The last change was perhaps the most distressing. All commerce, all trade, all business, was now to be conducted at night. The dreadful, armed skeletons roamed the streets during the day, enforcing the new rule, but at night Vorus allowed people to freely walk the streets and conduct their business.
For the people of Errborg, the change was difficult. Life was turned on its head. Everything was done in the night, by torchlight, and everyone needed to sleep during the day.
People were adapting to life in darkness. It was exactly what Vorus had wanted.
Vorus walked the streets at night with his twin helpers, watching the people go about their business. Many of the townspeople had fled before the battle, but now a lot had returned. What choice did they have? Their houses, their animals, their lives, they were all here. People were returning. They were far from happy about the new rules, but they abided. Humans were nothing if not adaptable.
As Vorus and the twins walked, three men and a woman approached. The big twins stepped between Vorus and the people.
“Sir, we humbly ask if we might speak with you,” one of the men said.
Vorus said nothing; he just leaned both hands on his staff and waited.
The man shifted nervously from foot to foot. His voice wavered as he spoke.
“We wish to serve you, sir, in whatever way that you require.”
The man kept his eyes on the dirt street.
Vorus scratched his chin and thought.
“I suppose I must warn you all of one thing from the beginning. I can read people’s minds, their intentions. If this is a trick …,” Vorus said.
The man shook his head vigorously, as if this could prove what was in his heart. The woman sank to her knees and, seeing that, the man next to her knelt also. Vorus could not actually read their minds, but the suggestion of it had achieved its desired effect.
“If you’d like to help me, I can certainly find positions for each of you,” Vorus said. “Though if you wish to gain my confidence just to betray me, things will go very badly for you.” A sly smile crossed Vorus’ face, then quickly disappeared. “There are things worse than death.”
By now, all of them were on their knees except one man. He was middle aged, with creases around his eyes and a rumpled, crooked nose that had obviously been broken. He wore a heavy cloak pinned with a silver fox emblem. On his belt, he wore an empty sheath.
“You’re a fighting man,” Vorus said.
The man nodded. He was the only one who had looked Vorus in the eye.
“You want to fight with an army of cadavers? Skeletons?” Vorus asked.
“Maybe you need a man, one man, who can think things through at times. A man who can understand people and what they do. Your skeletons seem to be lacking in those areas.”
Vorus watched the man’s eyes, his body language.
“You’re from Errborg?” Vorus asked.
“No. I’m a mercenary. I came from Estgaart seeking work with the jarl. He said he didn’t need my services,” the man looked around at the town. “I think he was wrong.”
Vorus glanced at the dark streets around him. In the courtyard, bodies were being piled up and burned. A few people huddled around the new altar. Nearby, a woman with a cart sold vegetables. A few local men stood in a small group, talking excitedly.
Perhaps he could use another sword, a man allied to money more than principles.
“You’re hired,” Vorus said. “For now, watch my back while we’re on the streets.”
He turned to Mik, or maybe it was Mek, he couldn’t always tell them apart.
“Take these others back to the altar and show them around. Make sure they get some food.”
The twin started off with the new people in tow. The other twin stood there, hoping he hadn’t missed some vital order that included him.
“You. Find the blacksmith. Get this man a sword.”
There were five large, filthy men around a fire. They wore heavy cloaks and animal skins and drank out of some big ceramic jug they passed around. They greeted Gahspar warmly and had him sit by the fire. They offered him strong drink and roasted meat.
Some of them noticed that Gahspar was sick.
Two men inspected his wound and there was some discussion about how to address it. Others chimed in with their opinions. One man claimed emphatically that there was some type of demon or angry spirit within him that was causing him problems. Another said that, no, there had probably been some remnant of evil or bad energy on the blade that had struck him. That evil had made the wound go bad. There were some other theories bandied about, but all agreed that the wound, which was now showing green edges, needed to be opened up.
Whatever evil presence or demon was in there needed to be let out.
Despite Gahspar’s protests, one of the men heated a knife over the fire and proceeded to cut open parts of Gahspar’s recent scar. Nasty green pus began to escape. Gahspar gritted his teeth and sat still. What else could he do? There was a section of the scar that was red and sore to the touch. The man lanced that part as well; pushing on the tender parts to make sure everything escaped that needed to. While he was doing that, another man produced a long strip of cloth and someone smeared part of it with some sort of herbal mixture. They wrapped the cloth around Gahspar’s middle, making sure the salve was over the wound, then they tied it off. The salve would help the healing, they all agreed. The men patted each other on the back and sat down again to eat chunks of roasted meat and to drink from the jug as it came around.
The men told stories of their past battles. There hadn’t been a real war in Surgaart in many years, but there had been personal conflicts, clan fights, and the occasional raid on the southern kingdoms. When personal battles were exhausted, the men spoke of legendary figures and historic wars. Gahspar, of course, was encouraged to drink from the jug as it came around - the strong drink would kill any demon that lingered in him, they joked.
The men had been kind to him, Gahspar thought. They had accepted him into their group. Nobody had questioned whether he belonged or not.
