm bone, the tendons trailing out of one end. He could see the camp followers huddled under the trees, in the day’s early shadows, waiting for their turn. He knew that there were other scavengers deeper in the forest. Bears. Crows. Rodents. They would likely wait until the army moved on before coming to feast on the remains of Harvat’s men. At least the bodies he was taking would be safe from scavengers, for now.

  “That’s it then,” Vorus said. “Keep them in the wagon. I’ll let you know when I need them.”

  The twins climbed onto the wagon, awaiting further instruction. The army of dead men stood in ranks on the road. Dozens of jet black ravens sat on the two thatched buildings, and many more looked on from the trees. The ravens sat there, watching, waiting.

  Mik and Mek watched as Vorus walked up the road, using his staff as a walking stick. When he was out of earshot, Mik spoke up.

  “I didn’t join up for this. Carrying bodies around? And those birds, they’re too damn smart. Look at their eyes, they have one foot in our world, one foot in the spirit world. Creepy, to say nothin’ of Vorus’ soldiers. They’d kill us for sure if they had the chance.”

  Mek only nodded his head. He wasn’t about to say anything. There was no telling what The Master could hear, and what if the birds told him things? Or the dead men?

  The two of them watched as Vorus climbed into his carriage and shut the door.

  It was always a relief when Master Vorus went in there, it meant he had better things to do than to keep tabs on the twins.

  Mik and Mek looked over the lines of horrid dead men while the ravens watched them from their dark perches.

  “I didn’t agree to this,” Mik said.

  Vorus sat in his carriage, collecting his thoughts. The glare of the sunlight had given him a headache, and he wished for the cool darkness of night. How did people stand it, running around in the bright, pounding light all day? Fools. He waited until the stabbing pain in his head dissipated. He set his staff against the wall, the dull purple orb at its top now bright and glimmering, full of new souls.

  He thought of summoning the Goddess of Shadow and Bone, but it was too soon. The Gods got upset if they were summoned too often. He would update her later.

  He lit his candles and sat, muttering a soft spell to himself. Outside, his army stood in its lines, waiting. A thin, diaphanous curtain of light shimmered into existence and began to pass through the ranks. It weaved its way between the skeletons, turning this way and that, quickly surrounding some before passing on. The light flitted like a butterfly. The light shifted and changed as it glided among the rows and columns of unmoving dead men. When it had passed through the entire army, the light shuddered, then winked out.

  Vorus opened his eyes. His army was healed, restored, prepared to move again. Some had broken bones or missing limbs, but he would deal with those injuries later. Unlike a human army, these soldiers didn’t complain and they fought whether they were injured or not. He made a mental note to ask Marek how many had been destroyed in the battle. By the looks of it, they hadn’t lost many.

  A slow grin crossed Vorus’ face. It was time for one of his favorite things. From a side drawer he carefully removed a thick bag, untied it and removed a very old, worn human skull. It was dark with age, grays ranging to black in some places, and some parts were worn smooth with time.

  “Hello, old friend,” Vorus said, setting the skull on the carriage floor.

  In reality, the skull was not that of an old friend, but rather a past master, Vorus’ teacher in necromancy. The man had been powerful, accomplished, a man who had communicated effortlessly with the dead. He had been the best necromancer in all the kingdoms, until Vorus killed him. Now his skull was the perfect vessel for communing with the dead.

  Vorus smiled, absently scratching at the scarred side of his face.

  He set out a small bowl and added items from various pockets in his robes. At the last he produced a small vial of oil, poured some in the bowl, and set the contents aflame. He sat back, eyes closed, lips moving in quiet incantation.

  The skull began to speak, the voice of one of the recently killed Norsemen filling the carriage. Vorus had to decide which souls to keep and which to pass on to the Afterworld. These souls would not reach their glorious Great Hall, but the Dark Gods would take care of them. They would soon be at rest, though not in the place they’d hoped.

  With the help of the skull, and his powers, Vorus spent hours talking to the souls. They were angry and confused, but that was to be expected. The major warriors, those whose bodies he now kept in a wagon just up the road, those souls would remain locked in the orb on his staff. Some of the others would be sent on, but how to decide?

  Vorus convinced many of the minor souls that they would be released into the Afterworld only if they traded him information. By late afternoon, Vorus knew all about Errborg and its defenses. He knew who the jarl was, who his allies were, and who his enemies were. He even knew the names of their dead relatives. In return, some souls had gained their freedom. Vorus got credit for securing the souls for the Dark Gods, and the Goddess of Shadow and Bone got credit for overseeing Vorus.

  Vorus put the old skull back in its bag, the bag in its drawer. He sat back, sweeping his hair back from his face. Errborg had a strong jarl, a lot of men, and a high wall surrounding it.

  Vorus began to plan his next move.

  Gahspar and Siggrun eventually came upon a sod-covered house made of large timbers. There was gray, wispy smoke curling out of the chimney, and some herbs lay out on the porch to dry. A small child stepped out, looked them over, and disappeared back inside. They sat on their horses, waiting. In a moment a thin, frail man came out.

  “Greetings, travelers,” the man said.

  “Thank you, and greetings to you,” Siggrun said. “We wondered if we could ask for some food and a night’s shelter? We don’t eat much and we could sleep anywhere.”

  “You look like you could eat all the animals we have,” the man chuckled. He then indicated Gahspar. “Your friend needs to eat. He’s skinny.”

  The man turned, motioning Gahspar and Siggrun to follow.

  The man’s wife oversaw the cooking, all the while balancing a small child on one hip. Three other, older children cut vegetables, swept the floors, and set the table.

  The husband and his two new guests sat idly outside, drinking small cups of mead while they waited for dinner.

  “So, you go to Errbo
rg?” the man said.

  “Yes. We plan to fight,” Siggrun said.

  The man nodded, clear blue eyes watching Siggrun.

  “I’ve heard men are going to Errborg, men from all over. Even some from Vastgaart,” the man paused to spit in the dirt. “This is where the living will make their stand against this … this army of dead men.”

  The man stopped speaking. Siggrun and Gahspar looked up to see the oldest boy standing in the doorway. He couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen.

  “I would go too, if my father would let me,” the young boy said. “He says I am too young.”

  Siggrun smiled up at the boy. His father leaned toward the doorway, looking to make sure none of the others were listening.

  “You should go back inside,” the man said to the boy.

  “These warriors? You have seen them?” the boy asked Siggrun.

  “I have killed a few, yes. Gahspar was fighting one when we met.”

  The boy looked from Siggrun to Gahspar, a look of awe on his face. He turned and went back into the house.

  “I wish you both the luck of the Gods. If you don’t stop this army, all of us are doomed.”

  They ate at the big table together. Gahspar hid his right hand beneath the table. He had to set down his bread, butter it left handed, then pick it up again. Everything one handed. They had noticed his hand when he had arrived, but he still felt self-conscious about it. The smaller kids tried hard to get a glimpse of his hand; they were curious, not cruel, and they weren’t used to visitors.

  The older child and the parents treated Gahspar and Siggrun with great respect, almost like heroes. Gahspar liked the feeling. It was new for him, yet underneath it all he also felt scared.