The Brave and the Dead

by Robertson, Dave

  He remembered the skeletons, the horror he had felt just seeing them. The thought of them made his skin crawl. Could he fight them again? He no longer had a choice. Events were in motion and he couldn’t change them.

  After dinner, Siggrun and Gahspar sat with the husband and wife. They avoided talk of dead men coming back from the grave, of invading armies and of the potential loss of their whole way of life, but those thoughts hung in the air during every silence. There was sadness in the old couple, as if they believed that everything they knew would be changed forever.

  Siggrun was his usual gregarious self. He had a way with people, and he could talk to anyone: warriors, farmers, kings.

  After a few drinks, Siggrun and Gahspar headed to the barn where blankets had been set out for them.

  Gahspar stopped on the way to relieve himself. Afterwards he stood in the night, watching fallen leaves blow across the yard. He looked up to see a lone tree silhouetted against the sky, its bare branches reaching into the air like forlorn, bony hands.

  Winter was coming.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Battle For Errborg

  In Harvat, everything was ready. The lifeless troops had new bits of armor or clothing, scavenged from the recently dead of Harvat to replace their rotting old garb. The blacksmith, the leatherworker, and the others that had been captured in Oakbridge had been hard at work all day, adjusting armor, sharpening weapons, altering clothing. Working so closely with the dead warriors had been disgusting and frightening. The leatherworker had passed out twice. They all assumed that death awaited them if they didn’t cooperate, so they continued their work among the dead.

  The leatherworker and the blacksmith sat in a wagon just behind the last of the troops, sharing a bottle of strong drink.

  Next in line was Vorus’ black carriage, then the twins in their hay wagon full of corpses. The camp followers and stragglers gathered in the darkness a respectable distance behind that.

  A door on Vorus’ carriage opened, and Marek stepped down into the dust. He walked with purpose, through the ranks, to the front of the line. There was a momentous pause. Then, there was a shout from Marek and the Army of the Risen began its forward march. Vorus’ driver made a quick jerking motion on the wagon’s reins and the ebony carriage started to move also. The wagon in front of them rolled forward, the blacksmith pausing with the bottle halfway to his lips.

  Mik and Mek sat on the high front seat of their hay wagon, watching the army move out. Mik rubbed his hands together in anticipation. He and his brother saw the black carriage disappear up the road.

  “It’s time,” Mik said.

  He turned to retrieve some items from the back of the hay wagon.

  “Wagon full of dead men,” Mik muttered. “It isn’t right.”

  “I don’t feel good about it,” Mek said.

  “Well, here’s something to make you feel better,” Mik said, handing him a short, sturdy branch.

  Mek shrugged.

  “You like burning things more than I do, I think,” Mek said.

  Mik just grinned, wrapping the branches in oily rags.

  In a moment he had two torches prepared and lit. He stopped for a minute, watching the column of fire dancing around the blackened branch. The two of them climbed down and stood in the road, looking at the few buildings that made up Harvat.

  “Only good part of the day, you ask me,” Mik said. “You take that one, the blacksmith shop is mine.”

  Moments later the two men climbed up onto the seat again, turning to watch their handiwork. Flames licked their way up the wooden buildings and a section of thatched roof suddenly burst into flame. The fire made a low roaring sound. Wood creaked. The smell of smoke wafted toward them.

  They watched as the fire spread, the buildings blackened and shuddered. Soon both roofs were topped with orange fire that swayed seductively against the black of the night.

  “I like looking at the flames, the colors, how the wood turns black and sort of disappears.” Mik said.

  They watched the fire for a few minutes.

  “Should we go?” Mek asked.

  “In a minute.”

  “Master Vorus will be angry.”

  “What’ll he do? He’s not going to drive this wagon of bodies himself. He’s not going to fetch water, or tend the horses, or any of the stupid things we do all day.”

  “Still, I don’t want him angry at me,” Mek said.

  Behind them, a burning beam fell into the center of one of the buildings with a loud crash. Burning pieces of wood toppled into the street, and a shower of embers floated up into the night.

