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

by Doug Dandridge

  “Which doesn’t mean they couldn’t have missed something,” said the exasperated king, hands on his hips and leaning toward the duke. “I will take no chances. I didn’t march sixty thousand men from their homes to have them die in a lonely valley, just because I decided we didn’t have to follow the procedures put in place by my grandfather.”

  All in Eireland knew the story of King Seamus, who had defeated all of his neighbors in combat and established the nation of the Eirish into a mighty people. He had written a field manual on warfare, outlining his principles of siege and counter siege. Principles which still held to this day. Among them were the principles of always protecting the flanks and preparing lines of retreat. Rory was wedded to those principles and would not let the prickly pride of foreign nobles dissuade him from his preparations. If they wouldn’t protect their own people, then he would be forced to do it for them.

  “Keep the men working,” he told his general, smiling at the acknowledging head nod of the duke. “And let them know that tomorrow will be a day of rest. We will hold services to the gods, and feast through the day. They will need their energy when the Turks arrive. And it won’t hurt to make their peace with the gods as well.”

  Rory still wasn’t sure how he felt about the gods that had betrayed him, those of his own people. He had to admit that he was a believer, now more than ever. Who could have faced Morrigan in the cathedral square and Doblas and not believe in the gods, and their power. What he wasn’t sure of was their intentions and motivations, or their reliability. They were as prickly prideful as any noble, and tended to act out of pride and not rational thought. He wasn’t sure the deities were even capable of rational thought. The only divinities he was sure of were the once gods who walked with his army. He was sure they would fight. And he was sure of himself, and his people. Everything else was an unknown.

  * * *

  “Our enemy is preparing a defense in this pass,” said the Turk general, pointing to the region on a hastily draw map. “A hundred thousand or so men, according to our scouts. They are building fortifications and preparing for an assault.”

  The lich nodded his boney head, mostly skull with a few scraps of parchment like skin hanging from it. But the glowing red eyes were very much alive, and no man in the tent could meet them. When he spoke a wave of cold passed through the tent, causing the living to shiver from the evil, frigid breath.

  “And how are they armed?” he asked in a sibilant voice, red eyes boring into the soul of the Turk general.

  “Most of them are their spearmen, those who carry the very long spears, Dread Lord,” said the general after composing himself, shivering for a moment, then forcing himself to look at the lich. “Along with their gunmen, manning weapons large and small. And a large cavalry contingent, including their heavy horse.”

  The general used a tone of disdain as he spoke of the enemy infantry, the normal attitude of his people for those who went into battle afoot. He had more respect for the horsemen, especially the heavy horse, who had routed his cavalry many times since they had invaded the west. Only the undead hordes had saved them from destruction. Much as he hated the evil that marched alongside them, he had to admit that it was a battle winning weapon.

  “Their spearmen will, of course, stand up to your cavalry,” said the lich in tones which brooked no argument. “But we have proven their weapons are next to useless against our hordes of undead. So we will attack in the usual manner, overwhelming them with the already dead, then finishing the remains with your cavalry.”

  The lich could tell that the general didn’t like that method of combat. He preferred to let his living soldiers engage in the glory of battle and thought it dishonorable to send those who couldn’t be killed in to break the enemy.

  We use the weapons the dread god gave us, thought the lich. The Turk cavalry, for all their numbers, were still a limited resource. And they could accomplish what the dead couldn’t with their speed and maneuverability.

  “What about flanking their forces?” asked the lich, pointing to one side of the pass, then the other.

  “We have scouted a day’s ride to both sides of the pass,” Dread Lord, said the general, bowing his head in respect. “So far, all we have found are two high passes to the north, one to the south. Both are still above the snow line, and I doubt we can move the dead through them for some months without risk of them freezing once again. We could send forces through the hit the enemy from the rear, if that is your wish.”

