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

by Doug Dandridge

  First a single nomad appeared at the entrance to the valley, carefully studying the lay of the land, then turning away. He was there and gone, and no one had seen the lone horseman in the distance. Minutes later there were a dozen of the riders, then scores, one shaman riding with them, shouting out directions as he gestured with his staff. With a war shout the riders were spurring their horses into the valley, bows ready, three arrows in each of their off hands that also gripped their reins.

  A villager spotted them and shouted out the warning, sending the people of the village in a stampede for their houses and the low stone wall that was the community’s only defense. Arrows arced out as the horsemen got within range, and people fell with shafts protruding from their backs. Men, women, children, it didn’t matter to the nomads. All were souls to be severed from their gods, bodies to be harvested for the dark purposes of the priests. After each nomad fired their arrows they drew sabers and charged. The harvest of the villagers wouldn’t have been for many months, the harvest of the murderers was much quicker in coming.

  The shaman rode up as the last of the villagers was being put to the sword. The nomads left the huts alone, later there would be wagons to take the spoils, and they didn’t want to spook the livestock that they would bring with them. Bodies lay over the ground, blood soaking into the soil. Shock and horror were etched on the dead faces, along with a healthy serving of disbelief.

  The shaman shook his head, still not sure how his tribe had ended up carrying out the plans of the god of death. He had studied the priestly magic of his people to aid them, to heal the sick and wounded. When Tengri fell he had been given a choice, to turn his talents to the tasks assigned by the god of death, or to join with those who had been sent to Erlic’s hells. At the time the decision had seemed an easy one to make. Not so much now that he was doing the work of the god. He was sure his soul was surely doomed, and that there was no repentance at this point.

  Raising his staff into the air, he used the words he had been taught to call upon the power of Erlic, the infernal force that would take some of the life force that had recently infused the bodies of these people and reenergize their dead forms. Bodies shuddered, dead eyes opened, and bodies rose clumsily from the ground. Men, women, even children. A few babes in arms tried to crawl, unable to get to their immature legs. The shaman pointed his staff at those and they shuddered once again, then fell lifeless to the earth. They had no use for undead infants, so they were mercifully released from their bondage.

  The nomads found some more villagers hiding, dragging them out and killing them. The shaman again shook his head. Now he would have to enact the unclean act once again. It was either that, or explain to the necromancers that led the army why he hadn’t done his job. He shuddered as he thought about facing the lich who led the coven of necromancers. That thought set him to his task. Yes, his soul was doomed, but he had no wish to face the afterlife just yet.

  Hours later the wagons arrived, driven by other nomads, women and men too old to ride as warriors. The foodstuffs of the village were gathered, and the livestock was driven away to follow the carts. Pigs and chickens rode, not suited to long walks, while the cows, sheep and goats were driven by nomad children with switches. That done, the buildings were put to the torch, black smoke rising into the sky. That might have warned other villages as to what was to come. That was not a problem, as every settlement for fifty miles in every direction had already been struck, the inhabitants now marching with the undead army, minus those who had been intelligent enough to leave before the nomads arrived.

  The shaman rode on with the warriors, a scowl on his face as he thought about what he might be called on to do in the days ahead. He said a prayer as he spurred his horse on. Not a prayer to Erlic, but to Tengri, the god he had been pledged to when he had started on the path to minister to his people. He felt nothing in return. There was nothing there, as far as he could tell, and he feared that he was doomed to eternal torment, when he had hoped to gallop his spiritual horse across the sky of his god. Now a lost hope.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The pavilion was crowded, and not everyone the king wished to be here could find space. Some had suggested that they meet outside, but the mages had cautioned that it was better to discuss strategy under cover, where the magical ears and eyes their enemy might deploy would have a more difficult time penetrating the shields erected by the magic users.

  “They can’t read our minds?” Rory had asked of Aepep earlier in the day.

  “They shouldn’t be able to,” answered the master, brow furrowed in thought. “Not with any magic that we know of. But they’re users of black magic, an area we don’t touch, so I really don’t know the limits of their abilities.”

  “That’s not very comforting, Master,” said Rory, looking around like he expected to see disembodied eyes watching him. As far as he knew, that was not so far from what could be happening. But they had to meet and discuss how they were going to march into the Frankish kingdom, where they could come in contact with the enemy at any moment.

  “If we can draw the enemy here,” said Duke Lauren, the highest ranking Frankish noble to have made contact with Rory’s army. He had led in most of his own force into the combined army camp, thousands of pikemen and knights, and the king had been very glad to see them.

  “That looks like a strong position,” said Rory, looking at the area of the map that the duke was pointing to. “But how far can you trust this map.” Like most such parchments, it was hand drawn, so was subject to the subjective view of the artist. Rory had experience which such maps, having followed roads that were supposed to lead to a city, but actually end at a cliff.

  “We rode through that area several weeks ago,” said Count Gunther, a general in the Frankish king’s army, nodding to the king. “It looks much like drawn. Cliffs on both sides, flat open area between them. An enemy would have trouble getting around us there.”

