The Brave and the Dead

by Robertson, Dave

  Before long, the field was a slippery mess, the local men being pushed back by the superior numbers of the dead. Men were wounded, bleeding, knocked down in the mud and slush. The army of risen warriors stood shield to shield, pushing, hacking, stabbing. They pressed forward, grinding the fallen under them like a juggernaut. The men of Orngaart fought back with all they had, but they were never in it. At the sight of the dead, putrid skeletons arrayed in their battle gear, many turned and ran. The rest, wet, frozen and frightened, outnumbered more than two to one, never really had a chance. Less than an hour after the battle started, most were either dead or running for their lives. The army of dead men chased down everyone they could catch and hacked them to death. The field was littered with dead defenders staring up into the unforgiving sky.

  In Stonehelm, the king was uncharacteristically subdued. Reports were in of three towns ravaged on the east coast, and those were just the ones he knew about. Men were dead, families scattered. It was a nightmare.

  That morning he had sent out messengers to summon all his troops.

  They would fight in the winter. As much as he despised the notion, he had no choice.

  It would take a few days to gather fighting men since King Reinvarr’s loyal men were scattered all through the kingdom. Most weren’t needed here in Stonehelm, but were on call whenever he required their service. He needed them now.

  The king glared off into the distance, his mind running through a thousand details. He picked up his cup and hurled it at the wall.

  He sat watching the pale liquid run down the stone. There was a knock at the door. Wender Orloff entered.

  “Gahspar is here, Your Highness.”

  The king nodded. Gahspar walked into the room and waited until the king indicated a chair. Gahspar sat.

  At first the king just sat, staring at nothing, his fingers drumming a rapid beat on the arm of his chair. His normal enthusiasm was absent, his mind elsewhere. Eventually he looked to Gahspar.

  “Tell me about these dead men.”

  Gahspar told him everything, from when he first saw them in the woods to the defeat at Errborg. When he was done, the king leaned forward, his head in his hands. For several seconds he was silent.

  “It’s true, then? The dead walk our lands? The dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “I still can’t believe that such a thing could happen,” the king said, dejected. “Dead men ravaging our towns, loose in our country.”

  Gahspar sat quietly.

  “I’ll gather the greatest army this land has ever seen,” the king said. “Defeat them, drive them out.”

  The king’s face was set in a sneer. He turned toward Gahspar and suddenly he brightened.

  “And you. You will lead a force over the mountains, free Errborg, and rally the remaining men of Surgaart.”

  Gahspar nearly choked on his own tongue.

  “Your Highness?”

  The king was on his feet, his enthusiasm returning.

  “If most of their army is here, they’ve left only a token force in Surgaart. They believe that the high mountains protect them, that the pass is closed until winter. You can strike at their weakest point. I will crush their forces here, while you retake Errborg.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Second Crossing

  The streets of Stonehelm were crowded, men and animals jostling for space. Tents now occupied every yard and every courtyard, as refugees flooded into town and men came to fight for king and country. Most of the men were heading east now, past the edge of the city, there to mass in groups and await orders to fight. It was said that the invading army was within a day’s march. Three coastal towns had been attacked, the inhabitants killed. Three other towns had surrendered, including Elkhurst.

  Suddenly a big portion of Eastern Orngaart was in enemy hands.

  Gahspar had a different mission. He and twenty men gathered in the southern part of the city. Their orders were to cross over the pass, back into Surgaart, and to take back Errborg. It was a frightening proposition for Gahspar, but he finally had his chance to do his part, to help Surgaart. He was going to make the most of it, whatever happened.

  The others were hulking, hairy men wearing mismatched animal skins. They were gregarious, enthusiastic warriors who shouted and roared and pounded each other on the back. The exception was their leader, a man named Langer. Langer had an angular, thin face, hair short on top, but with a long braid down the back. He was calm and soft-spoken, the serene eye of the storm that the rest of the wild men revolved around.

