“The general is correct,” said the half-lich, one of the few beings who would actually tell the lich what he thought. “We need to break through their lines before we throw away all of the bodies we have raised.”
The lich looked at the aerial view again. The westerners were standing firm, and as he watched another rank of zombies went down in destruction under the maces and axes of the infantry. A few of the infantrymen went down as well, pulled from their ranks or struck down by clawlike hands. But the equation was not working in the favor of the necromancers, as a hundred zombies were going down for every living being. The horde only seemed limitless. There was a limit, and if this horde was destroyed, the campaign was over.
Changing its view to one of the spirit, watching as the motivating energy of the zombies fled as they were struck down, it looked over the line. It noticed something on the right flank of the army. There the energy fleeing the plane was a pale reflection of the flood in the other areas of the line. The lich brought the view in close, to see that the force in that position was using the unsuccessful tactic that past armies had used, trying to hold off the zombies with their long spears. And the undead were clawing their way up the long spears, stacking up like meats on a spit. The men among them with the long axes and swords were doing enough damage to keep the line from being overrun, but that was all. Waves of terror were radiating off the men, and it looked as if that line would break at any moment.
“Stop your spells of terror,” said the lich, turning to his fellow necromancers. “Pull back your power.”
“Are you sure, my Lord?” asked one of the junior necromancers. “They are sure to break, any minute.”
“We will pull back our power and send it all here,” said the lich, waving to the floating image. “That flank will break, and then the rest of the line.”
* * *
Prince August of the Etruscans sat his horse well behind the lines in the armor that was chaffing at his skin, watching as his men held the zombies with their pikes, while the halberdmen and the officer swordsmen cut them down. But not fast enough, thought the prince, starting to believe that King Rory had the right of it. The next army over, the Geats, were reeking wholesale slaughter on the undead, piling them up in waist high stacks before the lines backed off again, forcing the following zombies to clamber over the still twitching bodies of their fellows. He noticed that the undead didn’t twitch forever. Soon after being broken to the point of immobility they went slack, as if whatever magic was motivating them had been withdrawn.
“Shouldn’t our men move back to maintain the line?” he asked his chief aide, looking over at the armored horseman sitting his mount beside the prince.
“The monsters are grasping their spears, your Highness,” said the man, an embarrassed look on his face, as if he didn’t want to bring an inconvenient fact to the attention of his leader.
The prince looked from the height of his saddle, his horse standing on a rise. He could see that the monsters were trying to get at his men, pushing up the spear shafts, those closest striking at the visored helms of the soldiers. They couldn’t do much damage, but they were causing enough to make some men stagger back and drop their pikes. And the zombies further down every shaft were pulling back as they clawed forward. The pikemen couldn’t retreat without letting go of their pikes. The same was true to a lesser extent of the next rank, and the next. To retreat meant giving up the primary weapons of three ranks of pikemen, more or less.
“We need to back up the line or we will expose our flank,” whined the prince, pointing at the join between his army and the next to the left. If that flank was exposed, then the monsters would start pulling men from the line on that edge. Eventually they would start rolling up the line, and the whole army would fall apart.
The aide said nothing. There was really nothing to say. The prince had made the wrong call in this case, and his men were not equipped to win this fight, unlike every other army on the field. They were ready for a cavalry charge, or even an attack by another pike formation, but not this swarm of monsters that didn’t respond to punctures like living creatures. And the weapons that would have allowed them to fight effectively were back on the wagons which had brought them to this field.
Suddenly a feeling of doom came over the prince. Not the bravest of men, depending on the courage of others to protect his precious hide, he now felt as if his doom was upon him. His muscles started quivering, his breath caught in his throat, sweat burst out on his skin. He had an overwhelming urge to flee.
“We’re being hit with a spell, your Highness,” called out one of the priests. “Their necromancers are attacking us with this wave of terror.”
“Then, stop it,” stammered the prince, staring with terrified eyes at the cleric. “I order you to stop it.”
“We are trying,” said the priest, his own eyes going wide with fear. “We…” The priest screamed, a high-pitched wail, and turned to run away.
The feeling of terror hit the pikemen like a wave, rolling from one end of the formation to the other. Soldiers screamed in horror and dropped their weapons, then turned to run, colliding with their fellows in a stream that soon became a deluge. The zombies surged forward, those pierced by pikes looking for all the world like grisly centipedes, shuffling forward, leaning left and right, bumping into other sticks of undead. Very few fell over because of the press, those that did were helpless on the ground and unable to get back to their feet, lacking the coordination or the cooperation needed to get upright. There were still enough upright, as well as those who had not been skewered, including the dead soldiers still in armor, to go after the fleeing troops.
The pursuing zombies weren’t fast enough to catch running men, but the press was slowing the living enough for the entire last rank to go down, then the next. Panicked men were pushed down and trampled, only to try to get back to their feet, then to be borne back down by ravenous undead landing on their backs, teeth going for throats.
