by Troy Osgood
Sheren took a deep breath, prayed to all the Gods above, and stopped. He swung his sledge one handed, using his running momentum to carry him around and down, falling to the ground as he swung. The weapon curved in a wide arc, the head catching the skeleton, barely touching but enough to force the thing back and off balance.
Sheren rolled to the ground, grunting as he landed on hard rocks. He pushed himself up with the sledge and turned to see three skeletons, including the one he had knocked off balance. It was finding its footing again, arms reaching out for the man. The other two were just behind.
“Sheren, hurry,” Timon yelled out and drew the attention of the other two.
The first continued for Sheren, the other two moving with purpose toward Timon.
The younger man yelled, swinging his shovel wildly in front of him. Back and forth, back and forth. The skeletons continued walking.
Sheren stood up, holding the sledge in both hands as the skeleton advanced on him. He pushed out with it, holding it as far down the shaft as he could and maintain balance. He slammed the head into the skeleton’s chest, with not much force but enough to push it back. The thing took two steps back and continued forward. Sheren pushed again, watching the two approaching Timon to the side.
He risked a look back into the graveyard and could not see the other three. But out of sight was good, that meant they had just the three to deal with.
Sheren kept pushing with the head of the sledge, forcing the skeleton back a couple steps at a time.
“Sheren, help,” Timon yelled out.
He couldn’t risk a glance at the other. It was all he could do to keep this one occupied, continuously pushing it back and back. He adjusted his angle, turning the thing so it was moving back towards the gravestones. He watched behind it, again adjusting, as one of the first stones lined up with the skeleton. Back, he pushed, back.
The skeletons feet hit the old stone of the grave, enough to trip it. The thing fell backwards, tumbling onto its back over the stone in a great clatter of bones.
Sheren turned back towards Timon, able to help now, but it was too late.
He watched in dread as the panicked young man just keep swinging the shovel back and forth, the head hitting the outstretched arms of the skeletons that moved closer each time. Jaws clacked, somehow louder than any other sound.
The skeletons were inside the swing radius and the shovel slammed against the side of one, pushing it against the other. Neither fell and the shovel snapped; the wood breaking against the supernaturally hard bones.
Timon froze in shock, watching the metal head and half the shaft fall to the ground. He stared at the broken end, not watching as the two skeletons fell on him.
“No,” Sheren yelled running forward.
He could hear the skeleton behind him starting to get up but did not care. He swung his sledge in an arc, aiming for the side of the right skeleton. He connected, the force of the swing banging the two together. He adjusted his grip and swung again, and again, forcing the two skeletons away from the wounded Timon.
The creatures staggered back a couple steps and Sheren kept swinging, forcing them further and further back. He pulled the sledge behind him as far as he could and crouched down, swinging the hammer awkwardly but effectively. He hit the knees of both skeletons, knocking them over.
He rushed to Timon’s side, trying not to see the many rips and cuts in the man’s body.
“Help me,” Timon said weakly.
Sheren leaned down, keeping an eye on the skeletons; he used one hand to pick up the wounded man. Timon cried out in pain, trying to help Sheren lift himself up. Together they managed to get Timon standing, arm over Sheren’s shoulder.
Turning back, Sheren swung with the sledge, trying to keep the skeletons at bay. They started walking into the forest, the skeletons following. It was slow, Timon barely able to walk, blood dripping down his body and falling to the ground with every step.
At the edge of the trees, Sheren propped Timon against an oak and turned back. He could hear the sound of the bones and the clacking of the jaws and saw two of the skeletons walking down the path. Too close.
He swung the sledge, overhand, as the path was not wide enough. It came down hard on the top of a skeleton’s skull, the impact sending jolts of pain up Sheren’s arms. The skeleton collapsed under the impact, but did not break. Swinging to the side, Sheren forced the other skeleton deeper into the trees, its legs getting tangled in the underbrush. He swung back, catching the other and doing the same.
Running back to Timon, he grabbed the man and they stared moving down the road as quickly as possible.
Only half way back, Sheren had to stop and put Timon over his shoulders. The younger man could no longer walk. A look back up the road showed no skeletons were following, at least not that he could see. Hoisting the sledge over one shoulder and Timon over the other, Sheren continued down the road. Stumbling with almost every step, tired and aching.
As Sheren rounded the bend, the village coming into view, he hit a rock with his foot. Already off balance he stumbled, cursing as he dropped both the sledge and Timon.
The other man did not cry out.
Could not cry out.
He had died three hundred feet back.
Shouts came from the village, people on watch saw him. He tried to push himself up but could not, too tired, too hurt. He watched, the angle upside down and backwards, as people rushed towards him. He heard shouting; people calling for aid, and wanted to tell them to be quiet or the skeletons would come. But he could not.
All he could do was pass out.
CHAPTER THREE
Culann Hawkfall adjusted the pile of wood, putting it into a pyramid shape over the three stones he had gathered. The stones were a trick he had picked up years ago. Putting them at the bottom of a fire kept them warm all night and perfect to boil a pot of tea in the morning without having to start a new fire. Placing some twigs and leaves underneath he pulled his flint and tinder from the pouch. About to light the kindling, he heard the sound of a horse.
