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

by Doug Dandridge

  “There must be hundreds of thousands of them,” said one of the staff, eyes wide.

  “Probably more like millions,” said Count Brian, sitting his own horse nearby. “They have had the time to harvest seven kingdoms by now, and the dead outnumber the living from those lands.”

  “And they came on like this against the Franks?” asked Rory.

  “More or less,” answered the count, who had observed two battles of the Frankish army against the undead. “There are many more of us here than the Franks had at either of the fights, and hopefully we are better prepared.”

  Rory looked back up the line at the Latins, wondering if that was true, or if he had a weakness in his line that would rupture under this flood of undead. He cursed the young fool once again, then turned his mind to what he could control. He had set his reserves as best he could against the probability that the Latins would fail, and there was little else he could do.

  * * *

  “So, you all know what to do,” said Master Aepep, looking at the gathered mages. The eight who had accompanied him from Aegypt were of course among them, along with five score of new students, the best they had. They may have been ready for this, but King Rory needed them, so they would have to do the best they could.

  Marcus nodded his head, sure that he knew what he was supposed to do in the coming battle, and not at all sure that any of the others did. He had two jobs this day. To use his own magic to the best of his ability, while also making sure that the new students were doing their best as well, but not to the point where they might cause disaster by losing control. He already felt overwhelmed, and the thought of bursting from the energies his body would be holding this day wasn’t helping.

  “We are to concentrate on aiding the army in destroying these abominations, while the priests bend their efforts to shielding our forces from the dark magic of the nomads.”

  “I can see them,” shouted Bastet, using her magical sight to zoom in on the approaching horde, now less two miles away.

  Everyone could see them, but not in the manner of which she spoke. Her magical sight brought them into clear focus, and the way in which she was shuddering let Marcus know that it wasn’t a pleasant picture in her mind.

  “Everyone, to your stations,” ordered the master, waving to the guns. He looked over at Marcus. “Yours will be the first shots. Try to make them count.”

  Marcus nodded, then turned toward the nearest cannon, those of their Eirish hosts. Two dozen other mages, two of the old, the rest the new trainees, would be with him. Marcus still wasn’t sure if they were ready for what they would be called on to do. Another year of training would have been good, four would have been better, but they didn’t have that time.

  “You know which guns to serve,” he told the others through gritted teeth. All nodded. Some were white faced, all were shaking from trying to hold in the kinetic energy they had been building up for the last couple of weeks. Marcus had been able to hold more energy than any of the rest, which made sense, since this was his specialty. But he would need so much more for what he was about to attempt.

  “They are just about to come within your range, Master Mage,” shouted the officer in charge of the centermost battery.

  “To your weapons,” said Marcus, turning and running to his chosen first gun. His enhanced sight could pick out the farthest ranging stakes, a good two thousand yards from the gun line. The supposed limits of his power to propel a ball.

  “This one,” he said to that gun crew, pointing to the twelve pounder. The man with the match stood to the side, ready to move as soon as the mage signaled him, as he had been taught. Marcus concentrated on the task, ready to release, while making sure that he was not in the way of the recoil. He moved forward, reaching a hand toward the weapon.

  * * *

  “I still don’t like that we are using magic not of the gods,” said one of the older priests, staring up at High Bishop Trevor where he stood at the top of the small rise. “It goes against everything I have ever believed.”

  The priest who was arguing against the plan was dressed as the others. White robes over leather jerkins, their only arms the staffs they carried and a short blade by their side. Trevor was dressed the same, only his robe different, set with threads of gold that formed ornate filigrees on sleeves and collar.

  “We have the gods themselves who have approved of it,” said Trevor, pointing at where the four walking gods with the army were standing, weapons at the ready.

  The two men and two women looked like they were more than mortal, and having seen some of the things they could do, he had no doubt they were somehow connected with the divine. Tengri stood taller than most men, with a muscular build that could be described as godlike. His armor had an otherworldly look about it, not like any kind of regular steel. Freya was beautiful beyond any mortal woman, and her chainmail actually glowed with an internal light. Perun’s armor had a cruder look to it, but the huge warhammer he held easily in one hand, its head covered in strange runes, had a divine feel about it. Most of the priests here were not familiar with the Slavic god, nor with Nefirtat, another deity of that region who looked like a divine war chief.

  “They are not our gods,” said the dissenter, glaring at the high bishop.

  “Your king has ordered it,” said another of the senior priests, glaring at the dissenter. “As has your spiritual leader. So do what you are told, or leave.”

  “I didn’t vote Trevor for high bishop,” said the hothead, staring at the high bishop.

  “No,” said Trevor, nodding. “Unfortunately, the goddess gave me this position, so I am stuck with it. Your goddess as well, the one you have sworn your service to. And I have to agree with Father Connel. Either follow my orders this day, or leave. I cannot afford to have any priests here working cross purposes to the rest of us.”

  The priest in question spat on the ground, then turned and stormed away.

