King Reinvarr grabbed the closest men he could reach and sent them to find the leaders of each of his units.
“Tell them to halt here. Pick up the fallen, drag them back to Stonehelm. Don’t let those fiends get our dead.”
Soon the word was passed through the vast army of men spread around the field. Men were working together, picking up the bodies of the fallen, carrying them back toward town. People from Stonehelm were running toward the field, trying to help retrieve the bodies before some horrible fate befell them. Everyone’s worst fear now was that the necromancer would animate their dead. Wagons were brought and crude litters made. The king himself threw a dead man over his back and slogged back toward Stonehelm. When others came to help, he left the body with them and went back to find another.
Men were shouting, pointing to the north. The king looked, saw another group of enemies coming their way. He could see Marek in his suit of bright metal armor, leading the charge. Many of the archers hurried to the north flank and began to fire. Every body that could be retrieved was picked up. A fighting retreat was called.
King Reinvarr watched as the new group of skeletal warriors approached, then stopped. There weren’t enough of them to fight a battle alone - probably only a hundred men. King Reinvarr let out a sigh of relief when the dead men turned and headed back toward their own lines.
Stonehelm was devastated. They had repelled the invaders, but there was no joy, no celebration. Instead the warriors, the people, even the king sat in stunned silence. An army of skeletons. Dead men from right here in Orngaart somehow resurrected to fight. It was all too shocking, too horrible to fathom. Were it not for the injuries, the wounds, the deaths of their men, nobody would have believed that this was really happening.
King Reinvarr took action. He sent messengers to find his leaders. His men would have to be placed strategically, and on alert in case the enemy attacked again. He had to count on his leaders more than ever before. These men had been awake for more than a full day and night already. Some could try to rest, but many would have to be alert, watchful. There was no telling what the evil invaders would do next.
In the woods outside of Errborg, Langer and Gahspar were forming a plan. Getting the men past the gate would be easy enough since the gates were open at night. They would approach under cover of darkness and rush into the city before the enemy knew what was happening.
Still, though, Langer thought more was needed. If they could take out whoever was in charge and if they could enlist the help of the people in the town, they would nearly ensure their success.
Langer’s idea was for Gahspar to go into the town ahead of the others. He could make some quiet inquiries of the locals, find people who were willing to join in the fight once it started. Maybe Gahspar could find even out who the necromancer had left in charge. It would be a matter of rushing in, stabbing the man in the back, leaving the defending army headless. That part was a long shot, but the other men would go in soon after Gahspar, and Langer felt they would be successful anyway.
Gahspar liked the plan. He would have to be flexible, take things as they came once in Errborg, but he was ready.
At sundown, Gahspar headed for the west gate. He was nervous, but determined. Whatever happened, he would not back down.
He had his sword strapped to his back, hidden under his heavy cloak. He also had a dagger hidden up his right sleeve. Weapons were forbidden for the people in Errborg, but Gahspar hoped they would not bother to search a poor cripple.
He limped through the gate under the watchful eye of two ghastly skeletons, the evil light in their eyes shifting his way, then onto the others around him. He was through.
Errborg had changed. The bustling city was darker, quieter. Some of the buildings looked like they had been abandoned. There was a great ebony altar in the courtyard, not far from where he had fought before. Candles and small torches lit it, and a line of people stood before it. The sight of it made Gahspar angry, and somehow sad.
The other men would enter the west gate in two hours. They would kill the guards at the gate and then the battle would be on.
In the meantime, Gahspar had work to do. He went to the little tavern and had a drink. He was looking for anyone that might be willing to fight the skeletons, once things went that way. He made some vague comments about the evil in town, how it wasn’t right. He trolled for supporters, but found none. No one was willing to speak up against the necromancer and his dead minions.
After his drink, he walked the streets. He asked a shopkeeper where the army was, why were there so few skeletons around? The man looked both ways, then pulled Gahspar aside. He told Gahspar that the army had gone to Orngaart and the necromancer had gone with them. They had left a small group behind. Forty guards, led by a human mercenary that worked for the necromancer.
