Soul of Skulls (Book 6)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  He turned and walked into the shadows, leaving the Grim Marches behind.

  Chapter 4 - Armies of the Dead

  Sir Gerald Roland watched the knights and lords file into his tent for yet another council of war.

  He knew the men well. Tancred, the Lord of Stillwater, had once looked like a walking tankard, but months of hard campaigning had slimmed him down. Silver-haired Agravain Rainier, the Lord of Tumblestone, grim and implacable in battle. Young Lord Nicholas Randerly of Knightport, slim and fit with sad eyes. Lord Adalar Greatheart, once Mazael Cravenlock's squire, young as Lord Nicholas but far more battle-hardened. Sir Commander Aidan Tormaud of the Justiciar Order, arrogant and cold in his gleaming steel armor and blue surcoat with the silver star of the Justiciars.

  Gerald had fought alongside them for months, had saved their lives and been saved by them. Every last man had fought well, had led his men well.

  And they were still losing the war against the runedead.

  Or, more specifically, against the man who commanded the runedead.

  "My lords and knights," said Gerald. "What news?"

  "I've had word from my men at Castle Dominus," said Adalar. Gerald remembered when Adalar had been an anxious squire. The wars had aged and hardened him. "A large force of runedead march north."

  "How many?" said Gerald.

  "Four thousand," said Adalar. "Perhaps a little more."

  Gerald's armored hand closed into a fist. His father Lord Malden could call over twenty-five thousand men to his banner. Yet those men were stretched too thin, and still more runedead came from the south.

  Lord Agravain grunted. "They'll be making for Tumblestone. We can hold them off there easily enough."

  Sir Commander Aidan frowned. Even frowning, he still looked commanding. Mazael's bastard daughter, Gerald recalled, had been in love with one of Aidan's younger brothers. "Pardon, my lord, but can the runedead not walk through walls?"

  "They can," said a thin man in a black wizard's coat, with hair so blond it was almost white. "But we have warded the walls of Tumblestone against that ability of the runedead. If they take Tumblestone, they will have to do so by force, not magic."

  "Alas," said Lord Nicholas. "Would that we had known how to work such wards when the green flame filled the sky." His face grew more melancholy. "Then my brothers and father might still live."

  "But we do now," said Agravain. "I propose that we let the runedead assail the walls of my town. When they do, we can attack and pin them against the walls. If all goes well, we can destroy them with little loss."

  Gerald sighed. "When has anything gone well these past months?"

  "Sir Gerald," said Adalar, "I fear that the runedead will not attack Tumblestone."

  Sir Commander Aidan frowned. "Why not? If they did not assail Castle Dominus, Tumblestone is the most obvious target."

  "Because if four thousand runedead are marching together," said Adalar, "that means they are under Caraster's direct command. Caraster is a wizard, and he must know that Tumblestone is warded. He would not waste minions attacking Tumblestone. Therefore he must have another target in mind."

  Silence answered him.

  Gerald nodded, thinking hard. The Great Rising been bad enough, with thousands of the runedead rising from churchyards and crypts. Entire villages and towns had been slaughtered in moments. It would have been much worse, if not for the mysterious blue fire that had suddenly sheathed every sword and spear.

  Mazael had done that somehow, Gerald was sure of it. The fire had been the exact same color of Lion's flames. The fire had faded eventually, but it had been enough to drive back the runedead. After that, the wizards had brewed their oil, and the knights and lords of Knightcastle fought back.

  Then the runedead became organized.

  Caraster, somehow, had taken control of them.

  Things had gone ill after that.

  "So," said Gerald at last, "we have no way of knowing where the runedead are going. Caraster could send them anywhere."

  "Somewhere to kill nobles and merchants," said Agravain, voice thick with scorn, "and to raise his glorious new order."

  "My men said the runedead had not bothered to send out scouts," said Adalar. "We could ambush them."

  Aidan shook his head. "Caraster never sends out scouts. The wretched renegade has no understanding of war."

