Prince Kristian's Honor

by Tod Langley

Chapter 15

  Bound By Duty

  “What do we do, General?” a confused and shocked officer asked the black-armored warrior. Derout looked across the battlefield, watching the nightmare shapes tear apart his countrymen with their bare hands. Screams of dismay and pain rang out time and again, making it hard for the Black Guards leader to think.

  He knew Ferral was somehow responsible for the catastrophe that was threatening to destroy his army, as well as the Duellrian force, but the king could not be found. Ferral had not told him of his plans, and he was just as shocked as his enemies to see the dead walking. He ordered his cavalry to break off their attack and regroup; he had to think about what to do. There was a gaping hole in the main gate; the dead were streaming through the breach, and the lower districts of the city were in danger of being overrun. He also saw an opportunity to destroy his ancient enemy, the Erandians. The Belarnian general was torn for a moment, unsure of what would appease Ferral more, saving the city or destroying his enemies. Derout waved his heavy sword in the air shouting curses at the remaining cavaliers. He wanted to be the one that destroyed the Erandians, not Ferral’s dead creatures.

  “You and your families will be our slaves forever. Remember that, you Erandian dogs, if you live.” Derout laughed at the sight of men and horses fleeing the battlefield.

  “Our king has already destroyed the enemy,” he called out to his men. He suddenly turned around in his saddle feeling a sharp pain in his right leg. Looking down, he saw one of his own black-armored soldiers tearing through his shin guard.

  “What are you doing,” he demanded.

  The figure looked up. The flesh on one side of its face hung down from the cheekbone. Derout saw its eyes and gasped. It moved with fierce determination and obvious hunger, but when the general looked into its eyes, he saw no emotion. The thing continued to tear at his straps and armor, trying to satiate its need to kill the living. Derout kicked the dead man away and brought his heavy sword down on its head. Its skull was cleaved in two, but the thing fell to the ground still trying to grab his sword. The general looked around once more before ordering his men toward the enemy’s marshalling area. A thousand more of the things were ambling toward him and his men. Derout would lead the dead toward his enemy’s supply wagons; if he could trap them on the hill until the dead arrived … Derout laughed. It would be like ants swarming over a carcass.

  Mikhal and the remainder of the cavaliers regrouped on top of the small hill where they initially planned their attack. Alek and Hanson were still alive, but there were few others. In all, there were less than twenty.

  “We’ll all be dead soon,” Mikhal said, looking down at the small ring of Duellrians trapped by the creatures.

  Some of General Aphilan’s men tried to establish a small, protective formation to block the dead while the remaining Duellrians forced their way toward the high ground where the cavaliers were resting. The clamor of steel and curses echoed across the frozen battlefield as they fought to survive.

  Mikhal turned away from the fighting below to look around him. Kristian was nearby, sitting on a snow-covered log with his face in his hands.

  “No. This is not real. This is not real,” the prince kept murmuring over and over again.

  Mikhal could hardly believe it himself. The image of the broken woman trying to pull them both from his horse was vivid in his mind. He moved stiffly toward his commander, more afraid than he had ever been in his life.

  “Mikhal, forget about what happened for now. I need you with me.” Alek shook his young officer hard. He pointed toward the city “The Duellrians will pull free. We must be ready to accept them. Prepare a group of men to stand ready on the western side.”

  Mikhal looked at him questioningly, “But … they will come from the east. The ground over on the west side is too steep and frozen for even those monsters to climb.”

  “Just do it,” Alek shouted pointing to the west, “and take the prince with you. Protect him.” Alek left him standing there dumbfounded, already heading for Hanson’s position.

  Mikhal slowly turned away, confused by his commander’s decision. Reluctantly, he approached the stricken prince. Mikhal pulled the grief-ridden man off the log and looked at the few cavaliers standing nearby. “You four men, come with me.” Mikhal then dragged the murmuring prince to the far side of the hilltop, the four cavaliers walking silently behind.

