The Brave and the Dead

by Robertson, Dave

  The fortress had a lot of rooms. The jarl’s quarters, dining halls, meeting rooms, the family’s quarters, guest quarters, plus a few small rooms for the servants. A few intrepid Norsefolk had asked to serve him, and most were now living in the servants quarters, preparing meals, running errands, and tending to the altar in the courtyard. His new bodyguard lived here also, the one from Estgaart, what was his name? Vorus had usually resorted to just calling him Mercenary. That was what he was after all, a man loyal to whoever paid him, and Vorus made sure he was paid well. The man stayed in one of the rooms that had been reserved for visiting dignitaries. He was nearby if Vorus needed him, and comfortable. No one was going to offer him enough to betray Vorus, of that he was certain. That was the beauty, the simplicity of a mercenary.

  Vorus passed some of the rooms that had been used by the jarl’s family. A voice emanated from one room. Light spilled into the hallway. Vorus stepped into the doorway, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms.

  Mik and Mek sat at a small, stout table, cups in front of them. They immediately looked guilty of something. They always looked to be guilty of something, even if they weren’t.

  “Oh, uh, master, we were just …,“ Mik began.

  Here came the stumbling apology, Vorus thought. There was always an apology.

  The twin struggled to find the words he wanted. Vorus held up his hand to silence him.

  “It’s okay,” Vorus said.

  He looked at the room. The twins had their possessions scattered about the room, and he noticed they had dragged a second bed in.

  “You could each have taken a room,” Vorus said.

  “We know,” Mek said.

  “You getting settled in all right? Find everything you need?”

  “Yes, Master Vorus,” they said together.

  Vorus nodded. He had asked them not to call him master, that was for apprentices, and he currently didn’t have one.

  They did it anyway.

  “I’ll be in meditation for the rest of the evening, make sure I’m not disturbed.”

  The two men nodded apprehensively. Vorus continued down the hallway, the sword awkward against his hip. He’d get used to it.

  He stopped in front of a thick door of banded oak, produced a key from one of his many pockets, and unlocked it. He stepped inside. This was his sanctuary. Here he read, researched, prayed and communed. All the dark work of his necromancy happened here since the fortress had been taken.

  He closed the door, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He lit a fire in a very small brazier. An exotic odor filled the room, but the contained fire cast very little light. Shelves on one wall held a variety of small vials stoppered with bits of cork. There were boxes that held parchment, ink pens, bits of bone, teeth, feathers, small polished stones, everything tied in little bundles and labeled with small tags.

  The heavy bag which held his past master’s skull was locked securely in a side cabinet, along with a few important scrolls and a heavy sack of tarnished coins. Above the cabinet hung the jarl’s bloodless head.

  Vorus looked thoughtfully at Jarl Simberin’s pale face. Its eyes were closed, the skin waxy and slightly gray. There was a crystal tied to the top of the jarl’s head, a thin bit of twine running down under the chin and tied in a knot. Vorus could see the crystal flickering slightly in the muted light, the jarl’s soul trapped there. He would have one more use for the jarl, but not now.

  Vorus reached up to a shelf just over the jarl’s head and felt for a small key. He used it to unlock the cabinet. He took the sack of coins, went to a table in the center of the room, and carefully dumped out the coins. His eyes were adjusting to the dark room, but he still had to pick up certain coins, feel them and peer at them closely in the light of the brazier to identify them. He found the coin he wanted, a large heavy coin of gold, with the image of a person’s head stamped on one side and the vague shape of a mountain on the other. He put the rest back in the cabinet. He started retrieving vials and assorted items from around the room, placing each on the table with the coin. Soon he had all his ingredients assembled.

  When Gahspar and the others returned to camp, they found that one of the men they had left behind had died. He had been grievously wounded at Errborg and, unlike Gahspar, had not been getting better. Still, though he had been very sick, his death was a shock.

  Gahspar sat by the fire, head in his hands. It was as if death was following him, stalking him. He shivered. One of the men brought him a heavy blanket made from thick animal fur. It had belonged to the man who just died.