Later, two tall men with dark fur cloaks approached the fire and announced that it was someone else’s turn to stand watch. After a brief discussion, two other men picked up their shields, got unsteadily to their feet, and walked out into the woods.
Tales were told of trolls and maidens and great, vicious bears. Gahspar’s head was swimming, and he began to feel that the world around him was moving faster than his mind was. The jug finally went dry and another one was found.
Gahspar took another drink. It made him feel good.
“So Gahspar, tell us of your fighting. Do you fight left handed?”
Gahspar didn’t hesitate, didn’t waver. Those things he had left behind.
“I was born this way,” Gahspar began, holding up his malformed hand. “I didn’t learn to fight as a child. Everyone assumed I was too weak, too fragile. Besides, I couldn’t properly hold a weapon and a shield. When the others were sparring, I was made to watch, or to help the girls in their chores.”
Gahspar paused, letting his words sink in.
“It was difficult, growing up like this. I never learned to fight, but I eventually learned to do other things.”
The jug was passed to him and Gahspar paused to drink.
“I was one of the first to see the dead men rise, maybe the first.”
If he hadn’t had everyone’s complete attention before, he did now.
“I saw one of them as it came out of a very old burial mound. An ancient, evil thing rising from its tomb. Later, on the road, I saw a horde of them marching in step, the way the armies do in the southern lands. Something controlled them, drove them on. Their eyes were blank and empty.”
All the men were watching Gahspar now.
“Our farm was attacked and I was sent to Brynhelm to tell the jarl,” Gahspar said. “He didn’t listen. He mocked me, insulted me, sent me away. Now Brynhelm is in ashes.”
Some of the men were nodding.
“I found an axe and tried tying it to my hand. I took up a fallen man’s shield and decided to fight the things. I didn’t know the stance, or how to block properly. I had no experience, but I fought one of the dead men in the woods near a farm.”
Gahspar paused, thinking of what he would say and what he would leave out. He left out the part about nearly being killed.
“I met an outlaw named Siggrun who helped me to train. He taught me about fighting properly, as much as he could in such a short time. The two of us went to Errborg and fought there, in the courtyard. That’s where I was wounded.”
There was a moment of silence as Gahspar’s words hung in the air, then one of the other men launched into another story. The conversation flowed elsewhere. Gahspar felt that he had explained himself well, though he had left out many of the details. The fear and the doubt. Probably the others had, as well. Did the other men not exaggerate? Were their heroes never afraid? Didn’t they stumble, at times?
The men talked, drank, and ate bits of the warm meat. Eventually Gahspar couldn’t follow the conversation anymore. He felt like he was tipping over. He stumbled over to his horse, got his blanket and went to sleep.
When he woke up, it was dark and he was chilled to the bone. There were fewer men around the fire and the talk was quieter, more personal. Gahspar almost felt like he was intruding, but he sat down anyway to gain some of the fire’s warmth.
Soon Gahspar was drinking again, listening to the talk, enjoying being a part of everything. The man who had tended to his wound came and sat with him. Gahspar admitted that he felt better. Less pain in his side, and the cloth wrapped over it showed only tiny flecks of blood. The man walked away and came back with a cup which he handed to Gahspar.
“What’s this?” Gahspar asked.
“Blood. It will help you regain your strength.”
Gahspar was wary, but he managed to drink it. Then the man gave him more meat. Everyone agreed that it would help him feel better.
At some point, the night got blurry. Gahspar was unaware of everything that went on, though he did remember walking away from the fire and vomiting ferociously. Not once, but many times. It felt like it would never end. When it finally did, Gahspar felt like whatever evil thing was inside him had finally been expelled. He was quite sure that everything else had been expelled, too. At some point, he woke up smelling like sweat, smoke, and old meat. There were disgusting bits of something down his front.
Gahspar asked if there was a river nearby; directions and an old bucket were given. He managed to wash his hair and face and the parts of his body not covered by the bandage.
The river was frigid, and Gahspar almost expected to see ice on the edges. He stood near the shore, wet, cold, and nearly naked, but he actually felt better. He was awake now and clean. He touched the bandage at his side. The wound was no longer tender.
The rest of the day was uneventful. Gahspar took a turn standing watch in the woods. Afterwards, he sat by the fire for a short time, more to be polite than anything else. The smell of the meat and the perpetually circling jug almost made him feel sick again.
He napped most of the afternoon.
That evening around the fire, the men began to talk of taking action. The plan they arrived at was to find a few skeletons on the main road, maybe a small group, and ambush them. After that, they would all have to disperse and meet again somewhere far away. Meeting places were discussed. They all agreed they would fight.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Jarl's Tower
Jarl Simberin of Errborg sat down to dinner in his main hall. He was an average man with green eyes and a wide, flat nose. His hair was a short blonde fuzz shaved short on the sides. Only his fine clothes marked him as an important man; fine linens and jewelry of gold and polished stones.
