A long blade flashed from the side and Gahspar felt a bright, hot stab in the ribs. He winced and dodged to the side, into the only open space around. He’d been careless, too focused on one opponent when there was a horde of the dead before him. Siggrun had taught him to always be aware of multiple threats. Stupid. His ribs burned. He didn’t yet know if his mistake was fatal.
Gahspar was on the front lines now. He ducked behind his shield, blocking blows, while using his axe to parry others. The man next to him died in a spray of blood that left a crimson streak along the side of Gahspar’s face.
The skeletons were fierce, unrelenting. They hit so hard he was nearly knocked off his feet more than once. They were also skilled, reaching past his shield, blows coming in from different angles.
Trying to avoid death was exhausting. He had to constantly anticipate where the next blade was coming from, always adjusting. If he guessed wrong, it could all be over.
A series of heavy strikes hit his shield, and Gahspar tried instinctively to back out of range, only to be met from behind by defenders pushing forward. Some of them squeezed past him, weapons striking at any target they could reach. A skeleton appeared before him, sword flying at him in a wide horizontal arc, aimed for his head. Gahspar tried to evade, his foot sliding in the mud and gore. He fell back, the sword blade sailing just over his head. Gahspar landed heavily in the mud and piss. He tried to scramble to his feet, but his body was exhausted. Something hit him in the head; he saw a brief flash of light. He managed to get to his knees, the chaotic world around him listing heavily to one side.
Gahspar got to his feet and someone crashed into his knees and he fell face down in the disgusting mud. He struggled under the weight of the body on top of him. He managed to squirm free, panting, too tired to get to his feet again but knowing he was doomed if he didn’t. A heavy boot stepped on his hand.
Gahspar was scared, too tired to panic, but he was scared.
A hand reached down and grabbed his wrist, pulling him upward. Someone was shouting at him. He couldn’t hear the words over the noise around him. He was on his feet now, and he recognized the man with the wolfskin gauntlets leaning in next to him.
“Run. Go.” the man bellowed.
The big warrior shoved Gahspar and he stumbled into a wave of Norsemen who were trying to fight their way to the front lines. He pushed between a few of them, some turning slightly to let him pass. Gahspar didn’t know if he was being a coward or not. His pride didn’t seem important now.
As he struggled against the tide of men, he saw the fear on their faces, the confusion. As he moved toward them, some also turned and began to run. Soon there were several of them fleeing from the battle. The mass of sword-wielding skeletons were coming from the east and the south. He saw others racing north toward the mass of buildings there. They were everywhere.
At least one building was on fire, and men and corpses were going in all directions, fighting in small packs and large mobs. Torches burned along the walls, but parts of the courtyard were dark, full of shadowy figures retreating or fighting. Gahspar followed the others. The man with the gauntlets ran next to him, shoving him forward and shouting. They all ran for the west gate.
Gahspar wondered where Siggrun was. Was his friend still alive? Would he also run, or fight to the end?
They were out of the west gate when Gahspar remembered his horse. He couldn’t leave it behind. Gahspar turned back.
He was going against the crowd again, as men streamed out of the gate. He shouldered his way through and ran to where his horse was tied to a rail near the west wall. Horses were stamping in panic and pulling at the rail, which was about to give way. Gahspar stepped beside his horse, narrowly avoiding a kick from a huge black steed tied up nearby. His horse was wide eyed, scared, but standing still. Gahspar spoke loudly in the buckskin horse’s ear, trying to reassure it. He patted its head and scratched it quickly behind the ears, as he always did. He hoped that familiarity would calm the horse. There wasn’t time for much.
He untied his mount and backed it away from the rail. Other horses neighed and kicked. His horse looked at him, eyes flashing, ears twitching one way, then another. Gahspar managed to get on, the little buckskin whirling in fright.
He aimed the horse toward the west gate. He turned and took one last look at the battle in the courtyard.
What he saw stopped him in his tracks.
A pulsating dark vortex was floating along the east wall. It extinguished all light, all reflection, as it went. A spreading sphere of black tinged with dark blue energy, it moved of its own volition, almost like it knew where it was going. That was the creepy thing. It wasn’t just blown by the random winds. It was taking over the courtyard, encircling it, like a sea of darkness, moving, engulfing everything in its path. No light escaped it. Dark blue flames licked at the edges of the black wave. Gahspar heard men screaming in its darkness. A shiver coursed down Gahspar’s spine as he watched the black thing move. Only the skeletons were oblivious to the ebony evil that was all around them.
Gahspar rode for the west gate, using his horse to force his way through the crowd. There were throngs of men on the road, too many to ride through. He headed for the forest.
The woods near Errborg were sparse. Gahspar had to ride nearly an hour north just to find a dense stand where he could hide out. Just as well, he wanted to be farther from the city, farther from the dead, horrid things that might be looking for him.
The wound in Gahspar’s side flared with pain with his horse’s every step. He was torn between riding carefully over the dark terrain and hurrying away from Errborg.
He stopped in a rough meadow with a few dozen trees clustered in the middle. A short distance past the trees, he heard the riffling of a river. He dismounted painfully and led his horse into the dark stand. The thin moon barely cast a shadow in the darkness.
