“After them,” screamed Cenric, waving his free hand.
This could be a trap, thought Brian again, trying to get the attention of the king who was no longer beside him. He tried yelling at the king, trying to tell him to send the scouts ahead, lest his men ride into an ambush, but the monarch never looked back.
The charge continued, the Frankish knights and men-at-arms’ blood mad and frustrated that the enemy they were trying to come to grips with kept just out of reach. Miles passed, the mountains to the sides growing more distant with each passing length, until there was only the growing darkness to each side. The column of heavy horsemen began to spread as the faster horses forged ahead, leaving the slower behind. King Rory would have come down on those horsemen who rode on ahead, but then he was a strict disciplinarian, unlike the Frankish king.
What in the hell is that, thought Brian as the stench hit his nostrils. It was the smell of death, old death, corruption. It sent shivers down his spine, and he could see the effect on the horses around him as they shied and tried to stop, only to be spurred on by their riders.
Arrows came swishing out of the dark on both flanks, hitting mounts in their unarmored sides. Horses screamed in agony before going down or rearing up, in both cases dumping riders on the ground. Ahead and behind came a flurry of cracks as pistols and carbines were fired into the night to attempt disruption of the hidden archers.
The stench grew stronger by the moment. Figures came shuffling out of the dark, on foot, or riding horses on which the flesh was flaking from necks and sides. Hands thrust from the earth, followed by heads and bodies crawling from out of the ground, and Brian realized that the main threat came not from the living, but from the already dead.
The Franks cried out in alarm, as any sane man would do when confronted by the impossible. More shots cracked in the night. Brian thrust his lance into one of the undead horseman who was approaching him, who grasped the shaft and pulled, almost unseating the Eirish nobleman. Brian released the lance before he fell from his saddle and pulled one of his pistols, aiming at the helmeted death’s head. There was a flash of recognition at the sight of the Bulgar helm, then he pulled the trigger and sent a ball through the forehead. The skull shattered, the helm dropping lower onto the ruined head, and the undead knight dropped the lance. But he continued to move his horse forward, his other hand grasping a sword.
Brian’s horse went into a panic as the dead beast the undead knight was riding tried to bite it. The well-trained warhorse reared up and struck with steel shod hooves into the head of the undead beast, shearing through dead flesh and bone. The undead knight swung his sword as his mount tottered back. Brian knocked the blade away, aware as he struck that the dead creature was actually weaker than a man. A backswing took off the undead knight’s head, while a return crushed through the bone of the shoulder and took the monster from the saddle.
More arrows were coming out of the night, over the heads of the zombie horde that was swarming the living. Running among the undead were living nomads, now using their horsemen’s lances as spears. Brian wondered in a flash of insight why the undead were not attacking the nomads. A mystery that would have to wait until he got his ass out of here, if he did.
“Rally,” yelled one of the Frankish noblemen. “To the King.”
But the king was well ahead, and the living and dead enemy were between these warriors and their monarch. The Franks fought with the fury of warriors born, laying about them with ax and sword. They were losing men every second, pulled from their horses by the hands of the dead, speared out of saddles by the living. Those who lost a horse to arrows and found themselves afoot were swarmed under by hordes of undead, unable to defend themselves. Here and there a cluster of warriors formed a group, fighting back to back. They could hold off the undead for a time, but they were surely doomed.
Then the greatest horror of all appeared, as dead Frankish warriors and their mounts began to rise, turning dead eyes on their living comrades and moving forward to attack, ignoring the nomads and the other undead.
“We need to get out of here,” yelled a Frankish nobleman, riding away and leading a contingent of two score warriors with him.
And I need to get word to my king about what happened here, thought Brian, swinging his sword and cutting his way through the undead and some few nomads to follow. He was not a coward to flee battle, though he had to fight his fear every second. His mission here was to observe, so that Rory could have a good understanding of his neighbors. And a good understanding of this threat that was heading his way in the future.
The mighty mount continued to surge underneath, muscles bunching and releasing, knocking over undead and afoot nomads both. One nomad thrust with a spear that slid from the breastplate of the horse and looked up just in time to see the descending sword that split his skull. The warhorse knocked aside a pair of zombies and bit a nomad in passing.
Brian pushed the mount to the limits, catching up to the couple of score Franks who were cutting their way through the enemy. Several other groups were visible just ahead, forcing their way through the last of the enemy. Nomad cavalry came from behind, launching arrows, those with lances, their version of heavy horse, lowering them and charging after.
A trio of the Frankish cavalry pulled up and turned their horses, leveling their wheel locks and taking aim. Three guns cracked, and a pair of nomad lancers fell from their beasts. More of the Franks turned and fired, Brian joining them to empty his second pistol. After the cracks of pistols the heavy horse rode at the nomads, shields raised, taking the lances of the enemy on their faces, then smashing them from their saddles. The remainder of this group of nomads turned and spurred away, leaving these Franks to continue their ride out of the trap.
