Perdition's Rest

by J. C. Placeres

  * * *

  Fahorl had not always been a soldier. While jobs were an eternal assignment in Aunia just like in Juxton, a citizen could curtail their eternal duties in order to defend the Red Empire. Fahorl had grown up in a small town on the outskirts of Aun City called Bright Sun. Despite being so small, home to only a few thousand people, Bright Sun was well known throughout the Red Empire as the city that bred and trained most of the empire’s horses. Fahorl had worked in stables his entire existence until two reincarnations ago when a recruiter came by Bright Sun to enlist new soldiers. Wishing to see every corner of Aunia, Fahorl had signed up to serve in the Red Army. Ultimately Fahorl was glad his previous incarnation had made the decision, for while he had yet to see every inch of the empire, he had seen large portions. After recruitment, when his superiors discovered he had dealt with horses for his whole existence, he was promoted to the cavalry, the most prestigious post within the military aside from the Royal Guard.

  Fahorl was nervous about the coming battle but it was nothing that he couldn’t keep under control. He had fought in a few skirmishes that he could remember, but today would be the first large scale engagement against an actual horde of undead. With Aun beaming down from a cloudless sky, Fahorl equipped his heavy armor made of plated steel. Various servants ran back and forth, one of the unknown Phlebos draping the traditional dyed red cloth over Fahorl’s armor. He checked his sword which he had finished polishing not long ago and it beamed bright in the Southern Sun’s glory. He reached up and pulled himself on top of his horse, a brown stallion which he had named Pounder. To the Phlebos cavalry, a soldier and his horse were inexplicably close. The infantry and archers commonly joked about the cavalrymen having secret sexual affairs with their mounts.

  Fahorl patted Pounder on the neck and looked around at the other men in his unit preparing for battle. In total, two out of the five units of cavalry present at Hope’s Bastion would ride out today against Black Cleaver. Two hundred of the fiercest Phlebos soldiers against a thousand undead. As Worloh began shouting commands and the group moved in unison down the broad street that led to the eastern gate, Fahorl almost felt pity for the undead. His train of thought was quickly lost though as he soaked in the admiration of the cheering crowds. They lined the sidewalks and hung out of windows shouting praises at the warriors. For several weeks Black Cleaver and his horde had kept Hope's Bastion on lock down, but today the city's liberation would come at last.

  * * *

  Lorne lay on a cot in the backroom of the Hope's Bastion church. While the room was full of crates and supplies, for now the high commander was all alone. Through the wooden walls of the church Lorne could hear the peasants cheering outside as Worloh's cavalry paraded down the street. Lorne knew he didn't have much time; the procession would soon end and then the battle proper would begin. He closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing while clearing his mind. He wasn't tired but he tried to will himself to sleep hoping that the Three would grant him a vision of what the coming battle would bring. On the nights when he was granted a vision it was usually the same disturbing dream, but occasionally, he would see something different. He prayed fervently that on this day he would be granted a different dream than the one he was usually given.

  No matter what he did though, no matter how much he cleared his mind, sleep would not come to him. Lorne fought back the bitter emotions he was feeling toward Aun. Now, more than ever, Lorne needed the Southern Sun’s reassurance. He waited hoping sleep would come – but still nothing. The deity Lorne had devoted his entire life to was not answering him. Realizing what he sought would not come, Lorne opened his eyes.

  He wasn’t in the church though; but he was somewhere familiar. He instantly realized he had fallen asleep and was dreaming. Much to his discouragement though he realized he was experiencing the same vision Aun continually made him see. Lorne dreaded seeing what was about to come. Shadows danced on the edge of his vision and before him were long perfect ranks of soldiers that seemed to stretch to eternity. Far in the distance behind him were tall mountains on the horizon. Ahead of him across the battlefield was another army in the middle of a charge against his ranks. With each passing moment the oncoming tide of enemy soldiers grew closer and closer to his men.

  A figure came into his vision and as usual he could not make out the person as they were a mere shadow. "We must retreat! We must fall back to a more defensible position!" The specter shouted its pleas in desperation to Lorne. Even if Lorne wanted to retreat, he knew he couldn't. Many times in this dream he had tried willing himself to do different actions, but ultimately, he was powerless. He was nothing but a spectator, his body was being controlled by Aun and he was forced to watch what he had already seen countless times before.