  The Duellrians finally broke through the ring of dead, but they paid a heavy price. Nearly half their numbers were pulled screaming from the formation as the army pushed toward the hill. In the end, someone shouted for everyone to run, and they all forgot about an orderly retreat as they struggled to find a way through the gauntlet. Groping hands reached out and snagged kicking men by their arms and legs. Screams of horror and pain filled the night air.

  Mikhal could hear their pleas for help clearly, even over the howling wind that had picked up again with new malice. He scanned the steep hill below, wondering what he was supposed to do. His four men were hastily sharpening their weapons, preparing for the terrible battle ahead. Mikhal and some of the others had retrieved Belarnian broadswords, favoring the heavier steel for the butchering that was to come.

  In a sudden panic, Mikhal went back to find his horse in a wooded part of the hilltop. It was standing in the midst of several other horses as far away from the dead as it could get. Even the animals sensed that these monsters were unnatural. He stood next to Champion, gently rubbing the horse’s nose and tried to remember how they had come to this end.

  After several minutes, Mikhal went back to where he had left Kristian. The dumbfounded prince had not moved since Mikhal had dragged him away from the center of the hill. The prince held on to a frozen branch for support, rocking forward and backward, as if he would be sick. He continually shook his head in disbelief as he watched the slaughter of those caught by the dead; Kristian was not the only one unable to cope with what they were witnessing. Many cavaliers and Duellrians were shouting and cursing … all of them were in shock. Mikhal ignored the panicked men and tried to think of how he and his four men might help their commander if he asked for it.

  Perhaps five hundred Duellrians escaped the slaughter. Those that did make it back to the hill stood exhausted inside the protective ring of cavaliers. General Aphilan was panting, winded by the long climb up the hill. He tried to listen to the urgent words of his remaining commanders but had difficulty hearing them above his own breathing.

  “We must flee, now,” one captain urged. Blood covered the entire left side of his armored chest. He had barely escaped the dead.

  “He’s right. We lost over half our men just reaching this hill. If we wait, they will encircle us again, and then it will be too late. The blocking force can’t hold them back forever,” another officer claimed.

  “We were so close to finishing them off,” a cavalier moaned.

  Aphilan motioned for silence. “If we wait here, we will die; these creatures can’t be destroyed.” He looked at the gathered soldiers. “We need to regroup and then move toward King Justan and the rest of our army. That will give us time to think about what must be done next.”

  “But what about the princess?” one of the officers asked.

  Aphilan looked down at his frozen boots. “For now, she remains the prisoner of that evil man. Dying on this hill won’t help rescue her.” The Duellrians bowed their heads in sad acknowledgment.

  They had come vowing to rid the world of the King of Belarn and save their princess from his mad schemes, but they failed. No one knew how long she might survive inside the citadel, but there was nothing they could do. They had underestimated Ferral’s power, and they would be lucky to escape.

  “The monsters were distracted by the breach in the main gate. I saw hundreds of them trying to get inside. It should take them some time to find us here in the dark. Count your unit’s strength and prepare to march. We will rendezvous with what’s left of the reserve at the backside of the hill and then send wor
d to Justan. He should only be half a day’s march behind us.” Aphilan looked around for Alek. “Are your men ready to ride, captain?”

  The exhausted commander nodded wearily. He was ready to leave this nightmare far behind. “Then order your remaining men to their horses. We leave as soon as you’re ready.”

  “Then leave now. The cavaliers will be on your heels,” Alek shouted as he turned and called for Hanson and Mikhal. Aphilan gave the order, and his men quickly shuffled back down the hill.

  Only a few moments later, the cavaliers turned their heads in alarm as they heard shouts and screams coming from the bottom of the hill. They were just getting into their saddles, ready to catch up to their Duellrian comrades, when the sounds of battle rang out. Hanson rode up to Alek, Mikhal, and Kristian to find out what was happening. Then a figure stumbled toward them. It was a Duellrian soldier and he was badly hurt.

  “Those bastards. They cut us off,” he moaned.

  “What’s happening? What are you talking about,” Alek demanded.