  Gahspar looked at the fur, hesitant. Then he took it and set it across his lap. Somebody might as well use it.

  One of the men produced a shovel and some of them began to dig a shallow hole some distance from camp. Others, including Gahspar, used a short metal pole to pry big rocks from the hard ground. Each man dug until he was tired, sweating, then passed the shovel to the next. It was difficult digging, though the ground was not yet completely frozen. When they had a shallow grave, they stopped their efforts. Everybody gathered around as they placed the man in the hole, wearing his weapons and armor. Someone said a prayer to the Goddess Halja. They piled the rocks on top so that animals would not disturb the body. They couldn’t dig enough dirt for a proper burial mound, and they had few gifts with which to bury him, but it was the best they could do under the circumstances. They all felt they needed to do their best for the man.

  They returned to the fire and lingered quietly over a meager supper of watery stew. Nobody had much to say.

  The night was clear and cold. Gahspar was warmer in the dead man’s blanket, but it was grim solace. After dark, there were no stories told, just men talking quietly and intermittently to whoever was nearby. The skeletons in such numbers had unnerved them, and the man’s death had smothered any optimism. One by one, men excused themselves and walked silently off to their bedrolls scattered in the nearby woods.

  Gahspar had laid out a bed of cut pine boughs to keep himself off the cold ground. Now he spread the blanket over it, lay down, and pulled the rest of it over himself. The blanket was barely big enough to cover him, but it was warmer by far than huddling under his threadbare cloak, as he had the past few nights. He glanced over to make sure that his shield was leaning against the nearest tree, his axe under the edge of his new blanket, close at hand.

  Not so far away, Marek knelt in the snow, studying the tracks. He stood and motioned forward. Twenty two of his risen warriors started forward. They made their way slowly through the forest, undaunted by the frigid night. The cold of the night was nothing compared to the cold desolation of a century in the grave. Marek watched the ground as he walked. The outlawed men couldn’t have left a better trail. He glanced up to see a dim light through the trees; glowing embers of what had once been a healthy fire. Marek gathered his two captains, speaking in hushed tones. When he was done, each captain took several warriors and began to circle the camp, one to the left, one to the right.

  One of the men was snoring. Loudly. It sounded like an enormous bear was sleeping nearby. Gahspar couldn’t sleep. Thoughts kept crowding into his mind. Dead, grimacing skeletons. Undead monsters with swords and shields. A good man they had buried just over the next hill. He wondered if his family was still alive. He missed his friend Siggrun. What would happen to the dead man? To any of them. He wanted to believe in the Afterworld, but he just didn’t know. Fears and doubts piled on each other. The man continued to snore. Gahspar began to think he wouldn’t get any rest.

  He got up and began to walk, dragging his blanket with him. He remembered his axe, and went back to retrieve it. Gahspar carried both through the trees, feeling his way in the darkness. He went maybe thirty or forty steps, eyes adjusting to the darkness, the moonlight reflecting off snow, the trees casting their shadows.

  There was a wide spruce tree, just what Gahspar was looking for. He crawled under its lower branches into the tree well beneath it. The branches above him had ca
ught the snow, and he found himself in a dry space, snow free. It was a tight fit, but by curling himself into a ball and pulling the blanket in around him, Gahspar had a place to sleep. A quieter place. Gahspar felt the handle of his axe against his hip. He coaxed it from his belt, set it near the tree trunk, and settled in to sleep.

  The skeletons surrounded the camp. They stood as still as death, watching the men sleep. The skeletons could see them in the dark as well as they could see in daylight, perhaps even better. Each of the decaying warriors picked out a sleeping form, a target. They waited, eager, anticipating Marek’s signal.

  Marek’s barked order rang through the trees. The skeletons closed in on their targets.