  "No, we will not run. We will break them here!" Lorne shouted to his army even though he wanted to give the command for his men to fall back. His vision shifted and the enemy shadows crashed into his soldiers like a tidal wave. Before his eyes, his men were cut to shreds and he was powerless to stop it. Realizing the field was lost, Lorne himself turned and began fleeing the field in shame with what remained of his army following behind him in sheer terror. As he fled, not even bothering to look back to see if any of his men were still alive, he saw another army approaching, this one coming from the far-off mountains.

  Reinforcements had come, but these shadows were larger than the shadows he commanded. The hulking dark and sinewy figures ran past him and what remained of his men. They clashed with the enemy and turned the tide cutting a swath of destruction through the ranks of the opposing force. Lorne stopped and watched as the reinforcements saved the day, a crushing sense of failure and shame weighing Lorne down. His vision shifted and another shadow appeared before him, one of the newcomers, a massive shadow which towered above him. The shadow clasped Lorne on his left shoulder and smiled. "Worry not commander," began the shadow above him, "not everyone was meant to win glory."

  Lorne’s head hit the floor of the church and he snapped awake. His mind was cloudy from the blow, but he realized in his sleep he must have fallen off the cot. It felt like he had been in the dream for an eternity, but he still heard the cheering of the crowds outside as the cavalry parading by. He couldn’t have been out that long or else some of his guards would have been pounding on the door to the back room. Lorne picked himself up and rubbed his face which was sore from where he had fallen. After a moment he collected himself and placed the golden crown back upon his head. To the unwashed masses he wanted to appear as if he was Aun incarnate on this day. Although the dream discouraged him, Lorne knew Aun would guide his hand to victory.

  * * *

  Fahorl, just like most everyone from the lower caste, didn’t give a shit about Lorne. The high commander’s bull headedness, arrogance and pride were known well throughout Aunia. Unfortunately, Fahorl didn’t know of anyone who had the integrity to confront him about those traits though. He had heard more than a few soldiers muttering on dark nights about how poor decisions on Lorne’s part resulted in the deaths of friends, all in the pursuit of bringing glory to Aun. Personally, Fahorl had never seen the high commander up close; in fact, this was the first time he had ever been stationed in the same location as Lorne. Most of the time Lorne was leading expeditions into the Singing Forest to hunt the undead. Most of Fahorl’s military career had been spent as part of a patrol squad who rode the circuit around the blood flows and across the Golden Plains. When Black Cleaver besieged Hope's Bastion though, he was called up along with many others given the gravity of the situation.

  A command to stop was passed down the line and the long procession of cavalry ceased their forward movement. They were at the end of the road. Although the streets were still lined with cheering peasants, the cavalry had halted before the eastern gate of the city which faced the Singing Forest and Black Cleaver's horde. Atop the battlements watching the cavalry procession stood Lorne in his gleaming golden armor. To the high commander's left was Jorlan, to his right Yu
lor. Surrounding them were Lorne’s personal guards and then scattered across the wall beyond were throngs of infantry and archers vying for a spot to more clearly see the massacre that was about to unfold. The large reinforced wooden doors of the gate were slowly opened by peasants cranking levers. Lorne waved to the cavalry as they rode out through the massive gateway that now stood wide open. The Golden Plains stretched before him with its dry and brittle grass bending in the light wind. Across the field he could make out the undead ranks, small dark specks that were obscured by the air waving from the oppressive heat which always blanketed Aunia. Fahorl contemplated waving back to Lorne as they passed by but decided against it, he didn’t want to break the stoic ranks of his cavalry unit. Also, he just didn’t give a damn about Lorne.

  He passed through the massive gate and quickly assumed his place amongst the units lining up on the Golden Plains. Fahorl was a bit unnerved at how this horde was able to stay so perfectly clumped together and not break rank. While the undead had shown cohesion and unity in the past it was never to this extreme. For nearly three days the horde had remained on the Golden Plains just beyond the tree line of the Singing Forest. The corpses just stood there and watched Hope's Bastion. The undead horde sent no scouts to test the city, nor did they make a single aggressive move. Day and night they just lingered at the tree line wailing, moaning and watching.