  “The Belarnian cavalry … they ambushed us. The reserves are lost. Most have lances sticking out of them at the bottom of the hill. General Aphilan is dead. They rode in hard and cut us down. Their general laughed and cursed at us and then rode over us. There are only a few of us left down there not seriously wounded. The dead will quickly finish them off. Leave while you can.” The soldier fell to the ground sobbing.

  Mikhal stood frozen, staring at Alek, waiting for guidance. He no longer cared what happened and was ready for whatever fate might await him. He looked expectantly at his commander, waiting for him to give the order to charge the Belarnians one last time. “The Belarnians are withdrawing, but they are staying close by. I think they are luring the dead toward our position,” a cavalry scout reported.

  Alek looked at Kristian. Alek’s eyes were filled with regret as he summed up his prince one last time. He quickly approached Kristian, grabbing him roughly. “You have led us poorly, Your Highness. There were times when I hoped you would learn from your experiences, but for the most part you have done poorly.”

  Kristian looked up as if from a dream, suddenly realizing what Alek was saying. “Time and again I let you make mistakes because your father charged me with finding the man in you … I didn’t find him.”

  Alek looked around to ensure no one else was listening. “You always thought honor was what made someone a man. A man makes himself better by doing what’s right and that brings honor to him. Things like duty, love, respect … and sacrifice are what transform an ordinary person into an honorable man. Remember this final lesson, Kristian. If you’re lucky, you’ll get one final chance to become a better person.” The cavalry commander turned away from the dumbfounded prince to address his soldiers.

  “We’ve been cut off.” Those eager to escape heard Alek’s words and shouted in dismay.

  “This is not a new situation, cavaliers,” Alek responded. “We fight and die to protect our king and country. Charging through the dead will be suicide; our mounts are exhausted, and we can’t leave our Duellrian comrades behind. Soon the dead will smell us out, and they’ll come up the hill to get us. When they do, the Belarnians will have to withdraw back into the city or be pulled down the same as us. And when that happens, we will have one last chance. We’ll either break through them before they can overpower us or we’ll hold this hill until the rest of the Duellrian army arrives. They are less than a day away.”

  Alek raised his saber, calling for men to form a line on the south side of the hill. “I won’t give you a choice. You will not run. You are cavaliers. Form a barrier between the cliff side and that fallen tree. I will take half of you to protect the east and south sides where the dead will likely come from. Hanson will take the rest and guard the north side … they will also be our reserve.” Alek nodded and ordered his soldiers to the perimeter.

  “For Erand,” many shouted with passion. Consigned to certain death, they ran to take up defensive positions across the snowy hill.

  Mikhal moved next to Alek and asked, “What about me? What do you want me to do?” Mikhal was hurt that Alek had not given him a more important assignment.

  “Mikhal, I give you the hardest and most thankless task.” The older man smiled, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I need you to stay in the center with our flag bearer and three others. Take the four you had earlier, if you like.” Alek paused, looking back at Kristian. “Protect him. Make sure Kristian survives.”

  Mikhal shook his head, refusing. “No, I won’t do it. We have a fight coming. My place is with our men.”

  “Yes, Mikhal, you will do it. I’m ordering you to do it.” The commander sighed and then relaxed by smiling and whispering, “Please … he is still our prince. We are defeated here, and we are all probably going to die anyway, but if there is a chance you might make it through the fight and get back to help, then you must take it and get him out of here.” Mikhal continued to shake his head defiantly. He began to tremble, unable to control his emotions.

  Alek continued, “He must survive. Maybe he can get to Justan’s forces and warn them. And there is the princess to think of.”

  “Above all else, I want someone to carry word of our deaths to our king and the ones we love.” Alek looked straight into Mikhal’s eyes. “Yours is the hardest task, Mikhal. Remember every cavalier that has fallen. Don’t forget us. Good-bye.”

  He left Mikhal standing there, forcing him to accept the order. Mikhal reflexively opened and closed his fists trying to hold in the tears that began to fall down his cheek. The four soldiers he had taken charge of earlier stood apart from the others that were even now frantically preparing for the army of dead. They waited impatiently for Mikhal to give them guidance.

