Legion of the Undead

by Michael Whitehead

  As it turned out, it had been Harold’s father who begun. He folded his hands across his chest, looking seven feet tall. The iron circlets that marked his upper arms seemed almost too small to contain his muscles.

  “You are no longer children,” he had said, causing a ripple of excited muttering among the boys. “You are not yet men, either.”

  Harold had turned to Gervin, a grin spreading on both of their faces. They had spent weeks looking forward to this moment, and now it had finally arrived. They all knew what was expected of them, but Harold’s father had continued anyway.

  “You wait here until tomorrow morning. I and your fathers will leave soon, and you will camp here tonight. Remember boys, this is not part of the test. If one of you need something tonight, I expect the others to help him. Your test starts tomorrow.”

  There was a further round of excited muttering. Harold’s father frowned at the boys, looking impatient until they let him speak once more.

  “In the morning, you wait until one of you can sit on that rock, and see the sun through the fork of that tree.” He pointed to a flat, round stone that might make a good table in other circumstances, then to a large Y-shaped tree on the edge of the clearing.

  “Until then, the test cannot begin. The moment the sun is visible above the branches, the test starts. The rules are simple. Every boy who can make his way back to camp, will be a man. The first to arrive will be this year’s guest of honour at the midwinter festival.”

  This time, Harold’s father had smiled when the excited chatter broke out among the young men in front of him. It was a high honour, one which he had held himself in the year of his own test. He had spent hours telling Harold of his trek through the forest, as all the fathers surely had. It was a dangerous journey, and not every boy who tried it lived.

  Harold had heard of one boy, five years ago, who had fallen in to a ravine. When his father and three men had gone looking for him, they had only found a pile of animal-stripped bones.

  Across the curved line of boys, Harold caught the eye of Horst. He was the biggest of those to be tested, and many thought he was the favourite to return to the village first. His dark hair and darker eyes gave him a sinister look that made all the village boys weary of him. He curled a lip and snarled.

  “You have your knives,” his father had continued.

  Harold’s hand strayed down to the sheath at his belt. His father had traded a month’s food with the blacksmith for the finest blade the man could make. He had handed it to his son with a solemnity that almost bordered on reverence.

  Harold had surely never seen such a knife. Its long blade curved toward a point so sharp that it made Harold feel nervous, even when his hand was on the handle at the other end of the weapon. Now, as they were about to begin their test, he understood that the knife might be the difference between life and death.

  Harold realised his father had continued to talk, and that he had missed it because he had been daydreaming.

  “...the rest is up to you, boys. We wish you all well, and hope you all come back to us as men.”

  With this final word, each of their fathers had stepped forward and embraced their sons one final time. Harold found himself enveloped in his father’s huge arms, smelled his familiar scent, and felt a single kiss on his forehead.

  “I’m proud of you, son,” his father said, his eyes wet above his smiling, bearded mouth. He backed away, toward the retreating group of fathers. Harold tried to say, “I love you,” but the words escaped him. His father must have read his lips, however, because he nodded before he turned his back.

  Then their fathers were gone. The boys looked around, each wondering how to start, what to do. The silence held, nobody wanting to be the first to act, then Horst had turned from the group. He stepped a few feet into the trees and began gathering wood. This action prompted the others to do the same, and before long every boy was working to set up camp.

  That had been last night, now in the cold light of morning things began to feel real.

  “I’m hungry, should we eat before we begin?” Gervin asked, shaking Harold from his reverie. He held out a package, wrapped in a thin animal skin. Harold took it and unwrapped a small stack of thin, beef steaks. Smiling, the two boys found sticks, sharpened them and skewered a piece each. With the meat above the fire, beginning to drip fat onto the hot embers, Harold spoke to his friend in a low voice.

  “When we start, let the others go ahead. This is not a race we can win on the first morning,” Harold said. He was trying to sound wise when everything in him wanted to be running like the wind.

  “I was going to say the same thing,” Gervin replied. A crooked, and sly looking smile crossed his face, and he added, “besides, my father told me something that I don’t want the others to know.”

  Harold wanted to ask what he was talking about, but something in Gervin’s eyes told him that silence was prudent. They sat in comfortable silence, watching the meat cook. Around them, boys checked their packs, took out their own blades and tested the edges, while others cooked and ate.

  Harold took his steak from the fire, tried to pull a piece off with his fingers and withdrew them with a wince. He put the offended digits in his mouth to the accompanying laughter of Gervin. He took out his knife and laid his own meat on a flat stone so that he could cut it in to chunks.

  Soon both boys had grease running down their fingers and chins. They got up from eating to see Horst sitting on the rock, looking out toward the rising sun. He stood up, looking every inch the man he would soon become. His arms already had the thickness and strength of a warrior and his eyes had never been those of a child, even when they had all been playing in the mud at their mother’s feet.

  “I can see the sun above the branches. I suggest you all get ready to move, because I’m off as soon as I’ve emptied my bladder.” He made the pronouncement with a confidence that dared the other boys to contradict him, and after he finished speaking he looked at Harold to see if there would be an argument.