  Officers rode up and down the Phlebos line making sure the formation was perfect as Worloh rode up to the front of the line flanked by his personal guards. No speeches would be made and no prayers to Aun would be performed. The time for all such ceremonies had passed. A quiet still descended upon the battlefield, Fahorl could still faintly make out the cheering from the spectators atop the walls of Hope’s Bastion though. Worloh raised his spear in the air and all at once each cavalryman withdrew his weapon, Fahorl unsheathing his sword.

  “Let none survive! We ride to Glory!” Worloh shouted his words as he twirled his spear above his head.

  On that mark the cavalry charged, the very ground itself shook as the hooves of two hundred horses pounded Nualn. Fahorl could no longer hear the cheers, all he heard was the thunder of hooves and wind rushing by his ear. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, and he gripped the hilt of his sword tight. Fahorl was near the front of the charge and approaching the horde quickly. He was at most only about two thousand feet from the mass of corpses and was beginning to be able to see details in the waving heat. Most of the humans were decomposed beyond recognition, covered in blackened skin and flesh. Many had been decaying for so long they were literally nothing more than loose rotten skin draped over a skeleton. The charge was now only one thousand feet from the horde which still had not moved, seemingly un-phased by the rapidly approaching wall of gleaming death. Fahorl could make out the horde even clearer now. He could smell the stench of their flesh in the heat, he could see the rust on their swords and axes, the tattered dirt covered rags that covered their bodies, and he could see the cracked and uneven ground before where the undead waited.

  The charge was five hundred feet from the undead now and Fahorl focused on the uneven ground. The Golden Plains were a continuous expanse of flat yellow grass land. Why was all the ground directly in front of the horde cragged and uneven without a trace of grass or scorched markings to denote a wildfire? Why did the patch of cragged dirt look so thin and loose? Why had the horde not moved in two days? One hundred feet from the undead and the realization of what was coming crashed over Fahorl like a tidal wave.

  “Stop the charge!” Cried Fahorl as loud as he could, but his screams were in vain. None could hear him over the thunder. He tugged hard on Pounder’s reins, but it was too late, the front rows of the cavalry were within fifty feet of the undead horde and hit the uneven cragged ground – which instantly gave way. The undead had tunneled a hidden trench along their entire line. They hadn’t moved because they had been baiting the Phlebos army the entire time. Fahorl lost all sense of direction as he tumbled into open space and then felt his face and body hit hard dirt. A heavy weight crashed down on top of him and he heard a loud cracking sound followed by intense pain, an unknown number of bones in his body snapping from the weight of a horse crushing him. He cried out in agony as more weight was added, the air around him filled with an unholy cacophony of screaming horses, men crying out for help and spectral moans of the undead. Fahorl grasped frantically at anything but only pawed at dirt. He couldn’t feel anything below his waist and his mouth was wet with a coppery taste.

  He sensed a presence loom above him followed by the stench of the grave. A hand, cold, hard and boney grabbed his hair and yanked his head upwards. He stared into the eye sockets of a creature that was once human. All flesh and skin were gone from the face, only the skull remained. It knelt, staring at him with empty dark blackness for eyes. With its free hand it held a dagger caked in rust and blood. Fahorl cried out in terror, but the undead was incapable of emotion or remorse. It plunged the dagger into Fahorl’s throat; the Phlebos let loose a gasp as warm blood spurted from the gaping hole in his throat. The undead violently ripped the blade across Fahorl’s neck, the blood of Fahorl - of Juxon, pouring onto the ground. Fahorl lay there, face down in the dirt, praying to the Three as oblivion crept over him.

  * * *

  Worloh was able to stop his horse just a few feet from falling into the crevasse that had opened up and swallowed nearly half of the cavalry. He sat there in shock looking down at what had occurred. The horde had carved a long trench twenty feet deep and ten feet across that ran along their entire line. The trap was not even as simple as it initially appeared though. As the dust began to settle in the trench, a nightmarish landscape of writhing Phlebos and horses came into view. From out of the dirt in the trenches more undead began to crawl forth. What Worloh had seen from the city walls was only a fraction of this horde; the actual number of undead that made up the sickening army was mind boggling to him. Every second more and more shambling corpses poured forth from the dirt and began massacring the trapped and disoriented soldiers and horses in the pit with them.