  Trying to regain some composure, Mikhal took a deep breath and approached his four cavaliers. “We are to protect the flag and our prince at all cost,” he said so vehemently that the soldiers took a step back. Then they stiffened with pride at their seemingly vital role. Mikhal involuntarily flinched, no longer able to comprehend how soldiers, even the well-disciplined cavaliers, could accept such orders without resenting their commanders.

  I would rather die standing next to my comrades than live to ensure his escape, Mikhal thought as he looked at the distraught prince. He moved forward toward the top of the hill, caring little whether Kristian followed, but he did follow. Little was left of Kristian emotionally, and that which remained was capable of little more than accepting simple orders.

  Mikhal heard the reports coming in from the ring of protectors as he stood in the center of the combined forces of the surviving Erandian cavalry and Duellrian infantry. “The Belarnians are withdrawing. They are moving off to the northeast,” one soldier exclaimed.

  “I see the monsters below. They are milling about as if unsure of which way to go. Maybe they will attack the Belarnians,” another wished.

  “No, look … they’re surrounding the hill. They’ll be here soon,” Hanson called out. “Any ideas on how to get out of this one, Mikhal?” he shouted jokingly behind him.

  Mikhal could not answer.

  Truan Langwood limped slowly over to Mikhal and then tapped him on the shoulder. Mikhal tried to smile reassuringly, knowing that the veteran soldier was about to say something important. He pulled a portion of torn black cloth out from his coat and handed it to Mikhal. “It probably sounds overly dramatic, but what I am about to say is very important.” He paused to ensure Mikhal understood. “You must make them understand what we are about to do. You must make them aware of our sacrifice.”

  Mikhal nodded gravely, accepting the order, even though he wished he could just die with everyone else. What was there to live for? he asked himself. Everyone was gone … or soon would be. Ferral had won.

  “I’ll probably die anyway. It will just happen in the worst possible way, protecting him,” Mikhal complained as he looked quickly over at Kristian.

  Truan ignored the complaint and continued, “I saw
Davil. He’s dead. I think his wounds were worse than we thought. He was at the bottom of the hill and never made it back to the reserves where he could get some aid. He was … he was stumbling around the wagons. He had already turned into one of those things.” He paused, sighing to relieve some tension. “Well, anyway, I looked for the Belarnian flag he captured but couldn’t find it.” Truan pointed at the cloth now in Mikhal’s hands. “Take this one and always remember what happened here.”

  Mikhal examined the old fragment of cloth that Truan had been carrying for nearly twenty years, ever since the Battle of Marker. “So the story is true?” he guessed.

  Truan smiled and moved back toward the defensive line. Mikhal stood silently, gripping the banner in his hands. The respect and gratitude he felt for his comrades had never been stronger.

  The strong winds and snow continued unabated after hours of relentlessly hitting the eastern shore of the Utwan Sea. A few inches now covered the frozen ground where thousands of soldiers fought and died. The white powder should have covered their bodies, like a blanket, giving them some comfort in their final sleep, but Ferral had corrupted nature. The sorcerer king broke the barrier separating the living from the dead. Now, all those that died within the vicinity of the Belarnian fortress were walking again. They staggered around the battlefield, the only thought entering their foggy minds was the need to kill, to tear the living apart. That need could never be satiated.

  The dead sensed those around them with a life force and were drawn toward them, driven forward by a searing pain that demanded they destroy every living thing. They were unable to discern the Belarnians from those they were created to kill and were pulled toward a strong force of life within the citadel. If the Belarnians had not called off their attack and re-entered the city to repair the destroyed gate, most of the inhabitants of Belarna would have become a part of the growing army. The monsters were incapable of understanding what they had become and focused all their efforts on those that were easiest to reach, Ferral’s innocent subjects that hid within homes near the destroyed gate.

  More than one hundred of the dead entered through the ruined doors before a barricade could be erected. They began breaking into homes and killing people even as Belarnian soldiers hunted them down. The soldiers were losing the race against those transforming into the dead and those they destroyed. A containment strategy was quickly adopted, and the lower half of Belarna was sealed off.