Gahspar tied up his horse, retrieved his blanket from behind the saddle, and lowered himself to the ground several feet away. He checked his wound. Blood had run down his ribs and stomach. Most had dried, but there were a few rivulets of fresh blood, fluid seeping from the gash. The cut was a long, straight rift nearly six inches in length. Luckily his ribs had kept the blade from going in any deeper.
He untied his axe from his right hand and wrist, noticing where the leather had cut deep into his arm. He would tend to that later.
He walked to the river and soaked a section of cloth to clean his wounds. He dunked his head in the cold, rushing water, then washed both hands and arms. It felt good. Gahspar watched a sliver of moonlight waver on the river’s surface, listening for anything that might have followed him. The night was quiet.
Gahspar filled his wineskin from the river, then went back to the shelter of the trees.
He had no bucket, so he had to pour water into his hand and let the horse drink from that. The two of them wasted a lot, but eventually the horse stopped drinking. It eyed Gahspar nervously.
“We’ve both been through a lot, eh?” Gahspar said, stroking the horse’s back.
He stood there for a long time, running a hand over the frightened horse, and thinking about the battle. He had thought that battle would be different. More civilized, more organized. He had anticipated facing off, man to man, but what he’d faced was a confusing, chaotic mess. There was no honor in it, as far as he had seen. There was only fear and blood and sweat and piss.
He was proud that he had done his part, at least. He had pushed and battled and fought, just like the others around him, and he had the wound to show for it. Now, they were defeated, on the run. There were no more major towns in Surgaart, only little villages in out of the way places. What would happen next? Would men gather again, to make another stand somewhere? Or was this the end?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Vorus' Triumph
The courtyard in Errborg was quiet as death. A cold breeze blew through, carrying with it the coppery scent of fresh blood. The darkness which had engulfed the battlefield was
slowly dissipating, revealing the twisted, maimed bodies of the fallen.
Vorus stood in the middle of it all, murmuring strange words and gesturing with his hands. As he did, his skeleton warriors came running. They came from the rest of town and poured back in through both gates, where they had pursued the town’s last defenders. Vorus went quiet, head down, his staff in one hand. The Army of the Risen began to gather. Loud shouts from Marek and his lieutenants put them into formations. The dead warriors were dirty, disheveled and spattered with blood. They stood in rows and columns, heads up, looking straight ahead.
Vorus eyed his troops. They were just as ready to fight as they had been at the start of the battle. When the command was given, they attacked, when they were ordered to stand down, they would stand in place forever, if necessary. Vorus smiled. He had the perfect army.
Marek wanted the army to pursue the defenders, to track them up the road and into the woods and kill every last one of them.
Vorus had other ideas.
Those who escaped, beaten, bloody and horrified, could spread the word. They would also spread fear, doubt and terror. Every story grew as it was told. Foes grew more powerful, weapons more menacing. Soon, Vorus knew, there would be few willing to challenge him.
The necromancer stepped around the ranks of fighters and looked to the north. On a high knoll he saw the small stone fortress and tower of the jarl. It was surrounded by its own stone wall which was topped by the region’s best archers. The jarl’s guard contained some of the best fighting men around.
Worst of all, the jarl’s flag still flew over the little fortress.
As Vorus saw it, they had two options for taking the fortress. They could surround it and wait. Eventually the jarl and his men would starve, but that would take a great deal of time, and Vorus was impatient.
They could build ladders and hooks, then storm the walls. Many more of his army would be killed, and Vorus couldn’t reanimate them a second time. This combining of long dead men and their souls was only possible once, and even then it took a lot of mental concentration from Vorus. He had to spare his fighting men, if he could.
Vorus needed a different solution. Surely there was another way.
As he pondered the problem, a large raven landed on a nearby rooftop. Vorus studied the bird. The bird studied Vorus.
“Well?” Vorus said.
“A message from our goddess,” the raven said.
The bird was big and black, with reddish wingtips and small eyes, shiny as marbles.
“When dead be the jarl, we will meet.
A reward I will bring, a treat.
The day of his death, on the midnight hour
meet with me atop his tower.”
Vorus stared at the raven. It looked back at him with its disturbing little eyes.
“Why do you always do this?” Vorus said.
“What?” the raven answered, feigning astonishment.
“You make everything into a riddle. Our goddess does not speak that way.”
The raven looked left, then right, casually.
“I enjoy games. Puzzles. Excuse me for being intelligent,” the raven said, its beak held high.
“Is that the whole message?” Vorus asked.
“Yes. Should I repeat it?” the raven asked eagerly.
“No. I understand. On the day the jarl is killed, I am to meet the Goddess of Shadow and Bone atop the jarl’s tower, at midnight. She will have something for me.”
The raven bowed with a dramatic sweep of one wing, then it looked into the air, gathered itself, and flew off into the night.
As usual, the dead had the answer.
Vorus was in his carriage, communing with the recently deceased of Errborg. As usual, they were outraged. He talked with one furious warrior after another who had recently been defeated. By now they had expected to be in the Great Hall of the Afterworld, feasting with ancestors and famous warriors. Instead, their souls were still whirling about Errborg, held there by this necromancer madman.
