“Now you have the energy to heal the naval officer of the king,” said the Goddess. “As well as any others that might need your ministrations. Use your power wisely, and I will give you more when needed. Waste it, and you will be on your own.”
With that the goddess glowed brighter for a moment, then faded away. Tengri smiled. He had achieved what he had wanted to in coming to this land. Now it would be up to his allies to gather the forces needed to defeat the army of his brother.
“The goddess said you can heal,” said Rory, moving up to the walking god.
“That is true. And we have much to discuss.”
“After you have healed my admiral,” said the king, shaking his head. “Come,” he called out to the others in the square. “We have accomplished what we came here for.” He looked over at Tengri and said in a soft voice. “If not really in the manner I had expected.”
Walking back to the palace, Rory kept looking over at Tengri, and the demigod thought he had a difficult question in mind. He smiled at the king, inviting the question, and Rory final seemed ready to speak. He looked around for a moment, then up at the sky, before focusing his attention back on Tengri.
“Master Tengri. So, you were once a god such as Morrigan?”
“I was indeed,” agreed the walking god with a nod. “No more.”
“Are were you the same as her?”
“In what manner?”
“Were you also so, petulant?”
Tengri laughed, then stopped as he saw the expression on the king’s face, one of horror.
“Do not worry, my friend. I do not take offense. And yes, I was once exactly the same. We are all the same, until we no longer have the power to be the same. Then we must have the wisdom to be different.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Norse were a proud people, a warrior folk who possessed true courage and never backed down from a fight. Not even when they were outnumbered by a greater power, such as now. They were divided into three kingdoms, each following one of the primary gods of their pantheon. The legends told of another world, where they were also divided into three kingdoms, though all worshipped the same gods. A rugged land of fjords, much like the lands those of Sudland now inhabited. A land of sea rovers, and reavers. They still had their share of pirates, though the technologies had changed. And no one had ever challenged them on their own lands, until now.
Wulfhere the Brave, King of Sudland, looked at the army he was facing with all the warriors he could gather and felt the fear his name would deny. Mortal man he could face without the slightest doubt. But these riders brought foul magic, necromancy, with them, and what mortal warrior could fight that?
“Is Freya with us this day?” he asked the high priest of his people, standing beside him on the field.
“Freya is with us,” agreed the man, wearing the scale mail of a warrior, like all of the men gathered in the shield wall of the Norse. “But she seems weaker than normal this day.”
Wulfhere nodded. It was the answer he was expecting, if not the one he wanted. Freya was the primary goddess of his people. Some of his people worshipped Thor and Odin as well, who were the primary gods of the two kingdoms further to the North. But not enough of his to bring much of their power to the battle. And Thor and Odin were also involved in the fight in the lands of the Franks, who worshipped them under other names, and so were stretched thin.
“Can you stop their horde of demons?” he asked the priest, one Rothgar.
The priest stared at the wall of shambling creatures that was heading their way, still five or six hundred yards from the shield wall and moving at the slow walk of a man. Their stench clogged the otherwise clean cold air of the field, and some men emptied their stomachs at the approach of the stinking horde. Others looked over their shoulders as if they wanted to flee. The shame they would receive from their peers was probably all that stopped them from running. That was good enough for the king, who just needed them to stand and fight, no matter how they felt.
“I may be able to destroy some of them,” said Rothgar, shaking his head. “But not enough.” The priest closed his eyes and started into a prayer, the word Freya prominent among the others.
Wulfhere looked over his people. His modern army had been destroyed days before, trying to stop the Turks soon after they had crossed the border. Their pikes and muskets had proven incapable of stopping the undead horde, and the Turkish nomad cavalry had outmaneuvered and cut his own smattering of armored horsemen to pieces. Now all he had were old men, young boys, and the farmers and craftsmen of his nation. Even the stronger of the women. Fitted out in the kind of weapons and armor their great grandfathers might have worn when they went a raiding. Many had no armor, only the wooden shields that graced most homes in the kingdom. Many of the axes were woodmen’s tools, not weapons, but all they could gather. They could still strike with those tools, and deal death.
“By Odin,” called out one of the men down the line. “It’s my son.”
Wulfhere looked down the line to see where an old man had dropped his ax in the dirt, his shield dangling from his other arm. Many of the rest of the people looked unsure, and the king could feel how the line was about to falter before it even engaged in combat. He looked out at the approaching undead, now less than seventy yards away and coming steadily on, and he recognized some of the faces in the front of the horde. Men he had sent into combat, not only killed, but now used to destroy those they had sworn to protect in life.
“Hold the line,” shouted the king to his people, turning both ways and making sure as many people heard him as possible. “These are no longer your friends, your children, your fathers. They come to destroy you, through no fault of theirs.” He gripped the heavy blade that had been passed down through ten generations of his line and gritted his teeth. “Now fight, damn you.”
Some of his words were relayed down the line so everyone could hear the commands of the king. He wasn’t sure if it would be enough, but no one ran, so it must have had some effect.