  The men were quiet, calm only for the time it took to give offerings to the Gods. Langer offered up a prayer and asked for the gods to bless the men. Gahspar knew they would need all the help they could get.

  They set off on horseback, headed south, twenty one men including Gahspar. A string of ten horses trailed behind them, five carrying food and gear, five extras. When they got high in the mountains, they would switch to skis and continue over the top. For this reason, Gahspar had left his buckskin horse with the king’s twelve-year old daughter. She had taken a liking to the horse, and he knew she would care for it like only a little girl could.

  Gahspar had extra clothes on one of the horses: heavy gloves, a fur-lined cloak and a fur blanket for sleeping. He was much better equipped this time. It made him feel more confident about facing the pass again, though he still had some apprehension. Memories of his last crossing still haunted him. This time, at least, he would not be alone.

  Two days later they reached the foot of the pass. It was colder already, even this low. When he breathed in, the air felt sharp in his nose. His lungs ached. The other men seemed not to notice, they chided each other and traded their inside jokes. From time to time a snowball was thrown.

  “Are they always like this?” Gahspar asked.

  “Eh?” Langer said. “Like what?”

  “So … boisterous?” Gahspar said.

  “Ah. Not to worry,” Langer said. “When they go quiet, then we’ve got trouble.”

  Two days after that, the mountains began to punish them. The wind picked up, the snow whipped around them. Gahspar bundled up in his heaviest clothes and they all kept on. Every day the snow was deeper and the pace slower. The other men had questions for Gahspar about his previous crossing; where he slept each night, how much distance he covered each day, and so on. He was beginning to feel like part of the group.

  Gahspar was cold, his muscles protesting. He had a cloth wrapped around his face, but the cold stung his eyeballs. He slogged forward through more drifts.

  “There is a traveler’s cabin up ahead,” Langer said. “We’ll probably switch to skis then.”

  Gahspar nodded. He was not much of a skier. He had used them from time to time on winter jaunts in the woods, but he had never had the need to travel by skis. He was just going with the plan now, trusting the gods, and fate.

  They finally reached the little cabin and Gahspar recognized it. It was the place he had stayed the night after Nammar’s horse died, the night after he had buried his friend in the snow by the roadside. He had found this cabin, half dead himself, started a fire, and led his horse in to stay indoors with him.

  The other men loved the story and he was asked to tell it again and again, not the part about burying Nammar, but the part about bringing his horse into the cabin. “No wonder the place smells so!” they joked. The men seemed to enjoy any story where a person did the unexpected, or broke the rules, if it meant success.

  Two men met them at the cabin, a father and his grown son. These two would take care of the horses and get them back down into Orngaart, though Gahspar didn’t know how two men would pull off such a feat. In any case, it wasn’t Gahspar’s problem.

  That night they all lay in the tiny cabin, pressed together like cords of wood. The cabin was designed for about six people and they had twenty three. They all slept on their sides, squeezed together. They didn’t even have the room to roll over without causing a great and annoying c
ommotion. Every time somebody did change position, it caused a ripple effect. Gahspar slept fitfully, with an elbow in his back and a dozen men’s snoring ringing in his head.

  They donned skis the next day. It took Gahspar a little time to get the rhythm right and to feel comfortable sliding atop the snow instead of fighting through it, but after an hour or so he was making good progress. As the day wore on, skiing felt more natural and Gahspar could see the advantage. Gliding over the snow was much faster than pushing through it, even on a horse.

  The only problem was Gahspar’s fear of sliding over the edge and into the chasm to their left. He had to keep to the right edge of the road, as close to the steep mountain face as possible. He usually made sure someone else was between him and the edge. It was a fear he had felt on horseback, on the way north, but worse now because he was on top of the snow.

  The rest of the men were like beasts on skis. They wore heavy gloves and hats made of fur and shirts made from the skins of bears. Ice clogged their beards and eyebrows. They were strong and tough, each one seeming to fight a personal battle against the elements, and these men weren’t accustomed to losing.

