For several seconds, there was no sound, no light, just blackness and deathly silence.
“Look upon me, my servant,” said a woman’s deep voice.
Vorus looked up. The Goddess of Shadow and Bone stood before him, this time in the guise of a huge, hideous half-bat, half-human. It had leathery wings folded behind it, its chest covered with matted fur. Its face was human, but with small, razor sharp teeth and brown ears that ended in long points. The goddess stood on apparently human legs, and had four arms that looked to be human in shape. She wore black pants and a wide, black belt. On her right side hung a scabbard containing a long, straight two-handed sword. On the left, a large flail was tucked in her belt.
Vorus had to look up at the goddess, her head nearly three feet above his. He realized that he had not yet spoken, though the goddess had been standing before him for some time.
“You have something to report?” the goddess said. “Or did you wish to just stand and admire my beauty?”
“Ah, sorry, Goddess. I do have a report.”
“Really? Because I could wait, if you’re still admiring.”
“No, Goddess, I’m ready.”
Vorus cleared his throat.
“All the major towns in Surgaart are now ours. Every jarl from here to Brynhelm is dead. So are the major chieftains. Soon I will send some of my … our troops to the coast. Those villages will be given the choice of submitting or being burned to the ground. After the warriors are killed, of course. We have a temple in your honor here in Errborg and we will add others in each village. Everyone will pray at your altar, or not at all.”
The Goddess of Shadow and Bone waited, watching Vorus with her brown, inhuman eyes. Vorus waited.
“And the marketplace, the business, all done at night. Well done. The humans will soon adapt to the darkness. The tyranny of daylight is at an end.”
“Yes, Goddess. Balance is being restored. The night now rules, not the day. The moon holds power, not the sun. Darkness reigns, rather than light.”
The Goddess of Shadow and Bone looked off into the dark night, brought one set of hands together, then the other. Her twenty knuckles cracked in quick succession.
“Your style, your ingenuity have been impressive so far,” the enormous bat thing said. “Animating the dead men of Harvat and using them to get the guards here to open the gates. Brilliant. And the sneak attack on the jarl. Using his head as a pass key!”
The goddess began to laugh, a low, rumbling laugh that came from deep within her. She laughed for several seconds, then wiped at the corner of her eyes. The fearsome semi-rodent look returned to her face.
“So, what is next for your bony army of doom? We still have other territories to defeat, yes?”
“Yes, Goddess. Once the coastal towns are under our thumb and the altars set up there, I will send troops north into Orngaart. It will be winter there soon, with deep snow, impossible for the towns there to help each other. We will pick them off one by one, adding their dead to our ranks.”
The goddess grinned, her sharp fangs glinting in the moonlight.
“By the time we reach Stonehelm, where the King of Orngaart reigns, our army will be unstoppable,” Vorus said.
Two of the goddess’ hands now rested on her hips, while the others hung at her sides.
“If their dead are added to our army, you will be sending fewer souls to the Afterworld. The Lord of the Dead won’t be happy with that.”
“I’ve sent a lot of souls from the men of Errborg, and I’ll do some as we go, but The Lord of The Dead will get his big reward when we conquer Stonehelm. There will be so many dead, so many souls sent his way, that he will have to find more minions to handle the load,” Vorus said.
“I hope you’re right. If we lose there, I shudder to think what he might do to us.”
“We won’t lose, Goddess,” Vorus said, and he firmly believed it.
“See that you don’t.”
Vorus’ image of the vast goddess suddenly faded to nothing. Something clattered to the ground. Vorus looked around; apparently the Goddess of Shadow and Bone had departed, her shiny gift left on the ground.
Vorus stepped forward and picked up a small, heavy pendant of some kind. He turned the pendant over in his hand. It was solid but smooth and made of a dark green material he couldn’t quite identify. Stone probably, but it was so smooth and … warm. Stone was usually cool to the touch. Vorus looked closer. From the center of the pendant dozens of tiny, wavy gray rays radiated toward the edges. Vorus thought it looked like some primitive representation of the moon. As he looked, the tiny rays flashed in the dim light, then went dark. Surprised, Vorus turned the pendant one way then another, thinking it had been a trick of the light. Try as he might, he couldn’t get the image to flash again.
Attached to the pendant was a long, thin strip of black leather. Vorus tied the ends together, then hung the pendant around his neck. He had no idea what the thing meant, or what it did, but when a goddess gave you a gift, you wore it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Gahspar and The Outlaws
Gahspar shivered over his breakfast. He had awakened to a thick layer of frost on his thin blanket and his feet and hands felt like clumps of ice. He sat near the fire with the other men, clutching a mug of hot tea and stamping his feet to get the feeling back. There was talk of sending two men south to scout the main road. They would report back on any skeletons on the road. If they saw just a few, everyone would go the next day and set an ambush for them. Everyone agreed it was a good plan.
As the men talked, there was a commotion in the woods and one of the men that Gahspar had first met stepped into the clearing. He was followed by a boy and an older man that Gahspar hadn’t seen before. The new arrivals walked slowly. Their clothes were torn and bloody and they looked like they were in a daze. A space was cleared on a bench near the fire and someone rushed to get them some warm tea.