“Rally the troops,” ordered the prince, trying to control his horse and himself, terrified of the zombies, but even more of losing his army in a rout, and having to face his father. That was the most frightening thing going through his mind.
“There is no rallying this,” yelled out one of his regimental commanders, bringing his horse to a halt beside his leader. “These men won’t stop running until they get enough distance between themselves and this magic to regain their courage.”
“The priests will stop them,” shouted the prince, grasping for any straw.
In fact, some of the priests were standing their ground, holding holy symbols in the hands while mouthing words. The symbols lit with a bright holy light, and the fleeing troops broke around the priests as well. The zombies came at the half dozen high ranking clerics, those who stepped within ten feet of the priests recoiling, skin falling from their bodies in flares of fire. The zombies parted around the priests like the sea parting around rocks. If the priests had been close to each other they might have been able to stem the tide, at least along part of the line. As it was, the zombies parted and reformed, continuing their chase of the living. Those pushed into the holy circles of the priests dissolved in fire to piles of ash.
It couldn’t last for long. Each undead destroyed sapped some of the holy power. In minutes the priests were surrounded in a rolling tide of zombies, their power fading. Zombies pushed into their holy circles still flared, but the damage wasn’t enough to destroy them, and they stumbled back out of the circles, until finally some made it in and kept going for the priests. Soon the priests were also swallowed up, their bodies ripped apart, their souls eaten, the energy sucked up by the dark God, Erlik.
The prince was already riding for safety by this time, leaving his foot soldiers behind. The swift and those who could keep their feet under them would eventually get away, if they had the stamina to keep running. The slow and the clumsy went down to the undead. Minutes later they would rise again, adding to the ranks of the enemy.
&n
bsp; * * *
“Your Majesty,” yelled an officer, galloping up to the king. “The Latin line has broken.”
“Can it be reformed?” asked the king, the shock running through him. He had known it was going to happen, eventually. Eventually was a term that had allowed him to put off the realization that it was inevitable. Now the inevitable had happened.
“Maybe when the cowards stop running,” spat the officer, looking back over his shoulder.
“They could not help themselves,” said Tengri, suddenly coming up on the king’s other side. “The necromancers, and most assuredly the lich with them, cast a spell of terror upon them. One of the specialties of my brother. No mortal could stand up to it.”
“It didn’t help that the damned prince didn’t have them equipped to fight this kind of battle,” said Rory, shaking his head. He looked over at the officer who had brought the message. “Get the reserves and the Norse deployed.”
“They’re already moving into position, your Majesty,” said the officer. “And the goddess of the Norse is with them. But they won’t be able to reform that part of the line, only to keep the flood from getting behind us, for now.”
Rory nodded. They had set up in this part of this valley because it offered them the chance to present an unbroken front to the enemy. Now that the front was broken, there were not enough soldiers on the field to wall off the enemy on that flank. All they could do now was to…
“Sound the retreat,” he ordered. “I want this to go by the numbers. The artillery first, then the musketmen, then the infantry. I want to keep this orderly and get the most of us out of this that we can.” He was thinking that they could outrun the zombies, using his own cavalry to keep the nomads at bay, until they came to another choke point where they could reset the lines. He tried to recall if such a place existed in this valley and decided that he needed to see a map. Unfortunately, that was back in the pavilion they had erected for meetings of the leadership, and he doubted he would have the time to look it over while the army was moving.
“Lord Tengri. I would like you to…” he started to say, deciding that it was time to deploy the walking gods. The king turned to the demigod, but he wasn’t there.
“He ran off toward the flank, your Majesty,” said the aide. “I think he means to reinforce that front for us.”
“Dammit,” growled the king. He had wanted the demigod to aid in the general withdrawal, becoming his fire brigade to shore up any weaknesses that might pronounce themselves during the withdrawal. And if we can back up at a steady pace, we can still take out more of these things, and have much fewer to fight in the next battle.
“Send messengers to the forces on our left. We have to coordinate this thing with them, otherwise this could turn bad, and fast.”
The officer saluted and rode off, spurring his horse into a gallop, raising a circling hand in the air to call forth other messengers to come receive orders.
If we can carry this off, we can still come out of this with a victory, thought the king, wondering why that hope seemed so hollow to him.
* * *
“We have the words, Lord,” shouted out one of the lesser necromancers, looking up at the lich on the tip of the hill. Other necromancers were gathered around the woman, having just cast the knowledge spell, trying to gain the ear of a mighty ally.
“How many can you call?” asked the lich, aggravated that the fool had stopped him in his own spell casting. He was about to send the call of terror at another of the armies still holding against the horde. But the smile on the woman’s face made him forget that spell for the moment. There would always be time for it, after they raised what they needed.
“One, my Lord. One of the greater variety. And at least six of the golems.”
“Send me the words,” ordered the lich. “I will raise the greater creature, while the rest of you concentrate on the lesser.”
