The big twins looked at each other, then shook their heads.
“One more to go,” Mik said.
Vorus tried not to be impatient. The gods had put these slow-minded boys in his path for a reason. Probably to teach him patience, that’s what he’d always assumed.
Vorus felt a massive headache coming on. He was exhausted and the tiny muscles above one eye began to twitch involuntarily. Patience. He took a slow, deep breath.
“Okay. Move the last one, please.”
The two men hurried the few dozen paces over to the last corpse. For some reason, Master Vorus had wanted certain dead men placed side by side, all together, in a particular place. They dragged the last man over, and dumped him next to the others. Master Vorus was placing small bowls, candles, and some other things before the bodies. Someone else was putting up torches around the area.
“The master is going to bring them back again” Mik said knowingly to his brother. “I hate when he does that. Not natural.”
Mek crinkled his nose in disgust, but said nothing.
On a low mountain not far away, the Goddess of Shadow and Bone watched the proceedings. Vorus was resurrecting scores of dead men, who were standing silently, weapons at the ready. The necromancer’s distant voice echoed off the hillside as he started another incantation. Imbuing the dead men with the proper fighting spirit, no doubt.
The Goddess of Shadow and Bone rubbed her hands together. She found the whole display rather exquisite. Vorus’ army, with Marek at its head, had wiped out villages, slaughtered the men and scattered the women and children in a panic. After that, some villages and at least one good-sized town had surrendered without a fight, the men laying down their weapons and pledging their allegiance to Vorus. Hastily constructed altars to the Dark Gods had been built in each little town. They weren’t yet being used, much, but that would change. Soon the people would realize that darkness ruled, and that it was here to stay. They would come around.
The Goddess of Bone and Shadow watched as the dead men were formed into fighting groups. While that happened, Marek began to move his ranks of skeletons into place. All told there were 1,272 walking dead and skeletal warriors in the army, not including Marek. The goddess knew this with a glance; gods did not need to count.
To the west, across a vast frozen field, lay the army of Stonehelm. They were gathered in groups, standing around large bonfires to stay warm. As The Goddess of Bone and Shadow watched, another bonfire flared to life just north of the others. War was in the air. The goddess rubbed her hands together again. Wonderful, just wonderful. There were few things she liked better than a good battle, and this one was shaping up to be one for the ages.
A dozen men stood at attention in front of King Reinvarr. They were some of the bravest men and best riders in the kingdom, capable men, men that could be trusted.
“You’ve been called here for a very special purpose,” the king began, absently twisting the ring on one of his fingers. “Darkness is falling, and battle is imminent.”
The men stood at rigid attention.
“Time is short. Each of you will ride north and light several bonfires. Their locations are shown on the maps you’ll be given.”
There was a look of surprise on some of the men’s faces. War was about to break out and they were riding north? Lighting fires?
“In the darkness, the enemy will estimate our forces by the number of fires. We will make him think we are many, and that our men stretch far to the north, into the Vohsper Bog.”
The king sat back, a smile appearing on his face. It was a good ruse, if he did say so himself. He just hoped that it bought him some tactical advantage, enough time to place more troops, at least.
“Go, now. Quickly. Go!”
Vorus and Marek looked across the field at the points of light made by the enemy’s fires. More had popped up lately, to the north. The king’s army was getting larger by the hour.
The night was bitter cold and getting colder. It was also a dark night, the moon nothing but a sliver. Clear skies showed a sea of stars above them, twinkling celestial spectators awaiting Orngaart’s greatest battle ever.
“My inclination was to wait. Let the men of Orngaart get nice and cold and crusty. But now they are reinforcing up there,” Vorus said pointing north. “Their army gets bigger as we stand here.”
“And they could outflank us, fold that north group around and hit us from the side.”
“So, this king is smart. Forcing us to fight on two sides. How do we prevent it?” Vorus asked.