  Gahspar awoke with a feeling of terror in his heart. He didn’t know what was happening, but every fiber of his being said danger. He shoved his blanket out from his cramped tree well, grabbed his axe, and crawled out into the snow. He heard yells, grunts, and someone shouting in a low, throaty roar. He ran toward the place where the others had been sleeping, trees slipping by him in the gloomy moonlight.

  Suddenly a figure stepped in front of him, a thin, emaciated figure carrying sword and shield. A skeleton. The thing had its back to him, heading the same way he was, toward the other men. Gahspar accelerated, clutching the axe in his good hand. He stepped up behind the skeleton, axe held high. He smashed the stinking dead thing in the back of the head, his axe sinking into its skull. It toppled face first into the snow. Gahspar quickly struck again, busting the brittle skull in two as it lay on the ground. He stood, looking forward. Several skeletons were in front of him, all running toward the area where the other men had been sleeping. Gahspar silently thanked the gods that he was behind them, and he prayed that none turned around and saw him.

  He heard the low, raspy voice through the trees.

  “Drop your weapons. Drop them.”

  Gahspar stopped, sidestepped into a little grove of trees. He hunched down and looked.

  The skeletons had surrounded the camp, and he was outside of their tightening noose.

  Outnumbered, surrounded, and bewildered, the men were dropping their weapons in the snow. The skeletons herded them into a tight group and began to tie their hands. The decrepit laughter of the dead echoed in the night. Gahspar backed out of the trees, moving as slowly and quietly as possible. It occurred to him that he was leaving footprints in the crusty snow. He glanced back one more time to see the skeletons. One of the men was shouting defiantly and one of the dead warriors ran him through with a sword.

  Gahspar’s heart was pounding. He had to get away. He walked backwards, one careful step at a time, all the time thinking that a skeleton would turn and discover him. He backed away from camp until a thin copse of trees was between him and his enemies. Then he backed up faster, seeing a large fallen log behind him. He got behind the log and squeezed partly underneath it, concealing himself as much as possible. He hoped to the Gods that it was enough.

  He listened until shouts and calls receded through the forest. A single skeleton made a wide circle around the camp, watching the snowy ground for tracks. It came upon Gahspar’s tracks, crouched over them, then continued on. Gahspar waited, motionless. He didn’t see or hear anything for several minutes, but still he didn’t move. The things were watching, lurking. He knew it. The sun broke above the horizon, though it did little to break the chill of the morning air. Gahspar waited for several more minutes. His hands ached from the cold, his toes were numb. Finally, tentatively, he stood up.

  He walked over to the skeleton, the one whose skull he had smashed. One part was still attached to the yellowing spine, the other chunk lay in the snow next to it. Did these dead things keep coming alive somehow? Did they just knit back together and get up again? Gahspar nudged one part of the skull with his foot, half expecting the skull fragment to recoil, the skeleton to reawaken.

  It didn’t.

  Small, black-capped birds flitted in the trees, their song terse and sharp. Other than that, the forest was quiet.

  He turned the skeleton over onto its back. Its short sword lay in the snow. The beast was dead. Once and for all; dead.

  Gahspar picked up the sword. It was shorter than most he’d seen, lighter. Still heavy, but there was a balance to it, a gracefulness. Gahspar took the dead thing’s scabbard and sword

  “I earned it,” Gahspar said aloud, as if saying it out loud would make it true.

  He stood up. There was a body nearer the campfire.

  “Gahspar,” a voice whispered.

  Gahspar’s heart jumped in his chest. He saw someone step out of the woods. It was Nammar.

  “You nearly caused my death from fright,” Gahspar said. “I thought one of those … those skeletons knew my name.”

  Nammar just nodded and walked toward Gahspar. Gahspar could see that the other man had a streak of dried blood running down one side of his face.

  “You’re hurt,” Gahspar said.

  “I was knocked out. I’m not sure what happened.”

  “They took the men, everyone. Except for him,” Gahspar said nodding to the dead man near the fire ring.

  The two of them walked up and stood over the body.

  “Helfjord Stonebreaker. He was a good man,” Nammar said.