  "Nor does he need to feed his men," said Tancred, shaking his head with dismay. "He has no need to maintain a supply train, or to obtain supplies and provender."

  "A pity," said Nicholas. "Then we could attack his supplies and save ourselves a great deal of trouble."

  "But he has no supply trains," said Gerald, cutting the discussion short, "so we must attack the enemy directly. Do we have any idea where the runedead might go?"

  "No," said Agravain. "Once they pass Tumblestone, there are a score of villages within ten miles. Caraster might send the runedead to any one of them."

  "We cannot allow this!" said Nicholas. "You've seen what Caraster did to the other villages. All the nobles and merchants and wealthy peasants left to die on stakes."

  Along with their wives and children.

  Gerald had seen it, too.

  "We cannot guess where the runedead will strike," said Agravain. "We shall follow them to their target, and then defeat them."

  "But more people shall die," said Nicholas.

  "So they shall," said Agravain, voice grim. "But we can avenge them."

  "Maybe," said Gerald, "there is a way we can keep from having to avenge anyone."

  All eyes turned to him.

  "If the runedead passed Castle Dominus two days ago," said Gerald, "then they have not yet left Mastaria. They will have to cross the River Abelinus to enter Knightreach. There's only one place to cross the River Abelinus. Therefore we know where the runedead will be tomorrow."

  Agravain frowned. "Then you mean to attack the runedead as they cross the river?"

  "I do," said Gerald. "If we march at once, we will arrive before they do. From the northern bank, we shall have the advantage of the higher ground. We can destroy them as they attempt to cross."

  "I fear," said Circan, "that we are running low on wizard's oil, and have not yet had time to make more."

  "Fresh supply wagons are coming from Knightcastle," said Tancred.

  "They will not arrive for another three days at best," said Adalar. "The runedead will cross the river by then."

  Aidan frowned. "Grand Master Caldarus believes we must remain on the defensive."

  Gerald felt a prickle of irritation. "Grand Master Caldarus," he said, trying to keep his voice level, "is not the liege lord of Knightreach and the lord of Knightcastle. My father is. And my father has entrusted Tobias and myself with the defense of our lands."

  Aidan bowed his head. "I mean no disrespect, Sir Gerald. But I am obliged to give you honest counsel, and in my judgment, this is a risky move."

  The other lords and knights rumbled their agreement.

  "It is a gamble," said Gerald.

  It was, he realized, the sort of thing Mazael would have done, and that made up his mind.

  "Wars are not won by sitting behind stone walls and waiting for the foe to pass," said Gerald. "Especially not this foe. The runedead do not tire and do not grow hungry. If we withdraw behind our walls, they will simply outwait us. If we are to defeat them, we must seek them out and destroy them...or they shall destroy us. I have decided, my lords. We march for the fords of the River Abelinus."

  No one protested. Perhaps they, too, were tired of staying behind stone walls.

  Gerald only hoped that he would not lead them to their deaths.

  ###

  Two days later Gerald arrayed his host on the northern banks of the River Abelinus, overlooking the ford.

  He had six thousand knights, armsmen, and militia, all of them veterans. Gerald did not bother raising fortifications. With their ability to turn into wraiths, the runedead could walk through walls. Instead he ordered th
e men to assemble the catapults, and soon a dozen war engines were ready.

  "Distribute the oil," said Gerald, and Adalar saw to it.

  Soon after the Great Rising, the wizards had devised an oil that produced a peculiar white flame. The oil burned without heat or smoke and could not harm living flesh, but permitted steel blades to wound the runedead. Without that oil, Knightcastle would have been overrun long ago.

  Gerald only wished the wizards could make it faster.

  He stopped at the edge of the bank. The water was no more than three or four feet deep in the ford. The current would slow the runedead, giving the archers and the catapults time to fire. Then the runedead would have to scramble up the bank, making them vulnerable to the spearmen and swordsmen.

  Or so Gerald hoped.

  So many things could go wrong.

  "The scouts have returned," said Agravain. "The runedead approach the river."

  Gerald saw a flare of green light in the trees on the southern bank.

