The Brave and the Dead

by Robertson, Dave

  The headless man was a man no longer, thought Vorus. He was a message now, a warning. Resist and die. The message could not have been clearer if the man’s lifeless head had shouted it from the basket.

  Vorus walked through the halls, arriving at his work room. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. The room smelled of spices, dust, and powdered old bones. A spider crawled nimbly up its web and sat in the corner. Vorus lit the little brazier. An orange glow crept up the walls.

  Vorus stepped up so he was face to face with Jarl Simberin’s decapitated head. Its skin was pale, its features slightly distorted. The skin was beginning to tighten over its face and skull, giving it a grim, menacing appearance. There was a thin band of twine tied over the top of the jarl’s head and secured under his chin. It held a long, thin crystal that rested on top of the lifeless head. In the muted light, something within the crystal seemed to flicker slightly.

  Vorus spoke a single word and the jarl’s eyes popped open. The jarl was not happy to see him.

  “What do you want?” the jarl asked, his voice thick with hatred.

  “I was wondering, is there more flour? And where do we get more of that lovely wine?” Vorus said pleasantly.

  The head shook and twitched with a rage so deep it could not form words.

  Vorus laughed.

  “This is some sort of black magic, some of your necromantic tricks. Let me go, send me to the Afterworld!”

  Vorus laughed again.

  “I’ve told you what I want,” Vorus said. “You hang around, answer some questions from time to time, and eventually I will send you onward. If you don’t wish to cooperate, you can hang there forever, your soul trapped in that vessel by my necromantic trick.”

  They had been through this argument twice before. The jarl was too stubborn to cooperate and Vorus was happy to let him hang there as his psychic prisoner.

  “You’ll hang there for eternity, unless you wish to talk?”

  The jarl sneered, but finally relented.

  “What do you want to know?”

  The jarl had some knowledge of Orngaart, but not much. There was one high pass that separated the two regions, and Jarl Simberin had befriended one of the jarls on the other side. Mostly he had done so to pre-empt any sort of strike by any of the powers of Orngaart. If one of their own was allied with him, the situation would be complicated.

  After some questioning, the jarl-head finally admitted that he had a crude map of a few roads in the southernmost part of Orngaart, but beyond that he knew very little of the region. He knew that there was a great king with a vast army, several important jarls, streams full of salmon and forests ripe with game. It was said that the coffers in Orngaart overflowed with riches.

  Vorus had little interest in gold or other valuables. He needed information if he was to wage a campaign in Orngaart, and he needed that campaign to be successful. The Goddess of Shadow and Bone had made that very clear. Anything shy of total victory was not an option.

  Vorus was becoming tired of the jarl’s pointless jabbering. The extent of his useful knowledge had been nearly exhausted, except for one more thing.

  “Where is the map?” Vorus asked.

  “Why should I tell you? You’ve already captured my soul, what worse can you do?”

  Vorus broke out in laughter. A sly grin spread over his face.

  “You think I can’t do worse? I can send your soul to places you’ve never imagined. I can put you in an eternal void, make sure you’re alone forever. Or I can make sure you spend eternity enduring the most horrible torture the Afterworld has to offer.”

  The jarl stared at him. Vorus stared back.

  “You think I can’t?”

  The fire went out of the jarl’s eyes and his face sagged. He suddenly looked waxy, wrinkled and old.

  “The map is in my meeting room, the one near my quarters. There’s a sideboard, locked. The key hangs from my bedpost.”

  The woman was fat, with loose jowls and arms like overstuffed sausages. She watched over Gahspar as if she were a hawk and Gahspar her fragile little chick. The others followed her orders; Gahspar saw them come and go, especially the man with the ears, whom she called Sven. He was the large woman’s husband, though it was clear he didn’t run his household.

  Gahspar’s right hand was bandaged and he had a maddening itch in his feet. He was given soup and cups full of foul tasting tonics that, he was sure, were served to make him better. He was feeling better, though his joints ached and he couldn’t sleep enough, no matter how he tried. He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept in the warmth of the little cabin.