  “Okay, I guess we can go,” Mik said.

  He took one last glance over his shoulder at the blaze that had been Harvat. Mik gave the reins a shake and the wagon began to roll.

  Gahspar and Siggrun were on the road at first light, the rising sun casting lumpy shadows on the uneven hills. A hard frost covered the stalks of grass and gleamed in the early sun.

  They rode for about three hours before they reached the intersection with the Errborg road. When they did, they saw women and children with wagons and carts fleeing west, but also men headed east, toward Errborg. The men wore battered cloaks and worn leather, some had fur lined cloaks, a few had chain mail. They had axes, war hammers, and swords, with shields strapped to their backs. Gahspar watched the men walking past, striding with fierce determination, others on horses. These were men set on war, men going to battle.

  “You see the shields, all different? The various clothing? These men are from all different places. Surgaart, Vastgaart. Those men there fight for a Jarl in the mountains of Urbeck in the far west,” Siggrun said.

  One of the men stopped as he reached Siggrun. He was stocky, with a long beard and wide, brown mustache that curled sharply at both ends. There was a sparkle in the man’s brown eyes.

  “You two. Get in line. We go to fight the invaders, and we need every man. We are going to wipe them from the earth,” the man said.

  Siggrun smiled at the man and then glanced at Gahspar. He shrugged and led his horse into the river of men that coursed toward Errborg. Gahspar followed.

  The rough confederation of men kept a brisk pace to Errborg. They moved as if they were on a mission. Gahspar felt, for once, like he was part of the group. He wasn’t the cripple, or the farmer. He was a warrior in a motley tribe, a tribe that believed in what it was doing. They were all fighting for a cause, for a way of life, and nothing would stop them.

  For the first time, Gahspar had hope that these dead things could be defeated. It wouldn’t be easy, but with these men banding together from all over the map to aid the good people of Surgaart, they could win. Gahspar felt good. Powerful.

  The men swept up a hill toward the city of Errborg. It was a big town, which was unusual for the Norse Kingdoms. Most towns were small, a few essential businesses and tradesmen grouped together at a crossroads. The families lived in communal longhouses, each clan together on one large farm.

  Errborg was the exception.

  High, thick walls surrounded a full city. Narrow cobblestone streets ran between blocks of buildings. Gahspar saw shops, houses and a sprawling marketplace. On a hill to the north rose the jarl’s small fortress, surrounded by its own wall. There were gates in the east and west walls and armed men who stood watch. Errborg had been built many years ago, just after the armies of the southern kingdom had invaded and taken over much of Surgaart. Since then, its walls had never been breached.

  Gahspar and the others rode into town through the west gate. He marveled at the high stone ramparts, their sheer thickness and weight. The town seemed even more overwhelming once Gahspar was in the middle of it. There were more buildings than he had ever seen: stone edifices, towers, shops of all kinds, neat, single houses with thatched roofs and little boxes of herbs growing along the windows. And people. Everywhere there were people. Warriors from various towns and chiefdoms, gathered here to fight, guards who patrolled the high walls, merchants,
farmers, shop owners, small, dirty children selling loaves of tough brown bread, women, workers, gawkers. Having so many people around made Gahspar feel good.

  The walls helped too, of course.

  He and Siggrun stopped and tied up their horses. They walked into the mass of men in the main courtyard. The ground was churned to a rough mix of mud and manure by dozens of boots and hooves. Gahspar could see the remains of small campfires scattered on the ground, attempts by various men to keep warm through the night, no doubt.

  Warriors went about their business, tending to their armor or talking in small groups. They were in a vast open area nearly a hundred yards on each side. There were buildings and streets just to the south and north, but from where they stood, Gahspar and Siggrun could see clear to both gates.

  If the invaders breached the walls, this was where they would fight, Gahspar thought. He hoped he was wrong. He told himself that the skeletons would not get in, that the walls were too high and the men atop them too strong, but in his mind he had doubts. He had seen the dead men, their empty eyes, and the evil, inhuman way they obeyed orders. If any army could defeat Errborg’s defenses, they could. He shuddered.

