by Jim Galford
Suddenly, Ilarra’s right arm went numb and tingled, then moved of its own accord. No matter how she fought against it, she felt her own hand reach up and rest the tips of her fingernails against her eyelids. Using her other hand, she strained to push her right arm away, but it fought against her.
“I can gouge out your eyes and you would not even be able to scream without my permission,” Dorralt told her, his voice drifting about as if he were walking around her. “You are not so special as you believe, Ilarra. Dozens more like you came out of Turessi when I traveled south and nearly that many more have joined our ranks. You are just another Turessian recruit for the army, nothing more. I respect what you have accomplished, but that does not make you anything more than a hundred other soldiers.
“Do you honestly think you can hold me back forever?” he asked her as her own nails scratched painfully at her eyelid. “They called me the Puppet Master for good reason. Today, I can make your arm obey me with a bit of effort. A week from now, you will watch helplessly as you tear the life from your wildling. Make good use of your time. I will speak with you again, once I have more control over you.”
Crying, Ilarra curled into a ball and covered her ears as feeling returned to her arm. The whispers stopped, but she knew it was only a matter of time before they returned.
Eventually, Ilarra sat up and thought through what was happening to her. She leaned against the wall of the alley and looked at her hand as though it had betrayed her to Dorralt. Somehow, she had to stop him from taking charge again.
Magic. Everything came back to magic. Nenophar had told her magic was what had consumed her life, turning her into the creature she knew herself to be. Dorralt held the reigns of that magic, and through it, every undead Turessian could be influenced. This was how he maintained control over the army’s leaders and ensured they did as he asked.
Ilarra needed to be rid of the magic. Completely cutting it off would kill her, that much she had figured out. Suppressing it for a time was far more reasonable and likely would accomplish the same thing Nenophar’s influence had, letting her do as she wished for a time. It was risky, given what she had become, but she saw no other way. She would have to get rid of the very thing that gave her the strength to fight, or she would use it against the city sooner or later.
Ilarra had no time to look for other options. She rushed through casting the complicated spell that would tear her own magic from her. The spell was intended to hold a wizard fighting others of their kind, but she intended to make it last rather than affecting a target for mere seconds. It required her to alter the spell as she created the flows of magic, bending it to its new purpose.
As the spell finished, Ilarra felt no change for several seconds. She sat there, studying her hands for any indication of whether she had cast it right. All she could do in those first moments was pant from the exertion of casting such magic. Slowly, her head began to pound and feel as though it would explode if she thought too hard. Her whole body soon ached and felt weighed down by tired muscles. She was desperately hungry and thirsty, and for the first time in months, she acutely felt the cool night air on her exposed skin.
Ilarra got up off the filthy alley’s stones and began toward the street that circled the city just inside the walls, but tripped on a protruding stone and stubbed her toe painfully. She stumbled and caught herself, and then stared in surprise at the blood covering two of her toes. She wiggled her toes experimentally and watched a small bit of blood ooze out of the scrapes. There was no indication the scuffed skin was healing at all.
After so many months of being taught to blindly accept the powers she had gained, Ilarra was at a loss upon seeing she was back to normal. She had all but forgotten how to be a regular woman, complete with the risks of clumsiness. Now, she had to concern herself with injuries, a loss of the magic she had gained, and possibly even death. These had been the way of her life for years, but now felt foreign.
Raising a hand, Ilarra tried to summon a very simple spell—the glowing balls of light that she and Nenophar often used to light the cavern—she had been able to use even before Dorralt had changed her. Even that would not come. She was as powerless as…
Ilarra looked at the buildings around her, filled with unaware people, and she smiled. She was as powerless as a regular person. It was liberating, even if it did complicate things.
Setting off toward the street, Ilarra began her search for the mysterious staff that Dorralt desperately wanted his people to find, limping ever so slightly.
Chapter Five
“To Delay a Coming Storm”
Raeln hit the ground hard and rolled, ducking behind the cover of some low brush and rocks. It was the only shelter he could find nearby on such abrupt notice, but it would have to do. He panted rapidly, trying to slow his racing heart and remain still despite the urge to keep running.
To Raeln’s left, Greth had flattened out in the low scrub grass, the grey of his fur helping him to blend in with the pale brown of the dry ground. Once he was sure he had not been spotted, he slid sideways, putting the shrubs between himself and those they were hiding from.
“They didn’t look our way,” Greth whispered, though that was likely unneeded, as the undead were several hundred feet away. “They’re still marching. I think we’re safe.”
Raeln lifted his head enough to see over the brush and saw Greth was right: the undead were shuffling ever southwards, not having diverted from their path to come after the two wildlings hiding nearby.
The undead were spread across the plains as far as Raeln could see in long rows, filled with zombies of every imaginable size, shape, and race.
“This is getting serious,” noted Greth, rolling onto his side to draw his sword without sitting up. “See those dwarves? They’re from the deep mines, a place about a hundred miles from here. The dark-skinned elves are from way below where the dwarves have dug to, judging by what’s left of their clothes. The other elves are from Hyeth, the wetlands, and even the northern foothills. Those halflings are from the far south, closer to the ocean. Lihuan taught us all about these people, hoping we’d travel someday.”