“We move part of our force north, attack their flank, crush them as we roll south. Then our two forces join and hit their army full on. The night is dark, and our army needs no fires to stay warm. They won’t be able to track us.”
Vorus nodded. The extra march would delay the battle, but soon they would be pummeling Stonehelm. Soon he would have the king’s head on a pike. Soon he would be a god.
Hours later, Marek and his fighters approached the northernmost fire. It looked to be fairly close, perhaps twenty minutes away. They didn’t know if the enemy was aware of their presence yet. Maybe they had scouts out, maybe they were waiting to spring a trap. Marek didn’t care. His troops could annihilate any force of living men.
They trudged forward onto ground that was becoming springy and soft. Dead men broke though thin layers of ice into little watery puddles. Several steps later, Marek stepped on a hummock of frozen grass that cracked underfoot. Then, suddenly, the hummock disappeared and Marek felt himself knee deep in thick, acidic, muck. The mud and water sucked at his foot. The harder he pulled, the harder it sucked. He heard another man go knee deep into the mire. Marek managed to grab the grass, crawl, and pull himself forward. He heard a splash and loud curses. A bony arm reached down and pulled him up. He managed to find firm ground to stand on.
They spent the next ten minutes pulling men out of the quagmire. Marek studied the bog in the dim light. He could see where the little hillocks of grass and plants grew right up out of the moist silt. The spreading vegetation obscured the fact that there was no solid ground underneath them, just water and mud and the dense weave of plants. Further south, the bog gave way to little pools of open water, now covered with a light dusting of snow that obscured the thin ice underneath. The water and the bog made a little patchy mosaic; getting across would take a lot of time and some of them were bound to end up in the water.
Marek unleashed a stream of obscure curse words. He turned, looking for someone he could count on to deliver a message. He saw a skeleton named Arald forcing his way through the sludge.
“Arald, get back to Vorus. Tell him of our delay.”
He turned back to study the swamp. He had to find a way through this mess.
Arald the Ox headed back toward the main camp, and he was not happy. In his past life he had been a great fighter, loyal, dependable. He had done everything ever asked of him, and more. The problem was that he had been the quiet sort. He kept to himself, speaking only when necessary instead of trumpeting his own feats all the time. That had been his downfall. Others had repeatedly been promoted past him. They were better braggarts, but not better fighters. When Arald had been resurrected, he thought things would be different, that he would finally get credit based on his fighting ability, but apparently he was wrong. As soon as Marek needed someone to run a simple errand, he had turned to Arald. He had killed more men than anyone, except of course Marek, but did he get noticed? No, he was suddenly an errand boy, nothing more.
Arald pondered his situation, wondering why this life was no different than the last. Something dropped on him. He was hit hard in the skull. He fell to his knees and was tackled to the ground.
The two men from the king’s ranks couldn’t believe their luck. They had stumbled onto one of the skeletons, alone. They took full advantage, one of them climbing into a tree while the other hid nearby. When the evil thing passed, the man in the tree had pounced, smashing him in the head and then wrestling him to th
e ground. Arald the Ox now walked in front of them, the coil of rope wound around him, pinning his arms to his sides. The two men marched the skeleton quickly back to Stonehelm, to the king.
In Stonehelm, the skeleton was taken through the streets on the way to the king’s quarters. Many were shocked, screaming in terror or running in fear. Others threw pieces of fruit or old vegetables. A few tried to attack the thing, but were stopped by the guards. The horrid dead man was turned over to the king.
Arald the skeleton saw no reason to lie to the king.
Marek had certainly not appreciated his talents on the field, and, besides, he had never asked to be brought back to life. While at first he had looked forward to another life, another chance, he now realized that nothing had changed. Better to be dead again, this time for good. He believed that whatever he said, the king would at least make that happen, and soon. He told the king about the bonfires, the splitting of their forces and Marek going north. He told the king of the dead army being stuck in the marshy lands and of his being sent back to inform Vorus.