  A tall man approached, long, graying hair in braids along either side of his head.

  “I am Bervir Heinson, from Onalok, where do you hail from?”

  “Uh, Gahspar from Oakbridge.”

  The man clasped Gahspar warmly on the shoulder and stepped past him toward Siggrun.

  “Bervir Heinson, from Onalok.”

  “Siggrun from Oakbridge.”

  The man wrapped Siggrun in a quick, friendly bear hug, nodded, then continued on. Gahspar looked to Siggrun.

  “You said you were from Oakbridge,” he said.

  “It was easier than trying to explain my past,” Siggrun pointed out. “People don’t always understand.”

  Gahspar shook his head. It wasn’t right for a person to say they were from Oakbridge, if they weren’t. They hadn’t lived there, they hadn’t earned it. He decided now was not the time to argue, though.

  “We should claim a little patch of ground, before they’re all taken,” Siggrun said.

  Just then some men on horses raced in through the east gate. They dismounted, talking loudly, though Gahspar could not make out what they said. Immediately, men began to gather there. Apparently these riders had important news.

  Within moments, people were passing the news through the crowd, person to person. A man with wolfskin gauntlets turned to Siggrun.

  “The dead men approach. They are less than half a day’s march from here.”

  Siggrun turned, eyes wide. Gahspar was stunned. Both had thought they would have a day or two to prepare. At least. Gahspar had hoped for a lot more practice with shield and axe.

  “Those … those things must be able to march all day and all night, with no rest at all,” a man nearby said.

  “What do the dead need with rest?” Wolfskin said.

  It was just after high sun, and the army of the dead would be there soon. Half a day’s march.

  They would arrive just before nightfall.

  They would fight in the darkness.

  Gahspar suddenly felt very scared.

  There was a cold rain that spit in their faces as they waited. Gahspar and the others were armed and ready, as ready as they could be. A rider approached, galloping fast. He was shouting that the dead men were coming. As he passed through the gate, men gathered to turn the giant wheels that pulled the chains to close the massive doors. Everyone was quiet, the grinding of the big wheels and the clanking of the chains the only sound.

  The doors closed with a boom. First one, then the other.

  Men with bows began running up onto the walls, taking their places. The leaders, the Errborg guards, shouted directions. The rest of the men faced the east door, the one the rider had come through. The invaders would come from that direction.

  There was tension in the air. Nobody knew if the dead things could get over the wall. Maybe there was some magic that would allow them to go through the wall, or to make it disappear. Superstition and speculation had run rampant among the men all day.

  Siggrun and Gahspar moved toward the east door until the crowd of men got so thick they could go no further. Siggrun held his battle axe. Gahspar’s hand axe was tied to his right hand and wrist.

  “Stay near me. Keep your shield up, and stay on your feet,” Siggrun said.

  Gahspar nodded, his knees shaking. Siggrun was on his left and now the man on his right turned to look at him. He was not a tall man, but he had broad shoulders and looked well-seasoned.

  “You look ready,” the man said.

  Gahspar didn’t trust his voice, so he just nodded.

  “I am Rolof Henilsere, son of Kari, chieftain of Harvat, though I fear my father and brothers died in the battle there,” the man said.

  “I’m sorry,” Gahspar managed.

  “I will avenge them today, or die trying,” the man said, smiling.

  Gahspar didn’t know how the man could smile, under the circumstances. The warrior code was so much different than the farmer’s code.

  The man turned again to look forward. Gahspar’s stomach was unsettled. Doubts kept drifting into his mind and he tried to push them out. He was going to fight now, and that was all. This was bigger than he was, bigger than all Oakbridge even, and he was going to do his part.

  Other men were talking quietly or adjusting their gear. The wind was picking up, a stinging rain thrown in their faces. The gray clouds hung low, making the light dull. It was getting dark early, even for the fall.

  They waited. And waited.

