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

by Doug Dandridge

  Ten yards further back, now standing on a slight rise, were the ranks of musketeers, reloading their weapons, preparing to fire over the heads of the heavy infantry and take out more of the zombies. And behind them were several ranks of conventionally equipped pikemen, their eighteen-foot-long spears pointed straight into the air, butts grounded, waiting for the appearance of enemy cavalry. These men also had crushing weapons slung from belts or over their backs, giving them the ability to destroy zombies if need be. On the ground, at their feet, lay another pike for each man, available to arm other infantry if they had to fall back behind the pikemen and prepare to fight cavalry. Much further back were the reserve command, fully equipped for both means of fighting, ready to move on command to wherever they were needed.

  Rory was satisfied with his dispositions. The king looked to the left to see the other nations’ forces similarly arrayed. Then he looked to the right, down the back of the line, and frowned as he saw that the stupid Latins were in a standard pike formation, as if they were facing heavy cavalry, while there were no horsemen in range. There was a shout to the front catching the king’s attention, and Rory turned on his horse in time to see the first line of zombies hit his infantry.

  The Eirish line moved not an inch, the men, their feet spaced shoulder width apart, one set two feet behind the other, leaned into their shields. Strong arms lifted axes and maces into the air, then drove them down on the heads and shoulders of the undead. The crack of bones sounded over the shouts of the men, and the smashing weapons rose and fell, striking both shoulders, then working their way down until a flopping zombie was on the ground in front of each soldier, unable to move without the levers of its limbs.

  Many of the men coughed and gagged from the stench of the close zombies. A few vomited, most staying on their feet, a couple bending over to pour the contents of their stomachs on the ground. One of those was grabbed by zombies and pulled from the line, to be ripped apart as they were surrounded by the horde. It was a harsh lesson to the rest of the men who were near, and those who retched forced themselves to stay on their feet and defend themselves.

  “We need to move back, your Majesty,” yelled one of the aides, waving a hand to catch his king’s attention. “We’re in the line of the musketeers.”

  Rory looked back to see the musketeers patiently waiting, or at least acting that way with their king in their line of fire. He looked back at the infantry lines once again, wishing he could be there with them, swinging his own heavy ax with rage filled arms, doing his part to destroy this enemy. But that was not to be. It was no longer his place to fight in the ranks, or even to lead a cavalry charge. This was his army, as much as any man’s, and he had to lead, not put himself at risk in the front lines. Which now meant getting his ass out of the way of his muskets.

  “Make way,” yelled the aide as the small party rode up through the musketeers, turning in behind them so they could keep the advantage of height to view the battle.

  The grateful musketeers started plying their weapons, much as those on both sides of them had already been doing. The continuous crack of musket fire sounded, the air in front of the gunmen filled with acrid smoke, as thousands of balls flew into the zombies. A ball wouldn’t kill one of the creatures, but a hit to a limb could certainly render that appendage useless, easing the job of the heavy infantry.

  A few minutes into the trading of blows the Eirish started suffering casualties. Here a man was thrust through the neck with a spear held by one of the undead, there a soldier was pulled out of line by a multitude of claw like hands, to scream his life out before his throat was torn from his neck. The men closed ranks in the few places where a gap had occurred and soldiered on.

  To Rory’s eye the battle was going well, and it was looking like the enemy would run out of zombies well before he took serious losses. The broken bodies of the dead were stacking up to the front, still twitching with their dark life force though unable to make coordinated movements with bones smashed to pieces. The ones behind attempted to scramble over these piles, most slipping and falling back before they could set themselves for an attack.

  Rory looked at the mass of zombies, shaking his head and reassessing the situation. The sea of undead creatures looked endless, stretching back as far as he could see into the shadows caused by the heavy clouds. That it wasn’t endless was made plain a moment later when a swarm of arrows came arcing over the zombies to land among his soldiers. Those are nomads, thought Rory as several score of his men were hit, a couple falling dead with arrows through faces or necks, the others with superficial wounds. The rest of those hits bounced the arrows off their armor and shields.

  “Can we get some of our cavalry around behind the zombies?” asked the king of his leader of horse.

  “We won’t know until we try,” replied General Connelly with a smile. The lean baron sat a powerful warhorse and was clad in full plate, ready to lead his heavy cavalry in a nomad shattering charge, if the opportunity arose.

  “Then get to it,” said the king, slapping the man on the shoulder.

  Another volley came over, this one hitting the musketeers and dropping scores of them as well. The gunners had armor, breastplates and helmets, though none of the extra armor of the heavy infantry; pauldroons, armored skirts or greaves. And they definitely had no shields. There were more places for arrows to stick, and soldiers were stuck with points through shoulders, arms and legs. The few unfortunate ones took razor heads to face or throat.

  It was a galling attack, one that could hurt his troops and make them act in a more cautious manner, but it wouldn’t win the battle. If he could get cavalry back there he could stop even that effect. He wasn’t sure how many of the nomads there currently were behind the zombies, but he felt that a charge of a couple of thousand heavy lances would take their minds off launching arrows.