  Gahspar’s thoughts were of Nammar. Though he hadn’t known the man very long, he felt like they had shared a bond. Maybe it was traveling together, or fighting together, or maybe it was the horror of their experience with the dead men in Surgaart.

  He thought of Nammar so much that he wondered if something of Nammar’s spirit remained here along the road. Had he not done enough to send his dead friend on to the Afterworld? Did his ghost remain here, wandering the frigid pass? Gahspar hoped that none of that was true.

  The day was cold, and Gahspar was bundled into almost all of his warm clothes. All in all they had been lucky with the weather. It was cold, but no driving wind, no storms. Conditions were much better than when Gahspar had crossed before. This time, the gods had been kind to them.

  In the afternoon, Gahspar looked up to see a peculiar piece of wood sticking up from the snow. There was something unnatural about it, the lone branch sticking straight up. Then it occurred to him; it was Nammar’s frozen grave, marked by the long, stout branch he had stuck in the snow.

  Gahspar stopped and five or six of the others stopped as well.

  “My friend is buried here,” Gahspar said.

  It was an effort to talk. His voice was strained.

  “Does anyone know a prayer for him? I did my best …“

  Langer sidestepped over and said a low prayer while the others stood quietly. Then the rest of the men moved several feet away while Gahspar stood alone at the site. He said, to himself, that he knew the gods had taken Nammar in by now because Nammar was devoted and he had always respected them. Nammar was a good man, Gahspar said, and he would be remembered.

  Gahspar adjusted his scarf and continued on, passing the group of men who had stopped. Some of them took turns paying their respects at Nammar’s snowy grave. Though they had not known him, they knew that what Nammar had attempted was brave, and they honored that.

  It is hard to lose a dead horse, but Gahspar could not find Nammar’s horse. There was much more snow now, and the drifts had blown and moved and changed. Well, it was no matter now, Gahspar decided. He had found Nammar and that was the important thing.

  Slowly they made their way up the pass, hour-by hour, day-by-day. Gahspar was physically exhausted, cold, beaten. He could hardly believe he had made it before, and wondered if he was tempting fate, trying a second time. Near the top it was so cold that they all stopped in the middle of the day and started a large fire in the middle of the trail. They warmed their sweaty, damp clothes as best they could, and warmed fingers and toes. At least Gahspar was better dressed this time. He didn’t have any digits to spare.

  Fear began to invade Gahspar’s thoughts. He began to worry about a battle in Errborg. Self-doubts crept up alongside him as he skied. He slowed and waited for Langer. From the other men he would get bravado and bluster, but from Langer maybe he would get more.

  Langer immediately sensed that Gahspar had something to say.

  “Twenty men. To take a whole town?” Gahspar said. “It doesn’t seem enough.”

  Langer smiled at him. His cheeks were red, his lips chapped.

  “You don’t know these men,” Langer said.

  Gahspar stopped. The wind blew clouds of snow all around them.

  “I’ve been to Errborg. Twenty men are not enough,” Gahspar said.

  Langer watched Gahspar with slight amusement.

  “You really don’t know of these men, do you?” Langer said.

  Gahspar just looked at him, puzzled.

  “These are the king’s special troops. The Bear Sarks. You really haven’t heard of them?”

  Gahspar shook his head.

  “The Bear Sarks wear the shirts made of bear skins, it is their mark, but it is said that there is more to these wild men,” Langer said.

  Gahspar didn’t say anything, so Langer went on.

  “It is said that the Bear Sarks go crazy in battle, that they enter another state, an uncontrollable fury. Some even say these men become bears.”

  They skied in silence for a moment, the wooden planks swishing against the surface of the snow.

  “Each of the Bear Sarks fights like five normal men, maybe more.”