  The lich thought about it for some moments, even opening his mind to his god to receive his wishes. Erlic sent his suggestion that this enemy, this battle, would be no different than any past fight. “No. The enemy will break before the dead, and then we will move the army through the pass. We will finish the Franks as a nation and will only have to finish tracking down the remnants and removing them from connection with their gods. Those gods will fall, and our Lord Erlic with gain even more power. And then on to the next nation.”

  And soon this entire region will be the realm of Erlic, thought the ecstatic lich, anticipating his own elevation to godhood. And then, on to the southern continent. Soon the entire world would be Erlic’s, and death would reign. And the necromancers would become the supreme priesthood on the planet, with the lich as their leader.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The army stood to in a valley, the rocky hills and high mountains to either side forming a choke point for any force coming this way. Still technically in the lands of the Franks, this region had been disputed by they and the Geats for generations. Now it would be a disputed between the sides of the Western nations and the invaders from the steppes. Unlike past battles, the forces of the Geats stood with the Franks in holding these lands. In the future that might change.

  It probably will change, thought Rory, looking over at the other armies to either side of his force. It was human nature to fight, and allies today could become bitter enemies tomorrow, depending on the wants and desires of their rulers. He hoped that his kingdom would be different, that they would be able to forge some lasting alliances from this trial. That was the hope, and it might last for several years, possibly decades, but in the long run it was doomed.

  King Rory sat his stallion, his leaders around him, most on their own mounts, a few afoot. Closest to him was his standard bearer, letting the rest of the army know where their overall leader was. And his own people where their monarch was located. To his front the cannons his force had brought were in the process of going through the final preparations for action, their crews ready. One hundred and thirty-four guns, most twelve pounders, a few lighter, some the heavier eighteen and twenty-four pounders, with a couple of the thirty-twos, transferred from their naval trucks to newly constructed field artillery carriages for this campaign.

  Behind him stood the loose formations of musketmen, eighteen thousand strong, weapons loaded and grounded, their sergeants standing with them, holding pole arms used to signal the line and help to keep charging enemy off the specially trained soldiers. The soldiers wore steel breastplates and carried short swords at their sides as backup weapons, long bayonets on the other side that would turn the clumsy main weapons into a makeshift pike to attack and defend against horsemen.

  Behind them were the ranks of pikemen. Forty thousand total, including the sergeant halberdmen. Today the foot soldiers carried shields and smashing weapons instead, maces, axes or heavy broadswords meant to smash through bone. Arranged in nine rows, the last three still armed with pikes to stop any unexpected cavalry charge. And of course their sergeants were still armed with their ten foot halberds, thought to be good enough smashing weapons that they didn’t need to switch out for the more primitive arms that were in short supply.

  Behind the infantry were eight thousand heavy horse, the flower of the chivalry of his kingdom. Armed with lance, heavy smashing weapons and at least a brace of pistols, they were there to be committed when the time was right. The ten thousand light cavalry were elsewhere, scree
ning behind the army and the footpaths through the hills, lest they be surprised by the nomad horsemen.

  A few thousand men manned the ditch four hundred yards behind the army, ready to throw the flattened logs into the artificial chasm if nomad cavalry should appear behind the army. It wasn’t one continuous ditch, but more like staggered sections, so if worse came to worse the men could still make their way through it. Not meant to completely stop the nomads as much as to slow them down so some of the infantry could turn to deal with them if necessary. Word from the scouts in the mountains was that there would be no flanking attack this day, but the king wasn’t one for taking chances. After all, in this world where magic worked and the dead walked, who knew what was impossible any more.

  He had thought of digging a ditch to his front as well, but his army was depending on maneuver at that point, and he was afraid a hole in the ground would just complicate things. There were sharpened stakes well in front of the artillery positions, where they might slow the attack without getting in the way of his people.

  One of the aides, a man in the chainmail of the light cavalry, looked from the height of his horse through a telescope. They had borrowed all that the navy had to offer of the far-seeing scopes to equip as many scouts as possible. He focused the device for a moment, staring into it for a few moments more.

