The Chronicles of the Eirish: Book 1: The Lich's Horde

by Doug Dandridge

  They must pay for such effrontery, he thought, recalling that he had lost two royal cousins to the Turks so far. The fact was that they had taken out less than a thousand men in the frontier scouts, and the city of Bratislava had been defended by another thousand. Today he had with him the might of the kingdom. Fifteen thousand pikemen, six thousand musketmen, a hundred field pieces. And, ready to take advantage of the havoc the infantry force was sure to cause among the lightly armored horsemen, the chivalry of the kingdom, five thousand heavy cavalry, noblemen and men at arms. Barbarian cavalry had never withstood the fast advance of massed armored horsemen on heavy chargers, so there was reason to be confident.

  Twenty-eight thousand men, including the artillerymen and drovers. Even if the enemy outnumbered them by a factor of three, there was no way they would be able to penetrate the wall of pikes while the musketmen and cannon tore huge holes in their ranks, just before the heavy cavalry ran over their force. Most of his nobles felt the battle was already won before the first shot was fired, and on paper he had to agree with them.

  His charger waiting, the king allowed his squire to aid him in mounting. The horse snorted, and the king patted the stallion on the side of the neck, trying to calm the normally imperturbable beast.

  So why do I feel so uneasy about this day? thought the king, distressed at his sour stomach. He hadn’t slept well the night before, and the unease had grown through the night. He looked over at one of his priests and saw that the man was sweating and trembling.

  “What is it, Jacvic?” he asked the priest, the highest ranking in the Bulgar church.

  The man stood on the ground at the head of a number lower ranked clerics, and all seemed to be nervous, their hands fidgeting as they moved their feet in place, as if their bodies were telling them to run.

  “Are the gods trying to tell you something?”

  “Can you not feel it, your Majesty?” asked the old man, his wide eyes looking up at his monarch as the king sat his horse. “There is evil in the air, death on the wind.”

  “That is what you are here for, Father,” said the king, forcing a smile on his face. “You are my conduit to the gods, and I expect you to handle any evil magic these barbarians may have.”

  “Of course, your Majesty,” said the elder priest. “Of course. The Gods of Light are on our side, and who can stand against them?” The man’s eyes did not show conviction in what he was saying, and the king felt another flash of concern.

  And truly, they are barbarians, thought the king. Their primitive gods cannot be a match for ours. Not on our lands. And if they have wizards, haven’t the priests always told us those are no match for the power of the divine.

  “Here come the scouts, your Majesty,” shouted an officer sitting a horse near the front of the infantry.

  Oswik looked out over the grassy plain, watching the small dust cloud rising in the distance. He brought his telescope to his eye and focused, and the forms of a pair of horsemen in Bulgarin armor leapt into view. They were both low over their horses and spurring them on at a gallop. There was an entire squad, he thought, sweeping the scope from left to right and seeing nothing else. Ten light cavalrymen had gone out, and only two returning was not a good sign.

  “They’re going to kill those horses,” said the general, steering his horse to stop beside that of the king. “Damned fools.”

  Unless they’re running from something that has frightened the hells out of them, thought the monarch, feeling the sweat rolling down his face. He was beginning to think he should have watched his eating and drinking over the last couple of years, having gone from a lean warrior to a stout throne sitter.

  The men were starting to get restless as the scouts came into sight from their lower vantage point. “They’re coming,” shouted one of the scouts in a high pitched voice as they got within earshot. “They’re coming. Run, if you would save your souls.”

  The scouts angled around the army and continued on, ignoring the commands for them to stop.

  “I’ll have them strung up from the first tree we see,” shouted the general, looking around the treeless grasslands.

  “We’ll worry about them later,” said the king, looking through his telescope and sighting the first of the barbarian cavalry. They had stopped on the horizon of the grass sea and were obviously looking at the army standing to their front. Sunlight glinted off the lenses of several telescopes, and the king wondered if his might be doing the same. He looked up at the sun and decided that he was not sending out flashes of light. Not that they needed it to spot his army.

  More horsemen appeared, until they were massed in their thousands at the distance. A forest of lance heads stood over a third of the horsemen, and the king thought the rest must be bowmen. Horse archers were always bad news, but he thought his muskets and cannon would soon redress any imbalance, while the armor of his troops should protect them enough from the enemy shafts. The barbarians started forward, their horses at a walk, more coming into view behind them.

  “Seems to be enough of the bastards,” said Merciar, collapsing his own telescope and looking over the front line of his soldiers. “Still, I don’t know what they can do against pikes and artillery, except to die.”

  And they must realize that as well, thought the king as the barbarians came forward with seeming confidence. He looked over at his general, who, though ten years his senior, was still lean and fit, sitting his horse like a knight.

  When the horsemen had reached just outside of cannon range they stopped. Moments later a horrible stench hit the Bulgar lines, like a thousand dead things laying rotting in the sun. It was only a whiff, there one moment, gone the next, still enough to get the attention of everyone on the front line. The king felt his gorge rising. It had been over a decade since he had been in a battle and had forgotten the awful stench of putrefied flesh.