  “And it’s how many day’s march?” asked Prince August, for once on his best behavior with so many true fighting nobles surrounding him. It was almost as if he were cowed by people who were so much more experienced in warfare.

  “Seven?” asked Lauren, looking over at his count.

  “I would say that’s correct, your Grace. If we can keep this large a force moving at a good clip.”

  “And open space to set up our cannon,” said Rory, almost talking to himself. “What say you, Master Aepep? Could your people take advantage of a couple of miles of open terrain?”

  “Only young Marcus will be able to project a ball near a mile, but the more space the better,” said the master, ignoring the glares sent his way by most of the foreign nobles and officers. With the exception of the Eirish, on the whole, the other nobles were still very suspicious of the mages, who they regarded as little else than demon worshippers.

  “Very well. Then I think we should make for that point post haste,” said Rory, looking around the map table. “Anyone disagree?”

  Rory waited for the disagreements to come. The other leaders had the full complement of prickly pride nobles were notorious for. Rory’s people would listen to his commands and obey, even if they did feel the need to voice disagreement. He actually wanted them to speak their minds. He couldn’t think of everything, and often not even the best approach to the problems he had noted. But sometimes he thought the other nobles, who he didn’t hold oaths from, just disagreed to prove that they were still independent rulers, not really under his command. And he had to listen, lest they pack up their army and march away out of spite. Trying to force them to stay was not an option, since that might lead to a battle between soldiers who should be fighting on each other’s sides.

  “My men will of course cover whatever ground I order them to, in the time I specify,” said August, looking down his nose at the leader of the Geats, with whom he seemed to have established an immediate mutual dislike. “It remains to be seen if the barbarians can keep up with professionals.”

  “A
nd who are you calling a barbarian, you southern fop,” growled King Magnus of the Northern Geats. “I will spill your guts on the ground if you don’t give me an apology.”

  “And why would I apologize to a northern ape like yourself?” asked the prince, touching the arm of his champion, Calvus, a freed gladiator and known killer of men, who was never far from the side of the Etruscan leader. If not for the presence of the killer, Rory was sure that the prince would have been much less belligerent. “If you have issue with me, you can have your champion fight mine.”

  “And only a coward would suggest such a duel,” retorted the Geat, slamming a fist on the map table and making several almost full cups jump. One fell over, spilling ale onto the parchment.

  “Watch it, you fools,” yelled Count Gunther, sweeping the liquid off the precious parchment, the ink of which was already starting to run.

  “Who are you calling a fool,” yelled back King Magnus, leaning over the table to glare at the Frank.

  One of the servants ran up with a cloth and started to blot up the ale. The pair of Frank leaders glared at the Geat who had caused the spill, then at the Etruscan who had caused the man to lose his temper.

  “Gentlemen,” yelled Rory in a commanding voice. “Gentlemen. And I use the term lightly, since none of you are acting like such. Control yourselves, before I have to control you.”

  The Geatish king glared at Rory for a moment, then dropped his eyes before the glare of the one they all knew was the greatest warrior in the tent. Rory looked at August, who still had a sneer on his face, his guard dog by his side.

  What will he think if I leave his bodyguard’s entrails on the ground, thought the king. He knew the man was a deadly single fighter, but Rory had learned the art in the confusion of battle, and was sure he could kill the man. But what would that do to this fragile alliance?

  “Prince August,” he finally said, his temper starting to get the best of him. “I’m tempted to order you and your army from my camp.”

  “Order us from, your camp,” said the surprised noble. “But, you need my army, more than you need that of the Geats.”

  “Yes, but I will not have such dissention in the ranks. We will be weaker without you, but still stronger than we will be if I have a battle going on between two of our contingents.”

  “You wouldn’t dare order me out.”

  Rory felt the last of his patience snap, and he looked over at Duke Connor. “Duke Connor. Ready the army. I think we will have need of them.” He looked back at the prince. “Your move, your Highness.”

  August stared back at Rory, then glanced at Calvus, who gave his lord a helpless look in return. The man was a warrior, but he couldn’t fight the Eirish army, and it looked as if all the other groups would join with them against the Latins, who were also not from a single nation. There was no guarantee all of the soldiers of that region would side with the Etruscan prince, leaving him with an army half the size of that which had marched in.

  “We will stay,” said the leader of one of the other nations of the isthmus. “We came here to fight at the sides of the other people, against a common enemy. Not to make war on them.”

  The three other nobles who led contingents of Latins nodded. August looked down at the table, shaking his head, and Rory could guess what he was thinking. His father, the king of the Etruscans, would not be happy if his son returned without following his wishes and aiding the other armies of the west. And if he alienated the other kings of the isthmus, people who could be his enemies as easily as his friends, his rage would be terrible.

  “Very well,” said August, looking up and into the eyes of the Eirish monarch. “I apologize to the Geatish king, and swear that I will cause no more problems for the noble gentlemen of this army.”

  “Then you may stay, you Highness,” said Rory, bowing to the prince. And I can just hope that we don’t have any more trouble out of you. I doubt it, but we really need your soldiers.

  Two days later the scouts of the army made first contact with the Turkish nomads.