  "Sound for battle," said Gerald. Agravain, Adalar, Lord Nicholas and the others shouted orders to their men, and trumpets rang over the host. Men lifted shields and swords and drew bows, the catapults creaking.

  A moment later the first runedead came into sight.

  Gray-skinned corpses, clad in the remnants of the garments they had owned while alive. Some wore rusted armor and decaying tabards, others the crumbling clothing of peasants and farmhands. Yet all of them bore that sigil of green flame upon their brows, the light glimmering in their dead eyes.

  Dozens, then hundreds, emerged from the trees.

  A rustle went through the assembled men.

  "Hold!" roared Gerald, drawing his sword. He applied a few precious drops of wizard's oil to the blade. "Hold!"

  The mass of runedead began wading across. The runedead possessed supernatural strength and speed, but the river was stronger still, and its current slowed them. Gerald waited, his fingers tight around his sword hilt. More runedead poured out the trees, the ragged mass of undead flesh filling the ford.

  The first runedead reached the northern bank, lifting dead eyes to gaze up at Gerald.

  "Now!" shouted Gerald.

  A trumpet blast rang out, and his host exploded into action.

  All twelve catapults released at once, hurling smoking barrels to the southern bank. The barrels struck the earth and exploded, spraying burning pitch in all directions. The ground erupted in flames, as did the trees, the conflagration devouring hundreds of runedead.

  The archers released their bows, sending a storm of flaming arrows overhead. Most of the shafts struck the water and went out. But many sank into undead flesh, setting it ablaze.

  The first wave of runedead clawed their way up the bank, and Gerald thrust his sword blade into a nearby torch.

  At once the wizard's oil ignited, sheathing his sword in pale white flames. Throughout the front lines, the men did the same, and hundreds of spears and swords shone with the white glow.

  Then the runedead crashed into the front rank and the fighting began.

  A runedead reached for Gerald, and he struck, his sword a shining blur. His blade took off the creature's hand, and it staggered. He reversed his sword and drove the weapon into the runedead's skull. The white fire from his blade poured into the green sigil, and the runedead collapsed to the ground.

  The sigil of green fire was the key. Destroy that, and the necromancy binding the corpse unraveled.

  Gerald destroyed another runedead, and another. Lord Adalar fought at his side, wielding a two-handed greatsword wreathed in white flame. He moved with speed and power, and took the head from a runedead with a single powerful blow. More flaming arrows shot overhead, along with another volley from the catapults. Gerald caught the blow from a rusty mace on his shield, sidestepped, and took the head from another runedead.

  He risked a quick look around the battlefield, his heart hammering against his ribs.

  The front ranks struggled against the mass of runedead, but held their ground. An inferno raged on the far bank of the river, but the runedead marched into it, heedless of the flames. Gerald felt a surge of hope. The runedead were strong and fast, but they lacked the capacity for independent thought. If Caraster and his disciples had ordered the runedead to cross the river, then they would cross the river.

  And the fire would consume them.

  Gerald swung his sword, the blade arcing for a runedead.

  It struck the runedead's head and bounced away as if the skull had been fashioned of solid iron.

  The wizard's oil had burned away from Gerald's blade.

  He ducked, reaching for the flask at his belt, and his boot caught on a stone. Gerald lost his balance and fell upon his back, his armor clattering. The runedead reached for him with pale fingers, and Gerald tried to stand, tried to reach for his flask of oil.

  Then the cold hands closed around his throat, and he only had time to wish that he had seen Rachel and his sons one last time...

  A flash of white light shot through Gerald's vision, followed by Adalar's greatsword crunching through the runedead's skull. The undead thing jerked, and Gerald kicked it off him. He scrambled back to his feet, shield raised.

  "Sir Gerald," said Adalar, fending off another runedead, "are you wounded?"

  "Not yet," said Gerald, spilling a few more drops of oil on his sword. The blade burst anew into pale white flames. All around him he saw the defensive line crumple as the oil upon the blades of the men burned away.