  The woman came in and stood near his bed, looking down on him with a look that seemed a mixture of concern and pity.

  “You should get up and walk a little,” she said, “Let your body be itself again.”

  Gahspar nodded. He swung his legs off the edge of the bed and put his feet on the floor. His feet were wrapped with strips of long cloth, and Gahspar could see the dark stains of dried blood.

  “Your toes. A few of them …”

  Gahspar looked down, a sudden fear gripping him. He wriggled his toes. He was at once relieved and confused.

  “We had to take two from each foot. They were black and frozen,” the woman said.

  “But I can feel them,” Gahspar said.

  His eyebrows made an arch low on his forehead.

  The woman shook her head.

  Gahspar tried to get to his feet. The woman took his arm and helped him up.

  Gahspar stood, his body slowly straightening. He moved like an old man, but he stood, looking down at his feet. He looked up at the woman. Creases spread across his forehead like waves in the sea.

  “Walk.”

  His first steps were tentative, heavy. He hadn’t been on his feet in two or three days. He leaned on the woman’s arm. One limping step, then another. His legs were stiff and sore. He let go of her, standing up straight.

  “Which toes?”

  “You can look later,” the woman said.

  Gahspar took two tentative steps on his own, then turned slowly and shuffled back to the bed. He was slightly unsteady, but he could walk. He sat on the edge, looking at the bandage on his right hand. A thought occurred to him. His mouth dropped open.

  “And the fingers?” Gahspar asked.

  “Two, and part of another,” the woman said.

  Gahspar found the end of the bandage and began to unravel it. He let the stained cloth fall to the floor as he held up his hand. Two of his malformed fingers, the smallest ones, were gone. His middle finger was a stump that ended at the middle knuckle. The Gods had taken back his deformed digits.

  Gahspar looked up at the ceiling. A smile crossed his face.

  “What is it?” the woman asked, wringing her meaty hands.

  Gahspar turned his hand one way, then the other, examining it.

  “Those fingers were deformed to begin with,” he said. “Maybe the Gods have a sense of humor.”

  In the town of Errborg there was a thick, almost palpable darkness. Torches wavered and sputtered, almost as if the blackness was trying to smother them.

  The houses and shops were all shuttered, their doors locked tight. Not even a single candle could be seen in any window. The people were afraid, terrified. The streets were deserted.

  In the main courtyard stood the source of everyone’s fear: The Army of the Risen had gathered.

  The leering skeletons stood in ranks. Their malevolent faces were blank masks, but their posture showed confidence and strength. They had subjugated all of Surgaart, banishing their past demons, elevating themselves above the wrongs done to them in the past.

  Now they had their sights set on Orngaart.

  Marek stalked back and forth, inspecting the troops. Each was ready. Eager.

  Vorus watched from nearby, a tall thin shadow in the darkness.

  Marek, satisfied with his troops, walked over to stand before the necromancer.

  “Ready, sir.”
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  Vorus nodded. The two stepped inside the nearest building, Marek’s clanking plate armor a contrast to Vorus in his inky robes. There was a long wooden table with a map spread out on it.

  Vorus leaned over the map, pointing at it.

  “We march southwest, to the coast at Argnen. We’ll hire some longships there and sail up past Estgaart all the way to Orngaart. We’ll hit some towns on the coast there, kill the men and burn the towns,” Vorus said.

  “If we hit fast, then move, show up at another town, keep moving, the king won’t know exactly where we are. The towns on the coast will be charred rubble before he knows it,” Marek said.

  “That’s the plan. Once they fall, the inland settlements will give up without a fight. We pick off the small places, the weak. We add their dead to our ranks. The snowball starts to roll, starts to grow. The more we gain, the more will give up.”

  “The king won’t give up,” Marek said

  “No, but by the time you get near Stonehelm, our army will be huge. A juggernaut.”