  “Keep an eye on him,” Trevor said to one of the younger priests. “If you hear him casting any spells, stop him.”

  “How?”

  “By whatever means are necessary.”

  “What about the priests of the other gods?” asked one of the elders, brows furrowing. “Can we really trust them?”

  Trevor huffed out a breath. This had already been discussed to death. They had to trust the other priests, who were here to back up their armies. If they thought they would betray their own people, then the battle was already lost. “Their leaders trust them, and so must we,” he said to the elder priest. “They serve their gods, who are the protectors. If they would betray their gods, I would not think their power would last past that betrayal.

  “Now, for the rest of you, you know what to do. We will make sure that nothing dark or evil assaults the minds of our army. Leave the zombies to the mages, and the walking gods. I will message all of you if we need to change our focus. Now go.”

  The congregation broke up, small groups of priests heading toward the lines to mingle in among the troops. Trevor had no doubt they would be facing magic this day. Hopefully it was the kind of magic they were best suited to countering, and not something they hadn’t thought of.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The dark line of the undead came on, an ominous mass of shuffling forms, the horrible odor of their rotting bodies preceding them. Overhead was the dark line of storm clouds, lightning flaring above from cloud to cloud. The clouds were worrisome, as a heavy rain would wet all the powder of the army, as well as the bowstrings of its axillary archers in the hills on the left flank. The storm had an unnatural look to it, and the feel of evil.

  Marcus looked at the clouds, wishing there was something he could do about them. They were missing the odor of rain, and he thought maybe they had been conjured by the necromancers so that the battlefield would be bereft of sunlight. The undead could obviously move around during the day, but they were probably stronger in the shadows. And there might be things stronger than the zombies that couldn’t take
the light. Of course, if it didn’t rain, the powder would be fine, and the cannon and other guns would function as expected.

  “They’re almost to the first stakes,” called out the gun officer, looking through a telescope.

  Marcus nodded, zooming in his own mage sight to see what the officer was looking at. The zombies were shuffling forward, staying in a mass. He knew some could move faster than others, many at a normal walk, but their controllers were making sure that they struck in a massed group for best advantage. They were twenty yards from the stakes, and he wanted them just a little beyond them before he hit them, so the balls would bounce through most of the thickness of the mass.

  The mage finished walking up to the gun he had chosen, a twelve pounder, and nodded at the sergeant. The man applied the match and the cannon went off as Marcus shouted the word of power. The ball flew from the cannon and suddenly stopped in midflight, dropping to the ground and rolling. Marcus grunted as he felt the inertia enter his energy field, a bit of it impacting on his body like he had been punched by a strong man. He fought against the pain with gritted teeth and walked to the next gun and went through the same process, absorbing more energy. And then another, until he felt like the power was about to rip him apart.

  “Get ready,” he ordered the crew of the thirty-two pounder, staggering up to the gun to stand by the side.

  The gun sergeant applied the match, and Marcus struck the cannon with his staff, the glow of energy flowing into the weapon as the brightness decreased on the ornate wooden rod cut from the legendary Tree of Power. The gun went off with a roar, loud enough to deafen all who were near. The ball flew out in a flare of sparks and fire. The weapon reared back on its heavy ropes, the fibers creaking as if they were about to part at any moment. Normally the eye could track an object like a cannon ball in flight. Not this time, as the thing sped downrange too fast for the eye to follow.

  Marcus zoomed his vision to see where the ball struck. He still couldn’t see the ball, but he saw the effect as the sphere of iron hit the front of the zombie horde. One of the undead flew apart, pieces flying through the air to splatter those around it. Parts of the zombies behind it flew into the air as well, and a tunnel appeared through the undead that seemed to go all the way through the mass.

  “Fire,” yelled Marcus, running up to another gun, feeling unburdened by the energy he had expended, though still carrying much more than normal. He absorbed the energy of that gun, then the kinetic force of two more twelve pounders. He stopped beside a loaded thirty-two pounder and repeated the procedure of the first shot, and another ball sped downrange to destroy another score or more of the zombies.

  Crews were busy reloading the guns that had fired, swabbing them out, pushing new bags of pounder down the barrels, then the ball. As soon as the guns were ready the men stood aside, indicating to the mage that their weapons were ready.

  Marcus went through the procedure again twice, blowing two more holes through the advancing horde. By that time they had reached the second set of aiming stakes, marking the range of another dozen mages, those who couldn’t hold quite the energy of Marcus but still more than the others. This time thirteen guns fired along the line, the three heavy thirty-two pounders and all of the twenty-fours, and more balls flew into the mass to mangle hundreds of dead bodies. The firing went on for some more minutes, until the zombies reached the third set of stakes, and twenty-one more mages joined in the fight.

  Now eighteen pounders were joining the fight, all of the twenty-fours fired and reloading. It went on for many minutes, one deafening volley after another, and still the mass of zombies came on, ignoring their own casualties that meant nothing to them. Their odor wafted ahead and caused the gunners to cough more than they usually did from the gun smoke. Still, they continued to work their guns, using practiced routines to reload as maximum speed and send more iron balls of destruction into the enemy.