  The vast majority of the dead saw their opportunity to kill Belarnians dwindle once the gate was blocked and turned their attention to the Duellrian army. The creatures blocked General Aphilan’s escape and killed five hundred of his men before the survivors broke out and fled back to the hill. The things saw the survivors flee to the snow-covered hill to hide, but it would do them no good. The dead would find them; they sensed the living.

  Derout’s blocking tactic served two purposes. First, he prevented his enemies from escaping back toward their reinforcements. Second, his men served as bait that lured the dead toward the bottom of the hill. The creatures were drawn directly toward the spot where the Belarnian general had wanted them.

  It did not take them long to surround the entire hill. The dead found access on three sides, but the west side was too steep. They moved determinedly up the slopes, desperate to kill the living. Small groups of the dead broke off to finish any remaining wounded that had been ambushed earlier by Derout’s Black Guards.

  A soldier screamed as he was ripped open by the slow moving hands of those who wanted his life. He could do nothing against their attacks, his wounds were too serious. He was forced to watch them mutilate his body until he could no longer feel any pain and died. Within a matter of minutes, the man joined the army of dead and clambered up the slopes, seeking to destroy his former comrades.

  Mikhal and Kristian watched as cavaliers and foot soldiers used everything available to stop the advance. Heavy swords and axes worked best at severing limbs, but the effort barely kept their attackers at bay. They worked relentlessly, seizing every advantage to keep the dead from breaking though to the center. Men fought valiantly, swearing to send them back to hell by chopping them to bits.

  After only a few minutes, one of the staggering monsters broke through, heading directly for Kristian. Hanson ran up in front of Mikhal swinging a sword as he shouted in anger. His blow cut a dead Duellrian foot soldier in two, but the parts kept moving feebly. Hanson did not stop and moved away from Mikhal, seeking others that were attempting to push their way past the defenses.

  Soon an entire group of creatures was able to kill defenders near the fallen tree. Again, they came directly towards Kristian. Mikhal rushed forward, swinging his sword wildly. His force knocked one of the creatures to the ground, and he turned to face the others. He saw one of his men jam a spear into the ribs of a monster. The wooden pole stuck in its rib cage and would not come free. As the soldier struggled to pull his weapon out, the dead converged on him and pulled him screaming to the ground.

  Mikhal gasped, backing away. A hand grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. Reflexively, he raised his sword ready to bring it down on his attacker’s head but stopped at the last instant; it was Alek.

  “You must leave, now. Find a way down on the west side, if you can. It is too steep for them to climb up, and you may be able to escape.” Alek said a final good-bye to his friend.

  Mikhal wanted to say something but did not have the chance. There was no time to say anything else. The cavalry commander ran off, ensuring the gap on the south side was closed.

  Reluctantly, he turned back to Kristian and his two men. “Move to the west side and find a way down for us.” They stood there, confused.

  “We can’t leave them. Our comrades are here, and this is where we should stay, no matter what happens,” one of them said.

  “This is an order. We have our mission and that is to ensure our prince survives and that word of this battle reaches King Justan and our people.” He looked at them threateningly, clinching his sword tighter. “Now move.”

  “No, he’s right. I deserve to die more than anyone else. We should stay and face our fate,” Kristian admitted.

  Mikhal did not hesitate. He hit Kristian on the head with the pommel of his sword. The prince fell to the snow fighting to maintain consciousness. Mikhal reached down and pulled him back to his feet.

  “I have my orders!” He shouted at all of them. He pushed the staggering prince over to the drop off on the west side. The cavaliers looked at Mikhal as if he were a madman.

  “No. I will not leave,” one soldier challenged. He turned and ran toward a group of dead that broke through the southern defenses again. He shouted in senseless rage as he jumped into their midst.

  Mikhal did not stop to watch the outcome. There was no time to waste. Mikhal went to the edge where the ground dropped off vertically for nearly twenty feet. It was difficult to see anything below in the darkness and blinding snow, but Mikhal thought he saw a ledge where the dead could find no access. He moved over to his right, looking for a way down.