  Some men began to squat down to stretch their legs, other switched out heavier cloaks, more stood quietly, waiting.

  There was a cry from the east wall,”There they are!”

  There was a pause, and loud talking from the men on the wall, though Gahspar could not hear what was said.

  “Those are men, not skeletons. Those are … men from Harvat,” one of the archers shouted.

  “The chieftain and his men.” Another yelled.

  At the mention of his father, Rolof Henilsere began to push through the crowd toward the eastern door.

  “My father! Open the doors! Open the doors!”

  There was a lot of shouting as men shouted for the doors to be opened while others called for it to remain closed, thinking it was some sort of trick.

  “It’s them. I recognize the shields. The chieftain and some others. From Harvat.”

  The big wheels began to turn, the chains let out slack, and the heavy doors began to open.

  By the time they had fully opened, men could be seen marching toward them. Probably twenty men straining through the gray twilight. They looked wet and matted, limping along grimly.

  In the dim light it was difficult to make out faces, but the various shields were noticeable enough. The short, sturdy form of Chieftain Henilsere was recognizable to anyone who knew him. The sight of the Harvat men gave the defenders hope.

  Rolof stood in the open doorway watching the men approach. As they neared he suddenly knew something was wrong: the way they moved, something. He couldn’t exactly put his finger on it, but the closer they got, the more his skin crawled.

  When they were near enough that he could see their dirty, grim faces, Rolof began to scream. “Shut the doors! Shut the doors!”

  All of a sudden the former men of Harvat broke into a run, weapons drawn. Rolof looked into his father’s eyes, and what he saw made his blood run cold. His father’s eyes, blank and dead, no hint of recognition in them. Rolof fell to his knees, his mind reeling in horror. His father’s sword lashed out, taking off his son’s head with one clean stroke.

  Dead men were rushing into Errborg, past startled and horrified defenders. Some of the defenders were running forward, blades swinging. Some were backing up. Suddenly, a wave of skeletons broke from the nearby trees, racing toward the big open doors. They smashed headlong into the forward
-most defenders with a deafening crash. Swords and axes pounded shields, men were shouting, running, falling lifeless in the mud.

  The army of the dead advanced, hacking and slashing. They used the fear, the terror and the confusion of the defending men as a weapon, killing as many men as possible. More waves of skeletons were pouring in behind the front ranks, slipping into gaps between startled defenders and managing to get through the doors into town.

  Gahspar felt a shove from behind as the mass of warriors behind him surged. They got low behind their shields and pushed forward. Soon the front lines were more of a scrum than a sword fight. Men were knocked down, skeletons toppling over backwards. Chaos reigned. Men and skeleton were running to and fro in the descending darkness. The front lines thrust and stabbed. Arrows sang through the air into the back ranks of skeletons.

  Gahspar fought to stay on his feet amid the roiling sea of surging men. There was a crowd of defenders in front of him and he couldn’t see the skeletons. He lowered his shield, crouched behind it and drove forward, just like those men in front and behind. At first the skeletons were pushed back by the sheer numbers of men. Then, as the front ranks of men fell to the skeletons’ weapons, the momentum would stop. Another push would close the gap again. Gahspar was tiring even though he had yet to swing his axe. He heard a loud boom and the ground shook under his feet. He had no idea what could cause such a sound.

  Men were grunting, straining. Sweat ran down from Gahspar’s helmet into his eyes. The ground under his feet was a quagmire of mud, blood, and waste.

  Suddenly a gap opened before him. Gahspar saw a hideous, grim skeleton with its sword stuck in a falling Norseman. Everything happened at once. The skeleton leaned over to pull out its sword. Gahspar dashed forward, swinging his axe at the side of the evil thing’s head. The skeleton turned just as the blow hit, catching him squarely in the right eye socket. The dead man’s head jerked sideways, a chunk of old bone flying. The skeleton stumbled back a step and fell. In a split second, the thing was swallowed by the roiling sea of men and skeletons as they moved and slashed and parried. Gahspar tried to see the one he had hit. Was he dead? Had he killed one?