by T. O. Munro
”Of course.” The simplest of spells, a dextrous flick of his fingers and a pool of light spread out from his hands illuminating a circle full thirty feet across. There was a moment of blurry blindness as his eyes switched back from sensing heat to seeing light. Then all became as clear as daylight.
“Oh crap!” he said.
There were five of them, shuffling into the circle of light. By their clothing simple folk, simple and dead. The homespun tunics were stained with blood which had streamed from torn throats and through multiple rents. Lacerated skin hung loosely from their faces. White molars glinted through a gaping second mouth bitten out of one creature’s cheek. An eyeball, hanging loose from its socket, bounced against a half-eaten nose with each jolting step. Arms reached out towards the wizard and the girl. Some lacked the full complement of fingers, or even had entire hands missing, but this did not diminish the dread they inspired clawing coldly at Thom’s throat.
“We need to run!” He grabbed Hepdida’s hand and pulled her after him as he spun away from the stumbling zombies. “Oh crap!” Another half dozen were staggering into the circle of light from the other side.
The servant girl drew in a sharp breath and then waved her little knife at the approaching undead. There was a fierce intensity to her gaze, but it could not hide the tremor in her hand. “Can’t you cast a spell, an illusion. Make it so they can’t see us.”
“They don’t see us,” he gasped fumbling in his robes for a weapon he knew would not be there. “They smell us, and they have no minds to deceive with a spell.” Instinctively they had stood back to back, watching in dismay as more walking corpses emerged from the night.
“But you used to shepherd these things didn’t you. Can’t you do it again, make them go away.”
Thom shook his head with a sob. “I was never any good at it and it takes time to reach into them, to make a link. I can’t do it, not this quickly with this many.”
They spun around, surveying the ring of encirclement searching for a gap and finding none. “So how do I kill them then?” Hepdida demanded grimly.
“You can’t, they’re already dead. You have to destroy them, obliterate them. Even if you hack them to pieces the bits can still move and claw and bite.”
The nearest hands were mere feet away as Hepdida asserted, “I’ll just have to dice the lot of them then.”
Thom, concentrating hard, made no response to her cracked bravado. The zombie facing him, hesitated in its halting stride sniffing at the air, before lurching to its right into the path of one of its fellows. A glimmer of an opening appeared and Thom grabbed Hepdida’s hand. “This way, run.”
The uneven ground hindered their flight, but the zombies were slow to gather their instincts and refocus their hunger. The girl and the wizard gained a few precious yards, dodging the ponderous lunges of the undead. But then one rotting arm thundered into Thom’s shoulder, spinning him around and sending him crashing to one knee. Hepdida dragged him upwards as she darted past, but there were other hands upon him now. She turned to grab his arm two handed but he pushed her away as an accumulation of zombies weighed upon his shoulders. “Run,” he said. “Keep running.” Toppling forward under the pressure of undead, he used the momentum to push her away. She stumbled backwards, falling out of sight as Thom kicked and scrabbled onto his back. He flailed frantically with every limb to bat the voracious undead away. Every swinging foot and fist was met by a plethora of hands grasping for what was little more than a restless meal to the unthinking zombies.
There were shouts, many voices calling. The grasping hands lost some of their eagerness and for a second Thom found himself kicking and punching at air. “Benedictonium de Dea,” a cry came from behind him. There was a flash of light and a soft whoosh and a fine powder rained down on Thom. Blinking away the dust, he pushed himself up on his elbows. The little circle of light was filled with fast moving figures. Tordil, sword in one hand slashed at one zombie while a flick of his fingers ignited another into a staggering pillar of flame. Quintala, her twin swords whirling, sliced arms and legs off two of the undead and then stamped with squelching force on the heads of the fallen torsos. Tordil’s elven companions glided with equal grace, expertly dismembering the undead. Jolander and his lancers were there too, burning brands thrust into undead faces and swords skewering their abdomens.
But there were many of the zombies and the destruction of their fellows did nothing to deter the rest from lumbering into the killing circle, pressing on the attackers with sheer weight of numbers.