  “Mages to the rear,” yelled Master Aepep, his voice amplified by his magic.

  Marcus looked up, barely able to keep his eyes open from the fatigue. The zombies had reached the fourth set of stakes, now within range of all the artillery without mage assistance, and it was time to let the crews work their weapons to the best of their abilities while the wizards regathered their energy. The young wizard staggered back, behind the line of musketmen that backed the cannons. He noted the nervous looks of the musketmen as they tried to stand in formation without moving.

  Behind him a ragged volley went off, filling the air with smoke. One of the mages who hadn’t helped at the guns puffed a gust of wind that cleared out the smoke, revealing the horde less than two hundred yards away, covering twenty yards a minute with their shambling gait. The gunners frantically worked their guns, most getting off a round every thirty seconds, sending volley after volley into the mass of undead.

  Marcus watched the whole thing, estimating that they had taken down thousands of zombies, maybe more than ten thousand. But there were multiple hundreds of thousands in the horde, more than the guns could possibly destroy. But they kept at it, calmly serving their guns, until the zombies had reached within fifty yards.

  At that time the commands sounded through the air, starting with a shout that was relayed by officers and NCOs. The musketmen ran past the cannon to form ranks, moving their matchlocks to their shoulders and taking aim. The cannoneers were working at their guns, loading in one last volley, this of double canister, scores of one-inch balls, each with more hitting power than a mere musket shot.

  The thousands of musketeers fired in one timed volley, sending ten thousand half inch balls into the horde. The balls went through flesh, breaking bones, tearing attachment points for dead muscles, wrecking the bodies of the already deceased. Thousands of zombies went down, though many got back to their feet moments later. Of those, most had altered gaits from broken bones, but they could still move.

  The ranks of musketeers saw none of this through the clouds of smoke their weapons had generated. Still, despite their fear, they loaded by the drill, charging their weapons, standing ready for the next order. That order soon came and the next volley went out. The musketeers lowered their weapons, turned, and trotted back behind the cannon. As soon as they were to the rear the cannon spoke again, sending hundreds of thousands of one-inch balls into the horde.

  This time the mages sent another strong puff of wind in front of the guns, clearing out the smoke and revealing the horde, still moving forward, though at a somewhat reduced rate as most of the zombies in the front had taken major damage from the smaller ordnance.

  “Fireballs,” shouted Aepep, and all of the mages who could control that magic sent flames into the mass. The fire arced over, falling onto the lines of undead and raising flames from the now burning bodies. Thousands of zombies went up in the inferno, still marching forward until the fires destroyed enough of them to drop their bodies in the dirt.

  The artillerymen now worked to move their cannon, unhitching the ropes that would be left in place, others bringing forth the horses and oxen to hitch them to. Horses neighed, oxen lowed, all nervous at the smell of death and the nearby flames. But they were well trained, and the artillerymen had little trouble getting them hitched. Soon the cannon were moving back to the secondary positions of logs and earth where they would be redeployed, ready for their part in future acts of the battle.

  Meanwhile, with the tramp of armored boots, the heavy infantry of all of the nations marched forward, just past the cannon and deploying in their lines. The men smelled of fear to the nose of the mage, but there was a determined look in their eyes. This would be the main fight, the strength of human warriors against the magic of necromancers. The mages and musketeers would back them up, and the cannon would be prepared if they must needs retreat. But the victory, like so many battles of the age, would be on the shoulders of the infantry, those considered the lowliest of the soldiers.

  * * *

  Rory sat his horse behind the musketeers, looking over their heads and watc
hing the gunfire fly into the zombies. It was satisfying to see so many of the enemy go down without losing a man, though many of them were back on their feet in minutes. Enough were damaged to the point where they couldn’t get up to have made the evolution worthwhile. The musketeers did their part, the cannon fired their last volley, sending out the swarm of one-inch balls, and the heavy infantry marched past, parting to move around their king and his command group. Many cheered as they moved past the monarch. Rory, looking down on them, hoped that the rest of his plan worked as well, and he hadn’t led them to their deaths. The cannon and musketeers had done their parts spectacularly, and without losing a man. They had thinned the enemy. It didn’t look like it seeing the teeming undead coming on, but there were thousands that would no longer need to be fought.

  But now the real fight was going to happen, and he didn’t think his side would get away without casualties from this point on. The infantry started to set themselves as the zombies continued to advance, their stench growing stronger with each yard. The first rank set their lines, one hand holding the large tower shields they were equipped with, the other gripping the ax or mace they would use to strike. The next rank behind them were equipped the same way. They would strike as they could, but their main role was to back up the first rank, filling the spots of the fallen to keep the line intact. The third rank was made up of sergeants and experienced veterans, most in half plate, holding ten-foot-long halberds and Warhammers, giving them the range to strike over the first two ranks. Next were four more ranks of infantry, all armed with shields and crushing weapons.