“I’ve said too much already. You shouldn’t ask so many questions,” the man said. “This mercenary does not tolerate anyone stepping out of line.”
If anything happened while the necromancer was away, this mercenary would pay with his eternal soul. For that reason, he and his skeletons prowled the streets each night after sundown, looking for trouble. If anyone acted suspiciously, the mercenary would know about it. This human was not taking any chances.
Gahspar eyed the shopkeeper. He decided to take a chance.
“Would anyone in Errborg fight, if it came to it?” Gahspar asked.
The shopkeeper threw Gahspar out of his shop.
Gahspar asked a few questions around town, but nobody wanted to say much. He got a general description of Vorus’ man in charge, the mercenary, but that was all.
A patrol of skeletons walked by, giving him the evil eye. He was starting to attract the wrong kind of attention. He walked the streets, trying desperately to think of what to do next. Time was running out.
Gahspar stopped, looking up at the little fortress where the old jarl had lived. If he and the others took the town, they might still have to take the fortress, separately. Who knows what kind of dark evil the necromancer had left behind to guard it.
“Hey, you, come here,” a voice said to him.
Gahspar looked over. It was a man with graying hair and a silver fox pin that held his cloak in place. The man wore a sword on his belt. A toothless, rotting skeleton stood at his shoulder. Vorus’ mercenary. Gahspar couldn’t believe his luck.
“You. Here. Now,” the man said.
Gahspar suddenly had an idea. He hunched over, making himself look weak. He walked toward the man and his skeleton cohort, dragging one leg behind him.
As he neared the man, Gahspar held out his deformed right hand.
“Please, just a few coins,” Gahspar said.
The man slapped Gahspar’s hand away.
“Useless beggar,” the man said. “You should be killed, like the useless dog that you are.”
Gahspar reached out, grasping the man’s arm with his right thumb and stiff forefinger.
“Please,” Gahspar said.
The man looked horrified. He stared down at Gahspar’s hand on his arm, as if he couldn’t believe it was there.
The mercenary started to pull back his arm but suddenly Gahspar pulled it toward him. At the same time he pulled his dagger free and jammed it into the startled man’s side, just below the rib cage. The man stumbled, falling backwards as Gahspar twisted the blade. The mercenary landed on his back in the cold dirt.
Gahspar turned toward the nearby skeleton, ducked his shoulder, and planted the knife in its midsection. The gnarly bone man fell back, off balance. Gahspar stabbed the dagger into its black, dead heart.
The mercenary lay on his back, hands trying to contain the blood pouring out of his side. He was ashen, sweating. A little whimpering sound escaped him. Gahspar grabbed the man’s hair with his right hand and drew the dagger across the man’s neck. He let go and the mercenary fell face first onto the road, blood streaming out of the wide red gap in his neck.
Gahspar looked around. A few people h
ad stopped to watch the struggle, and those people now looked at him, wide-eyed.
“Now is the time to fight the invaders” Gahspar shouted. “Who will fight with me?”
The others stood rooted to the spot in fear and confusion.
“Fight now,” Gahspar said. “Take back Errborg.”
Gahspar reached back under his cloak, pulled his sword off his back, and began to quickly tie it to his wrist. He was hoping to hear the shouts of the others as they attacked from the west gate, but the town was still quiet. His sword attached, he ran toward the gates, toward the courtyard.
“Kill the skeletons,” Gahspar yelled. “Take back Errborg.”
Two streets later he came around a corner to find two skeletons facing him, swords ready. The first one came fast, swinging hard. Gahspar parried and dodged. He managed a counter swing that cut the first skeleton deeply on the right wrist. Its sword tumbled out of its hand and Gahspar swung again, hard. The hideous thing put up its shield, but too late. Gahspar’s sword hit it in the side of the head, carving a slice of bone off its temple and sending its helmet flying. The skeleton tumbled and fell. The other skeleton was almost on Gahspar when two men tackled it. Some townspeople were running up, others were running away, shouting.