“My Lady!” It was Kaylan calling as he backed away from a jawless zombie that still lurched half-mouthed after him. “We have need of you.”
Thom looked round, spitting grey ash out of his mouth. Niarmit was squatted cradling Hepdida while she held her holy crescent symbol aloft. The swaying undead gave her a wide berth and she looked down with concern at the servant girl’s pale face and closed eyes.
Kaylan, staggered backwards, tripping over Thom on his way to Niarmit’s side. The pursuing zombie shied away from the shining symbol of the Goddess and lurched in search of less discomforting prey.
Tordil and Quintala had ignited a half dozen undead torches which blundered into others setting them alight in turn. But still more came and the lancers were being less successful in their attempts to burn or destroy their relentless foes.
“Let me take the girl,” Kaylan was saying. “We need you to invoke the Goddess’s blessing against these hell-spawn.”
Niarmit nodded and let Kaylan ease his arms beneath Hepdida’s shoulders. Then the priestess stood up and, crescent symbol held before her, strode towards the milling crowd of zombies. The creatures quailed at the sight of the symbol, pulling their lunges towards the alarmed lancers.
"Benedictonium de Dea!” Niarmit called in a strong clear voice. A gust of wind swept through her and the symbol towards the lingering undead. They turned away at the sound, but as the wave of air hit them their bodies crumbled to a fine dust which wafted to the ground. Four times she gave the blessing, fanning divine grace towards the unquiet dead in all directions of the compass. When she was done, the circle of light was clear of all the crawling scrabbling fragments of dead things.
A sudden wave of nausea overcame Thom as he realised what dust it was which had coated his clothes and clogged his mouth and nostrils. He spun round onto all fours to retch and spit on the ground.
He was still spluttering when it dawned on him that his was the only noise in an ominous circle of silence. He looked around him. Tordil and Jolander glared down at him grim faced. Niarmit was kneeling in the centre of her victory, eyes closed catching her breath and recovering strength from the exhausting business of channelling the power of the Goddess.
“What were those things?” Jolander demanded of Thom, but it was Tordil who answered him.
“Undead, walking corpses, Sergeant. The kind that this wizard here was wont to keep from their lawful rest and drive against men and elves in battle.”
“I never…” Thom began.
“Was he driving them then? Is he a traitor,” Jolander’s hand twitched towards the sword he had just sheaved.
“Hardly,” The half-elven Seneschal made a languid interjection. “As I recall he was half buried beneath them when we arrived, not far off being devoured alive. And proof of that is in the zombie dirt that he’s covered in.”
Tordil shrugged. “Perhaps he lost control, but here let the sentry give his account. What did you see Elyas? When you finally looked in the right direction that is.”
The elf lieutenant frowned and shrugged. He, more than most, knew the service Thom had done in securing the party’s recent escape from Sturmcairn.
“Speak, Elyas,” Tordil commanded.
“I saw the girl running, and Thom running after her,” the lieutenant admitted at last with an off-hand air as though the observation were of no significance.
“I was trying to protect her,” Thom insisted, looking around frantically from
where Hepdida still lay in a swoon in Kaylan’s arms to Niarmit kneeling somnolently oblivious to the tense discussion.
“Why was she running from her protector?” Tordil was relentless.
“Captain, how can you doubt him? He saved us all at the bridge over the Nevers.” Elyas insisted.
Tordil’s lips curled doubtfully. “Perhaps he is a spy, sent to gull us just long enough to betray the whole Salved Kingdom. Perhaps Hepdida discovered that.”
“Captain, your paranoia is matchless,” Quintala laughed. “You see servants of the enemy at every turn. Believe me, were I in our foe’s shoes, I would not chose this feeble vessel as an instrument of anything, least of all espionage!”
Thom gathered a vague impression of having been insulted but in a helpful way.
“The question still remains,” Jolander returned to the crux of the matter. “She was running from him and he was chasing her, why was that?”
Thom glanced around the encirclement of suspicion and saw a sheepish lancer stepping back out of the light, his gaze fixed on his feet. “It was him,” Thom flung an accusing finger towards the floppy haired soldier. “He tried to kiss her, that’s why she ran!”