  The group found cabins when they could, but even then they wouldn’t all fit. They drew lots for who would stay indoors. The rest hollowed out small caves in the deep snow, according to Gahspar’s instructions. In the morning Langer counted heads, hoping each man had survived the night.

  Even in the day time, the men froze in the bitter cold. They tried their best to keep hands and feet warm, but fingers and toes burned, then went numb. Frostbite was next.

  They made the top, pausing to thank the gods. The cold had been brutal, the mountains unforgiving, but the gods had been kind to them. A bad storm would have killed them all. They set out offerings before moving on.

  Everyone started down the other side. The going was much faster downhill, and they made more distance each day.

  There was a day of howling wind and fierce snow. The men pushed on, beards and eyebrows white and crusty. They wore every piece of clothing they had and it was barely enough. The men ended the day pale and stiff, teeth chattering.

  The next day dawned with clear, blue skies. The men were cold, but hopeful. An offering was made to the God of Nature, hoping for further leniency.

  They set off into frigid whiteness. When they stopped, Langer went among the men, asking about their condition. Were their feet numb? Did they have feeling in their hands? The men were the type who suffered in silence, not acknowledging any weakness. If they had frostbite, they never said anything. Langer knew this, but he also knew they had to be healthy enough to fight when they reached Errborg.

  Near high sun they came upon another cabin. There was still firewood stacked inside; the cabin probably hadn’t been used since Gahspar and Nammar had been there weeks earlier. They made a big fire in the old stove and groups of men took turns warming up. Langer made sure everyone took a turn, whether they wanted to or not. After they warmed up, each man set off down the road following the thin tracks in the crusty snow.

  Gahspar fell in a spray of snow that slid up into his coat and caked his clothes. He lay there, shivering, wondering what he was doing out here. He was mad, cold and spent. One of the other men picked him up and gave him a shove in the right direction. Quitting was not tolerated.

  The men kept each other going. Spirits were low, but they were all in it together. Gahspar was one of the men, one of the warriors. That meant a lot to him.

  The high cliffs and steep slopes were giving way to more gradual terrain and less snow. Temperatures eased slightly. The scattered forests of Surgaart lay below them, dark trees covered with a thick frosting of white.

  “There is Surgaart, boys, tomorrow we will be off the pass,” Gahspar said.

  One more uncomfortable night and anoth
er day brought them to the base of the pass. They had been cold and tired for days now. It was warmer down here, but they still had two days to Errborg. The endurance test continued.

  Gahspar led the way, encouraged by the flatter lands opening out before them. He skied on, thinking about skeletal warriors and berserk men that became bears. Life was never what you expected.

  On a wide, flat plateau east of Stonehelm, The twins Mik and Mek dragged bodies into position. They had been Orngaart men, recently killed in battle. They were hacked, bloody, and stiff.

  “Another awful task, this,” Mik said, standing and wiping his brow. He was sweating despite the cold. “These men of Orngaart, they’re heavy bastards.”

  “The less I say the better,” Mek said.

  “What’s that mean?” Mik said.

  “What mom used to say. Say nice or say nothing.”

  Both men were silent, thinking.

  “You miss her still?” Mek asked.

  “After all these years?” Mik said, then paused. “I do. If she hadn’t died, we wouldn’t have been out on the street. Vorus wouldn’t ‘ave had to take us in, and we wouldn’t be dragging around corpses.”

  “Excuse me, but are you nearly finished?” Vorus said from a few steps behind them. Both men nearly jumped out of their skin.

  The twins looked at Vorus wide-eyed. Thinking up quick replies was a difficulty for both of them and Vorus knew that his surprise appearance made it worse.

  “Are the bodies in place?” Vorus asked again.

  Mik was confused. Had Master Vorus caught them talking about him, or not? When Mik was confused, his response was always to wait until things became clearer before he said or did anything.

  “We are moving the bodies, like you said,” Mek said.

  “Yes. Have you moved them all?” Vorus asked.