by Rex Jameson
“It’s a worst case scenario,” Theodore said.
“You’re going to have to be more specific,” the King said.
“The bandit army has sacked the towns of Perketh and Corinth. When I left, they were heading towards Dona. Mallory has not left his Keep. Dona will fall.”
“This is a nightmare,” Aethis said. “Our southern lands have withstood orcish invasions for a thousand years, but a single bandit army will bring us to our knees?”
“You didn’t send me to scout a bandit army,” Theodore said. “I can’t say much about them. You told me to find out more about this necromancer.”
“He’s real?” Aethis asked.
Theodore nodded. “He follows the Red Army. They say he resurrected the entire town of Perketh. The rumors are probably true. His army is large. I’d say he’s raised 750 or so undead.”
“Are they working together? The bandits and this necromancer?”
“I don’t think so,” Theodore said. “The Red Army pillages and kills, and he follows behind them and resurrects their dead. He curses the Red Army for what it did to Perketh. I think the dark elves were right. He’s from there.”
“What was his army like?”
“Silent,” Theodore said. “Unpleasant. He and his people are out for blood. When they find a bandit, they do not simply kill the poor soul. They consume him. I’ve watched his army eat people in the streets.”
Aethis swiveled in his chair, looking along the walls for Godfrey Ross. His general’s gleaming armor was nowhere to be found.
“It’s time for us to act,” the King said. “Where is Godfrey?”
Theodore shrugged. “I just got here, Your Highness. I’ve been out in the field all week.”
His venerable adviser Jurgen Drodd leaned in. “Lord Ross still mourns for his son in the morgue. We have brought him food and water, but he doesn’t eat. He rarely speaks.”
“It’s been a week,” Aethis said.
“I fear he may need another,” Jurgen replied, withdrawing from the conversation between the spymaster and King Aethis. “He’s ordered his son be placed in the ice rooms far below the castle.”
“For what possible purpose?” Aethis asked.
“I think he believes it preserves his son’s visage,” Jurgen said, “so he might visit with him more before he has to bury him.”
“Magnus,” the King commanded loudly and beckoned him over with his hand.
His eldest son strode forward, bedecked in his purple family colors and white furs.
“The southern lands need your help once more,” Aethis said. “Take two legions, defeat the Red Army, and bring down this necromancer.”
Magnus nodded deeply.
“Ragnar will be your second-in-command. Make our family proud!”
“How do you want this necromancer brought to you?” Magnus asked.
“Dead,” Aethis said. “Necromancy is forbidden. Burn his body. Bring me his bones.”
“Might I advise caution,” Theodore said with a small hint of sarcasm. “He is surrounded by an army of the undead.”
“Then destroy his men,” Aethis said.
“But how do we kill that which is already dead?” his son Ragnar asked.
“Perhaps we should ask the dark elves for guidance,” Jurgen advised. “According to the few histories we do have of their people, they have dealt with this kind of magic before.”
Aethis nodded at the sound advice. He turned in his chair toward Lord Valedar, the ambassador for Etyria—the kingdom of the dark elves. The ambassador wore his crimson colors and matching cloak. He knelt as his bright green eyes met those of Aethis.
“A necromancer has emerged in the South,” Aethis said loudly.
“So you believe us now?” Valedar asked. “The woman was not the culprit?”
“The rumors were true,” Aethis said. “How do we kill him?”
The soft-skinned dark elf adjusted his cloak, apparently to give his hands something to do and allow his mind some time to ponder over the request.
“I’m not sure I would advise killing this man,” Valedar said.
Magnus scoffed. “You think we should allow a necromancer to walk amongst our lands unopposed?”
“We haven’t seen a human necromancer in thousands of years,” Valedar said, standing straight. “In each of the fallen cities, we’ve battled demons and undead. Our enemy uses them. Great King, this may be precisely the type of man we’ve been looking for. This is the stuff of prophecy.”