The wave of zombies continued toward them, preceded by the rotting stench of thousands of bodies. Some of the undead were freshly killed and looked almost normal except for the wounds on their heads and bodies. Others had been dead for weeks to months and had signs of extreme decay on all exposed surfaces. While some, the oldest, were little more than skeletons with scraps of flesh hanging from their bones. All moved at about the same speed, the pace of the dead given the energy to rise and fight, and nothing more.
“Steady,” yelled several voices up and down the line. “Steady,” they yelled again, this time the king shouting with them.
The undead hit the shield wall like a crashing wave. The line bent back but didn’t break. Strong arms brought swords, axes and maces down on the heads and shoulders of the undead, breaking bones, crushing skulls and severing limbs. The undead were not as strong as the living, and while they couldn’t be killed, they could be rendered non-functional with broken or severed limbs.
Wulfhere roared a battle cry and swung his hereditary blade down on the shoulder of the animated body of a Sudland soldier, slicing through and dropping the arm to the ground. He brought his blade up again and cut off the other arm, then shield bashed the undead soldier away. To either side other Norsemen reaped their harvest of the dead, smashing them to the ground.
Face after dead face appeared before the king, and he crushed them all to the ground. People to the left and right fell, dragged down under masses of undead, their throats torn out by teeth and talons, and other Norse stepped forward to take their places. At one point the king felt something grab his ankle and glanced down to see a disembodied hand clutching at him. He brought a heavy booted foot down on the undead member and ground it into the dirt, looking up a moment later as several hands attempted to rip his shield from his forearm.
The fighting seemed to go on for hours, though looking up at the sun the king could tell it hadn’t even been a single one. His sword in his hand felt like a lead weight,
while he could only hold the shield by keeping it close to his body. More people in the front line were going down, and horror of horrors, some were getting back up to turn and join the undead.
“Back,” he shouted out, wanting to get his people backed up far enough where they wouldn’t have risers coming up among them. His legs felt like quivering rags as he stepped back, and he was sure he would be among the fallen any moment. He could barely swing his sword, and when he could no longer raise it he knew he would be overwhelmed.
Rothgar cried out and pushed his hands forward. Wulfhere could feel the divine power fly through his body, invigorating him before it rolled over the undead with the power of life. For a hundred yards each way up and down the line the power surged, and for twenty yards out from the Norse lines. The undead in that area started coming apart, bones and rotted flesh turning to ash and blowing outward in the wind generated by the divine power. Rothgar fell to his knees, exhausted, and several people in the rear lines grabbed his arms and hustled him away so he wouldn’t be killed by the advancing undead.
“Destroy them,” yelled the king, his limbs now brimming with energy. A yell went up from his host, a roar of victory, and the shield wall surged forward. Wulfhere brought a sword down on a badly decayed zombie, crushing its skull, snapping its spine, breaking the bones in its legs, totally destroying the creature.
Weapons rose and fell, bones shattered and undead fell to the ground, besides divine magic the only way to stop them. Time went by, and with it the energy that Rothgar had borrowed from the gods and given to the warriors. And the horde of zombies never seemed to end.
We should have just retreated to the mountain redoubts, thought the king. That had been the advice of his councilors. But there was not enough food in those refuges to feed everyone that needed to hide there. That was why he was here, why these people were here, so they could turn back this invasion, if possible. And now it looked like they were still going to be overrun, and the redoubts would not have the armed warriors they needed to keep the invaders out.
The undead pushed forward again, and more of the Norse went down under them. Wulfhere was aware that over half of the people he had led into battle were dead, and many of those had now joined the undead, swelling their ranks. And even if they destroyed the zombie horde, they would still have to face the Turkish horsemen who waited beyond them, watching the battle.
Thunder boomed in the cloudless sky. After the third boom a bolt of lightning came out of that clear sky and struck among the zombies, blasting bits of smoking flesh into the air as it immolated hundreds of them. And on the spot the bolt struck, a figure of legend.
The man himself would have stood ten feet tall if he had been standing. Instead, he sat the saddle of a massive horse of unusual build, four of its legs planted firmly on the ground while the other four pawed the air. He man wore a winged helmet, with long white hair flowing down his back. A white beard graced a face that had one piercing blue eye, the other covered by a black patch. The God looked at Wulfhere a moment, then back at the zombies, raising his long spear and sweeping it to point at the zombies surrounding him. Every undead creature the spear pointed to flared and fell into a pile of ash and bone chips.
“Odin,” exclaimed Wulfhere in wonder. Not in the memory of mortal man had the king of the Norse gods appeared on the material plain. It took a lot of energy to do so, and only happened it times of extreme emergency to the people who worshipped the god. Times like now.
And where is Freya? he thought, wondering why she was not at the side of the other deity. And the answer came to him. She was no more. Too many of her worshippers had been destroyed, and she was no longer in Valhalla. So another of the gods had stepped in to try and save her people.
Odin continued to burn zombies into ash, then stopped for a moment, his nostrils distending as if he smelt something in the air beyond the stench of rotting flesh. He turned back, making eye contact with the king.
“Run,” said a voice so deep it made the ground shake. “Get my people out of here, now.”
