The Brave and the Dead

by Robertson, Dave

  For another two days, Gahspar trained and sparred with the other men. There was very little discussion of technique or tactics at this point: ferocity and aggression was more the rule. The Norse style of training was more about lining up two men against each other and seeing who won.

  The sparring, done with wooden swords, was especially vicious. By now each man was trying desperately to prove himself. Everyone wanted a place in the king’s army.

  The man that Gahspar sparred with on day two was the worst. He was a giant, ham-fisted man that towered over Gahspar. He was also relentless in his attacks and didn’t hesitate to hit hard when he could.

  He kept knocking Gahspar down.

  Gahspar kept getting up.

  By the end of the day Gahspar was exhausted, bruised all over, and bleeding from a cut on one side of his face. Despite the beating he had taken, Gahspar didn’t give up. He never let the other man have the satisfaction of seeing him hurt or discouraged. When he was knocked down, he scrambled to his feet and continued his punishment. Gahspar wasn’t sure why, but he knew he couldn’t quit in front of these men.

  When Sundin finally called an end to the last round of the day, Gahspar let out a sigh of relief. He walked slowly, his head slightly fuzzy. He wanted nothing more than to sit somewhere quiet until the evening meal.

  “Gahspar, the king wants to see you,” Sundin said.

  Gahspar acknowledged the senior man but kept walking. Hopefully, the king had news for him. Hopefully he had finally decided to send troops to Surgaart. The window of decent weather was closing fast, but if the king sent troops now, maybe they could take back Surgaart.

  Gahspar picked up his pace and headed for the king’s complex. He arrived at the gate and told the guards he was expected. In a few moments Wender Orloff showed up looking his usual pale, reserved self. He led Gahspar to the same room where he’d had his original audience with the king. King Reinvarr sat on one of the couches, resplendent in a dark purple tunic of thick, soft fabric. The hefty blacksmith, still in his dark leather apron, occupied one of the chairs. They talked in low tones as Gahspar entered the room.

  “Ah, there is Gahspar, our friend from Surgaart.” King Reinvarr said, motioning to a chair.

  Gahspar sat, suddenly realizing just how tired he really was.

  “You’re bleeding,” the blacksmith said.

  “Ach, a little bleeding is good for you,” the king said.

  “You asked to see me, Your Highness?” Gahspar said.

  The blacksmith had several weapons on the floor around him. He looked around, grunted, then tried to wriggle his bulk into a position where he could reach the one he was looking for. After a moment he managed to pick up a short sword with a wide tip and slightly curved belly. He handed it, pommel first, to Gahspar.

  The sword was beautiful. It was gleaming and sharp and felt great in his hands. The handle was longer than seemed usual, and it had two little extensions at the end that curved around into a little half circle. The insides of these extensions were padded. Gahspar realized immediately that the extensions would wrap partway around his wrist, helping to keep the sword in place.

  “Can I?” Gahspar said, looking to the king.

  King Reinvarr nodded.

  Gahspar set the sword carefully across his knee, then put his right hand on the handle and his wrist between the flared extensions.

  “Here, this goes with it,” the blacksmith said, handing Gahspar a wide leather cuff. “Wrap it around the handle, there.”

  Gahspar saw that there were additional leather straps that attached near the hand guard. He wound them around his hand and tied them using his left hand and his teeth. When he was done, he held the sword out.

  The king was watching Gahspar’s face.

  “You love it! He loves it,” the king said, beaming.

  “I do,” Gahspar said. He felt a little choked up and was hoping his voice wouldn’t betray him. “I really do.”

  “Get up and give it a go,” the blacksmith said.

  Gahspar got up and found a spot nearby where he wouldn’t hit anything. He moved the sword through a few tentative motions, slowly and smoothly. It felt like an extension of his own body: balanced, natural.

  “It’s a better chopper than a stabber,” the blacksmith said, struggling to his feet. “Wider toward the tip, slightly narrowed in the belly. I think it will suit your style.”