The king listened attentively, fighting to keep a sly grin from settling on his face. So, his ruse had worked. Not only that, the necromancer had split his forces. The king wondered briefly if this was a trap. He looked at the damp skeleton before him, waterlogged and muddy to his knees. King Reinvarr smiled. This was no trap.
He sent a message to Sundin. It was time to attack.
Gahspar and the other men had to walk the last day to Errborg. The snow was sketchy and disappeared altogether in places. It was warmer down here, the days getting above freezing, the nights just a little below. The trees had a dusting of snow on them, a stark contrast to the deep snow on the pass.
The men’s spirits rose and once again they joked and laughed. They had escaped the frozen horror of the pass and they would soon get to fight. They all seemed to look forward to that.
The snow underfoot turned to a wet slush that soaked through their boots. Still they made good progress, arriving on the outskirts of Errborg under sunny blue skies, half a day ahead of schedule. The grimy, hairy men in their animal skins waited in a nearby grove of trees while Gahspar and Langer went to scout the town.
Gahspar and Langer watched Errborg from a nearby hill, just a few hundred yards from the west gate. The gates were obviously closed, and at first Gahspar wondered why. Perhaps those monsters wouldn’t let anyone in or out. It would be just like them to take everyone’s freedom that way.
To avoid suspicion, they headed back toward the others, moving rapidly on the wide dirt road.
“Psst.” someone called from the bushes.
“Gahspar and Langer stepped to the side. There was an old woman crouched there.
“Get off the road!” the woman said. She had wispy gray hair and a mole above one eye.
“What?” Gahspar said.
“Travel is forbidden during the day. All commerce, all travel must be done during the dark hours. Orders of the necromancer.”
Gahspar crouched low, looking both ways.
“Really?”
The woman nodded.
“If you need a place to stay I could help you, for a small fee …“ The woman said.
“No, we’re all right.” Langer said.
“Maybe a glass of ale would hit the spot, eh? A drab of drink for the weary travelers?”
“No. Thank you for the information,” Gahspar said.
“The gates. Are they open at night?” Langer asked.
“Yes. Night is day here, and day is night, not that I’m complaining.”
The woman looked around warily, then scampered off into the forest.
Gahspar and Langer returned to the others.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Victory and Retreat
Vorus was fuming. Marek had been gone for hours, the fires were still burning in the north, and there was no word. By now, Marek should have crushed the enemy’s north wing, extinguishing the fires as he went. By now, Vorus should be tracking him as each fire winked out, north to south, waiting to link up and attack Stonehelm.
There was a shout from some of the skeletons. Vorus turned his attention toward Stonehelm. The fires there flickered. No, he realized, something was going past them, obscuring them. It was the enemy, running forward in the darkness. They were attacking.
Hargiss Redbeard was in charge of the remaining part of Vorus’ army. He was hurriedly trying to organize the troops, to find the leaders of each group. There was confusion; Hargiss was not the leader that Marek was.
The men of Stonehelm were approaching fast, clustered into small groups. They screamed as they ran, weapons raised high.
Hargiss turned and saw the enemy moving fast, too close.
“Forward,” he yelled. “Everyone forward.”
The dead men advanced. A few groups had been formed into tight ranks, the rest just ran, every (dead) man for himself. The advance was a ragged wave, an uncoordinated rush of running warriors. The men of Stonehelm advanced in the same way, random and chaotic.
The critical mass of each group bashed into each other with a resounding crash. The groups came together, men, dead men, and skeletons hacking and stabbing. Hundreds of warriors clashed and shoved and grunted. There were screams and shouts, and the sound of steel against steel rang through the field. Men fell, spurting blood, while dismembered bones landed in the cold dirt.
King Reinvarr was known as a man who led from the front ranks. He waded into the fray, long sword swinging in big, deadly arcs. Further down the line, Sundin was smashing his sword down through a dead man’s skull, sending bone and dust flying.