  “The scouts are coming back, your Majesty,” said the aide, eye still to the telescope. “They are pushing their mounts.”

  Rory gestured for telescope, taking it and putting it to his eye to focus in on the thirty or so horsemen who were spurring their mounts for the army. About half were his men, the rest the scouts of the other leaders.

  “They look like the hounds of hell are on their tails,” said the aide who had handed the king the telescope.

  “Yes,” said Rory, handing the instrument back to the man, letting him get back to doing his job. “Let the men know that those hounds will soon be here.” Rory thought it a good idea to check out the rest of the line, since the survival of his army was predicated on their protecting his flanks.

  First he looked to the left, where the Geats where arrayed. Close cousins of the Norse, they fought with much the same savagery, and courage. Four thousand musketmen backed their thirty guns, their fourteen thousand heavy infantry behind the firearm equipped soldiers. The heavy infantry were armored in archaic chainmail, with large shields and heavy hands weapons that they seemed more comfortable handling than the more southern contingents. Their small heavy cavalry contingent was behind the infantry, their light cavalry serving much the same function as the Eirish horse.

  Beyond them, and holding the far-left flank, was the Frank contingent. No longer a completely professional army, it was still a force that didn’t concern him much. The Franks had more reason to fight than most, their lands already all but overrun. This was thought to be their last chance to save their kingdom. Among them were scattered several thousand Slavs from the lands further east, noticeable by their lamellar armor, so different from the half plate of the Franks. The Franks had only sixty-one guns, but backed them with twelve thousand musketeers and twenty-five thousand heavy infantry. Their cavalry contingent, eight thousand light and five thousand heavy horse, sat on the flank, a mobile reserve or striking force. A third of their infantry was also deployed back as a reserve in case the main line was pierced.

  He kneed his horse into a turn, getting a good look at the right side of the line, where the other forces were arrayed. First to that side were the Iberians, the old enemies of the Eirish. He still didn’t trust them, but he needed them this day, as he needed all of his forces. Forty-eight guns to their front, arranged in the same manner as Rory’s. Six thousand musketmen, backed up by twelve thousand heavy infantry, also in breastplates, greaves and helms. A mixed unit of light and heavy horse sat behind the infantry. He had hoped for more from his traditional enemy, but they had only been willing to give what was here, and he could only hope they weren’t planning some mischief in the border region between their kingdoms while he was absent.

  On the far flank were the Latins, who had also sent less than hoped, but had come led by the crown prince of the Etruscans, in itself a statement of the importance they put into stopping the nomads and their undead horde. Seventy guns, eight thousand musketmen and eighteen thousand heavy infantry, guarding the important flank, their line ending about fifty yards from the cliffs on that side. Their heavy and light cavalries, in separate units, were set back from that flank, ready to plug the gap or attack the enemy flank as the opportunity arose.

  Behind them were what was left of the Norse fighters, come from their lands by ship and march. Three thousand musketeers and nine thousand infantry formed the force, with a small contingent of cavalry behind them. All in the traditional scale mail of their people, round shields on their arms, swords in axes at the ready. Very few of their professionals were left, and what they had was a motley collection of old and young men. The elders held their weapons expertly, the younger not so much, but everyone had an expression of determination, and the king was sure they would handle anything that broke through that side of the line.

  “What the hell?” he blurted out as he saw the Latins all laying down their swords and axes and taking up pikes. That went against all of their tactics for the day. The pikes were only to be used if the nomad cavalry charged, not against the undead infantry. His anger mounting, he spurred his horse down the line, heading for Prince August, the heir to the throne of the Etruscans, who sat his mount and conversed with several of his advisors. Rory had never liked the look of the prince, or his advisors, and they had been a constant divisive factor in his army. Always arguing with every decision, sometimes seemingly just to prove that they had wills of their own. They all had the look of fops to his warrior’s eye. He hoped the Latins, who seemed to be hardened professional soldiers, would do well enough in combat, but he didn’t trust their leadership as far as he could throw them, mounted and armored.

