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

by Doug Dandridge

  “But..” stammered Faelan.

  “You should have thought of that this morning,” growled the senior sergeant. “Next time you might want to think things out ahead of time. Now, get back to your places.”

  The three headed back to their places, cursing under their breaths and making sure that the sergeant didn’t hear them.

  “We stop for midday meal break soon,” said Conner, looking to the side at his two friends as they marched along. “We can get the blankets then.”

  The other two nodded, plainly still unhappy. But there was nothing else they could do.

  * * *

  “They’re looking good, Duke Connor,” said Rory, sitting his horse in the chill air. He wore a light coat of mail under his winter coat, enough to protect him in the unlikely event they were attacked within a day’s march of the capital. But his guard captain, Cormag, had insisted, and Rory hadn’t the heart to go against the wishes of the loyal officer.

  “I still have some concerns about the new men, your Majesty,” answered the duke. “It takes more than a season to turn a farm boy into a competent pike pusher.”

  “And the new musketmen?”

  “Hell, they were already soldiers when we switched them over,” said the gruff general with a slight smile. “All they needed was the drill to speed up their loading and firing.”

  Rory nodded. Musketmen were defined by their ability to reload their weapons in a timely manner. Their weapons were known for their inaccuracy. They were only effective in mass, and they achieved that mass by getting off two shots a minute.

  “I’m still glad we’ll have the archers along,” said the king, the map of their march in his mind. The bowmen all came from the north of his kingdom, and area not known for its compliance to royal decrees. The independent people learned the longbow from an early age and could get off twelve aimed arrows in a minute, much faster than the men with muskets, and with equal range and better accuracy. The problem was, men could be turned into competent musketmen in a season, while bowmen took years, and most of the people of his kingdom no longer used those weapons. He had bargained a bit to get them to march, but fifteen thousand trained longbowmen were always welcome, even in these days of firearms.

  “If you can count on the heretical bastards,” growled the duke, a loyal son of the Doblas church.

  Rory would take any fighting men he could get, no matter how they ranked on the church’s scale of heretical beliefs. The light cavalry were also from another region of the kingdom, the borderland with the Britains. He wasn’t sure if they were of the same quality of horsemanship as the nomads they would be fighting, but they were the best in this part of the continent.

  Another company marched by, their captain shouting the order that had all eyes turned his way. Their three wagons rolled ahead of them, the horses still stepping smartly. By the afternoon they would be worn out, ready for their rest and food as much as the humans who depended on them to do the heavy pulling.

  The first of the artillery units turned the curve of the road, wagons loaded with shot and powder, a gun towed behind each. The first battery was made up of twelve-pound field pieces, the smallest that would be used on this campaign. The gunners were sitting on the wagons or riding on the back of their horses. The men all waved and cheered when they saw the king. Artillerymen were a different breed. They had discipline, the kind needed to service their guns and lay them on target as quickly as possible, while avoiding getting themselves killed by recoiling cannon. They weren’t so much into the standing at attention and saluting form of discipline, which the exception of the naval gunners who had been seconded from their ships for this campaign.

  “Let’s get back to the front,” said Rory after watching two more batteries of artillery roll by, one of heavier naval ordnance on newly constructed carriages. Those were thirty-two pounders, the heaviest guns they would carry into the field, as heavy as the largest used in most fortifications. They would give his army some hard hitting long range fire. For a while, until the zombies overran the lines.

  * * *

  Conner huddled close to the fire his company was camped around, blanket draped over his shoulders. His front side was toasty warm, but his back was still cold, even with the blanket, since the temperature was dropping. One thing he would say for the army. It was organized. They had marched into camp behind their wagons to find a bivouac already prepared, fire going, food steaming in pots. All they had to do was pitch their tents and rest, until they had to repeat it the next day. Some of the men had been too tired to eat, stumbling to the nearest flat place they could lay their exhausted bodies.

  They’ll regret it in the morning, thought Conner, taking another bite of stew beef from his mess tin. Marching was hard work, and they would need the food they were missing tonight.

  “Mind if we have a sit?” asked an accented voice as six men came out of the dark and into the firelight.

  Conner didn’t want to stare, but he couldn’t help himself. The men were all different shades of brown, with the exception of the one who was coal black. All had broader noses that he was used to, and three had hair of a texture he had never seen.

  “Never seen anyone from the Southern Continent, boy?” asked the coal black one. “I’m considered light skinned where I come from.”

  All of the mercenaries, for that was what they had to be, laughed at that, and Conner was sure the man wasn’t serious. He also couldn’t imagine anyone darker than that.

  “Have a sit,” replied one of the veterans, a man who had been in the king’s service for over a decade named Flynn. “You’re with one of the mercenary companies, yes?”

  “We are at that,” answered a man with skin the color of mahogany. They all found seats on the logs that had been provided for the soldiers. One pulled a bottle from his side pouch and took a deep swig, then passed it around. “Your king was willing to pay well, and all the other wars have died down for the moment with these barbarians at the gates.”