  The one remaining cavalier with them helped his prince along the edge; Kristian moaned in confusion and pain. The cavalier supported his prince with one arm as he prepared to face the approaching dead with the staff that held their flag. “They’re getting pretty close. The line’s almost overrun.”

  Mikhal hesitated, unsure of what to do. The small distance he had moved away from the rest of his comrades had already begun to influence his thoughts. His friends’ screams and curses filled the darkness and made it difficult to think. He knew that in a few minutes, they would all be dead.

  He had just seen Hanson pulled down. The things slowly surrounded the big southerner; their circle grew tighter and tighter despite the numbers that he cut down with his sword. Then his friend was gone. There were only fifteen cavaliers remaining now. Mikhal heard Alek shout one last time for them to escape before he was overrun by the things and lost beneath a swarming mob of creatures. Alek�
�s screams filled Mikhal’s mind. He looked left and right for a way to escape, fear and panic suddenly taking hold of him. He wanted to live.

  “Jump,” Mikhal said.

  “What!?” the shocked cavalier cried. “It’s over twenty feet. We’ll break our legs.”

  Mikhal stepped over the ledge without waiting to see if Kristian or the soldier would follow. He hit the ground below them hard, feeling the air leave his lungs and a sharp pain in his legs. He would have fallen off the small ledge if the soldier and Kristian had not jumped off right after him and landed on either side, flattening him.

  There was a brief moment of silence as the three felt their bodies for injuries. Their relief was short lived, the ledge crumbled underneath them. They fell a few more feet before hitting the steep slope of the hill. The snow cushioned their fall but also kept them from stopping as they continued to slide, gaining speed.

  They had little time to worry about whether they would die. They stopped sliding once they hit a patch of thorn bushes. They quickly jumped up, holding their weapons before them and searching for the dead. Mikhal and Kristian both held broadswords they had taken from the battlefield. The soldier held what remained of the broken staff.

  “Do you see any?” the cavalry soldier asked them.

  “No … wait. Yes, I see them.” Mikhal pointed off to the left where he could see one of their supply wagons standing eerily alone in the predawn gloom. “I see a few of them wandering around on the other side of that wagon.”

  “I see them,” Kristian remarked soberly. “I see the damned things.” Mikhal shot him a glaring look, reminding him to keep his voice down.

  “There are only three of them,” the younger cavalier said. Mikhal remembered that his name was Garin.

  “Thousands more are close by, and they’ll be here as soon as they’re finished killing our friends,” Mikhal replied in disgust. “But we need supplies if we’re to have any chance of making it back to the rest of the Duellrian force. I think they’re about a half day’s march from here, and we will never make it in this freezing storm.” He tried harder to assess their situation and come up with a plan.

  The dead were wandering aimlessly around unlike the ones they had just encountered at the top of the hill. They seemed to lack the purpose that drove the others to destroy the living. Mikhal could see much clearer now as dawn approached.

  “Look … beyond those three, thousands more are coming!” Kristian exclaimed.

  “We’ll not make it to the wagon now,” Garin said, defeated.

  “No, look. They’re just like those other three. They’re stumbling, barely able to walk,” Mikhal observed.

  “It’s like their drunk,” Garin commented.

  “Even drunk men, even dead drunk men can kill,” Mikhal snorted.

  Suddenly, as the first rays of the sun broke through the storm clouds and shown down upon the battlefield, the dead fell lifeless to the ground. Mikhal gasped in surprise as the monsters dropped like discarded puppets. He did not know what to do. The snow continued falling, covering the ground and the thousands of dead that again littered it.

  “No,” Mikhal said full of remorse. He looked around frantically. Everywhere he looked the dead had fallen. Mikhal could not see a single living person other than themselves.

  Mustering what energy he had left, he ran back up the hill to his friends. He passed thousands of bodies, tripping over them in his desperation. The young cavalry officer abruptly halted at the top. Bodies lay everywhere; not a single person was alive. Every single soldier that had sailed from Duellr was dead. Even the horses, even Champion was dead.

  Mikhal stumbled over to the vantage point where they had all first come to spy on Ferral’s city. Looking down across the battlefield, he saw thousands more littering the plain. Nothing moved except a few war banners.