  * * *

  The arrows came slashing out of the underbrush, hitting the first three men in the column. The first fell from his horse, dead before he hit the ground with a shaft through his throat. The next clutched at his shoulder, where the war arrow had penetrated his chain hauberk. The third caught the arrow heading his way on his shield, the shaft quivering in the wood.

  With a shout the nomads rode out of the woods, plying their bows and raking the column of light cavalry. Men shouted, the bugle blared, and the light cavalry tried to form into a solid mass on the road. More men fell from their mounts, while some of the horses reared up while screaming their fear and pain.

  Some few got their pistols up and fired, followed by more men putting carbines to shoulder and letting off a ragged volley. The weapons were not very accurate, but the nomads were close, and a dozen fell from their horses as the balls penetrated their leather armor.

  With battle cries more than a hundred nomads came charging around the curve in the road. Those Eirish cavalry with lances dropped their points to the ready and headed for the enemy, while the rest drew their sabers.

  “Report back to the colonel that we’ve made contact with the Turks,” shouted the platoon leader to one of his messengers, mounted on one of the fastest horses in the unit. “We need the rest of the regiment up here, as fast as he can bring them.”

  The messenger nod and spurred his horse, heading down the road, two more troopers along to guard him so he would get through. The lieutenant turned back to see most of his platoon run headlong into the nomads, while others held back and reloaded their carbines, trying to get them ready for another volley.

  The clash of arms sounded through the forest, along the road, into the hills. The Turks outnumbered the Eirish two to one, while the westerners possessed the better armor. More of the nomads were falling than the Eirish, but the odds were still swinging more in the favor of the Turks. And then another group came around the road, this one led by a robed nomad carrying a plain wooden staff. The cavalry came on, while the shaman reined to a stop and pointed his staff ahead. A feeling of doom fell over the Eirish, and some turned their horses to ride away with mounting terror. But most kept fighting, discipline holding them in place when their bowels were running with fear.

  A musket ball flew at the shaman, to bounce away from whatever shield he had. Two more bounced away, before a fourth struck the nomad in the shoulder. He dropped his staff and the dark horror left, leaving the Eirishmen with only the normal fear of battle that all men felt. Still, the nomads now outnumbered the patrol four to one, and it looked like they would be overwhelmed. Until a bugle blew, and the rest of the company came riding up, another hundred and fifty horsemen.

  The battle went on through the afternoon, the nomads throwing more men into the fight, more shamans along with them. The rest of the scouting regiment came up, bringing along a couple of priests and one of the journeyman mages. As day turned to dusk the nomads broke, the survivors galloping away with a full company on their tails.

  “Well, it’s a sure thing they know we’re here,” said Rory, looking down at the body of the shaman.

  A couple of priests, these Geats, closer to their shaman origins than most of the others, were looking over the body, chanting spells to get an idea of what magic the man had possessed.

  “It was only a patrol,” said the colonel who commanded the light cavalry regiment that had been detailed as forward guard of the army. There were other groups out on the flanks, and following behind the army, and none had reported any sign of the Turks. “The lead company has sent back messengers detailing no further contact.”

  Rory nodded, hoping the man was correct. If they ran into the nomad army in a meeting engagement all of their plans would be for naught. He thought his force could still destroy the barbarian’s cavalry force. His real worry was the zombies, which, from what Count Brian had said, could overwhelm even an army the size of his through force of n
umbers.

  “The nomads are known to range out weeks ahead of their main force,” said Duke Lauren, the tone of doubt in his voice.

  And I don’t want to depend on wishful thinking and might be’s, thought the king. “Is there a place we can fortify near here, in case we have to stand to the defense?”

  “There is just such a place a day’s march ahead,” said Lauren, pointing ahead and to the right. “Not that it will help us tonight.”

  “We will not be making camp tonight,” said the king, shaking his head. “We will march through the dark, and rest tomorrow when we have a secure campsite.”

  “What are you thinking, your Majesty?” asked Duke Connor from the other side of the king.

  “I’m thinking I don’t want to take a chance on the Turks and their zombies surprising us in an unfortified camp. If we meet them on the road, at least everyone will be awake and in armor, and we can form a hasty defense. Order the infantry to eat a hasty meal. The cavalry can eat in their saddles.”

  And we’ll have to move the supply trains up with the foot soldiers, thought the king. They had left the last of their prepositioned supply caches three days behind, and all of their provisions were aboard the hundred of ox pulled trader wagons they had along. If those were taken, they could be facing a siege out in the middle of nowhere with scant provisions.

  “We don’t need to panic,” cautioned Rory to the other nobles, keeping his voice calm. “Their main force may very well be a week’s ride away. But I haven’t reached my age by hoping the enemy will do exactly what I hope, or be where I wish he would be.”

  The other leaders nodded as they listen to Rory. They were all experienced warriors, and knew of what he spoke. All except for Prince August, who sat his horse with a scowl on his face, looking like he wanted to argue with Rory, and thinking better of it.

  * * *

  “Keep moving,” yelled the captain in charge of the company at the top of his lungs. “You can rest when we get to the camp.”