There was a growl from the sergeant, “really?” His ire had swung like a searchlight from Thom to the young trooper. The accusation was apparently a credible one.
“I didn’t do nothing,” the lancer insisted as the soldiers either side of him stepped away, eager to put physical distance between them and the taint of their comrade’s disgrace.
“He did,” it was Hepdida’s voice. The girl was sitting up rubbing the back of her head and looking sourly towards her attacker. “Thom’s the one that did nothing, except try to protect me from the zombies.” The girl looked around her, suddenly puzzled by the absence of the undead. “Where did they go?”
“With the Goddess’s blessing I can destroy them,” Niarmit rose gingerly to her feet. “Though I would you had not uncovered quite so many of them at once.” She stumbled mid-stride but waved away both Tordil and Kaylan as they started in support of her. “Now, tell me quickly, how did these two waifs come to stray so far from safety?”
Jolander was puce with shame. “It seems, your Majesty, that one of my lancers made an unwelcome advance on your Majesty’s companion, the mistress Hepdida. That is was what startled her into flight.” He glowered at Thom, reluctant to let one of his platoon shoulder all the blame. “The young gentlemen wizard claims he was only running after her to protect her.” The sergeant poured a lifetime of contempt into his enunciation of the word wizard.
“It was only a kiss,” the lancer cried. “That was all. Thought she’d be grateful looking like she does, with those scars. Many a girl would be pleased to have Jolim Half-yard show an interest in them.”
Thom watched the emotions traverse Niarmit’s features. A cold fury filled her eyes which made him quake even though it wasn’t directed at him. The priestess looked across at Hepdida with an unspoken question. The servant girl shook her head and mouthed no, but then looked down at her knees when she realised her opinion had not swayed Niarmit’s intention.
“Sergeant Jolander, the mistress Hepdida is not simply my companion, nor a servant I have befriended.”
“No, don’t,” Hepdida made a last attempt to stay Niarmit’s words.
“She is my cousin. My uncle the bishop Udecht, is her father.”
The information sent a ripple around the company. Some, shocked at the indiscretion of a prelate, others reflecting on their own behaviour towards one now revealed to be of the royal line of Eadran the Vanquisher.
It was Quintala who probed the permutations most rapidly. “So Gregor and Udecht both sired bastards, no offence meant your Majesty.”
“None taken, seneschal,” Niarmit gave a stiff nod.
“And, while Udecht still lives, this girl here is third in line to the Kingdom of the Salved. Should the good Bishop perish, then she becomes your heir.” The half-elf could not contain her laughter. “Oh my, this is too rich. Who would have thought such a happy circumstance could befall. Oh we must hasten to present her at my brother’s court. While I can barely wait to see you claim your overlordship on him, your Majesty, still more stupendous would be…. Oh please let me be the one to explain to Prince Rugan who the mistress, no that is to say who the Princess Hepdida is.”
The Princess Hepdida was scowling unhappily and her royal cousin was equally unimpressed by the seneschal’s amusement. “Quintala, I did not reveal this now to give you another weapon in whatever battles you wish to play out with your half-brother. I let it be known simply so that those in this company will treat my cousin with due deference and respect.”
“I didn’t know!” the lancer cried backing away.
“By the Goddess, fetch me a gelding knife,” Jolander roared. “Laying your hands, no your foul mouth on a royal personage.”
“I didn’t know!” The screech was higher pitched now as though the gelding knife had already bit home.
“Jolim Half-yard,” Jolander spat. “Jolim Quarter-foot by the time I’m done with you. Count yourself lucky if I leave you enough to save you pissing on your boots every day for the rest of your life.”
The unfortunate lancer was whimpering now. His nearest companions moved in quickly, seizing his arms to prevent him fleeing the advancing sergeant’s incandescent fury.
“No,” Hepdida called. “Don’t hurt him. Not now. He frightened me it’s true, but nothing more harmful than that. Aren’t there too many enemies out there for us to waste time fighting and wounding each other?”
“He should be punished, mistress, I mean your Highness.” Jolander insisted.