Curious, he walked the ten feet to the forest’s edge. He stood on the edge of the woods, about another ten feet of grass cleared to the rough and packed dirt road. The road was barely two wagon widths wide and cut a straight line through the forest, disappearing into the trees on either side. To the south, from where he had come, Culann knew the road continued deeper into the Duchy, part of the kingdom of Jeryan. Two or three miles to the south was the Deris Station at the crossroads, one of a series of Waystations scattered across the lands of Atair. To the North, Culann didn’t know where the road led.
Didn’t really care either. That was not the direction he was going.
He wished he had been able to stay at the Waystation. He had been inside, with the room already claimed, sitting down and into his second mug of ale and about to cut into the piece of venison when the Station’s Waykeeper had stormed out of the kitchen. He was furious, yelling, pointing and shouting. Demanding that Culann leave.
Culann had been surprised. He hadn’t done anything wrong, not that he could think of, until he noticed the pretty blond girl hiding sheepishly behind the Waykeeper. The waitress he had been flirting with earlier.
That made another new rule to add to the ever growing list.
Never flirt with the Innkeeper’s daughter.
Now he found himself on the road, ready for another night camping out under the stars.
Not that he minded. He loved being on the open road.
But he had been looking forward to the comfortable bed, and maybe the companionship of the waitress to share it.
Culann knew he could have made the Waykeeper allow him to stay, to enjoy the hot meal and comfortable bed. The Wardens of the Way; the ones that built, operated and protected the Waystations; and the Far Riders were allies and had a long standing agreement to provide assistance whenever and wherever required. But he had offended the man, even if it had been unintentional.
The sound
of the horse brought him back to the present and he watched as it emerged from the north. The rider was pushing it hard, even from here Culann could see the beast was tired. Even with the sun setting he could see that the rider was young, a teen. He knew how to ride, but was pushing too hard.
“Whoa,” Culann said stepping up to the road, holding his hands out to the side. “What’s the rush lad?”
The man, boy really, pulled a horse to a stop. The animal, well fed and taken care of, panted heavily. Tired. The boy was also breathing heavy, but not from exertion. He was excited, fearful. He kept glancing back behind him.
“I have to go,” he said. “Have to get to the Duke.”
“Ye push this horse much further and it’ll die,” Culann said.
The boy looked at the horse, seeing how tired it was. He looked behind him again.
“There’s nae a thing back there boy,” Culann said looking in that direction. “Naething following ye.”
“But,” the boy started and had to stop overcome with a coughing fit.
“Hey now,” Culann said reaching for the boy. “Come off there and let me brew ye a cup o’ tea.”
“No,” the boy said, again glancing behind him. “I have to get to the Duke. Warn him. Get help.”
“Warn? Help wit’ what?,” Culann asked.
“Skeleton,” the boy said. “Walking. They killed Timon, Mattias, hurt others.”
“Walking skeletons,” Culann asked, surprised. That was not what he had expected.
“Please,” the boy said. “I have to go.”
“Aye lad,” Culann said taking a step back. “That ye do. There is a Waystation a couple miles down. The horse will last that long but nae further. Ye understand?”
The boy nodded, grabbing the reins of the horse. He kicked the animal’s sides and the horse took off, slowly at first but gathering speed as it thundered down the road. Shaking his head, Culann wondered if the boy would heed the warning about the horse.
No matter, he thought, looking to the north.
He could see mountains not that far off, a couple miles, ten at the most. Smoke could be seen, probably from the chimneys of the village.
He thought about what the boy had said. Walking skeletons.
Interesting.
He moved back into the forest and started gathering up his things. Ten miles wasn’t a bad walk. It wouldn’t be that dark by the time he got to the village.
He moved about the edges of the village, silent and unseen.
Night had fallen, not that long ago, and he could see torches being lit. A patrol. Villagers started walking through the streets, weapons in hand. Or what the villagers thought of as weapons. Mostly hammers, shovels and pick axes.
Culann had not been able to get a good look at the village as he went up the road. The main cluster of buildings were at a higher elevation on a wide plateau. He had been walking up the side of the mountain for the last mile, the road gradually getting steeper. The village was built on the lower slopes and there were two paths that went around the central mountain. One must have led to the mines. Where did the other go? More mines?
Trees grew up the slope, stopping at the cliffs that formed the plateau of village proper, cleared for an open space. The road cut through the trees, still barely two wagons wide, twisting and winding up the slope. Culann had abandoned the path a half mile back, when sounds from the village started reaching him.
It wasn’t the normal night sounds.
There were the occasional animals. Pigs, goats and horses. But the noise of people was absent. The village was largely silent.
He hadn’t seen anyone out at all when first approaching, deciding to scout before making his presence known. It was only after an hour that he started seeing people, men with the torches, as they started walking around the village.
By the shape of the buildings, he could tell where the stable and tavern were. The rest would be private homes, other businesses. They were all laid out around a central square, with what looked to be a stage in the middle. Lanes came off the square, dividing the neatly built and laid out homes. It looked like how it should; a normal mining village.