The men were holding down the second skeleton. Gahspar couldn’t hit it with his sword, not without hitting one of the men, so he drew his dagger and stuck it deep in the skeleton’s eye. There was a brief flash in the deep, dead eye socket, a buzzing sound, and the skeleton slumped, lifeless. One of the men stood over the skeletal warrior, then suddenly grabbed its head with both hands, braced his feet, and ripped off the thing’s head. He raised it up, shouting. Someone cheered. The man ran off, holding his trophy high.
A noise erupted from the courtyard. A screaming, keening sound, followed by the heavy pounding of steel on steel.
The attack was on and Gahspar ran toward it. A lingering fear sat coiled in the pit of his stomach, but he ran on, fueled by anger, adrenaline, and pride.
A skeleton stepped in front of Gahspar, also headed for the sound, its back to him. Gahspar sunk his sword into the back of the skeleton’s shoulder, breaking its collarbone like a dry branch and smashing the shoulder socket. The skeleton fell forward onto its knees. Gahspar put a foot in its back, knocking it flat on its face. He managed to wriggle his sword free as the dead thing below him squirmed and moaned, its right arm now broken and useless. Gahspar stepped to the side and let the weight of his sword fall on the repulsive skeleton’s neck, partially severing it. Gahspar picked up the skeleton’s shield and kept moving.
In the courtyard, there were more shouts and screams. People were running toward Gahspar, away from the commotion.
Gahspar fought his way against the tide of people.
When he reached the courtyard, Gahspar couldn’t believe his eyes. The Bear Sarks were ripping through the skeletons like crazed men. Swords and axes flashed, sending bones and skulls flying. The men grunted and roared in their dirty animal furs. In the flickering torchlight Gahspar could almost believe they had become bears. Ferocious, unstoppable bears.
A smell of death permeated the air. Shadows shifted and moved. From high on the walls, arrows sailed down into the crowd, hitting friend and foe alike.
Gahspar didn’t hesitate; it was time for battle. He waded forward into the fray and saw a skeleton ahead of him parrying a series of furious blows from one of the Bear Sarks.
Gahspar saw his opportunity.
He stepped into a swing and hit the skeleton in the lower back, hacking clean through the thing’s spine. The skeleton clattered to the ground in two pieces. In front of it, the Bear Sark snarled at Gahspar, shoved him, and dashed away. Gahspar fell to the ground, finding himself in a shallow pool of warm liquid. He didn’t want to know what it was. Apparently Gahspar had committed some sort of transgression: killing someone else’s opponent. He kept forgetting there were rules, even in the anarchy of battle.
Gahspar scrambled to his feet while chaos and violence swirled all around him. Arrows were still falling, so Gahspar worked his way to the edge of the crowd.
“The archers.” Gahspar yelled. “Get them.”
Townspeople began gathering stones and chucking them at the skeletons on the walls. Gahspar saw a fist sized stone smack into one archer’s skull. The archer paused, wobbled, and fell into the courtyard below as the people cheered.
Men were picking up anything sharp and heavy. Gahspar led them up a stone stairway to the ledge along the top of the wall. He ran forward, shield raised in front of him, with a dozen angry men in his wake. A flurry of arrows thumped into his shield as he ran.
The nearest archer looked down into the courtyard, trying to dodge a flurry of rock and stone that flew past him. Gahspar stepped up; the archer had not seen him yet. Gahspar slashed the bone man across the face and then turned his sword in a big figure eight, hitting it again with his return swing. The skeleton fell, broken.
The townsmen were fighting the archers with spades, shovels, whatever. In the courtyard below, some of the torches blinked out. The stench of death rose up to assault Gahspar’s senses. He could see fur-covered men running north, into the town’s crooked streets.