“Prophecy?” Aethis asked. “What prophecy?”
“Forgive me,” Valedar said evasively, “but I’m no oracle. I do not follow prophecies. Many dark elves do. Ever since we first began our fight with the demon hordes, my people have latched onto any small hope we can find. The libraries of Ul Tyrion were once filled with such scrolls, but we are very wary of prophecies at this late hour. Ever since the betrayal at Xhonia—”
“This is the second time you’ve brought up the paladins in my presence,” Aethis said. “How many times must we speak of this?”
“I speak of the Holy One only because it’s relevant,” Valedar said. “For your kind, Xhonia is ancient history, but for the dark elves? Every child in our city knows what happened five hundred years ago. The paladins revealed themselves to be sworn not to our cause but that of the Holy One. While we battled demons in the caverns below the city, the paladins turned on us as we fought beside them. It was only through catastrophic loss and valiant efforts that we sealed that city in ice.”
“And we dissolved the paladin order,” Aethis said. “What more do you want from us?”
“We never asked for your ancestor Jalak the Wise to break the paladins over his knee,” Valedar said. “We asked for what we have always begged the humans for: aid against the demons. The hordes are coming for us. The three demon lords of the underworld quibble amongst each other, and that is the only thing that has truly stopped them from conquering Uxmal. With Xhonia closed, the hordes continued elsewhere. North then east. Uxmal is all that remains.”
“And what does that have to do with the necromancer?”
“If he is one of us,” Valedar said, gesturing toward the window and the lands outside. “If he is not tainted by the demons and the Holy One, then perhaps there are other magicians like him who dwell in this land who might help us.”
“So, you don’t need this necromancer specifically then,” Aethis said. “Perhaps you could advise us how to deal with him.”
“I beg you to capture him instead of kill him,” Valedar said. “Let him tell you his intentions. Perhaps they are not as dark as you imagine.”
“He raises the dead,” Aethis said.
“I have heard rumors,” Valedar said, “that he pursues a bandit army that killed the very people he is raising. I hear his undead kill these wayward men. You asked for my advice, and it is this: ask him to come here and see what powers he possesses. He may be able to aid my people.”
“And if he doesn’t come willingly?” Aethis asked. “If he attacks my armies?”
“Then cut him down,” Valedar said. “Burn him. If he’s just a man, he will die.”
“And what of his undead?”
“Our experience with the demons has been that when a master dies,” Valedar said, “the host falters and splinters. Some fall to the ground and return to the underworld. Some become confused and wander. But all of that may only be true for demon necromancers. I have no experience with human necromancers.”
“Why would human necromancers be different?” Jurgen asked.
“I’m no necromancer expert,” Valedar said, “and our scholarly works on the subject were lost at Ul Tyrion. All I know is that the demons bind the undead to them. They serve as slaves. None want to be there. If this human does not bind, if he simply leads, the undead may not disperse. I don’t know.”
“Then who does?” Aethis demanded.
“With your leave,” Valedar said, “I can return to Uxmal and search for the answers y
ou seek. My queen or her council may know more about the old works. Or perhaps Oracle Ilsover.”
“Very well,” Aethis said, rubbing his chin.
The dark elf bowed. He held his pose, and Aethis knew he waited for the King’s permission to leave the hall. Aethis waved his hand, and Valedar spun on his heels and briskly stepped from the room.
“The dark elves are no help,” Aethis whispered to Theodore and Jurgen.
“The dark elves claim they are under siege,” Jurgen said. “Be patient with them.”
“And yet,” Theodore said, “we’re the ones with an army encircling one of our keeps.”
Jurgen nodded but raised a finger, speaking as a lecturer might to his class. “The dark elves claim they’ve been fighting demons from the underworld for thousands of years. Their cities have been shuttered, filled with some cold magic that keeps the darkness at bay. Do you blame them for not coming to our aid immediately with armies when we have never sent our own to stop this phantom demon menace, real or not?”