  Gahspar didn’t know he had a style, but now he certainly did. He thought of the ghastly skeletons. A heavy chop would break their bones and cleave their skulls. Yes, a chop was better than a stab.

  When Gahspar looked up, both men were watching him. King Reinvarr was grinning.

  “This is the greatest gift I could ever imagine. I thank you both,” Gahspar said.

  The king called in a server so they could all have a drink and celebrate Gahspar’s new gift. The king and the blacksmith talked swords and other weapons for several minutes, the advantages of one feature over another, types of steel, and so on. The king, as usual, was animated. The blacksmith was calm and knowledgable. Gahspar mostly listened. He didn’t know much about swords or fullers or what kind of swords they used in the Southern Kingdoms. He was getting impatient to hear the king’s decision about Surgaart. It seemed like a lot of time had already been wasted, and now the king was sitting here chatting casually.

  After a few rounds of ale, the blacksmith excused himself, citing a long day. When he left, Gahspar and the king sat across from each other. The king still beamed, apparently proud of himself for getting Gahspar the perfect gift.

  “Your Highness, can I ask a question?” Gahspar said.

  “Of course.”

  “What say your advisors on the matter of sending help to the people of Surgaart?”

  The king’s usually bright demeanor slipped noticeably.

  “For now, it isn’t happening,” the king began. “We will, of course, discuss sending an army in the Spring. We’ll almost certainly do it then.” The king must have seen the disappointment on Gahspar’s face. “There are many reasons why, at this time, it just isn’t practical. The weather, the distance, we don’t have any knowledge of …“

  Gahspar stood.

  “I should go. I thank you for the gift.”

  “Gahspar, I …” The king didn’t finish the sentence.

  “If I may take my leave, Your Highness?”

  The king waved dismissively. Gahspar walked out of the room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Battling the Dead

  The next day, Gahspar and the others were summoned to the big courtyard where they had been training. Gahspar had his new sword bound to his hand, his shield held comfortably in the other.

  Sundin had not told them much about what to expect. For days they had been doing what they were told and not asking questions. At some point, they would be told who was selected, and the rest would be sent home with the thanks of King Reinvarr.

  As it turned out, today was the day.

  Sundin read a list of eight names, including Gahspar’s. They were the men who had made the cut and could consider themselves members of The King’s Guard. Scores of men fought for the king, but these were the elite, the chosen, the ones that protected the city. These men would stay in Stonehelm for two weeks, working for the king in whatever capacity was required. After that, they were free to return to wherever they lived, though they would be required to return any time the king required them to fight.

  Of the three who didn’t make it, one had quit a few days earlier, two simply weren’t good enough. Those two were given the thanks of King Reinvarr and sent on their way.

  For the next two days, Gahspar walked the streets of Stonehelm with an experienced soldier from the king’s ranks. They wore the silver helmets, the blue cloaks and tunics, and carried the big shields all adorned with King Reinvarr’s dragon. Gahspar walked the streets with pride. If anyone was going to cause trouble, they changed their minds when they saw him and the other guard. The patro
lling was uneventful, but it allowed Gahspar to learn the streets of Stonehelm.

  The king’s decision not to send help for Surgaart was a huge disappointment to Gahspar. After all he went through to get to the king, he could scarcely believe his request had been denied. For now, Gahspar could only focus on his new job. Perhaps this was his fate, living in Orngaart and being in the king’s ranks. He had never thought he would be a soldier, but perhaps the gods had a plan for him after all.

  After his two weeks of service were up, what would he do then? He had no place to go, no place to live. For now, all he could do was to do his job the best he could and let fate take care of the rest.

  The third day of patrolling started like the others. It was a day marked by the sort of deep cold that caused Gahspar’s nose to go numb and his cheeks to burn. He waited for the other guard, walking a small circle to keep his feet from getting too cold. The other guard was an older man, gruff. The sort that didn’t usually give people the time of day, though he seemed to like Gahspar.