  Conner wondered who these barbarians were who were calling others that name. They had to be barbarians, didn’t they, for the only civilized people in the world had to come from his country and the lands bordering?

  “Come to check out the neighbors?” asked Flynn, taking the bottle.

  “Always nice to know who we’ll be fighting beside,” answered the mercenary. “Even better to know that they’re veteran warriors. Less likely to be running to catch up if they rout.”

  There was laughter at that, and Conner had to guess that stuff like that really happened. He wondered what he would do if the companies to either side ran. They could stand and fight, going into a hedgehog formation, which just delayed the inevitable. Or they could run along with the others, and get caught from behind by cavalry, defenseless. He hoped he didn’t have to experience a rout, so he would never find out what he would do. A thought hit him, and he asked a question, his mouth running ahead of his brain.

  “Aren’t you afraid of fighting in lands not ruled by your gods?”

  The mercenaries laughed at that, while some of the veterans chuckled.

  “We worship whatever gods rule the lands we fight in, boy,” answered the leader of the group. “The gods don’t really care. Prayer is prayer, and the damned parasites can live on any and all worship.”

  Conner flushed at the answer, which sounded blasphemous to him. The laughter rose as they noted his embarrassment.

  “After you’ve been in this world for some time, and seen what most of us have seen, you’ll come to realize that the gods are in it for themselves, and no one else,” said the mercenary leader. “Many a man has gone to war thinking the gods would look out for him, but they care not for us. They might lend some aid to one army to win the battle, but it doesn’t matter who falls on either side.”

  There were many exclamations of agreement to that, and Conner wondered what kind of people he had fallen in with. The gods were the gods. They didn’t answer to man, man answered to them. That was what he had b
een taught to believe, and it only seemed right that it was that way. Wasn’t it?

  “We have a long march ahead, and many nights to drink through,” said Flynn. “I hope the king laid in a good supply for us poor foot soldiers.”

  A cheer went up, and another man came into the firelight, holding the carrying cords of a dozen large jugs and answering Flynn’s question. The drinking and talking went on long into the night, longer than was sensible. Most of the men found themselves marching the next day with too little sleep, the headaches of hangovers pounding their heads.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Spring came quickly. One day there was still a chill in the air, the next the sun shone down with a glowing warmth. They was still a little bite in the air, but it was countered by the budding flowers on the trees and the songs of the birds.

  Marcus sat his horse with his fellow masters beside him, watching as the army passed by. He distantly remembered winters from his childhood, a time when the snows were deep and there was little to do except make sure the sheltered animals had their day’s fodder. Aegypt didn’t have winter, at least not what most people north of them would recognize as such. He blood was thin from living in that land, and he had shivered through this one. Still, in one way he was happy that they had winter on this continent, since the undead hadn’t been active during the cold.

  They were now over twelve hundred miles from the capital, a thousand as the bird flew. Twenty miles a day for over two months, and they were still not to the land of the Franks. And by now the undead would again be active.

  “The king says we are almost to the border of the land of the Franks,” said Master Aepep, walking his horse up to those of the younger mages.

  Marcus nodded, thinking of the lands they had passed through. First those of the Angles, taking on some few of their men, while the force of the Iberians joined them there, swelling the ranks. Next that of the Bretans. Now they were almost through the lands of the Geats. Men in armor had joined them at each kingdom. The people had a different look about them in each land, the buildings of a different design. Marcus would have liked to spend some time in each of the kingdoms, learning about them and their ways, but they hadn’t the time. He thought he might like to take his time coming back to the lands of the Eirish to learn about these different peoples, if he was still alive.

  “And the Eirish gods are still with us?” Bastet, looking over at Aepep.

  “That is what the priests are saying,” announced the master. “They say that there are enough of Morrigan’s worshippers here in the army, along with the priests. And the gods of the west are in agreement that they need to stop their constant bickering until Erlic is beaten.”

  To Marcus’ way of thinking that was good. They would need all of the help they could get on this campaign. The gods bickering among themselves would not be helpful at all.

  “We have company,” said Ankhu, pointing a finger to the east, where the intersection of their road with a southern artery sat. A group of men were riding up the road, nobles by the look of them, while light cavalry stopped to the side, and a larger body of horsemen followed a couple of hundred yards behind. A body of their own people were riding back along the army to meet with the newcomers. It looked like another body of nobles, with King Rory leading the group.

  “I think these are more allies,” said Aepep. “Possibly the Etruscans and the other Latin peoples.”

  Marcus remembered their time in that land, of a people who had hated mages, and would have executed them if they had been found. All he could recall was that it was an unfriendly land, and that the people seemed to be poorer than most, while their nobles waxed rich on their labors. Not at all like the lands of the Eirish, or even of the other peoples they had marched through. They treated their people as valuable subjects.

  He wondered what the kings of the Etruscans would think if he knew the people his agents had been searching for were right here, right now. Not that he worried that anything would happen, since King Rory was their protector. But it might get interesting.