Moments later they were through the pass, under the guns of the forts. Cannon and muskets were firing, and Brian reined in his horse to see what they were firing at. He pulled the telescope from its saddle pouch and brought it to his eye, focusing up on the larger fort. There were objects climbing up the almost sheer wall, and it took a moment to recognize what the things were. Brian sucked in a breath, seeing hundreds of undead climbing the sheer walls of the pass like so many insects. Muskets were being fired down at them, knocking some off to fall hundreds of feet to the rocks at the face of the cliff. Others were struck, but continued to climb. The cannon were unable to bear, and were being fired up the pass at targets they could aim at, solid shot arching through the air to strike the ground and bounce through undead and nomad cavalry.
Brian rode on until he was beyond the pass, then rested his horse while he counted the cavalry that had made it back. At just over five hundred there were no more to count. Five hundred out of ten thousand. And Adelwolf of the Franks was not one of them.
Chapter Nine
“I have come to warn you, your Majesty,” said Father Trevor, looking in on the King, who stood over the bed of one of his greatest war leaders, fighting for his life after being felled by an assassin’s bullet.
There were others in the chamber, most on their knees in attitudes of prayer. Trevor could feel the healing energy in the room, a little bit going into everyone in the chamber, more than half into the dying Admiral. Chanting came to his ears down the corridor, just noticed. He could feel the energy from that chamber as well, the chapel that served the court. The life energies of over a hundred people, each contributing a bit to the gods. And a bit of that coming back to heal the wounded man.
They don’t really understand what they are doing, thought the priest, who did know what was happening. The gods could heal, but only for a price. That price was more life energy than they gave back, and that energy came from worshippers. In the daily services at the cathedral, thousands came to worship, while scores were brought to the sick room. The healthy were drained of some of their life energy, which was channeled into the sick and injured. In most cases the drained went home feeling exhausted and out of sorts, while the sick felt a little better. Sometimes a worshipper lost m
uch more life than planned, sometimes to the end of their lives. Sometimes the sick and injured were totally healed. And still the worshippers came day in and day out, their faith in the gods blinding them to the risks their worship brought. They mostly thought that it was the power of the faith that had exhausted them, and they had no idea that over a lifetime of worship they lost a year or two of what have been healthy living, and reached old age at an accelerated rate.
“What is it, Father?” said Rory, looking over with reddened eyes to glare at the priest. It was obvious that he had been crying, and the man on the bed was the reason, a boyhood mentor. The reddened eyes narrowed. “Come to warn me that I was in danger?” His voice rose. “That my son was in danger?”
“It was not my doing, your Majesty,” said Trevor, recoiling from the look in his monarch’s eyes. The old saying was ‘if looks could kill’. But the king had the power to take his life if he wanted, here in his palace. However, he was determined to tell the king what he knew, no matter the cost. “I was not apprised of the plot, but I had my suspicions.”
“Then who was involved in ordering my death?” asked Rory, walking over to the priest, his hands clenched into fists, cowing the cleric.
“The grand council,” said Trevor, feeling shame in his compatriots who had planned regicide. And knowing that there were still assassins out there, waiting to strike at the king.
“Gather the guard,” shouted Rory, turning away from the priest and pointing at the captain of the palace guard.
“What are your wishes, your Majesty?” asked Captain Cormag, taking a knee in front of Rory.
“We will march on the cathedral and take the patriarch and his council into custody, to stand trial before the king’s court. On charges of attempted regicide, and assault and attempted murder of a king’s officer.”
“You say we, your Majesty?” asked the confused officer.
“I will go with the guard,” said Rory, motioning his major domo over to his side. “Have my weapons and armor brought.”
“Your Majesty,” replied Cormag, shaking his head. “We have sworn oaths to you and are yours to command. But we will be facing magic in the hands of the priests. Unless we march with the entire army, I doubt we will be able to apprehend them. And you put yourself at great risk by coming along.”
“Your guard captain is correct, your Majesty,” said Trevor, thinking of the disaster that would come if the king tried to force the hand of the priesthood, who felt themselves the equal of the king, if not his superior. “They will destroy your guard, and you will be placing yourself into their hands.”
“And will you stand with us?” asked Rory in an imploring tone.
“I will come with you, if you insist on doing this,” said Trevor. “But I must warn you, I will not be able to stand against them. I am only a one priest, and they will have many high priests, and almost a hundred that are my equal.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“I suggest reconciliation,” said Trevor.
“When they tried to kill me, kill my son, and critically wounded my admiral?” growled the king like an animal that was closing in for the kill. “Never.”
“You have no choice, your Majesty,” said Trevor, imploring the king. “You…”
“We have visitors, your Majesty,” reported the major domo, hurrying back into the chamber ahead of a quartet of servants with the king’s weapons and armor. “And I think you will want to see them.”
* * *
“And how did they get into the palace?” asked the king, looking at his strange visitors. Eight people, men and women, or in some cases boys and girls, none of them Eirish from their features, though probably not all from the same people. One had the look of a Scythian, distant relatives of his people. All with staffs, wearing robes, what seemed to be? Mages? Wizards? And how did they get to Doblas, much less into my palace?