Eventually, Vorus found a different voice. The energy was different, its wounds not so fresh, though it was a very bitter spirit.
“What do you want?” the voice demanded.
Vorus hesitated; his approach had to be considered carefully.
“I want information, about the jarl.”
“What about him, that sack of dung?” the voice asked.
It was the voice of an old man, hoarse and weak. Vorus could tell that his soul had been drifting around Errborg for quite a while.
“You know the jarl? Personally?” Vorus asked.
“I did, the pompous bag of wind. Why are you asking?”
“I want to kill him,” Vorus said, “but I don’t want to throw my whole army at walls and gates.”
There was a brief pause.
“I think I can help you,” the voice said.
Vorus waited.
“I was the jarl’s personal cook. Made all his meals. Banquets, feasts, everything. I was the best. Trusted by the jarl’s family for two generations. One day the jarl decides he wants a change. Lets me go. His cook now? A young woman who can barely get a fire started. She does more work in the bed chambers than the kitchen, I’m sure.”
“Terrible,” Vorus said.
He was still waiting for the man to say how he could help. The problem with these wronged souls was that they always had to bitch about exactly how they had been wronged.
“I can understand being fired for a new cook, but for a serving wench? One who clearly can’t cook? It’s an insult. I will never let it go,” the voice said.
“So, how can you help?” Vorus asked.
“There’s a separate entrance. It bypasses the gates and all. I used it to go shopping before anyone else was awake. No need to get a guard to open the heavy gates before dawn every day.”
A wry smile crept over Vorus’ face.
“Excellent,” Vorus said. “Excellent.”
“There are hidden passages in the fortress, not exactly secret, all the servants know about them. They connect the kitchen to the main hall, the second banquet room, and the jarl’s quarters, in case he has supper in his rooms. You couldn’t exactly have the servants carrying food through the regular hallways. Say you had some guest and he was going to the banquet room and you had five servants carrying platters in the same hall. No, it wouldn’t do. Separate hallways for the servants.”
“You could show me this other entrance? These hallways?”
The voice was suddenly stronger, clear when it replied.
“It would be my pleasure.”
When the sun came up, Gahspar knew he was in bad shape. He felt hot and the world around him swayed gently whenever he moved. The slash on his ribs hurt more than ever.
For a few days, he did little more than sleep. Once in a while he would make a wobbly journey to the river for more water. He watered the horse and let it loose to graze. He drank the rest of the water and checked the wound. At first it was red and angry; sore to the touch, but later it developed pockets of greenish pus around the edges. Gahspar cleaned it as best he could and drifted off to sleep again.
He woke to find his horse prodding him with its nose. He was shivering, his breath coming out in small clouds that left an icy sheen on his beard. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness for … what? Two days? Three? He vaguely remembered moonlight, and the sun streaming between the trees at one point. Once he thought he saw his uncle searching for him in the field, calling his name, but that must have been a fevered dream.
He had to get up. If he stayed, he knew he would never leave this spot and some day they would find his bones here between the trees.
Gahspar managed to get water for himself and the horse. His side hurt fiercely. He decided he didn’t even want to look at it. He tied his blanket behind the saddle and mounted his horse, with difficulty. The pain was incredible. He was fully awake now.
Gahspar headed south, thinking he would make his way back to the farm and
see if his family had returned.
He was riding through a forest of bare trees, their leaves littering the forest floor. The days were brisk, the nights colder. The hooves of his horse crunched through a layer of fallen orange and yellow leaves. Each rise and fall brought fresh pain to Gahspar’s sore flank.
“You there. Who are you and where do you hail from?”
Gahspar looked up to see a man stepping out of the trees ahead.
“I am Gahspar, from Oakbridge.”
“My name is Nammar, son of Carhan.”
The man had a long, pinched face, like a badger. His formidable nose was leading him toward Gahspar.
“Tell me Gahspar, are you a warrior?”
Gahspar halted his horse and sat there with both hands on the pommel.
“I fought at Errborg,” Gahspar said. “I was just heading south, back toward home,”
“The men made of bones prowl the main road. If they find you, they will kill you.”
“I had wondered if the roads were safe,” Gahspar said, frowning.
He was feeling hot and sweaty despite the cool day.
“The roads, the forest, no place is safe I’m afraid,” the man said.
He tucked his thumb into one side of his belt, and Gahspar saw the short, sturdy sword hanging there. “There is a group of us camped nearby. Join us if you’d like.”
Gahspar looked off into the woods, thinking of what to do next.
“You don’t look so good,” the man said. “Come and rest the night, at least.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Mercenary
In the town of Errborg, change was in the wind. People were free to return to their homes, to their businesses, but there were conditions. First, all weapons had to be surrendered. Anyone found to be armed would be killed. Second, there would be no more public worship of the old gods. A new altar had been constructed in the main courtyard. It was tall, black, and a bit unsettling, decorated with hideous old skulls, bones, and candles. There was a large, smooth bowl where offerings could be left. The people of Errborg would now worship the Goddess of Shadow and Bone or they would worship no one.
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