“All visitors to Altis?”
“Not that many, no way. They’re bringing in extra support from other lands. Whatever happened in Altis has happened elsewhere. We’re in a lot of trouble, Raeln. If they’ve conquered all those lands, the two of us don’t stand a chance of getting to Lantonne.”
Raeln watched the massive group begin to pass them, row after row of the emotionless corpses walking steadily southward. There was no end to them, the large mass of bodies continuing well past the hill they had come around, surprising him and Greth.
The trip to Lantonne to deliver warnings about how bad things had gotten near Altis had been long, and now Raeln wondered if they had failed entirely. The first week, they had hurried through the mountains, thinking to beat any undead forces onto the plains. In foolishness, they had spent much of that time scouting any potential troop movements, then had to push themselves to get ahead of those forces. They had never given thought to the sheer number of groups or that some had departed days earlier than they had.
Since then, they had been dodging one group after another all over the foothills, as new reinforcements came from other directions to join the main force. They had been slowed considerably, and after nearly two months of running and hiding—sometimes for days a time out of necessity—they were still several days from the city itself.
“Do you see any Turessians or anything smart out there?” Greth asked, peeking over a rock to watch the undead in the distance.
“No,” Raeln answered, squinting to search the massive group. “Looks to be only zombies. Twenty thousand or more. Probably more, but there’s too many to guess. Wait…over there…is that…?”
“Yeah, that’s one of Olis’ goons.”
Raeln groaned and shook his head as he watched the wolf wildling stumble along with the rest of the zombies.
“If we don’
t get ahead of this group, we’ll be lucky to get to the city before winter,” Greth warned, glaring at the zombies. “Sooner or later, we need to go through them before they have the whole area closed off to us. As it is, they’re between us and any clear path to the city.”
Greth’s ears suddenly shot up and he began eyeing the area around them with a growing smirk.
“You have a plan?” Raeln asked, already knowing the answer after running with the man for so many months.
“Yeah,” answered Greth. He began sliding along the ground away from the undead until he could sit up behind a bush without being spotted. “I know the area…not well, but better than the cities. There’s a river less than a day from here the undead look to be heading for.”
“So?”
“It’s a very fast-moving mountain run-off. I doubt zombies swim well. How long do you think it’ll take them to regroup after being sent down-river?”
Raeln smiled at the idea of hundreds of zombies being beaten by nothing more than a river. “Days…weeks…even longer if the Turessians lose track of them.”
Greth got to his feet and began running, with Raeln hurrying to catch up. They did what they could to keep the brush and occasional tree between themselves and the army, moving parallel to the large force.
It took them nearly two hours to get ahead of the slow-moving group again, pushing themselves hard. The previous summer, Raeln would have thought himself fit and ready for anything, but he never would have had the endurance to do what Greth asked of him. Now, he kept pace with Greth, exhaustion being something he had no choice but to ignore in favor of pushing his body to its absolute limits.
By the time the river came into sight, Raeln’s legs burned and shook. He ran on, Greth at his side, until they finally reached the bank. Sliding to a stop, Raeln and Greth both shoved their faces into the cold water in an effort to restore some of their strength before having to do anything else.
Once he had drunk as much as he felt safe doing, Raeln surveyed the area. The trees were dense around the fast-flowing waters, with bright green grass and brush in the area, unlike the rest of the plains where much of the plant-life was dried to a pale green or even brown.
The river itself was wider than Raeln had expected, but gave him hope that it would serve its purpose even better. As he watched, a nearly intact tree raced past.
“Did I mention it’s deep, too?” asked Greth, his breathing finally slowing to near-normal. “We just need to lead them here and make them try to cross it.”
“How do we do that?”
“They’ll chase us if they see us. Just run them here, and the river does the rest.”
Raeln looked between the foaming waters and Greth, waiting for the rest of the plan. “How do we get across the river?” he finally asked when no addition was offered.
The smile on the man’s face slowly faded. “Magic?”
“Neither of us knows a damned thing about magic.”
“Boat?” Greth tried, but then looked up and down the river, confirming there was none to be had. Hanging his head, he added, “I have no idea. I hadn’t gotten that far.”
Raeln got up and began searching the area for anything he had overlooked in their rush to get to the river. Back the way they had come, he could see nothing beyond trees and the wide river, and not far off through the trees, the approaching cloud of dust the army kicked up in passing. Looking the other way down the river, he saw the tree that had floated past earlier had wedged itself on a shallower area, its branches bending as it temporarily resisted the flow of water. The tree did not go all the way across the river and looked ready to break free at any moment, but it was an option to try for.
“Get their attention!” he told Greth. He did not need to look over to know the man was lining up an arrow already. It would be a few seconds before the undead caught up, not giving him much time to find a way across.
Running along the bank of the river with Greth close behind, Raeln made for the tree, hoping they could reach it before it broke free. He was so focused, he did not see the stones ahead of him on the uneven muddy bank until his paw caught one and he fell hard, kicking up mud as he splashed into the edge of the water. Cursing, he wiped mud from his face as Greth stopped to help him up.