  “You’re always early. I like that,” the gruff guard said.

  The man seemed to judge Gahspar by his work ethic and his attendance, nothing else. Gahspar appreciated that.

  “We’ll walk the outskirts today. It’s a little rough out there. Those people don’t have much and they fight over whatever they do have.”

  Gahspar fell in next to the other man and began walking. A commotion at one of the gates drew their attention. Gahspar and the other guard walked over to see what was happening.

  They saw a horseman dismount, shouting at the guards at the gate.

  “We’ve been attacked. Danmyr has been attacked. Please, let me see the king.”

  The guards were trying to calm the man enough to understand what he was talking about when Gahspar and his partner walked up.

  “Slowly, slowly. What’s this about?” One of the guards asked.

  “Men in ships, they attacked Danmyr. The village is burning. They need help.”

  “You were there?” one guard asked.

  “No. They sent a messenger. He rode all night to us in Elkhurst. He was exhausted, so I rode here. I’ve been riding through the night.”

  “Who attacked? Whose ships were they?” Gahspar’s partner asked.

  “I don’t know. They were foreigners. The rider said, he said … I don’t know.”

  The guards looked dubious. It wasn’t the first time that a rider had shown up with a wild, urgent story to tell.

  “You were about to tell us what the man said, the first rider,” Gahspar said. “What did he say?”

  The man looked from one guard to another as if he was suddenly trapped.

  “It was nothing. He was tired,” the man said, “but the attack did happen. I know the man. His family is solid folk.”

  “What did he say?” Gahspar asked again. He was getting a bad feeling in his stomach.

  “He said … He said they were dead men, skeletons, ghosts. They attacked from ships. From the south.”

  Gahspar’s insides did a sudden flop. He looked at the other guards. It was apparent from the look on their faces that none of them believed the man.

  “I’ll get Wender Orloff. He can inform the king,” Gahspar said, turning toward the gate.

  “You don’t have that authority,” one of the other guards said, grabbing him by the arm. “We outrank you.”

  Gahspar turned. He and the other man locked eyes. Gahspar pulled his arm free and walked through the gate.

  Ten minutes later the man was standing in front of King Reinvarr with Gahspar and another guard at the man’s side. The man told the story of Danmyr’s attack, of how the messenger had ridden all night, how he himself had then ridden all night from Elkhurst. The king listened patiently, unimpressed.

  “Tell the king what the man told you,” Gahspar said.

  The king looked at him surprised. It was not custom for guards to speak in front of the king unless asked to.

  “The rider from Danmyr, he said the attackers came on two longships, there were dozens of them, a small army. He said … He said they were an army of dead men.”

  The king’s mouth dropped open. He looked from the messenger to Gahspar, then back again. For a moment nothing happened and then suddenly the king exploded.

  “Everyone out. Now.” King Reinvarr said.

  The coast was shrouded in fog and a hard rain was falling. The two longships sat at anchor a short distance from the rocky shoreline. Under the conditions, Ingo had not been willing to get any closer. The last thing he wanted was to wreck a ship on the foreign shores of Orngaart.

  Up on the hill above the rocky cliffs, Marek’s army was running amok in the streets of Danmyr. Men were shouting, women screaming. Skeletal warriors ran through town, chopping down men like small trees. In the darkness and rain, some managed to flee. The rest were killed, crushed or dismembered. By the time Marek gathered his troops, the rain soaked streets were tinged with blood. Bodies lay in the road and hung half out of open windows. The dead men gathered in lines, covered in gore, wet clothes sticking to their gaunt bodies. The cold rain fell in great sheets.

  “Back to the boats.” Vorus shouted above the rain. “We can take the next town before daylight.”

  Marek nodded, scanning the nearest line of troops. He barked an order and they began to march toward the other side of town, and down toward the shore.