  A cannon barked, sending a ball out over the plain to hit the ground three hundred yards away. The ball bounced, flew fifty yards, hit and bounced again, finally coming to a stop just before it could reach the horsemen. Another cannon barked, sending its ball out with the same result.

  “Cease fire,” yelled the general, rising in his saddle and glaring at the crews of the two guns. “Damn you for ill-disciplined louts, wait for the command.”

  The horsemen waited out on the grasslands, now knowing the range of the artillery arrayed against them. The king thought about ordering his men forward, since it looked like the horsemen were willing to just wait it out. But they would simply keep the distance open. The day was hot, and his men were in armor, and it wouldn’t take long to be left with an army of thirsty, overheated troops. The perfect prey for light cavalry.

  A wind started to blow across the steppe, moving from where the horsemen sat their beasts into the faces of the Bulgars. A moment after the wind kicked up the awful stench that had just been a hint became an overpowering wave striking their noses.

  “What in the hells is that?” asked the general, coughing as the putrid air entered his lungs.

  “Death,” hissed Father Jacvic, faced scrunched in disgust, hands shaking.

  “Something is coming through their lines, my Liege,” called out one of the noble officers with the infantry., looking through his glass “It looks like foot from here.”

  The King nodded, putting his telescope to his eye. It was indeed what looked like men on foot, walking between the horses, which seemed to start in restlessness or fear when the footmen approached them. The footmen continued forward, walking at a slow measured pace. Some of the soldiers seemed to have problems of gait, while others were smaller than normal.

  “This is most peculiar,” said the general.

  The king nodded as he focused his telescope. There were thousands of people heading his way. It was all but impossible to tell how many, but he would have guessed at least ten thousand, with more coming through the ranks of the horsemen every moment. But, they don’t use footmen, do they? thought the monarch. And the stench of carrion co
ntinued to blow into the faces of his army. Horses started to rear and whinny in terror, and it was all the horsemen could do to keep them from bolting.

  “Fire when they enter cannon range, General,” he ordered his army commander, who rode forward where he would be able to take charge of the artillery.

  The advancing enemy reached the range where the cannon balls had stopped, and the general allowed them ten more paces before he raised his sword into the air, then brought it down. “Fire,” he yelled, and the cannons all barked, not at the same instant, but within seconds of each other, a show of the discipline of the gunners. The balls arced out, slow enough to see in flight, to bounce on the ground, then go through the series of bounces until the last one took them through the ranks of the enemy footmen.

  Over a hundred of the enemy went down, limbs taken off, bodies smashed, heads crushed. They didn’t seem to waver as they came on, and the artillerymen sweated and struggled to load powder into the guns, followed by balls, then the ram to push everything into the barrel. It took a few more seconds to pierce the powder bags and set the fuses. The guns that were ready first waited for the rest. When the last gun crew came to the position of attention near their gun, the general raised his sword and brought it down again.

  Matches were brought to fuses, and over a three second span they fired off, rocking on their carriages. This time the balls did even greater damage after the shorter trip. The enemy continued on, and now that they were closer the King could pick up more details about them. And what he saw was enough to freeze his soul.

  Every single one of the advancing foot was injured in some way, many with horrendous wounds, some missing an arm. They were dressed in many styles, some in the leathers of Scythians, others in the armor of the Bulgars. And there were women and children among them.

  “May the Gods save us,” cried out Father Jacvic in a high-pitched screech. “It’s an army of the dead.”

  “Then make the gods give us aid, Priest,” growled the king, tired of the clerics who talked so much about the strength of their gods while not delivering on that power.

  Now the infantry could see what the shambling horde actually were, and a collective shudder went through the ranks. The king could smell the fear coming off the rows of pikemen, who moments before had been so sure of their ability to handle anything this enemy could throw at them. The king tried to dismiss the fear from his own mind. After all, he had the best quality armor his alchemists could forge, and a strong horse that could take him away from the trouble the infantry couldn’t avoid. All they had were basic breastplates, helmets, greaves, and of course their twenty-foot-long pikes. And the feet that couldn’t carry them quite fast enough with that weight of equipment. Against cavalry those pikes would have been enough. Again the dead?

  The artillery slowed for a moment as the gunners saw what was coming toward them. The general screamed at the men, spurring them back into action, and they went to reloading and firing with renewed energy.

  “Do something, Priest,” ordered the king, gauging the distance to the oncoming horde and figuring that the artillery only had a couple of more volleys before they were forced to withdraw or were overrun.

  The muskets started firing, stopping to load, pouring powder, ramming home balls, then resetting their matches. A good musketeer could fire two shots a minute, and most of these men were experienced. Still, their shot seemed to do little to stop the zombies. Here and there they crippled a leg, or blasted a heavy ball through a face, blinding the zombie. Mostly they put shot through bodies that did nothing to slow them down.

  The horde continued to shamble forward, and now the men of the army could make out more details. Some were missing parts of their skulls, others large portions of their bodies. It was obvious that these things were not capable of being alive, and the atavistic fear of death was personified in the shambling horde coming toward them.