Gahspar led the men of Errborg around the high wall, killing skeletons as they went. An arrow whistled past Gahspar’s head. There was a sharp sting. Gahspar touched his ear and his hand came away bloody. He gathered some men, ran down the nearest stairs, and went up onto the far wall. The corpse archers set aside bows and fought with short swords, a better match for Gahspar. Skeletons fell from the walls, crushed and cut. Gahspar suffered a nasty gash to his left shoulder. It hurt, it bled, but Gahspar pressed on. He managed to cut through a skeleton’s neck and watch its head topple into the dark maelstrom below.
Soon the walls were free of skeletons. By the time Gahspar made his way along the high ledge and back down the stairs, there were townspeople gathered in the courtyard, carrying torches. They stepped from skeleton to broken skeleton, smashing skulls and bashing in ribs. They were making sure that they were dead, technically, but more than that, they were exorcising demons.
The bulk of the fighting was taking place further north, King Reinvarr’s shaggy men chasing the last of the dead men through the streets. The people of Errborg cheered. The last of the fallen skeletons was destroyed. The only remaining symbol of Vorus’ reign was the dark altar. Apparently people decided it would be much better to deal with that abomination in the light of day.
Vorus stood with his arms crossed, glaring at Marek.
“Lost?” Vorus said. “How do you get lost on a battlefield?”
“It was a bog, not a battlefield, and you never should have sent us there.”
“It was your idea.” Vorus said, stepping forward, eyes flashing.
Marek’s hand settled quickly on the hilt of his sword. The tension was thick between them.
“Your nose is bleeding,” Marek said.
Vorus stepped back, brushing his nose with the edge of his hand. When he pulled it back, there was a smear of blood on it. Vorus sniffed and regained his composure.
“Listen to me, you bony old corpse. I gave you life, and I can take it back,” Vorus said, snapping his fingers, “just like that.”
The two men eyed each other. Violence seemed imminent. Then Marek turned and walked away.
Vorus was unhappy, to say the least. Unhappy with Marek for getting delayed in the bog, unhappy with Hargiss for not getting the warriors properly formed up. Unhappy in general with a hundred little things that all seemed to be going wrong.
A drop of bright blood, landed on his tunic. He took out a square of cloth and held it to his nose. He felt like a sword had been hammered into his skull just behind the eyes. It hurt so bad it was hard to focus, hard to think, and this in the midst of the most important war he would ever wage. They had lost hundreds of troops, both skeleton warriors and the recently reanimated. In his present condition there was no way he could resurrect any mor
e men to fight. The searing pain in his head just wouldn’t allow it. They would have to fight with what they had.
King Reinvarr was known for being bold. He was the type who committed himself fully in everything he did.
He sent word that all available men would attack two hours past high sun. This business of invaders would be settled, one way or the other, by nightfall.
At the appointed hour, the king sat astride his favorite horse in his full battle gear. He had his hair and beard neatly braided. His chainmail and helmet gleamed in the bright sun. A man stood nearby with the standard of the king’s army, the silver dragon on a field of blue. The king had opened up his armory, and every man that could walk had been armed to fight. There were men from the western mountains, the great plains of the north, even the legendary Shield Maidens of Tyrkenfell were present.
When all was ready, a great horn was blown and everyone advanced, shouting. The forward motion changed to a run as the anticipation and adrenaline got the best of the warriors. Hundreds charged across the field, ready to die if necessary.
Marek had seen the enemy massing and had begun to arrange his forces. It appeared that the men of Orngaart would attack first, rather than waiting to fight at night, as Marek had preferred. The defenders had more balls than he’d thought.
He was busy arranging men, sending messengers to the leaders on the wings, calling out orders.
Then Vorus showed up.
Vorus walked slowly, unsteadily. When he reached Marek he tried to straighten up, but he was obviously in bad shape. He was pale and sweating. One eye was twitching furiously. The necromancer squinted against the harsh daylight.
“You get back in your carriage, you don’t look well. You don’t look well at all,” Marek said. “I’ll handle the fighting.”
When Vorus spoke, his voice was barely more than a strained whisper.
The Brave and the Dead Page 20