The words came to the mind of the lich through the telepathic link they all shared. He understood them as soon as they were within his mind, though he quailed a bit at the power requirements. He would have enough energy to cast one more spell of terror after this, and then he would be through for this day. But if it were cast on the right target, at the right time, that would be all he would need.
* * *
The Iberian general had stuck with the plan, equipping his infantry with smashing weapons. The zombie horde had struck them just as hard as they had the armies to both sides, but they had fared as well as the Eirish to their left, and much better than the Latins to their right. And then the Latins had broken, fleeing as fast as their feet could take them. The Norse had been stationed directly behind the soldiers of the isthmus, prepared to guard the flank.
Rory knew what he was doing, thought the general as he watched the other army rout. Unfortunately, the Norse were getting caught up in the flood, and though they were holding their ground, they were not able to move to where they needed to be, protecting his flanks. And all of his troops were aligned to front, giving him no reserve.
“Order the cavalry to move out to our flank,” he told one of his subordinates. He looked over at another. “I want the last two ranks of infantry to leave the line and hurry to the flank. They are to form up to our right, the cavalry anchoring on their right.”
The messengers saluted and ran off, getting the men moving. The commander looked to his left, breathing a sigh of relief as he saw the large Eirish reserve marching his way in a column. That was their largest reserve, and committing it now meant they would not have it if some other disaster happened on this field. But if this disaster continued it wouldn’t matter what they had to stem other routes.
The Norse had formed a wedge and were pushing their way through the mass of Latins. In some cases they were using their axes and maces to smash the routed troops out of the way. This was life and death, and they needed to get to the flank before they got cut off. The smallish contingent of Norse cavalry was also on the move, the heavy horse pushing their destriers forward and leading the more numerous light lancers.
The Iberian infantry started to form up on the flanks, not a moment too soon, as the zombies started hitting that area. The cavalry sat their horses to the right of the infantry, leveled lances pointed outward. While the Norse waded through the press in a formation, the big men pushing the smaller Latins out of the way.
The Latin cavalry was riding hell for leather away, and it looked as if they would escape intact. The artillery had been overrun first by fleeing infantry, then by zombies, and those guns were gone. The Eirish cavalry contingent, the largest in the army, was not available, having taken to the hill passes to the right on some mission or other. We could use them now, thought the general. Still, if everyone did what they needed to do, they might come out of this day with an intact army, and possibly a victory.
“King Rory requests that you make ready to move your artillery, my Lord,” stated a mounted Eirish messenger after reigning his horse up to the general. “He wants all the armies to start falling back as soon as the guns are ready to move.”
“Give your king my compliments, but we can’t move soon enough for me.” He looked over at the line that had formed on the right flank. The zombies were hitting that line, the soldiers crushing them down. But more were moving further on, and soon they would be flanking that line as well. The Norse had finally made it into place, and were starting to deploy their line to the right of the Iberians, extending it and giving the army more time. “Soon they will be rolling around us again, and I don’t want to get trapped here.”
The messenger nodded, then wheeled his horse and galloped away. The general’s mount neighed and moved nervously underneath the man. The horrible scent of the zombies was overwhelming, and the officer felt for his infantry that were facing them.
“What in all the hells are those?” yelled out a voice from nearby.
A cavalry officer pointed ahead, mouth wide open in shock. The general turned that way, his eyes narrowing as he tried to
peer through the smoke shrouded field darkened by the banks of clouds overhead. Some large things were moving out there. Much larger than anything that should be on this field, or outside of the ocean. Whatever they were, they had to be something the enemy had summoned to the field, which was more bad news for the alliance army.
Two of the figures that were moving forward were lurching like the zombies, only they were much larger, forty feet tall or more. Another figure was moving between them, much shorter, less than half the height of the other figures, though much thicker. As he watched, what looked like wings flung out from the body, flapping a couple of times before folding back onto the form.
“A greater demon,” hissed the general. Something beyond the scope of most priests or mages to call. Something that should not have existed in the light of day. But there was no light of day. It was almost as dark as a moonlit night, and the demon didn’t seem to be discomfited by what light there was. He couldn’t make out the other things, but again they moved like zombies.
“By the gods,” said Father Antonio, the chief cleric of the Iberians, in a quivering voice. “A greater demon from the lowest hells.”
“And what are the other things?” growled the general, feeling his heart sink at the words of the cleric. “There seem to be more of them.”
The priest said some words in an archaic language and moved his hand, ending up with it pointing at the creature. “Flesh golems,” blurted the horrified priest, his body shaking. “Abominations.”
More so than a demon? thought the general, looking back at the things with a shiver of terror running up his spine.
“Some power has welded the bodies of the crushed zombies together into undead giants,” said the priest. “But what could have that kind of power?”
“Can you stop them? Either of them?”
“Enough fire can destroy the golems, or they can be hacked apart, but I can’t see us doing that before they kill hundreds of men. The demon? Maybe, if every priest on this field works together, and had an hour to work their power. Right now, I don’t see any way.”
The Chronicles of the Eirish: Book 1: The Lich's Horde Page 23