Wulfhere was about to ask why, when it seemed like Odin would destroy this enemy for them, when he was struck speechless by the feeling of what was coming. Something deadly, powerful, a threat to even the gods.
It started to manifest, a shadow, hanging over the field several hundred yards from the Norse god, shapeless at first, but exuding a power that made Odin’s seem weak.
“Run,” yelled Wulfhere to his people, as soon as he saw that the zombies were no longer threatening them. “We need to get out of here, now.”
Some listened to him and started to back off immediately, most turning and starting to run after a couple of steps. Others stood there, held in place by the spectacle before them. The king started to run down the line, grabbing people and pushing them away, screaming in their faces, everything he could think of doing to start them on their way. Other warriors, veterans, younger men with their wits about them, started to mimic their king and move the others away. Wulfhere thought it might be time for getting his own old hide off the field, but turned one more time to see what was happening.
“Erlic,” growled Odin, pointing his spear at the shadow. Energy flowed from the spear into the shadow, enough power to destroy a score of demonic creatures. It did nothing to the shadow, which continued to grow, until a grinning skull with burning eyes, the top of head covered by a black cloak of shadow, stared out.
“Odin,” said the skull in a voice that made the very air vibrate with its power. “Your time is short. You will fall from heaven soon.”
“These are my lands, my people,” replied Odin. “You are not welcome here.”
“And I don’t need your welcome, fool,” replied the Death God. “My power is on the rise, yours is on the wane. And soon these lands will be mine as well. You and your son, Thor, shall soon join Freya on this plain, forever.”
“Get out of our lands,” roared Odin, firing another bolt out of his spear. Where it disappeared into the darkness which grew around the massive skull.
“I cannot destroy you, Odin,” said Erlic after laughing at the attempt by the other god. “Just as you cannot destroy me. But my worshippers are on the rise, and soon yours will all be dead.”
And we need to get out of here, thought the king, running to where the horses were being held. There had not been enough for everyone, but now, with more than half of his warriors dead on the ground or marching with the undead army, there were.
Behind him the roar of the battling gods went on, the Earth shook under their power, and he knew that the nomads would not be pursuing them until that fight was over. The king was pushing his horse to the limit as he felt the presence of Odin leave the Earth. The god screamed in his head as he was banished, and the laughter of Erlic continued on for a moment longer before it disappeared as well, and the death god returned to the realm of the divine as well.
“Ride,” he yelled out to the people he passed, and to the people he trailed. They all headed toward the road into the mountains, where they could seek shelter, at the cost of their cities and farms. He didn’t think that all of them would make it.
Chapter Fourteen
Rory smiled as he walked into the room where Admiral O’Connell was sitting up in his bed, sipping soup. The admiral was slurping at the hot liquid, the first food he had eaten in days, and even the presence of his could get between him and the nourishment his body needed.
“It’s good to see you recovering, Admiral,” said the king, taking a seat at the side of the officer’s bed.
“I thought I was going to find myself sitting at Morrigan’s side,” said the Admiral with a smile, looking away from his meal for a moment. “If not in one of her hells.”
“You are no coward, Odhran,” said Rory, placing a hand on the Admiral’s forearm. “You have no need to fear hell. Now, I may need you to lead a squadron again, not just of warships, but also merchant vessels. Among other things.”
“Something is brewing?”
&
nbsp; “Aye,” agreed the king, looking into the eyes of the older man. “Something big is brewing. This may be a campaign that will determine whether our people survive. Or even whether our gods survive.”
“And we have been chosen as the champions of the gods?” asked the admiral, doubt on his face. “Just us, and no one else?”
“I’m working on getting some other kingdoms involved,” said Rory, shrugging his shoulders. “I have to admit that I really don’t know what we are facing. Master Aepep and Tengri are trying to get a look at the enemy.”
“Magic,” spit out O’Connell, putting down his bowl and staring at his monarch. “Why are we getting our feet stuck in that shit?”
“The Lord Tengri saved your life, Admiral,” cautioned Rory, wagging a finger in the air. “And Master Aepep was responsible for getting Tengri out of the cathedral prison. Besides that, I think they are going to be very useful in the coming campaign.”
“I am your man, my King,” said O’Connell, bowing his head. “Whatever you decide the kingdom, and the fleet, need to do, I will do my best to accomplish.”
“I need your staff to work out how I am going to move fifty thousand people over a thousand miles of insufficient road network.”
“Hells, your Majesty. You’re the land warrior, though I sometimes wish you had gone ahead and continued with the fleet. But you should know how to move an army.”
“I’ve led warriors for decades,” declared Rory, shaking his head. “On the borders of my kingdom, sometimes deep into the lands of my neighbors. But nothing like this.”
“And how did you supply your soldiers on campaign?”
“We brought some along with us, and foraged for the rest,” said Rory, shaking his head. “But this will be a much larger force than any I have ever led. I hate to depend on taking the food from the mouths of the farmers whose lands we will pass through. I will not see my people suffer just so we can march on their backs.”
The Chronicles of the Eirish: Book 1: The Lich's Horde Page 13