“No time to waste,” Greth warned him, looking nervously back the way they had come.
Raeln hopped up and glanced over his shoulder, finding there were undead appearing at the edge of the river, lumbering in a half-hearted run straight toward the two wildlings. Behind those, he could see thousands coming south toward the river and speeding their pace to follow those that had begun pursuit.
Doing a quick check of what he carried, Raeln made sure his bow was undamaged and he had not lost his arrows in the fall. Once he was sure he had both, he began running again, pulling the bow off his shoulder and carrying an arrow in the other hand. When they reached the spot where the tree still straddled the river, Raeln turned and fired an arrow into the closest zombie’s face, knocking it over. As he had hoped, the act seemed to rile up the nearest creatures, reinforcing their single-minded drive to kill Raeln and Greth.
Greth was already knee-deep in the river when Raeln came around, wading out in an effort to reach the roots of the fallen tree. He was soon up to his waist and struggling to keep his footing, the tree several feet farther away.
Pushing past Greth, Raeln used his greater height, and thus longer legs, to get farther out before his feet began to slide in the slick mud at the bottom of the river. He could almost reach the tree’s roots, but no matter how far he stretched, his fingers would not quite touch it.
“Raeln!” Greth called out, and Raeln heard the sharp snap of a bow being fired behind him.
Looking back, Raeln saw the first undead had reached the shore and were coming into the water after them. Greth’s arrow had thrown the balance of the lead zombie off, and the creature fell and was washed away by the rapids. The remaining undead were coming into the water in twos and threes, filling the bank with their numbers as more kept coming.
Raeln came back away from the tree to ensure better footing and raised his bow to help Greth hold their position. With luck, they could still slow the undead forces for a time.
A ripping crack of breaking wood alerted Raeln too late that they needed to be elsewhere. The tree near them broke free of the stones in the riverbed and swung around as one end began moving first. Raeln only had a second to see what was coming before the tree slammed into him, taking him off his feet. As he fell into the water, he saw Greth likewise swept into the current.
The next few seconds were a blur of water and pain as rocks tore into his body and the tree pushed into him repeatedly while he tried to get his head above the surface. Struggling to keep his senses about him, he grabbed a large stone he ran into. A massive shape rolled overtop of him and tore much of the fur and skin from his right shoulder. Then, finally, there was light above him rather than the shadow of the tree.
Kicking off the bottom of the river, Raeln was swept downstream again, this time making it to the surface to gasp for breath. He looked around in a panic, seeing the landscape of the region racing past him. His feet could touch the bottom, but at the speed he was moving, he could not slow down enough to stand.
Rough hands caught his arm, and Raeln feared the undead that had been washed down the river with him had managed to get close enough to strike. He flailed, trying to free himself, and then realized he was being held in one spot against the current.
“Stop fighting me, you oaf!” cried Greth, tightening his grip on Raeln’s arm. “Try helping for once!”
Pushing himself toward Greth with little more than his toes against the muddy riverbed, Raeln managed to get his feet dug deep enough into the sediment that he could stand again. Rising out of the water, he thanked Greth and moved closer to the shore to avoid a repeat of the journey down the river.
Greth looked no better than Raeln felt. He was soaked and his hide clothing was battered. P
atches of fur were visible, stained with blood and mud. Every weapon the man had been carrying was gone, and his quiver held little more than water.
Checking his own gear, Raeln realized his bow was long gone, as was his knife. The few arrows he had when he entered the water were gone along with the quiver itself. Still, he was alive, which was more than he had expected. He still had a sword they had recovered near Altis, but one weapon was hardly going to be enough.
“Are you alright?” Raeln asked, watching in amazement as a steady stream of squirming undead swept past them.
Greth snorted and shook his whole body to get the water out of his fur. “We’re on the wrong side of the river and a few miles farther from Lantonne than we were when we started.”
“Grumpy I’ll take as fine for you,” Raeln told Greth, grabbing him and giving him a thankful hug. “Thanks for not letting me drown out there.”
Before Greth could reply, a shadow swept over them both. The shadow took a long time to pass, during which a cry like an eagle filled the sky.
Running up the shore and searching the sky, Raeln saw an enormous creature flying overhead, blotting out the sun in its passing. He could not even guess at how high it might be, but even if it was far away, the creature was larger than anything Raeln had ever seen in his life. From what little detail Raeln could make out, the flying beast was four-legged and shaped roughly like a lizard with a lengthy tail and a neck nearly as long. Giant bat-like wings spread to either side, wider than the creature was long to help carry its vast weight on the wind.
“A dragon,” muttered Greth, letting out a panicked laugh that sounded dangerously close to a whimper. “Can things possibly get worse?”
“There are no dragons or any of the other old gods,” Raeln snapped back, though he could not take his eyes off the creature. “Everyone knows that. It has to be something else. Mairlee got you believing her stories. Dragons are a legend told to children, like bog wights and…”