“After the betrayal of the paladins,” Aethis said, “they probably wouldn’t have let us into their cities anyway.”
“And who could blame them?” Theodore asked.
“What do you want me to do, Father?” Prince Magnus asked.
“Find the Captain of the Guard,” Aethis said. “Force him out of his mourning. I need his courage and leadership on the battlefield. Give him drink if you have to. We need men out there who will look death in the face and not flinch.”
“I volunteer to accompany your sons,” a strong voice hailed from the wall of nobles below. Aethis did not immediately recognize the voice, but he did see familiar features in the man’s face as he stepped forward. “Allow me to aid in vengeance on those who caused the death of my friend Frederick Ross.”
Aethis knew who this man was. He had seen him in tournaments and knew him as the Lord General’s son’s best friend.
“Go with my sons, young Lord Jeremy Vossen,” Aethis said, “and bring me this necromancer.”
“Yes, Your Grace!” Jeremy Vossen vowed.
“Dead?” Magnus asked. “You still want the necromancer dead?”
“Dead or alive doesn’t matter to me,” Aethis said. “Just stop the madness in the south.”
“Alive would be more preferable,” Jurgen said. “The dark elves have requested as much. This may be the opportunity we’ve been looking for to reinforce our relationship.”
“Alive then,” Aethis said. “Have him delivered to the dark elves at Uxmal.”
“My King,” Jurgen said, “Might it be better to bring him here first? There are delicate matters of state to discuss with him. We need to ply him for information about his masters and craft before we pass him to the elves. Who taught him? Why is he here? Is he allied with the orcish armies to the south?”
“Very well,” Aethis said. “Have him brought here. We’ll hand him to the dark elves after Theodore has extracted the information that Jurgen needs.”
“Very wise, My King,” Jurgen said.
“And the army of undead that surround him?” Magnus asked. “I don’t expect them to give up their necromancer lightly. What would you have me do with them?”
“Trample them with cavalry,” Aethis said. “Cut their bones from their tendons. Slice them up until they pose no more threat to anyone in my realm, and then take their necromancer. Let them rot in the fields below Mallory Keep or burn them into cinders. General Godfrey will know what to do.”
“And the Red Army?” Magnus asked.
“Yes, yes,” Aethis said. “The Red Army. I expect it will take your cavalry five days to reach Mallory Keep. Theodore tells me the army of undead is right on the Red Army’s tail…”
“The undead march slowly,” Theodore said. “They’re close, but they stop constantly to raise more corpses. The Red Army is even slower. They pillage, rape and plunder every house and shed they come across. The bandits were entering Dona when I came back to report. The people had time to prepare, and most of the town scattered before the Red Army arrived. Still, I expect the bandit army will not arrive at Mallory Keep for another two days. There are too many houses to check for plunder.”
“And you expect the Red Army is no more than five hundred?” Aethis asked.
Theodore nodded. “And skittish as a mouse. The first sight of cavalry and they’ll bolt for the forest. This is not an army. It’s a loose organization of mayhem and madness.”
“Imagine what they’ll do when they see the undead,” Jurgen said.
“Imagine what any of us would do,” Aethis said. He embraced his son Magnus. “But you will not falter. You will charge into their ranks, and you will bring me back this necromancer. You will keep riding until every last bandit in the Red Army is dead or jailed. Leave a legion in the south until no man with a red sash remains.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Ragnar,” Aethis commanded. “Keep your brother safe.”
“Yes, Father,” Ragnar said.
Aethis nodded once and watched his two sons descend the stairs. He adjourned to his antechamber with Advisor Jurgen and Theodore Crowe. They talked through the night about elves and necromancers, magic and undead, histories and prophecies. His wife checked on him once to make sure he had eaten dinner. She didn’t chide him for sending Magnus and Ragnar against the army of the undead, even though he knew it must have been on her mind. He could have sent someone else, but who else could he trust to stand against an army of ghouls?