  His part of the line was holding, and he was sure it would continue to hold. Now, if only the same could be said for the other armies. Suddenly, another wave of darkness seemed to fall over the battlefield. This not of clouds, not of any kind of material substance, but a shadow of the spirit that pushed down on the living while strengthening the dead. The necromancers had entered the battle directly, and now would come the fight between the clerics of the good gods and the evil deities. A silent battle that would be just as decisive and the loudly physical fight going on before the king.

  * * *

  Conner O’Kelly took another flurry of blows on his shield, several zombies trying to claw through. Their stench blew in his face, enough to make him gag and forget to breathe. They didn’t have any breath themselves, being dead, so their own rot didn’t affect them. Or at least that was how the carpenter turned soldier thought of it.

  “Hold it together, lad,” said the professional to his right, a man who had been wearing armor and taking the king’s coin for over a decade. “Trust in your strong arm, your armor, and your fellows.”

  Conner nodded as he swung his mace down on the shoulder of a zombie that looked to have been a peasant in life. The shoulder cracked, crushed by the mace, and the zombie swung its remaining arm forward to hit the shield.

  Sweat dripped down Conner’s face and into his eyes. The armor chaffed on his body, pushing the padded gambeson along his skin like the sandpaper he had used in his craft. He had gone through the training, the four months that had been allotted to turn craftsmen and farm boys into soldiers. But they hadn’t had the tempering of battle that the veterans had undergone. This was it, and there was no guarantee that many of the newcomers wouldn’t snap instead of hardening.

  Another hit and the zombie went down, its back broken. It continued to claw forward with broken arms, hands opening and closing. The next zombie stepped up, armored boots crushing what little life remained in the undead creature whose place it had taken.

  Conner stared wide eyed at this creature, so different than the last four he had put down. This one had been a soldier in life, Frankish by the look of him. Armored much as
one of the Eirish knights in full plate, a heavy sword in his hand. This was a different game altogether. Conner swung first, his mace coming down on the armored shoulder and denting the plate. The zombie knight took the hit with a stagger and swung his sword in to strike Conner’s shield, almost knocking it from his hand. A halberd came to Conner’s rescue, reaching over and caming down on the knight, followed by another, staggering the creature.

  The professional soldiers to either side hit the zombie knight with their weapons, putting more dents in the armor, but nothing else. The only positive was that the big armored zombie was taking up space and not allowing other undead to make it to that part of the line. At one point he actually sliced through a zombie trying to get at Conner, leaving the creature in two pieces twitching on the ground.

  “Take that, bastard,” yelled one of the halberd bearing sergeants, grounding the butt of his weapon and pointing a pistol at the knight. With a crack and a puff of smoke the pistol put a ball into the zombie, piercing the armor and destroying a shoulder joint. The armored zombie tried to swing its heavy sword with one hand but lacked the strength to do more than get the blade halfway off the ground. Another pistol shot through the chest, a half dozen hard swings, and the unbalanced zombie went down, those behind stepping on him and not allowing him to get back to his feet.

  Conner started to swing at the next in line when a feeling of terror ran through him, sweat pouring down his face that had nothing to do with the heat. A panic came over him, unreasoning fear working at his courage. Now all he wanted to do was run, and he started to step back, but the man behind him pushed back.

  “Keep it together, laddie,” said the man behind him. “Running won’t help.”

  “I don’t know why I’m so afraid,” Connor stammered. He had been scared this entire time, actually wetting himself as the zombies first came at him. That wasn’t unusual. He could detect the odor of urine and feces all around him. Everyone was scared. But this was something different.

  “It’s magic,” said the man behind him, his own voice shaking slightly. “But we can’t break and run, or we’re all dead.”

  Conner nodded and tried to keep his nerve, fighting the fear. It was all he could do to keep his shield up, and it was hopeless to try and strike with his mace. We’re supposed to move back, he thought, glancing nervously over his shoulder for a second. When the hell are we going to be moving back?

  Someone started singing in the ranks, a martial song of courage in the face of death, of victory. An ancient song of the Eirish people, a race of warriors who had prevailed in the face of many disastrous battles. More voices joined in, then still more, until it drown out the sounds of the zombies scrambling over the bodies at their feet.

  “Sing, damn your souls,” yelled a command voice from behind. “Sing, and throw the fear back in their faces.”

  Connor started singing. He didn’t know the words, but followed as best he could, becoming part of the song rising around him. And while he sang he felt the fear leaving him, running off him like sweat evaporating in a cool breeze. He wasn’t sure what was happening, unless his gods were with him, with all of them.

  That has to be it, thought the infantryman. It felt like the divine was with him, with all of them, as a glow came over his mace. Conner struck with the weapon again, this time to hit a zombie in the head, watching as the creature exploded into dust. Many of those on the front line started falling apart, though the ones further back didn’t seem to be feeling the effects. They continued brainlessly forward with no thought but to kill the living.

  “All lines, step back,” yelled a voice, echoing up and down the front. The entire mass stepped back quickly, faster than the zombies could follow. Ten yards back the front line stopped, and two more ranks of heavy infantry pushed through them and formed another line, followed by the line of sergeants with their halberds.