  "Next wave!" bellowed Gerald. "Sound the next wave!"

  His standardbearer sounded the advance, and the first line fell back, the next line moving up with fresh coats of oil on their blades. They met the runedead attack with burning steel, and pushed the undead creatures back into the river. The catapults spat flame, the archers sending burning arrows into the river, and all the world seemed filled with ash and cinders.

  ###

  It was over by noon.

  Gerald pulled off his helmet and wiped the sweat and soot from his brow.

  "One hundred and five dead," Lord Tancred said, "and about one hundred and fifty wounded."

  "A solid victory," said Lord Agravain.

  Gerald nodded. A solid victory, and it could have been much, much worse. Yet they had lost over a hundred men, and those were men that Gerald could ill-afford to replace.

  Men who had been husbands, sons, brothers.

  Sir Commander Aidan approached, his blue surcoat and armor darkened with soot.

  "We captured one of Caraster's disciples," said Aidan.

  "What?" said Gerald. "Why wasn't I told at once?"

  "I just found out myself," said Aidan. "The scouts I sent across the river found him. He tried to flee once the battle went against the runedead. Caraster must have given him control over this group of runedead."

  Gerald raked a hand through his sweaty hair. "A pity we didn't know that before the battle. We could have killed him and then destroyed the runedead piecemeal without his control."

  And perhaps those one hundred and five men might still live.

  "Agreed," said Aidan.

  "Which one did we capture?" said Gerald.

  Aidan grimaced. "He calls himself Harbinger."

  Adalar frowned. "Harbinger? He led the runedead through the villages near Castle Dominus. He killed every knight, every noble, every priest, every merchant, and every peasant that owned a brass pan or more than eight acres of land. Put their heads on stakes and made their wives and children watch, and then killed the wives and children."

  Gerald's mouth thinned into a hard line, his mustache scratching at his lip. Gods, but he needed a decent shave. "Take me to him. Now."

  "This way, sir," said Aidan.

  Gerald strode through the camp, his captains following. He made sure to circulate through the men as he did so, praising their courage, and pointing out those who had displayed conspicuous valor during the fighting. Mazael had always said that a lord needed to show his men that he relied
on their courage, that their suffering had not been in vain.

  He wished Mazael were here now. But his old friend probably had his hands full dealing with the runedead in the Grim Marches.

  The Justiciar portion of the camp stood in perfect order, the tents lined up in neat rows, sergeants in Justiciar colors standing at guard. Two sergeants held a man in a ragged black robe. Circan stood nearby, watching the ragged man, and the Justiciar sergeants gave him wary glances. Before the coming of the runedead, the Justiciars had refused to allow any wizards on their lands, and killed those they could catch. The Great Rising and the necessity of the wizard's oil had forced the Justiciars to change their policy...but old habits died hard.

  "He is a wizard?" said Gerald.

  "Aye, sir knight," said Circan. "Like Caraster's other disciples. But I have neutralized his magic, and he is currently no threat."

  "Fool!" shrieked the man in the ragged robe. "You cannot escape from justice!"

  Gerald looked at the man who named himself Harbinger. He was ragged and filthy, his hair and beard matted with grease. Though after months in the field, Gerald supposed that he looked no better himself. Harbinger's eyes glittered with hatred, his lips peeled back from his yellow teeth in a snarl. A brand marred his forehead, the stylized image of a closed crimson fist.

  The sigil of Caraster's new order, one that promised to rid the world of both the rich and the poor and to provide bread for every man.

  "You are the rebel called Harbinger?" said Gerald.

  "Yes," spat Harbinger. "The day is coming when all the lords and princes shall be cast down, and the wealthy shall choke upon their own gold. And who are you, noble dog?"

  His captains bristled, but Gerald raised a hand. "I am Sir Gerald Roland."

  Perhaps he could glean some useful information from this madman.

  Harbinger spat. "The dog of the tyrant Lord Malden. I am surprised that you do not drip with the blood of the innocent as you walk. You too will perish when the new order arises, you and all your vile family."