  The cannon fired again, sending their balls straight into the ranks of the undead, each ball taking out multiple zombies, cutting them in half, or taking their legs out from under them. The two halves continued to move, bottom section twitching while the upper pulled itself along with its hands.

  “Last volley, grape,” ordered the general, riding along behind the cannon, his eyes locked on the horde that was almost upon them.

  Father Jacvic started to chant, the other priests joining in and raising a chorus. The king could feel the energy building, the holy power of the gods of his people. He looked up to see the zombies stagger, some falling to the ground. A few starting to fall apart, flesh falling from bone, limbs from bodies. And the cannon spoke their last volley, sending the thousands of one inch balls into the horde, destroying hundreds of the undead in place.

  A shadow flew over the land, blotting out the sun, and Father Jacvic shouted out in fear, his spell breaking. The other priests shouted and screamed, eyes wide with terror as a power beyond them countered their spell. The zombies came on with renewed strength, and the ranks of the infantrymen looked ready to break and run.

  “Pikes, forward,” yelled the general, waving his sword.

  Under the command of their supreme commander the men found their courage, and trotted forward, rounding the cannon and reforming on the other side, while the artillerymen reloaded their weapons to cover a retreat.

  “Ground pikes,” yelled the general, and the first two ranks pushed the butts of their polearms into the dirt, angling their points forward. The third rank placed their shafts on the shoulders of the men to their front, so that their pike points were at head level. The fourth rank held their pikes overhead, pointing the heads downward, and finishing the wall of razor sharp spears confronting the enemy. Scattered among the pikemen were the fully armored sergeants, in half plate, holding their hooked bill axes, used to take out enemy that looked to be ready to break through. Behind each battalion of a thousand was a second formation at rest, ready to come forward and relieve the front lines at need.

  “Priest, why aren’t you doing something?” roared the king, looking down at his chief cleric.

  Jacvic looked up at him with wide eyes, spittle flying from his mouth, and the king knew that whatever magic was being used against them had driven the man mad. The power that was working against them was stronger than their own gods, which seemed impossible here on the lands of the Bulgars. But it was evident that nothing from their gods was getting through to aid them on this field of battle.

  “Steady,” yelled the general, riding his horse up the line in the space between the first and second battalions of each regiment. “Steady.”

  The zombies came on, closing the last couple of yards faster than seemed possible for creatures that were not alive. They ran into the heads of the pikes, something no rational creature would do. The points ripped into the rotting bodies, and instead of falling back, the undead pushed through, moving up the shafts while they clawed at the soldiers holding the long spears.

  They’re going to break, thought the king of his soldiers. He wanted nothing more than to gallop his own horse off this field, but if the leader ran, so would the men. And then the nomadic horse would run them down from behind. They had a better chance standing and fighting, didn’t they?

  The zombies pushed up until some were grabbing and clawing at the soldiers. One thrust a sword into the throat of a pikeman, silently snarling its hate with the shaft of the pike thrust through its chest. A halberdman hooked that zombie around the neck and pulled. The head popped off, leaving a bloodless stump of a neck, while the body continued to slash blindly with its sword.

  Musketeers fired through openings in the ranks and from the sides. Those not covered by pikemen were soon rolled over, their bullets having little effect on the undead. Some fixed their bayonets, attempting to drive them off with the points, and having even less luck that the pikemen with their shorter spears that their rifles had become.

  More zombies got through, and scores of men in the front line fell. None could free their pikes, or move them to
either side, and the ranks behind them kept the men from backing away. Minute by minute more of the undead piled up, overwhelming the living men to their front. And then what the king had feared happened.

  A pikeman dropped his shaft, held pushed through the body of a dead man. More followed, until half the surviving front rank was pushing its way through the next rank. That rank started to panic as well, the fear running in a wave from front to back, then on to the battalions behind them.

  “Hold the line,” yelled the colonel in charge of the first pike regiment, waving his sword, or pointing at some soldier or other who was running. “Hold the line, or by the gods I’ll spit you where you stand.”

  An arrow appeared in the general’s throat as if it had teleported there, his bad luck that it hadn’t struck his fine plate. The general choked and dropped his sword, swaying in his saddle, while a cloud of shafts came falling from the sky.

  The king looked up and to the front, over the zombies, and what he saw almost stopped his heart in his chest. Thousands of horsemen, plying their bows as they rode along the front, skewering infantry with black shafts. The infantry routed, every man dropping his pike and running as fast as he could away from the fight. Shafts followed them, cutting down hundreds of men in a volley and giving the others greater incentive to flee. In their panic the men didn’t realize that with backs to the enemy they were doomed.

  As if on command all of the undead fell to the ground, unmoving, some half upright with pike shafts still thrust through them. Still, they left large paths open that allowed the heavy horsemen, the lancers of the nomads, to ride through, taking infantry in the back, rolling over the artillerymen before they could get off their last shot, slamming into the Bulgar cavalry that was milling about in disorder, breaking them.