  “Why are your men taking up their pikes, my Prince?” asked Rory as he rode up with his bodyguards riding close behind, staring at August for a moment, then looking at the Latin troops.

  “My men will fight as the soldiers they are,” said August, pointing a finger at the king. He looked back over his own soldiers to where the block of Norse fighters were standing, returning his look with an angry glare. “Not as barbarians.”

  “I thought we had agreed that fighting the undead with pikes would lead to disaster,” said Rory, trying to keep his tone under control and not having complete success. “The Slavs and the Franks both agreed that these things just run up pikes and render the foot soldiers helpless. While the Norse did fairly well against them with smashing weapons.”

  “Again, King Rory, you speak of people who don’t know the proper use of the pike,” said the prince, looking down his nose at the Eirish king as if to include him in the groups of barbarians. “We will show you the proper use of the pike.”

  Rory clamped his mouth shut before he said something that would cause the young fool to challenge him to a duel. Or, if he lacked the courage, sending his champion out to do his killing for him. That would be the worst thing that could happen before a battle. He had no doubt he could split the immature idiot from crown to crotch, on horse or afoot. He had no doubt he could do the same to the man’s bodyguard, the former gladiator whose prowess gave the prince his courage. But then, what would happen to the Latin army? Would they fight his force, or march away? He doubted they would stand in ranks and accept commands from him.

  “My Lords,” called out the officer in charge of the Eirish scouts, riding toward the king’s banner. “They come.”

  “How many?” asked Rory, turning in his saddle, using the time to ignore the Latin prince and get his own temper under control.

  “They fill the valley from edge to edge, and I couldn’t see an end to them.”

  “And the riders?” It was important that the nomad warriors come through the valley as well, so th
at they could be engaged once the zombies were destroyed. If they got away there was a chance they would just raise another army of the dead and return.

  “We could see some interspersed among them, but I suspect the main body was well behind the undead. The stench,” said the man, making a face of disgust. “The stench was unbelievable. Sickening.”

  Rory could smell them already, from still more than three miles away. Or was that his imagination, the trepidation that he was going to face this unnatural scourge for the first time.

  “They will be on us within the hour,” stated the scout, looking back the way he had come with an anxious expression.

  Rory saluted the man and waved him to ride back to the Eirish ranks, where the other scouts were going about informing his army.

  “We don’t have time for this, Prince August,” he told the Latin leader as he turned back to confront the Etruscan leader. “You are going to lose your first rank, maybe the first two, when they run up your pikes. Now please, array your soldiers as we agreed.”

  “My men fight under my command,” said the haughty prince, not giving an inch.

  Rory shook his head and turned his horse, spurring the beast and heading back to his lines at a gallop. He had been tempted to pull his blade and split that arrogant face to the teeth. As much satisfaction as that would give him, he couldn’t afford the consequences. Maybe after the battle was over.

  “Send a messenger to the Norse,” he told his aide as he rode back to his army. “Tell them to be prepared to hold the line if the Latins break. Tell them I believe that to be a possibility. And set our own reserves closer to that flank, so they don’t have as far to march if they need to protect that side of our own line.”

  Five minutes later the first of the zombies came into sight, not seen so much as individuals than as a mass, a dark line on the horizon formed by the varying elevation of the pass. The line advanced slowly, and minutes later Rory could see them through the telescope, dead bodies in all stages of decay shuffling forward. Men and women, farmers and soldiers, even some children. Some still had armor, most were arrayed in rotting clothing, while some large number were completely naked. Some of those were so badly rotted that it was impossible to tell if they had once been male or female. Some held weapons, though from what the king had heard, they fought nothing like they had in life. Clumsy strikes that lacked strength or coordination. Still, they could kill, and were nothing to scoff at.