  The other boys rushed about the clearing, gathering their things. They threw glances at Horst to see when he would be ready to leave. Harold noticed they would not start before the bigger boy, and were ready to let him give the word. Maybe, he thought, Horst was the leader this test was supposed to help the village predict.

  It didn’t take long for Horst to declare himself ready. The other boys stood, anxious to run, anticipation written across their faces. Each carried a small pack and all had their knives strapped to their belts.

  “Go!” Horst shouted, and laughed as all the other contestants ran off in the direction that their fathers had brought them the night before. They elbowed each other, one pushed the nearest boy to him, another slipped, regained his footing and ended up at the back of the group. It was competitive and now the trial had started, it wasn’t too friendly.

  Harold watched Horst. The bigger boy hadn’t moved, in fact he had the same grin on his face Gervin had worn a moment ago. He waited until the others were out of sight, turned to Harold and his grin hardened. He turned and left the clearing on a second path that led him away to the west instead of the north as the others had gone.

  “Oxen shit!” Gervin exclaimed, shocking a laugh out of Harold.

  “What?” he asked.

  “That was my secret,” he said, pointing after Horst. “My father said, we could save ourselves some hard miles if we set off west and then followed the stream north.”

  “Well, it seems your father isn’t the only one who cheats,” Harold laughed, pushing Gervin so that he stumbled and swore. “Come on, we can’t sit here all day.”

  The two of them shouldered their packs and set off after Horst. They didn’t run, not yet, that came later.

  ***

  “Some short cut, this is!” Harold exclaimed as his boot sank deep into a mud bank and came out twice as large, and three times as heavy, as it had gone in.

  They had headed west, following Gervin’s father’s instructions
, then north after they had found the shallow flow of water. At first all had been well, they had made good time by sticking to an animal trail that ran parallel to the stream. Then the path had disappeared and they had been forced by the encroaching trees to walk on the narrow bank.

  “It could be worst,” Gervin muttered, but by the sound of his voice he wasn’t convinced.

  “How, exactly?”

  “Remember the ravine we crossed with our fathers?” Gervin asked.

  “How could I forget it?” Harold asked. He was remembering the breath taking drop they had traversed using a rope bridge. The gap hadn’t been more than twenty feet across, but the height of the fall had made sure he hadn’t looked down twice.

  “Apparently our fathers cut the bridge as they cross back over,” Gervin said.

  “No! Really?” Harold asked. “Why didn’t my father tell me that?”

  “Maybe your father knew that mine had told me,” Gervin said smiling.

  “I wonder how they are supposed to get across?” Harold added, more to himself than as a serious question.

  “I guess we won’t have to worry about that,” Gervin replied, grinning once more.

  “No, we just have to deal with this mud,” Harold added, only half in jest. “I’ve had enough of this,” he said, and stepped in to the stream. His boots immediately filled with freezing water, but compared to carrying around half of his body weight in mud, it was a relief. Gervin looked at his friend with a look that told Harold he was insane, then he sighed and stepped in to the water himself.

  They continued this way for the next few hours. Their numb feet stirred the crystal clear mountain stream in to a murky cloud, while low hanging branches whipped at their faces.

  As the sun dropped below the top of the trees, marking the passage of afternoon into evening, they came across a clear patch of grass at the side of the stream. Gervin turned back and looked at Harold, hopefully.

  “Should we stop? I can hardly feel my feet,” he said, sheepishly.

  Harold looked up at the sun, knowing there were more hours in the day. He also knew that his own feet felt like blocks of ice, and the idea of wading up stream any further was too much. He nodded reluctantly, aware that Horst would almost certainly continue until darkness stopped him.

  “We will never win at this rate,” he said.

  “Did you ever think we could beat Horst, anyway?” Gervin asked, climbing up on to the bank and pulling off one of this boots. He poured water from the top, forming a puddle on the grass.

  “It would have been nice to try at least,” Harold answered, skirting the outside of the small clearing, gathering wood for a fire. His feet squelched as he walked but he knew that if he removed his boots, he would not put them back on until they were dry.

  “You never know, he might sleep late tomorrow, or a wolf might eat him,” Gervin laughed, but as he said it both boys looked around nervously.

  Before long, Gervin was striking steel to flint, blowing gently at the rising smoke at the bottom of a small fire. Harold finally removed his boots, laying them on their sides to gather some heat as the fire rose releasing a small column of smoke in to the evening air. He walked around the clearing feeling the warmth of the grass as it passed between his toes.

  As they ate more of the beef, skewered and cooked over the fire, a feeling of freedom and contentment settled over them. For the first time in their lives, they were truly free. Until now, they had always had to tell their fathers where they were going. They always felt the protective gaze of their mothers over them. Now, they were away from the village and alone.

  Harold settled back, his hands behind his head.

  “Do you think we will be great warriors?” he asked, watching the sky above them darken.

  “I will be,” Gervin answered. “You will probably end up washing clothes with the old ladies.”

  Harold laughed. Normally such a comment would be the start of a wrestling match which would end only when one of the boys was sat astride his friends chest, threatening to make him eat grass. Now, they both felt the weight of the manhood test and what it meant to act like grown men.