The older man had a scraggly gray beard, hair that was nearly white, and a face that showed deep lines and wrinkles. He limped badly, leaning on a cane he had made from a stout branch. The other newcomer was young, a boy of not more than fourteen winters. His hair was cut close to his head on the sides, longer on top and down the back. He had a patch over one eye. Gahspar could see the dried blood that had run down the boy’s cheek and dried on his face.
The two newcomers sat quietly, dejected. They drank their tea quickly, hungrily, even though it was very hot. The man and the boy mostly watched the fire, only looking up when they were asked a question.
Bit by bit, question by question, their story came out, but it was like pulling sore teeth from a mule.
Originally, there had been four of them, two men, the boy, and a woman. They had been attacked by some skeletons near Errborg. They had fought, nearly been killed, managed to escape only by setting one on fire and running for their lives. The other man, the boy’s father, had stayed behind to fight so the others could get away. He was surely dead now. The boy had lost an eye and the old man had a deep stab wound in one leg. The woman, the old man’s daughter, had died from her wounds. The boy and the old man slept on the cold ground at night and traveled during the day. They had no blankets, no cloaks and no food. They arrived at the campsite, freezing and exhausted, weak from a loss of blood.
Gahspar listened to their story, the rage building within him. The young one was just a boy, and now had lost his eye. He would never live a normal life again, Gahspar knew. The thought of it, of these evil dead things robbing people of their homes, their lives, their families, it made Gahspar angry. They were all outlaws now, all homeless men who had nothing left.
Gahspar couldn’t stand it anymore. He got up from the fire, draped his blanket over the boy’s shoulders, and stalked off into the woods. He wasn’t sure where he was going, or what he would do. He just knew that anger was bubbling up inside him and he couldn’t just sit there anymore. He went to the little spot in the woods where he had slept. His shield leaned against a hefty tr
ee, and he took it now in his left hand. He pulled the axe from his belt and stepped through a screen of small saplings into the woods.
When Gahspar was far enough from camp, he picked out a good-sized tree and tied his axe to his wrist. He lashed out at the tree. Bark and splinters flew. He swung again and again, chips flipping into the brown undergrowth at his feet. He chopped and cut at the old tree until he was out of breath, sweat trickling down his forehead.
He looked at the tree, the crossed wounds he had inflicted from different angles. He had been furious, hitting fast and hard, but Siggrun would not have been impressed. He had been swinging wildly, with little control and poor technique. If his old friend was watching him from up in the Great Hall, he owed his teacher better.
Gahspar approached the tree again, this time more carefully. He swung again, this time thinking a few moves ahead. His technique was better, his timing more natural. When his feet tangled beneath him, he started again. He pretended the tree was an enemy, blocking imaginary blows with his shield. He was aware of angles, counterattacks, all the things that Siggrun had taught him, or at least all the ones he could remember. He circled the tree, slashing, chopping, stepping back out of his opponent’s range, blocking. When he stopped, the tree looked like a gang of warriors had assaulted it. Gahspar looked at the little piles of wood and bark that ringed the base of the tree. He felt better.
Gahspar began to walk back to the camp, his thoughts on the future. If the men asked him to go on the raid tomorrow, he would go. What else was there, but to fight? To Gahspar, life was not a game that a person ever won. It was instead something he did every day, like chipping away at a mountain. One could never destroy the mountain, but a man might chip away a little nook for himself, if he worked hard. Farming was the perfect example. On the farm, Gahspar fed and watered the animals, mended the thatch on the roof, fixed fences, tended the crops. At the end of each day, he had accomplished a great deal, but the next day it all started over again. Such was life. There was no final victory, no time when the animals stayed fed, or the equipment stopped needing repair. There was no winning or losing, but if he worked hard each day, he had something to show for it. The mountain had not been defeated, but he had carved his niche.
Perhaps, thought Gahspar, the battle against the skeletons would be the same. He and the others would never defeat them. The dead were too many, too strong, had too much magic behind them. But perhaps if they could kill a few here, a small group there, chipping away each day, then he and the others could look back and say “this is what we did each day. We fought. We fought and we never quit and of that we can be proud.”
Gahspar returned to the men around the fire. He had given his blanket away and now his only possessions were the clothes on his back, his horse, and his axe and shield.
He had very little, but now, at least, he had a purpose.
Gahspar and the others prepared to ride. Today, every healthy man would go south, seven men in all, with three injured men staying in camp. Their plan was simple: two men would hide in the woods and watch the road. The rest would take up ambush positions on the low, wooded hills just beyond, ready to attack if the signal was given.
When everyone was more or less ready, men began to mount their horses. Gahspar got onto his horse, patted its neck and swung south with the others. He enjoyed being with the other men, sitting by the fire, listening to the stories. Gahspar had been raised by his Aunt and Uncle who were gentle people. They had standards. These men were rough and crude, with their loud belching and off color jokes. Neither would have been tolerated on the farm, but Gahspar found he fit in anyway. He didn’t know any jokes, and he had no tales to tell, but he could belch with the best of them.