  * * *

  “You made good time, Prince August,” said Rory, reaching out a hand.

  “Of course,” said Prince August of the Etruscan people, ignoring the offered hand. “We are a civilized warrior people, unlike those of you to the north.”

  Rory raised a hand as some of the men behind him growled low in their throats. This was someone he needed fighting at his side, not against him. The Etruscans, and the other Latins of their isthmus, would be the second largest contingent of the army after his own.

  “I’m guessing that your supply train is sufficient for your men?” asked Rory, looking at the first ranks of infantry moving far down the road. The men were arrayed in their full armor, plate cuirasses, greaves, even helmets. They carried short spears over their shoulders and small shields on their arms. He shook his head at the sight.

  Why in the hells does he have them marching in armor, when we are under no risk of attack here? thought the king. There were over ten thousand light cavalry scouting the area, and the king doubted a squad of enemy could get close without being spotted, much less an army. But the headstrong Etruscan prince wanted to show that his men were toughened veterans, no matter how much it wore down his soldiers.

  “Of course,” answered the prince. “And when we run out, we will live off the land. After all, we come to save these people, so they can feed my men. Of course, I have enough fine fare for myself and my nobles.”

  Of course, thought Rory, whose nobles were living off the same fare as their men, though they did have a supply of the better wines and liquors of the kingdom. “You realize that the Franks have been under assault since the summer. They really haven’t had time to bring in a harvest.”

  Behind the first company rolled the company supply wagons, and Rory was glad to see that they had pikes staves aboard. Then he thought of something else, but the prince had opened his mouth to voice more inanities. Why couldn’t your father have come, or maybe one of your younger brothers? Of course the king was too old and frail, and it was the job of the heir to lead the army in that kingdom.

  “They will hide much of what we need, I am sure,” the prince continued. “Peasants always try to hide what actually belongs to their betters.”

  “And have your men brought along the crushing weapons and shields that I requested?” asked Rory, changing the subject to something more palatable.

  “Of course,” said the prince in his whiny voice. “We are not so simple minded as your people, and besides, father insisted. But we have the finest pikemen on the planet, so I don’t really see the need.”

  At least your king has the sense the gods gave a rock, thought Rory, stopping himself from shaking his head. He saw he was going to have trouble with this young jackanapes. It would take all of his self-control to continue to deal with him.

  “When can I expect your army to clear the way, so I can set my men on the road into the Kingdom of the Franks?” asked the arrogant prince, who seemed to feel that his troops should have the place of honor.

  “It will be another hour before the my men have finished passing the crossroads,” said Rory, waiting for another outrageous statement, staring into the eyes of the prince.

  August must have read those eyes and showed just a bit of sense. “Very well. My men will take an early break. Does another army follow yours?”

  “The Geats are right behind my men,” said Rory, nodding, “and a detachment of the Angles and Britons.”

  “More barbarians,” groaned the prince, shaking his head. “I will insert my army right behind yours then. We bring the largest forces. It is only right that we lead the march.”

  And if you could get away with it, you would put your men in front of mine, thought Rory. Actually, if it let them take the brunt of any ambush, he would be for it, especially if this arrogant fop of a prince was the first to die.

  “Do what you see fit, Prince August. I would like to meet in my pavilion tonight, to go ov
er our campaign.”

  “Will those people be there? Those, magic users?”

  “Their leaders will be there. They are an important part of my plan.”

  “Yes. Your plan. And I hope I have some input into, your plan?”

  “You will, my Prince. Now, I leave you till tonight. We will have a feast prepared, to celebrate out alliance.”

  Rory gave a quick salute, raising his hand in the air, then spurring his horse around and heading back to the front of his column.

  “What a horse’s ass,” said Duke Connor, glancing back over his shoulder.

  “That he is,” agreed the king. “But we need him and his people, so I will swallow my pride, for now.” And please, Morrigan, he prayed in his mind. Allow me the patience to deal with fools in noble clothing.

  * * *

  The village had stood for a thousand years in the small valley among snowcapped mountains. It had seen war and peace, marching armies and bountiful harvests. But always it had survived, enough people lasting to allow it to grow again. This time it was different. The army that came this day had not come to conquer, but simply to kill every man, woman and child.

  The villagers had hoped their position in the out of the way valley would be their salvation, After all, the one narrow dirt road heading up their way was easy to miss. It had happened before. But this enemy, Turkish light cavalry, was a much more canny opponent than the armies of nobles who had gone through this area in the past. They were looking for people, ordinary people, worshippers of the local gods to kill, bodies to rise again.

  It was almost time for the planting, the temperature to the point where tender shoots would survive once they broke the soil. Adults and children were out in the fields, clearing away the last of the dead vegetation of the winter’s harvest, preparing the ground for plowing. Pigs were rooting in their pens, while cattle and horses wandered their fields, cropping the new shoots of grass. Children were laughing and playing, the older brought back to task by the adults, while the younger were allowed to be young and play, for the moment.