“Don’t call me that, I’m Hepdida. I’m no different than I was five minutes ago. I think Jolim has learnt a lesson already.”
“This is a matter of military discipline, your Highness.”
“My cousin is right. This is not the time or place for such matters,” Niarmit said. “If we all survive the journey to Rugan’s court then, Sergeant, you can have a military hearing. Always assuming that is, that there are not then more pressing matters demanding our attention. For now, I’d like to know what the appearance of these creatures means.” She turned to Thom. “You know something of the enemies’ methods Thom, what should we make of these creatures? They are the same kind you used to shepherd in Maelgrum’s service?”
“Yes, your Majesty, they are that but that begs the question. Where are the shepherds this time?”
“I’m looking at one,” Tordil dourly observed.
“As the Seneschal kindly pointed out, my shepherding in this instance is limited to brushing zombie remains off my clothes and out of my hair. Whatever wizardly shepherds raised and drove these creatures they have been poor wardens of their flock.”
“There could be wizards out there in the night watching us, having driven the undead to attack us here?” Jolander gave the invisible horizon a speculative scrutiny.
Thom shook his head. “These were not driven by anything but hunger and vestigial memory.”
“Memory? I thought they had no mind or will?” Tordil said.
“In faith the Goddess’s blessing has destroyed all the evidence but before my lady Niarmit turned them to dust I saw enough to know. These were some of the refugees from that caravan, raised as walking corpses, and from the wounds upon them they were themselves slain by zombies, bitten and clawed to death.”
“It was zombies that attacked the caravan? And then the dead walked away as zombies?” Jolander struggled with the image.
“Yes, except these ones stumbled back hungry to the site of their death.”
“There were no more than fifty here, but there were a thousand at least in the caravan,” Quintala said.
“Then there are nine hundred and fifty corpses added to whatever dire force it was that overran the caravan in the first place.”
“By the Goddess an army that creates its own re-enforcements from the bodies of its victims. What
blasphemy!” The Sergeant shook his head like a wet dog.
“Where is this army?” Niarmit asked.
Thom thought for a moment. “The caravan was over-run at night. The likeliest time would be the night before last. These creatures escaped control and staggered back to get here tonight. Whatever force it is must be but a day away, ahead of us, since we have not passed them yet, and travelling slowly.” He frowned, thinking back to the long marches he had made in Marwella’s service. “The undead are not easy to direct, and the fact that such a large group have got free of the necromancers’ control suggests they are struggling to keep a reign on their flock.”
“How could an undead force from the horde at Sturmcairn get ahead of us so quickly and un-noticed?” Tordil asked.
“It couldn’t.”
“So that means….” The elf captain began to assemble the pieces.
“This is a different force, a new foe coming up from the South, from Undersalve.” Niarmit beat him to it.
“They’d be heading into the underbelly of Rugan’s domain,” Thom added.
The priestess sucked in a contemplative breath, before addressing Quintala. “We must ride hard to warn your brother, Seneschal. We can get a few hours rest, but we break camp at midnight.”
***
The council of war had all but finished when the orc unwisely spoke up. “Why we wait when half breed coward skulks in hills?” He stood up and slammed his fist against his shoulder for emphasis. “Chief Nagbadesh and Redfang tribe flush him out, teach him and his human slaves what orcish steel can do. I let Rugan read my name written with his entrails, if half-elf scum have enough guts for it.” He hur-hurred at his boastful orcish wit and glanced around the table for an echo of approval from the assembled captains. None came.
Odestus surveyed the silent assembly from his position at the foot of the table. The evening torches guttered and spat, casting a hideous flickering shadow of the orc against the stone walls. Nagbadesh was one of his creatures, leader of a tribe he had brought haltingly out of the captured province of Undersalve. The short but muscular orc was an unusual chieftain in a race where physical size was the foremost of virtues. Still Nagbadesh had flung off many taller and broader challengers for his title. With his rival Hulgrid of the Blackskulls reduced to a headless stone statue in the outer bailey of Listcairn castle, it seemed Nagbadesh thought the time ripe to assert his own and his tribe’s supremacy,