  Worloh knew any minute bedlam was about to erupt, he had to get the situation under control immediately. If he turned and ran, he would be a coward, the first general ever to lose a battle against an undead army. How could he possibly go forward though? A ten-foot-long trench teeming with an untold number of horrors lay before him. The horses couldn’t go down into the trench and if he led his men on foot down into the hole then the horde on the other side would drop in on them from above. The only real option seemed to be riding around the trench long ways to hit the flank. As Worloh was about to cry out orders a new sound echoed across the battlefield, it sounded like strings snapping and loud whistling. He looked high and saw a rain of arrows streak out of the forest into the air and begin arcing overhead. It was a trap of massive proportions realized Worloh, a trap which could have been easily avoided if the Phlebos hadn't been so arrogant and boastful.

  The arrows slammed down into the loitering Phlebos cavalry, those with shields raised them in protection. An unknown number of horses went down crying out in agony. A pain shot through Worloh’s leg, he looked down and saw a black arrow had penetrated his armor and pierced deep into his thigh. All around him arrows were finding targets; one of the soldiers directly next to him took an arrow in the neck and fell off his horse. Everything was chaos, all order and discipline had been lost. Another sound of strings snapping and arrows whistling echoed across the battlefield. He had no choice, the battle, if it could be called that, was over.

  “Everyone retreat! We must go back to Hope’s Bastion!” Worloh yelled the order as he turned his horse west towards Hope’s Bastion. All those within ear shot who had heard him turned as well and followed. What should have been an organized withdrawal turned into a mad dash for safety as the second arrow volley began crashing down all around the Phlebos cavalry. More men were falling around him and as Worloh kicked his horse to go faster he felt a heavy weight land on his back
followed by another. Red hot agony bubbled up in him and he couldn’t breathe, he knew right away he had taken two arrows in the back. Worloh leaned forward and slumped against his horse. He felt weak and lightheaded, but he held onto his mount’s neck as tight as he could. His vision began to blur and with strength fading he soon realized he was falling through the air. He didn’t remember hitting the ground but at some point, he did. Through weary eyes he stared up at Aun and felt his God’s warm love smother him.

  * * *

  Lorne stared out in shocked disbelief. Two hundred Phlebos cavalry rode out to engage the undead horde. After the ambush was complete, only fifty-nine soldiers were able to make it back through the gates of Hope’s Bastion and at least half of them were wounded. When the massacre was over and the Phlebos cavalry had yielded the field, the undead horde slinked its way back into the Singing Forest. When the ambush started and the gravity of the situation was made clear, Yulor wouldn’t even look at Lorne, the archer simply stormed off the barricade and returned to his quarters in the city. Lorne and Jorlan stood and watched it all though. Jorlan had pleaded with Lorne to let him take the field and stop the route, but Lorne knew it was too late; nothing they could do would save the cavalry now. Against Jorlan’s protests Lorne refused to let any other soldier take the field. When it was all said and done, the Golden Plains Massacre, as it was now being referred to, had not even lasted twenty minutes.

  As the final cavalrymen entered the city and the massive gates closed shut, Lorne left the battlements. Aun was still high in the sky and would be for some time. Out there in the wilderness of the Singing Forest still lurked Black Cleaver and a horde the likes of which Lorne had never seen. While most considered the events of the day a tragedy, Lorne tried to view it as a steppingstone. From this low point the Phlebos military would crawl forth and be reborn. Under his command he would lead forth the largest army the world had ever seen. Soon he would enter the Singing Forest with a force that would make the ground shake and he would not leave until the horde was dismantled and Black Cleaver was no more. What burned inside Lorne was not the desire for vengeance, but rather determination to overcome the challenge the Three had placed before him. He knew the Three did everything for a reason and he firmly believed the loss he was dealt today was done in order to make room for a greater future victory.