  A twig snapped just outside the clearing, the brittle sound shocking in the peace of the forest. Both boys fell silent and looked in the direction of the noise. Nothing moved either in the clearing, or beyond its borders.

  “What was that?” Harold mouthed, his mind drifting back to his friend’s comment about wolves.

  Gervin shook his head, rolling off his back and on to one elbow, watching the bushes that marked the edge of the clearing. Harold got to his knees and withdrew his knife from his belt. Both boys got to their feet and backed away from the direction of the sound, ready for whatever had snapped the twig. Harold knew there were wolves out here in the great forests, wolves and worse.

  Suddenly the shrubs and undergrowth parted, and Horst stumbled in to the clearing. Gervin noticeably relaxed but something about the bigger boys appearance made Harold remain on guard.

  Horst’s tunic was torn down one side, it was stained with what might be mud, but looked more like dried blood. His eyes were wild with fear, and his head was whipping from side to side.

  “What’s...” Gervin began, but Horst shot him a look that told him to be silent.

  “There is something out there,” he whispered. He stepped toward the other two boys, and as he did something large rushed from the edge of the clearing and barrelled him off his feet.

  Harold watched Horst knocked to the ground, and for a moment had no idea what to do. Whatever had attacked him had come across the clearing on all fours. He had expected to see a boar or a wolf, instead it looked like Horst was wrestling with a man.

  “Help me!” Horst shouted, shaking him from his shock. Harold stepped forward, his new, unbloodied blade gripped in his fist. Horst and his attacker were rolling over and over, first one and then the other were on top. Harold waited until Horst was on the bottom and stabbed down between the attacker’s shoulders.

  The man did not react, he kept trying to force his face closer to Horst. The boy was using all his strength to keep from the snapping teeth. The attacker was snarling and snapping his teeth, making almost no attempt to use his fists in the fight.

  Harold stabbed down again, then again. Each attack produced a thick glut of black fluid, but no reaction from the man who sustained the wounds. Finally, out of desperation, Harold drove his blade up through the base of the man’s skull and into his brain. He immediately fell still and his head flopped forward. Horst pushed him off and scrabbled to his knees, gasping for air.

  “Are you injured?” Harold asked, gripping the bigger boy by the shoulder. Horst pushed the hand away, fury in his eyes. He paced away, turning his back on the figure on the floor, then spun on his heels ran forward and kicked it.

  “I’m fine,” he grunted. “That thing has been hunting me for the last hour. What is it?”

  They all looked down at the figure, now lit more by the fire than the last of the fading daylight. Its skin was grey and mottled. Decay and corruption split the flesh in several places, and black fluid still seeped from each of the wounds. The teeth that showed in its half-open mouth were broken and splintered.

  Harold remembered back to the summer before last. One of the warriors from the village had gone missing while out hunting. They had found the body and brought it back to the village. It had been out in the sun and rain for more than three weeks and was bloated and rotten when they returned. This figure at their feet looked like it might have been dead for at least as long as that warrior.

  “Is it a demon?” Gervin asked. His words seemed to get lost in his throat as he spoke them.

  “Was he the only one?” Harold asked.

  Horst turned on him, the anger returning to his face. He took the front of Harold’s tunic in both hands and growled, “I don’t know, do I?”

  It was then that Harold realised it wasn’t anger but fear that had a hold of him, and that made it worse. If Horst, t
he biggest, strongest and bravest of them was scared, what hope for the rest of them?

  “It chased me through the trees,” he said, letting go of Harold and backing away once more. “I managed to hide, I don’t think it could see so well in the dark. I thought I’d lost it when I found you two. Is there any food left? I lost mine.”

  “We ate everything we cooked,” Gervin said. “I have a little more meat, we could put it on the fire.”

  Horst looked around the clearing nervously, and shook his head.

  “No, we need to hide. If there are more of those things, I don’t want to be here to face them.” He crossed the small patch of grass, back to the gap through which he had come. He peered through the trees, then seemed to relax a little.

  “Where can we hide?” Gervin asked, but Harold already knew what Horst was going to say. The larger boy looked up at the branches of a large oak and pointed with a blood and dirt streaked finger.

  “Those branches look big enough that we can get comfortable. Leave the fire, we might need the light,” Horst instructed.

  Harold crossed to the big, oak, feeling the grass under his bare feet. Then thinking again, turned to the fire and grabbed his boots. They were still damp but warm. A thin mist of steam rose from each of them. Gripping the tops of his boots in his teeth, he tested the bark of the tree for a foot hold, and swung himself up into the lowest branch.

  Horst took another look around, taking stock one last time, before he scaled the oak. He moved with limber grace, moving from branch to branch. Muscles stood out on his arms and legs that the other boys were still a year or two from gaining. He found himself a joint were two branches met the trunk and settled himself in to it.

  “Why were you both walking in the water?” He asked, a smile crossing his face.

  “We were walking on the bank, but it got too overgrown,” Gervin said, sounding sheepish. He followed them both up in to the tree, moving left as his friends had moved right, looking for a comfortable perch for the night.