“Your Majesty,” said the eldest of the mages in heavily accented Gaelic. “We have come to your court to seek asylum, and perhaps to make a pact of mutual benefit with your kingdom.”
Rory stood there waiting for the mage to continue, folding his arms over his chest. When the mage seemed reticent to say anything more, his eyes locked on the one priest in their presence, Rory realized he would have to ask questions to get any kind of information.
“What kind of pact are you talking about?” asked Rory, still thinking about how these mages had gotten to the palace, and into it. They could come in handy if I must march on an enemy that threatens my people. Like my own clergy.
“Your Majesty,” said Father Trevor in a choking voice. “You cannot be thinking of allying yourself with these godless magicians. They don’t have the restraining presence of a deity to temper their power.”
Rory silenced the priest with a look, not wanting to hear anything more about the gods and the clergy.
“And why did you come to my court?” asked Rory, looking back at the elder mage, already sure of the answer.
“We received word in Aegypt that we might find asylum in your kingdom,” said the elder of the mages. “Just before our king declared, under the pressure of his priests, that we must be imprisoned. We escaped in the night and made our way here, on the hope that what we heard was true. Many of our own did not make it away, and are imprisoned in the dungeons of the king, if not dead.”
Rory glanced over at Trevor, then back at the mage. “And what is your name?”
“I am Master Aepep, your Majesty. Archmage and teacher of young wizards. Is what we heard the truth?”
Rory could see the doubt in the wizard’s eyes, along with the hope that they had finally found sanctuary.
“Magic not of divine nature is forbidden by the gods,” protested Trevor, pleading.
“And what of the alchemists who build our artifacts?” asked the king, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the priest. “They don’t have the gods to temper their power.” Rory clenched his teeth as he grunted out the words, recalling how the gods had not helped his queen when her need was great.
“They are different, your Majesty. They only work with artifacts, and not the channeling of destructive energies, like these, people.”
“You have heard truly, Master Aepep,” said Rory to the archmage, giving a slight head bow. “You are welcome in my kingdom, you and yours.”
“You cannot be serious, your Majesty. The Church will not stand for this.”
“Why, Father Trevor?” asked Rory. “Because the gods forbid it? Or is the real reason because your church cannot stand for anyone to compete with you in the realm of magic?”
“But, these people use their powers outside the purview of beings that are their superiors. They would be gods themselves. They are too dangerous to be allowed to stay.”
“As far as I know, these people have not threatened me or mine. They did not pay assassins to kill me and my son, or mortally wound one of my most loyal servants.”
“There is something else you need to know, your Majesty,” said the archmage, glancing over at the priest. “There is a man, who I believe is much more than a man. He aided us against the priests who would have captured us in the streets of your capital. The priests captured him. I think it might help your men if you were able to retrieve him.”
“And what can he do, Master?”
Rory listened in almost disbelief as the archmage told the story about how they had travelled with a demigod, who they had scanned with their mage sight, to disbelief and amazement. They could see the divine power in the man, including powers much like those of the priests when they healed others.
And maybe he can do the same for Connelly? thought the king, feeling hope for his friend for the first time since Connell had been felled.
“What do you know about this man, Father Trevor?” asked Rory, turning on the priest and poking a finger into the chest of the cleric.
“I know nothing of him, my King,” stammered Trevor. “I have never heard of such a man.”
“He is t
elling the truth, your Majesty,” Aepep, after getting a nod from one of the young female mages. “He knows nothing about this man, but we do. We saw him. We know he’s here. And we know that the priests have him. If you want to save your admiral, you need Tengri on your side. And I think you will need him in the future, to face down what is coming.”
“And what is coming?” asked the king, recalling the words that Seamus had spoken to him the day before.
“I don’t know, but I feel it is a threat to us all,” said the master with conviction. “And I am sure Tengri will know.”
“And how do you expect to get him out?” asked Trevor, glaring at the archmage. “Throw balls of death at the poor priests who defend the Cathedral.”
“We have another means of getting in and getting Tengri out,” said Aepep, returning Trevor’s glare for a moment before turning his gaze back to the king. “As I said, we can be of mutual benefit to each other. If you give us a chance.”
“The people will not like it, your Majesty,” said Trevor, pointing a finger at the archmage. “They will see you turning away from the gods, and they will revolt against you.”
“They will do no such thing,” said Lord Ronan, the king’s chief councilor, walking into the audience chamber, his daughter, Lady Ailionora, at his heels.
The lady was a widow, her husband having died in one of the interminable border clashes with the Iberians. Rory still was not sure if he was ready to remarry, but if he was, the beautiful Ailionora was certainly on the top of his list of eligible brides.
“My agents report that the people love their king,” continued the chief councilor, “and grow suspicious of the priests that allowed his love to die.”
“The people are still devout, and love and fear the gods,” proclaimed Trevor in a tone of realization that he was losing this argument.
The Chronicles of the Eirish: Book 1: The Lich's Horde Page 9