  “He sharpened my axe for me,” Gahspar said.

  The two men stood quietly for a moment.

  “We need to bury him,” Gahspar said.

  As soon as he said it, he regretted it. It would take a long time for the two of them to bury someone, and what if the skeletons came back?”

  “Yes, we do,” Nammar was saying.

  “Maybe I’ll just take his sharpening stone,” Gahspar said, crouching and reaching toward the body.

  “No!” Nammar said sharply. Gahspar pulled his hand back, turning to face Nammar. “He might need it in the Afterworld.”

  Gahspar nodded and stood.

  “Let’s bury him then, and get as far from here as we can.”

  Vorus stood in the main courtyard of Errborg, watching the people line up before the dark altar. Very few of the locals had visited it at first, but now they were lining up. Whether they were making a show of visiting it for his benefit or not, he wasn’t sure. Some undoubtedly wanted to side with the winning deity, whoever was overseeing Vorus and his unstoppable army. In any case, Vorus was glad to see them.

  One of the women was lighting candles around the altar; another was putting out small, empty bowls carved of some dark, exotic wood from the far south. Vorus was about to start his mass. It would include some basic information about two or three of the dark deities as well as what those deities could do for someone who believed. That’s what everyone wanted to know; what’s in it for me? He would also talk about light versus dark, good versus bad, moon versus sun, how they were two sides of the same coin. He loved that analogy. So simple and so true. Even these northern barbarians would grasp the truth of it.

  Before he went up onto the altar to begin his service, there was one thing he had to do. Vorus felt in his pocket for the heavy gold coin that he had enchanted. It was in an envelope sealed with his wax mark. He strode away from the altar, approaching his black carriage several feet away. Two huge black horses blew and stamped their feet. The mercenary sat on the driver seat, watching the people ebb and flow through the courtyard.

  “Ready to travel?” Vorus asked.

  The man nodded.

  “Um, if I may, where am I going?” the man asked.

  “To the coast,” Vorus said. “Here, I’ve drawn you a map. You’re going to the biggest town on the South Coast.”

  “What’m I doing there?” The mercenary asked.

  “You’ll ask to see the jarl there, or if there isn’t one, find the most powerful chieftain,” Vorus said, handing up a map and a scroll of parchment. “When you find him, you’ll read this.”

  The man took the rolled up document, looked it over, then set it next to him on the seat.

  “No, no. Read it now, out loud. I want
to make sure you say it properly,” Vorus said.

  The hired man unrolled the scroll with shaky hands, looked it over, and cleared his throat. He read the scroll in a loud voice. When he was done, he stared at the scroll for a moment, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just read. He then looked to Vorus, who nodded.

  “Well done. When you’re done reading that give him this coin, a special gift from Vorus Blackfist,” Vorus handed the man the heavy coin, sealed in its envelope. “It’s a very special coin, if you understand what I mean. You’ll be better off if you don’t open the envelope, or touch it at all.”

  The mercenary locked eyes with Vorus.

  “I think I understand.”

  “I’ll give you plenty of coin when you return,” Vorus said.

  “Deal,” the man said.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Deadly Journey

  Nammar insisted on saying a prayer before they left. Gahspar waited, nervously studying the surrounding trees. When he was done, Nammar left an offering to the gods and hurried to his horse.

  They rode north. It was all they could think to do.

  It took the two men a full day to ride up out of the scattered chunks of forest and timberland and up into the hills. There was less cover up here, longer sight lines, but they felt safer. Distance from the invading monsters was a comfort. On the hillsides, stiff, tan remnants of summer grass poked up through the hard crust of snow.

  It was late in the day when they saw a little shepherd’s cabin, wispy smoke trailing up out of its chimney. They called out from the yard, sitting on their horses a respectable distance from the little house. It was proper to give people time and space to receive visitors properly, if they chose to do so. They waited a few moments. Nammar rapped on the door, but there was no answer. There was nothing but the steady wind and the smoke seeping out of the chimney.