The battle raged on. Daylight broke over the battlefield, but no one seemed to notice. In the field there was only grunting and sweat and death. There were so many warriors on each side that many had to stand in the back ranks, awaiting their turn.
The men of Stonehelm had gained the advantage, pushing the battle line back steadily. Without their formations, the skeletons had lost some of their advantage, though they still had terror and endurance on their side.
More and more men from Orngaart joined the Stonehelm fighters, warriors showing up by the dozens to fight for their king, their country. Men with swords, axes, polearms, and warhammers went forward. Men with crossbows and bows stepped back, firing arrows up and into the back ranks of the dead army.
The men of Stonehelm were pushing ahead again, stepping over the bodies of their brethren and the bones of their enemies. Men slipped in the blood and gore but were pushed, shoved, heaved forward by the men behind them. The front ranks fought until they were exhausted and then were replaced by fresher men from behind them. The exhausted could rest behind the ranks, where there were boys with extra spears and some that were trained to stitch a wound. Rearmed and stitched up, the men would get back in the ranks and drive toward the enemy until, eventually, they found themselves at the front again.
King Reinvarr fought like a cornered wolf. He parried a blow and countered with a heavy slash to a dead man’s face, slicing the nose nearly off. Black, gangrenous blood spurted from the dead man’s face as he swung again at the king. The king sidestepped and countered with a stabbing blow that caught the dead man square in the throat. The dead man, a warrior farmer from nearby Elkhurst, had just been reanimated a few hours earlier. Now, again, he was dead.
A hole appeared in the ranks of the dead. While the skeletons were motivated and aggressive, the newly animated dead men were sometimes sluggish and slow to react. The men of Stonehelm, led by their king, ran through the gap, swords flashing. They turned and attacked a group of skeletons, cleaving at their backs before they could turn. Bones snapped and ancient skulls collapsed in puffs of dust.
Things were unravelling for Hargiss. There were holes in the line, Norsemen pouring through. The warriors on his side were fighting hard, vicious, but they were used to the formations. Instead of having another man’s shield close by their right side, they had to parry those blows. When they did, they left other
areas vulnerable. Their security blanket had been ripped from their cold, dead hands.
Hargiss felt that things would turn back to his favor. After all, the dead did not tire, the living did. Eventually, his side would have the advantage. Eventually they would win out and the men of Orngaart would be dead at their feet.
Hargiss stepped forward into another swing, sinking his sword into a man’s shoulder. The man stumbled back, arm hanging by a thread, blood pulsing out to the rhythm of his heart. Another stepped into the gap, Sundin, the king’s second. Sundin swung hard. Hargiss parried, countered. Sundin avoided. Sundin swung, Hargiss managed a partial block, but the follow through sliced the bone of his upper arm. Hargiss stabbed forward, a quick strike intended to catch the other man off guard. As he planted his foot, it slipped in the icy, bloody slush at his feet. Hargiss was momentarily off balance, overextended. Sundin sidestepped, parrying Hargiss’ thrust, then in the same motion he struck out with the edge of his shield, catching Hargiss just above the nose. There was a loud crack and Hargiss slid, unconscious, into the dirt. Sundin raised his shield, ducked under it, and drove his sword through the prone skeleton’s rib cage. Hargiss Redbeard was no more.
With Hargiss dead, the skeletons faltered. Confusion crept into the ranks. As the battled swirled and twisted, it was no longer apparent which way was forward. The reanimated dead men were still slow, still sluggish, and now they had no leader. One of the other skeletons sensed the problem and called for a retreat. Others followed suit. For the first time ever, the army of the dead was on the run.
The men of Orngaart began to chase after them. A deep, loud horn was sounded. Once, twice, three times. The men stopped, fell back. The archers were coming forward, arcing arrows over their fellow soldiers and onto the fleeing enemies.
The Brave and the Dead Page 19