  Conner and his people stepped back again, while two more lines came through them, and his group was in the back. We made it, he thought. I made it.

  Now they could rest for a little bit of time while fresh troops did the fighting. All he could do now was pray that the fighting would be over before he found himself on the front line again. As he had those thoughts a flight of arrows came over, and he hastily covered his head with his shield, realizing that no place was really safe on this battlefield. Inattention could cost him his life at any moment. Still, it was a relief to not have to swing his mace, now dangling from his belt, and holding the shield with two arms was a rest of sorts.

  * * *

  Rory watched as the first ranks moved back and the next group moved up in a flawless execution of discipline and precision. His troops were performing splendidly. As far as he could tell the troops in the other armies to either side were doing as well, though it was up to their leaders when they shifted ranks. He could only hope they wouldn’t allow their front-rank troops to tire to the point where they couldn’t fight and couldn’t move. If they fell, those behind would, of course, take up the slack, but those were reserves they would no longer have.

  Taking his telescope from its case, Rory focused down the line to see how the Latins were doing. Normally he wouldn’t worry about the fine soldiers of their army, but with their commander making foolish decisions he couldn’t count on them. His greatest fears were materializing over there, as the pikemen struggled to keep the zombies at bay, the undead creatures, sometimes up to four or five of them, skewered on many of the pikes. The first zombie on each spear had pushed through to within range of the front-rank soldier, swinging their claw like hands at the men who only had their helms and body armor to guard them. Several of the soldiers were screaming as undead hands tore at their faces, and the king could tell by the looks of the men around them that the lines were on the verge of panicking.

  Rory motioned for one of the nearby messengers to come to him. “Tell the reserves on the right to prepare to form a line to guard our flank. Then make sure that the Norse force gets the same order. But be sure to phrase it as a request,” he finished with a smile. He was sure the Norsemen would follow his lead, but there was no use in offending their prickly pride.

  The messenger saluted, then wheeled his horse around and rode off. Rory looked over at the demigod that was his final reserve, Tengri. The walking god looked anxious to get into the action, and the king was sure the other demigods were as well. But he wanted them fresh, in case the whole plan went to hell, and they could use their abilities to buy time. They might be overwhelmed in such a situation, destroyed forever, which would be a tragedy. But if they saved his people it was a price he was willing to pay, even if they weren’t. A cold hearted decision, but maybe necessary.

  Hopefully it won’t come to that, he thought, looking forward again to watch his army continue to cut down the undead storm that seemed all but endless.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The leader of the undead army sat his mount a mile behind the mass of zombies, other black robed figures clustered around him on their own mounts. The still living necromancers breathed heavily as they watched the battle, which was not going the way of past fights. The leader did not breathe, and neither did his mount. He had not taken a breath in over a century, since the Dread Lord Erlic had gifted him with the undead life of a lich. The mount was also undead, though not of near the power as his rider. Still, the red eyes, the fire flashing under the hooves, showed this to be a hell mount, not of this world, above a plain horse as a tiger was above an alley cat.

  The other necromancers were still alive, though some were on the way to lichhood, something they all desired. That dream depended on them carrying out the will of the god of death, and his will was that they roll over this army. So far it wasn’t happening, and from the looks of things it wasn’t going to happen before all of the zombies were smashed into the ground by the western artillery and infantry. Something that would have seemed inconceivable at the start of the fight.

  The nomad cavalry continued to fire volleys of arrows pe
riodically over the swarm. They were galling the enemy, but it didn’t look like they were going to cause enough damage to facilitate a breakthrough.

  “Perhaps we should pull back the horde and send the cavalry into a charge to break their infantry line,” suggested one of the necromancers, the youngest.

  “That would just waste our cavalry, fool,” growled one of the older wizards, the next most powerful besides the leader.

  “He speaks truly,” said the leader in his dry, rattling voice, barely audible as he was not pulling air into his atrophied lungs before speaking. The lich waved a hand and an aerial view of the battle appeared to his front. “This army was made to repel cavalry, heavily armored cavalry. Even now they retain enough of the long spears to drive away any cavalry charge, while their firearms would decimate our ranks.”

  A messenger from the nomads rode up to the party, his horse wide eyed and shaking from approaching the aura of death. The messenger also appeared to be anxious, and he stopped at the base of the hill and would not ride up.

  “My lords,” yelled the man in a shaking voice that still carried up to the height. “The enemy cavalry has ridden down from the hills and is hitting the flanks of our horse bowman. The general requests that you do something to push through their lines.”

  The lich flashed eyes the glowing red of hell at the man, whose horse backed away with a whinny of panic. The leader could feel the life force he was pulling from the man, payment for taking his attention. He didn’t take enough to kill the man, though he would live a decade fewer years, if he happened to survive this campaign. The lich waved a hand and the terrified nomad galloped off. He wasn’t sure what the messenger would tell the general, and he didn’t care. The nomads were here to serve him, and not the opposite.