  Marek fixed his gaze on Vorus, who was still studying the map. He waited until the gangly necromancer met his eyes.

  “And when we take Stonehelm, I’ll have my reward?”

  “You’ll be named king, as promised, recorded in the official records. Coronation and everything.”

  Marek grinned, eyes on the map. “It was always my goal. Were I not betrayed ….” Marek looked sidelong at Vorus.

  “You will get your wish, after all these years,” Vorus said.

  Marek nodded.

  “For the others, the fight is enough. Taking Surgaart, taking Stonehelm. Winning in battle again, that’s all they want. Do I ask too much?”

  Vorus put a hand on Marek’s shoulder. The skeleton’s steel pauldrons were cold as a tombstone.

  “You were destined to be king. You won’t be stopped,” Vorus said.

  Marek nodded, lowered his face shield and craned his neck one way, then the other. The bones of his neck cracked and popped. He adjusted one heavy glove, then the other. Leather squeaked. Thin plates of metal made little scraping sounds. Marek took up his shield, adjusting his grip. He could hear the dead men outside banging their swords on their shields, a rhythm that he knew instilled fear and dread in all who stood before them. To Marek it was the sound of vengeance.

  The army was ready, impatient.

  It was time.

  Vorus stood, watching his army pounding their shields in rhythm. They would not be stopped, Vorus knew that. When they took Stonehelm, he would name Marek king.

  Was the gesture too large, the honor too great?

  No, not to Vorus, for he had bigger plans. All of the northern lands would fall under his control, the souls of the defeated sent on to The Lord of The Dead. He would be in the good graces of both The Lord and The Goddess of Shadow and Bone. They would make him a god. That was Vorus’ belief. It was his destiny. Let Marek have his kingship, greater things were in store for Vorus.

  Marek stepped to the front of his men and barked an order. The army started forward, heading toward the east gate in lockstep. A slice of moonlight glinted off various bits of armor as they stepped through the gate and disappeared into the night beyond it. Vorus listened to their footfalls on the road, then walked to his carriage. He sat inside, then slapped his hand on the outside to alert the driver. The black carriage began to roll.

  The mercenary, whose name was Torfenn, stood in the darkness of Errborg and watched the last of the wagons roll out of the gate. There were skeletons along the walls, bows over their shoulders, and some with swords standing guard at the gates. As for actual humans, though, Torfenn was now in charge. In fact, once Vorus and his army sailed for Orngaart, Torfenn was technically in charge of all of Surgaart, at least temporarily.

  Torfenn pushed the thought out of his mind; the necromancer was not a man you wanted to cross. Still, if Vorus died in Orngaart, if somehow he could keep the power … From the corner of his eye, Torfenn saw movement, he turned quickly, but he saw nothing but darkness. His mind was playing tricks on him. Torfenn began to walk, then turned again suddenly. Nothing. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone, something was watching him. He kept walking and didn’t look back.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Sailing With The Dead

  It was a bright day, the sun glaring off the snow, drips of water running down the icicles that clung to the eaves of the cabin. Sven stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. His wife stood next to him, her fleshy face stoic and neutral. Gahspar mounted his horse and thanked them both again. These people had saved him, and he wished they would let him do something to repay them. He had offered to help on the farm, anything, but the wife just waved her hands and shook her head. She had packed up some food for him: strips of salted venison, little discs of hard, flat bread, and a block of some sort of hard cheese he didn’t recognize.

  There was nothing to do but to go. Gahspar had to get to Stonehelm, to try and see the king. Certainly he could not send an army over the pass, but if the king could send a large army by sea to the coast, they could sail down to Surgaart and attack inland from there. It was the only chance for everyone in Surgaart.

  Gahspar waved casually, wound the reins about his right hand, and started off. While he had lain in the cabin’s wide bed, he had had plenty of time to think. A king would have no reason to even grant him an audience. But he had to. For the good of all Surgaart, fate, or the gods, or someone would have to make it happen, and none of it would happen if he didn’t get there. Gahspar set off headed north, determined.