His general was no coward, but he had suffered a devastating loss. The realm too had lost much promise with the passing of his talented son Frederick. The only other combat veteran in the room had been the young Lord Vossen, who seemed eager enough when the undead were hundreds of miles away.
No, it had to be Magnus.
There was no one else Aethis trusted more to stand his ground and fight the unknown, and Magnus would have his strong brother Ragnar to make sure he came back whole. Shea would forgive him when Magnus returned safe and heralded by the people once more. She would see the wisdom in what had to be done. Eventually.
16
The First Skirmishes
In Perketh, Ashton had seen death, but in Dona, he had smelled it. A sweet foulness permeated everything here, punctuated by the savory scent of burning flesh somewhere off in the distance. If he were to close his eyes and imagine himself somewhere else, he might not have had such a compulsion to vomit again. But he knew exactly where he was, and the screams of the maimed and the violated made any wayward thought snap right back to the present and the damned.
The reanimated victims of the Red Army followed Ashton as he wandered along the dirt paths and the few cobblestone roadways in the old town. The dead were piled in the streets, waiting for burial carts. Corpses in the poorer sections were more haphazardly scattered, likely laying where their killers had struck them. With each new body, the undead implored him to resurrect. Not with screams like the living in Dona still begging for help. With stares and silence. They hovered near him until he did the only job he seemed qualified for anymore. He felt he lived in a nightmare that he would never wake from.
He thought of the underworld, a dark repository in the center of the world for souls such as these and his own. There was a time when that place scared him more than any other. Eternal life spent in darkness. He knew better now. Damnation was not a quiet, dark hole. Damnation was a life spent amongst the leftovers of the Red Army and the stripping of his humanity. He began to believe that vengeance could not possibly be worth the state his people were in.
He hovered above a small blonde child whose throat had been cut and wondered if he should bring her back. Her holey clothes were in tanned tatters. Blood pooled underneath her neck and her legs, and he dared not lift her tiny shirt to see the extent of her other injuries. Was there any further cause for her to suffer? Did he wish to see her dead, glossy eyes staring back at him, thirsting for vengeance and human flesh? Did he damn each of the victims behind
him with a new dark repository in plain sight, here amongst the daylight that served each of them with reminders of the wounds to their chests, necks, faces, and limbs?
Whatever the undead state was, whatever its purpose, he did not want that cruel work to be hers. He closed her eyes, and then he closed his own.
“Dear God,” he said, “or Holy One or Creator or whoever is listening. Accept this child into your bosom. Allow no further harm to come to her. Have pity on one of your children. Just one…”
He looked up at the bright sun and pulled his hood up to cover his face, allowing his eyes to retreat into the shadows. He wasn’t trying to hide his tears. The light just seemed almost mocking. The Red Army had cast a long shadow on Dona. No matter how much sunshine bathed the fields and flowers, this was a lightless place indeed.
He laid his hands on the grown men and women. He could feel their presence still. He understood what it meant now. They waited for something to happen. Their souls suffered from shock, hanging over their mangled remains. He imagined the deceased staring down at themselves with unblinking eyes, disbelief etched on ghoulish, otherworldly faces. In Perketh, he had pleaded for them to return. He didn’t know what to say. As he raised dozens, his pleas became shorter. By the time he reached Dona, he only used one word.
“Vengeance.”
A dark-haired man with a sliced cheek and dislocated shoulder turned his head toward Ashton. They both nodded to each other. There was no more reason to talk. The one word would do. The dead knew why they had been raised, and they needed no instruction on what to do if they encountered a red sash.
Ashton never saw the dead dispatch a Red Army man while he was in Dona, but he knew it was going on. Every once in awhile, he found a red sash with the remnants of entrails and a crimson patch that had freshly soaked the dirt. He knew what the bloody mess was. He had seen them before in the forest a day or two after his friend Clayton had finished eating.