So far, no evidence of walking skeletons.
He continued around the village to the east, down in the tree line. As he approached the road that led out of the village, curving around the mountain, he noticed more activity. Sounds of men talking; fear evident in the tone of voice. He moved closer, able to move up the slope and behind a building at the edge of the road. He had a good view of the road as it led out of the village.
Three men, dressed in rough spun mountain clothing, stood beside a wagon. The wagon had been positioned so it crossed the road, blocking access to and from. Torches had been set around the wagon, so the men could see down the road a ways. Additional torches had been set into the ground leading back to the village, providing a lighted pathway.
The men, what could be seen in the dark and shadows of the torches, all were bearded. Big, strong, stocky men. Miners. They all were armed with tools, not weapons; two pick axes and a sledge hammer.
The man with the sledge hammer seemed to be in charge.
“You sure of what you saw,” one of the men with a pick axe asked.
“Yes, for the last time,” the man with the sledge hammer said, angrily. “I know what I saw. They killed Mattias and Timon. You saw what Timon looked like. The damned things almost killed me.”
“It’s just hard to imagine Sheren,” the third man said, arms raised to placate the angry man with the sledge hammer.
Culann made note of the man and the name. He seemed to be someone of importance.
“You saw the thing last night,” the man called Sheren said, waving towards the village behind them. “You saw what it did.”
“Aye,” the others both said, letting that subject drop.
“Should you be out,” one of the men asked a minute later, looking at Sheren. “You were hurt. I’m sure Mary would rather you be in.”
“Of course she would,” Sheren said shortly, a hint of weariness but still resolute. “I’m fine. I wasn’t hurt.”
The men stood in silence after that. Sheren, with the sledge hammer, watched up the road. The other two did as well, somewhat, but their attention wavered. One of them leaned his pickaxe against the side of the wagon and blew into his cupped hands.
“Cold night,” he remarked.
“Aye,” Sheren replied. “Get a fire going in the road,” he added.
The man that had set his pickaxe down ran back towards the village, presumably to get some wood.
“Why’s this happening to us,” the remaining man asked Sheren.
“No idea,” Sheren replied. “Hopefully Michel brings back the King’s Guard and they can end this.”
Michel. That must have been the boy on the horse, Culann thought. He knew the King’s Guard would come but not in force and not quickly. It would be a day or two before a scouting party would arrive and possibly a couple more days before they would send for the King’s Wizards.
Walking skeletons, if true, would require the aid of a mage.
They would not send for one until positive it was needed.
One did not send for a King’s Wizard needlessly.
“Where did they come from,” the villager asked watching the road.
“Not a clue, the graves and crypts were all untouched,” Sheren replied. The man had never once stopped looking at the road to the east.
Minutes passed and the guard with the pickaxe shifted, taking a couple steps to the side. He stretched and yawned.
“Next watch won’t relieve us ‘til midnight,” Sheren said.
The other stood straighter, embarrassed.
“There are still six of those damned skeletons at the cemetery,” Sheren said looking off the road. “They might not come tonight, but they’ll come.”
Culann looked towards the east, down the darkness of the road as it wound around the mountain outside the torch light. So it led to a cemete
ry. That seemed like as good a place as any to look for walking skeletons.
He approached the clump of trees cautiously.
The sound of bone scraping against bone and an odd clacking noise drifted down the road. The mountainside was to his left, the rough road barely a cart wide, with the right alternating between a drop off and a steep, rocky slope to the forest below. He had been walking, slowly and stealthily, for almost an hour, using only the half moon as his guide.
The road had rounded the bend of the mountain and he could see a shadowed mass further up. As he had gotten closer the mass become recognizable as a clump of trees growing across the pass, with the road cut through them.
That was when he had noticed the noise.
Culann didn’t like it. He recognized the sound of bone against bone. He knew what it meant.
There were animated skeletons ahead. Undead creatures summoned by magic.
The villager back at the barricade, Sheren, had said the graves were untouched. So where had the skeletons come from? Was a mage, specifically a necromancer, operating in the area? If so, why?
He paused, about ten feet from the clump, listening.
There were two groups of sounds. Bone on bone and the clacking, repeated twice. His trained ears could pick out the two groupings, one on either side of the road in the trees. Not moving, stationary.
Feeling around him, he picked up a small rock. He lightly tossed it in his hand, measuring the weight, still listening to the sounds. He tossed the rock with enough force that it made a loud thud against the side of the mountain.
There was more urgency to the bone scrapping, like the skeletons were agitated. But the sounds did not move.
Culann waited another minute.
Shrugging, he stood up and reached into the pouch at his side. He pulled out a wand, about a foot long and topped with a golden globe. In the daylight, the globe had a translucent look to it, but that was not visible now. He tapped the top of the globe, tracing a run etched into the surface and hummed a couple of notes. A soft light, white tinged, started glowing from within. It started dim but grew in intensity. Soon, an area to a distance of ten feet or so around him was lit up bright as a full moon.