  By late afternoon he was riding into the small town of Vyrnja. On the left side of the road there was a tavern and inn, a shop that sold saddlery and boots, and two little houses of wood and stone. On the right there was a low, wide stable and a large, open area where merchants had set up stalls and tents to sell their wares. There were herb sellers, candle makers, clothing vendors, and a big tent where people offered salted fish. Small children chased each other, squealing, between the tents, and there was a small bonfire behind the tents where people took breaks and held their palms up to the warmth of the fire.

  Gahspar arranged for the stable to board his horse for the night and then stood looking at the stalls along the temporary marketplace. He didn’t have much money, a few coins was all that remained after he had paid the stableman. His clothes were old and shabby, though Sven’s wife had washed and mended them. He ran through the numbers in his head and decided he couldn’t afford anything at the market. The king would have to accept him as he was, rags and all.

  The inn was an imposing structure, two stories of stone and large timber. The sign read “Vyrnja Tavern and Inn”. In Vyrnja, like much of the northern lands, plain information was valued over cleverness when naming businesses.

  Gahspar wiped his feet on a rough mat and stepped inside.

  Warm, moist air engulfed him, the smell of smoke and roasted meat hung in the air.

  The Tavern was empty but for a man with short black hair and a modest beard. He stood behind the bar, thick forearms disappearing into a tub full of water and drinking mugs. He looked up as Gahspar came in, wiped his hands on his apron and stood waiting behind the bar.

  “Hello,” Gahspar said, scanning the room. High windows cast square blocks of sunlight on the long tables and benches that ran the length of the room. “I am Gahspar, from Surgaart. I just came over the pass a few days ago.”

  It was not common for patrons to introduce themselves in such a way, perhaps to another stranger on the road, but not to an innkeeper. Nonetheless, the innkeeper picked up an empty mug and set it on the bar.

  “Just came over the pass? In that storm?” the innkeeper filled the mug and set it in front of Gahspar. “From down here it looked nasty.”

  Gahspar looked at the drink he had not yet ordered. He sat down, hands resting on the bar.

  “It was nasty. Wind, sleet and deep snow. It was as if the frost giants themselves were spitting
in our faces. It was nearly too deep for the horses.”

  “That drink is on me. If you came over in that storm, you’re a braver man than I am.”

  Gahspar shrugged and took a sip. It was a smooth, creamy ale.

  “If I can ask, what happened there?” the innkeeper said, nodding towards Gahspar’s bandaged hand.

  “Oh. Lost a few fingers, and a few toes.”

  The innkeeper looked at Gahspar his expression serious.

  “I can’t believe you made it over. Not many would even try, this time of year.”

  He glanced down, wiping the bar with a damp rag. He looked up again at Gahspar.

  “We have a good, hearty stew, or meat pies with gravy,” the innkeeper said.

  Gahspar looked into his mug.

  “I don’t have a lot of money … I’ll need a room for the night.”

  The innkeeper watched Gahspar, thinking. His rag swished over the bar top absently.

  “I tell you what, lunch is on me,” the bartender said, “what you’ve been through, you deserve it.”

  That evening, Gahspar sat at one of the long tables near the fire. Three other men were seated around him, listening to his stories of The Great Storm. They bought him drinks and lapped up every word. He told them of the wind, the snow and the cliffs. They looked at him reverentially or sat shaking their heads. He told of Nammar’s death, of how he had tied him over the horse and kept on. He told of the snow cave, the death of Nammar’s horse, the snow getting deeper and deeper, the storm raging fiercely. The men called him brave and courageous. They wondered at his toughness. Gahspar hadn’t considered himself brave or courageous. Looking back on it, though, he was proud of his endurance, his perseverance. He could have turned back, could have huddled in one of the little huts, afraid to go on. He could have given up and just let the winter take him. He had thought about it, how easy it would have been to just lie down and sleep there forever. Instead, he had kept on. He had made it, but his pride was always tinged with sadness for Nammar.