  In the morning the sun didn’t rise, but rather the darkness seemed to recede. It was technically daylight, though the day was gray and dank, the light dim and flat. Danmyr and the next town up the coast, Zimber, were both deserted. Those who had tried to defend the towns lay dead in the streets. The only hitch in things, as Mik and Mek pointed out, was that both towns were too wet to burn.

  Vorus and Marek stood under the overhang of a cobbler’s shop in Zimber, a map spread over the railing in front of them. The rain pounded down, splashing muddy drops onto their boots.

  “Where will the men of Orngaart expect us next?” Vorus asked.

  “Inland to Elkhurst, the next big town.”

  Vorus studied the map.

  “Then we go south, double back past Danmyr, and attack this town, to the south,” Vorus pointed at the map. “They’ll never expect that.”

  Marek grinned. Chaos. He loved it.

  “South it is.”

  In a flat, open field south of Danmyr, a group of warriors awaited them. The pouring rain had given way to a freezing sleet that stung the men’s faces. Clumps of cloudy white slush were beginning to accumulate at their feet.

  There were perhaps forty cold, wet men arrayed in a loose bunch. They held axes, hammers, some even held farm implements. They were here to make a stand; they used what they had.

  The army of dead men sized up the enemy, shifted and spread out. When they halted, their ranks were twice as wide as the men in the field, and just as deep.

  The two groups eyed each other across the field as the mix of rain and snow fell around them. Marek and Vorus stood behind the army, next to the black carriage.

  “We’re ready,” Marek said.

  “The army has sailed for most of a week, straight, fought all night, sacked two towns, marched here, and still they are ready to fight,” Vorus smiled. “Beautiful.”

  Marek just stood there. He was ready to fight, and more talk just made him impatient.

  “Should I give the order?” Marek asked.

  Vorus looked at the lead gray sky, the moist flakes coming down fast. The sleet was turning into a heavy, wet snow.

  “Not yet,” Vorus said.

  Marek stared at him, expressionless.

  “Why not?” Marek asked.

  “Let’s allow our enemies to get a little bit colder, a bit more miserable. The weather doesn’t affect our army,” Vorus grinned.

  Marek sighed. His breath smelled like rotten bones and death.

  “I’ll be at the front,” Marek said. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

  The two groups sto
od a hundred yards apart as the snow kept falling. The living men of Orngaart huffed and stamped and blew on their hands. The dead men stood completely still. Quiet.

  Corg Wolfslayer watched the dead men with interest. He was cold, hungry and wet. Why did battles always seem to happen on such miserable days?

  His friend Frett walked up next to him, pulling his hood up to protect his head.

  “What are they waiting for?” Frett asked.

  “They’re waiting until we freeze to death. Then they can walk over our frozen bodies right into the village,” Corg said. His sense of humor had always been dark.

  “We need to do something. We need to attack,” Frett said, shivering.

  “They have twice our number, plus they’re better armed,” Corg replied.

  “I would rather die going forward than backwards,” Frett said.

  Corg turned to look at his friend.

  “At times you say things that are very wise,” Corg said.

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” Frett said.

  “Walk among the men,” Corg said. Little bits of ice had formed in his beard. “Tell them we’re going to attack. On my command.”

  Across the field, Marek saw the enemy begin to stir. They were talking to each other, moving around. He could see men pulling their cloaks around them, tightening straps. Something was about to happen.

  Marek guessed surrender, or retreat, though he couldn’t guess which. He was surprised a few minutes later when they men began their rush forward. He watched them for just a moment, the cold, wet men, their feet slipping on the slushy ground as they came toward him.

  Marek didn’t wait for permission. He shouted one simple word, “Forward!” The Army of the Risen began to move.

  The two waves of men ran forward, the men of Orngaart in a loose mob, Marek’s army in rough lines. The two groups met with a great, shouting crash. Swords hit shields, spears thrust into chest plates and axes found leather. There was chaos and mayhem. Men fell and skeletons shattered.