The man with the long, badger face rode next to him, and Gahspar recognized him as the first man he had met, the one who had led him to camp. The man’s name was Nammar. Nammar the Devoted, they called him, for that had been his name in the days before the skeletons. He had lived in Orngaart, just over the border to the north where he had worked on his family’s large farm. In the summers he had raided across the sea, in the south lands, with his father and brothers. He had come south to fight at Errborg, and now camped and rode with this loose collection of fighting men.
“Why don’t you go back home? Have the skeletons reached Orngaart, your farm there?”
“No,” the man said, “As far as I know they have not. I fight here because I feel it’s my punishment, a punishment for all of us. We have failed to honor our gods and now another has come, an outsider. He brings his new faith into our lands, his gods. Our gods let him run over us, take our land and our love. It is our punishment.”
Gahspar nodded. He had not thought of the current situation in quite those terms, though his whole life he had been aware of the gods and their role in people’s lives. His gnarled right hand was evidence of that.
“You think people have not honored the gods properly? That they don’t believe anymore?”
The other man shook his head and spit past his horse’s neck.
“No. I think people have gotten sloppy with their prayers. They cut corners, they say ‘this is good enough’. They still believe, but they no longer do things the right way.”
The men rode toward the main road, eyes on the forest. Bright flakes of snow began to fall. Nammar the Devoted launched into a long discussion of the right and the wrong ways to worship and appease the gods. He outlined several situations in great detail.
The man barely stopped to even take a breath.
By the time they reached the road, Gahspar was glad for the interruption. There was a light dusting of snow on the ground, with more falling. The men tied up their horses well away from the road, then gathered for a conference. The plan was explained again and everyone understood their role, and where to regroup if they were routed. Gahspar was nervous, his hand shaking as he tied his axe to it. The others seemed more sure of themselves, discussing the upcoming battle with no more urgency than if they talked about planting a field. Then he saw one of the leaders, a big, heavy man with a gray cloak, walk to the edge of the trees to throw up.
“He does that every time,” a man next to him said. “Has for years. No one is more solid in battle, though.”
Gahspar shook his head, as if the whole picture could be erased. It wasn’t. Gahspar hurried to his spot on the hill.
Gahspar concealed himself behind the trunk of a big tree, making sure he was hidden from the road. Small, icy flakes of snow were gathering on his shoulders. The signal would be two blasts on a great horn, then everyone would rush down and fight. Gahspar bit at the fingernails on his left hand as he waited. The sound of it seemed loud in the calm little thicket, and Gahspar imagined that every man hidden nearby could hear it. He stopped. Waited. He tried to be still, but he was restless.
All of a sudden, he heard noise from the road. He ducked behind his tree and closed his eyes. Gahspar heard the rhythmic pounding of boots on hard dirt. Skeletons approached, lots of them. Gahspar remembered the first time he had seen the gruesome things, remembered how scared he had been. A feeling of dread washed over him, nearly drowning him. He wanted to run again, but of course he couldn’t. The dead things would chase him and then find everyone. The bloodbath would be his fault. No, Gahspar would not run. He would stay and fight, even if they were outnumbered, even if they had no chance. It was what he had to do. What they all had to do.
He waited for the horn to blow, but it never did. The snow was still falling. He heard the boots tramp past. Gahspar shivered. It sounded like dozens of skeletons going past, though Gahspar didn’t dare to look.
He waited until he heard other men stirring. One by one the men came out from hiding. One of the leaders stood on the road, calling up to them.
“They were too many. Too many.”
They walked back to their horses, the ground now blanketed in a thin layer of snow. Gahspar pulled his thin cloak around him. He wasn’t dressed for winter, didn’t have a heavy cloak or a
blanket. Many of the other men also lacked winter gear, he noticed.
They all mounted their horses and rode off, leaving a line of tracks in the fresh snow.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Night Strike
Vorus lounged in the jarl’s chambers. The man had definitely enjoyed the creature comforts: soft blankets, fine tapestries, mead and wine and cooked meats of all kinds. He sat on a bench by the fire, the jarl’s sword across his knees. He had decided he would wear the jarl’s sword at his hip. Not that he knew how to use it. Rather than training as a warrior, Vorus had taken a different path. He had devoted his life to studying necromancy. He had spent days, weeks poring over old tomes, stumbling through graveyards under the tutelage of his master. He’d never learned to properly handle a sword. To Vorus’ way of thinking, it made no difference. He had his skills, others had theirs, and he was doing quite well. Quite well indeed.
He undid his belt, hung the scabbard on it, and buckled it again. He stood. It was heavier than he had thought, even hanging at his side. Vorus shrugged. He would wear it anyway, despite the weight, despite the fact that wielding it would probably result in him cutting off one of his own vital body parts. To these Norsemen, a sword was a symbol, a badge of honor. A man who wore a sword was a man to be reckoned with. He would wear the sword, all else be damned.
Vorus walked out into the wide stone hallway, stepping on the soft red carpet. There were bright lanterns along the walls, lighting the way. Between the carpets, the wall hangings and the tapestries, sometimes Vorus forgot he now lived in a drafty building made of stone.
The Brave and the Dead Page 10