He sat at the big oak table with his wife and daughters while the servants put out the plates. Truth be told, the jarl wasn’t hungry. A menacing army of deadly skeletons sat outside his fortress walls, apparently prepared to wait him out. His options were to attack, to drive them away and retake the town, or to sit inside until he, his family and his men starved slowly to death. It seemed a horrible way to go. Then again, the jarl had no stomach to fight, especially not a group of undead, supernatural monsters. From his tower he had seen the men of Errborg slaughtered, the courtyard littered with maimed bodies.
The jarl did what he often did when faced with a difficult decision; he procrastinated.
He pushed his food around his plate. Servants filled mugs of water and ale. His wife and two daughters picked at their food as well. From time to time they looked up, studying the jarl, thinking he would say something important, thinking he would announce some sort of decision.
He didn’t.
It was no secret that the jarl was bad at making decisions. He knew it, and the men of his council knew it, though he had a whole list of reasons for his procrastination. One thing the jarl always had was an excuse.
He pushed his plate away, suddenly looking exasperated. He slammed his knife onto the plate. His wife jumped. His daughters stopped to stare. Nobody spoke.
“What am I going to do?” the jarl asked the room in general, “Exactly what am I supposed to do?”
The jarl stood, meaning to storm off to his chambers. As he did, the door burst open and several skeletons rushed in. They reeked of grave moss and moldy dirt. Candlelight gleamed off their long swords, and saliva dripped from their rotting jaws. A pitcher crashed to the floor. The jarl’s wife grabbed both daughters and ducked under the table. The jarl stood frozen in terror.
The first skeleton, the one with the metal armor, strode forward. His sword arced out, slamming into the left side of the jarl’s neck and taking off his head in one smooth stroke. The jarl toppled over as a spray of blood splattered the far wall. High-pitched screams erupted from beneath the table. One skeleton approached it, ducking to look under it. The three females shrieked.
“Leave them. We have others to kill.”
Marek leaned down, picked up the jarl’s head, and stepped out of the room.
Within the hour, the captain of the jarl’s guard was dead, along with his top two men. The few guards who patrolled the halls lay dead near their posts, their blood staining the thick carpets. Women screamed, feinted, and cried. Servants ran for cover. Marek and the other skeletons made their way to the servants’ wing and entered a hidden hallway. It was narrow and cramped. The stink of death enveloped them. They descended a staircase, the sound of their footfalls echoing in the small area. When they reached the bottom, they were in a hallway of uncut stone, damp and musty. They followed Marek in single file, the only sound the clank of their armor. They passed under the fortress’ thick walls and found the door they had entered when they came in. They opened it and filed through, finding themselves in the cellar of an empty building. The room was dusty, with old kegs and crates scattered along the walls. Spiders had colonized the upper corners of the low room. Marek and his minions headed toward the old wooden staircase. A match flared in the darkness, causing them to stop in their tracks. A candle was lit. Behind it stood Vorus Blackfist, his new bodyguard at his side.
“It is done,” Marek said.
He raised his left hand. A human head dangled from his grasp, its long hair tangled in his fingers.
Marek tossed the head and Vorus caught it with both hands.
“The jarl,” Marek croaked.
Just minutes later, skeletons began massing near the fortress’ front gates. They gathered in ranks, just out of bowshot of the nervous archers who manned the walls. The ranks of skeletons were a ghastly sight in the flickering gloom. A small group of the dead warriors came forward under a flag of gray and purple. They approached the fortress, stopping just shy of the main gates.
“What do you want?” Came a voice from within.
“We want to come in,” said a raspy, grave-hardened voice.
“Our orders are to keep you out,” the guard’s voice sa
id.
“Your orders have changed. Open the gates.”
“Changed? How?” the guard’s voice said, now with much less surety.
“Perhaps you should ask your leader,” the dead voice said.
A large object sailed over the gate. The jarl’s head. The men within began screaming and shouting. There was a burst of chaos, before one man shouted down to the others, calming them. The voices were still loud and excited, but the panic was subsiding. In moments, the voices shrank to loud whispers.
“Your jarl is dead. If you fight, you fight for nothing,” Marek shouted.
After a few minutes, a voice called over the gate.
“We surrender.”
Vorus climbed the last few steps to the top of the jarl’s tower. My tower now, he thought. He looked down on the town of Errborg. The jarl’s family and his supporters were streaming out of the two gates, possessions in tow. Vorus had kicked them out of the fortress, but where they went and what they did, he didn’t care.
He looked at the dark town, the bright points of light from torches down on the street. It was quiet up here, peaceful. Vorus reveled in the calm darkness.
There was a muffled sound, a rustling. The sound grew louder. Vorus stepped back and pressed himself against the stone wall that ringed the flat top of the high tower. There was a loud pop, as if the very fabric of space and time had been momentarily pierced.
Vorus bowed his head, eyes on the stones at his feet. He could feel the presence in front of him, but he dared not look. He heard the sound of giant claws clicking on hard stone. It was accompanied by a high pitched shrieking sound like a dozen tiny rabbits in their death throes. Then, just as suddenly, everything went quiet.
The Brave and the Dead Page 9