“And how many can they raise after today’s action, Master Tengri?” asked Rory, sitting up straight on his log.
“A couple of thousand,” said the demigod, shrugging his broad shoulders. “It is a fatiguing process, just as is fighting, or our young friend here forcing the energy of cannon shot into other shots. But they will not try to completely rebuild their undead force before they attack us. We took severe losses today as well. And they still have almost a hundred thousand of their living horsemen backing them up. Remember, the undead are merely their shock troops, while the nomads are the true army, ready to take advantage of the ensuing panic brought on by facing the dead.”
“Then we need to find a way to avoid the damned stinking zombies and hit their horsemen,” said the count, locking eyes with Marcus as if demanding an answer from the young man.
“And to kill their necromancers,” said Rory, also looking at Marcus. “Until we can take them out, we will have to deal with their fear spells, not to mention those damned rotting corpses.”
“I think Freya and myself can take care of the necromancers,” rumbled Tengri in his deep voice. “If someone else takes care of their cavalry.”
“I saw you and the lady fight today, Master Tengri,” said the Frank. “I would think you could cut your own way through their army to get to those evil bastards.” That the man had a wide smile on his face told that it was a jest, though no one here doubted that the two demigods couldn’t do much more than the greatest mortal warrior among them.
“The army needs to take care of the cavalry,” said Rory, shaking his head. “Even outnumbered as we are, trained pikemen and musketeers should be able to slaughter them on the field. But not if those damned zombies fix us on that field with weapons unsuited to repelling cavalry.”
Marcus searched his memory to find out how he might get the army into ambush position. Master Aepep had instructed him on the use of illusion spells. They were a specialty of the master, and not really anything Marcus had found a use for. What need to hide if you could simply blast your opponents. But a few of the other students had exhibited some talent with them. If they could figure out how to cast a group spell, they might be able to hide the army. But it wasn’t anything they could put into effect on the morrow. And then there was the problem of the zombies, who would sniff them out despite any kind of magical camouflage.
“I think I have a plan, your Majesty,” he told the king, and all of the people around the fire leaned forward, their eyes locked onto the mage. “We won’t be able to do it tomorrow, and we’ll need some help from your alchemists. If they have done their job.”
Marcus outlined his plan, as well as the time they would need to carry it out. The king smiled and looked around the fire.
“Fortunately, gentlemen, what we need is already on the way. I was hoping it would be ready before this battle, but I thought we needed to meet them in a place where we could constrict their movement. Unfortunately, I was wrong, and we should have waited.”
“I would have done the same, your Majesty,” said the Frank. “It seemed like the best strategy at the time.”
“But now we must retreat,” said the king after a nod to the noble. “We need to get what sleep we can,” he said, getting to his feet. He looked over at one of his officers who stood nearby. “Change the sentries, so that everyone gets some rest. We must be up before the dawn and on the move into these hills.”
“The men may think we are running, my Liege,” said the officer, a look of concern on his face.
“Tell the men we are not running,” said Rory, walking over and slapping the officer on the shoulder. “We are leading our enemy into a trap, and this time we will crush them. On that the men may have my word.”
* * *
Conner O’Kelley sat another log, near a small fire several hundred yards from that of the leaders of the army. He stared into the fire, mesmerized by the flames, letting it sooth him as he tried to forget what he had seen this day. He realized that such would never happen. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw the terrors of this day. He was sure that he would see these sights when he lay on his deathbed, a long life behind him. That image seemed unlikely. He doubted he would ever make it out of the lands of the Franks, much less back to his own country.
“Here, lad. Put yourself around some of this,” said a grizzled warrior, one of the many who sat around the fire, who had made it out of the disaster of the day.
Conner closed his hand around the bottle that had been handed to him, bringing it to his lips without a though and taking a deep draught. The liquid burned its way down his gullet, causing the young man to cough deeply.
The people around the fire started laughing as Conner wiped his hand across his tear-filled eyes. Over fifty men sat around the fire, trying to absorb what warmth they could, all getting what mirth they could from the discomfort of the rookie soldier.
Conner cleared the last of the tears from his eyes and passed on the bottle, taking a good look at his companions for the first time. He had stumbled to the fire still in shock, numb. The burn of the liquor had woken him from his stupor, and now he was interested in his surroundings again.
He recognized some of the men around him, mostly veterans from his own regiment. There were some mercenaries, a few warriors in the strange armors of the other kingdoms. And only a couple of people who had the look of rookie warriors, all looking just as numb as he had felt.
“Here,” said another of the veterans, handing him a metal plate with a steaming hunk of meat and a small potato.
“I’m not really hungry,” he said, trying to wave the plate away.
“Eat. Hungry or not, you will be tomorrow when we start marching again. So force it down.”
“Marching. Where?” asked Conner as he took the plate and started to cut into the beef with his knife. “We lost, didn’t we. Where in all the hells do we have to go?”
“The king hasn’t given up,” said another of the veterans, looking out to a distant fire. “As long as he hasn’t, we will be fighting again.”
“But, all the people we lost. And how in all the hells did we get food after that rout?”
“The cooks had their wagons moving as soon as it looked like everything was going to hell,” said the man who had handed Conner the food. “We may joke about them, but they went to work as soon as we arrived here. And because of them, we eat.”
Conner nodded as he pushed some of the beef into his mouth, starting to chew. It wasn’t the most tender meat he had ever eaten, but at the moment it tasted just fine. “How many made it?”
“We lost about half the army,” said the veteran, a small smile on his face. “The most important part made it out, though. The best fighters.” He noted the expression on Conner’s face and the smile left his. “I’m sorry that most of the people who signed on with you weren’t among the survivors. That’s the way it is with battles. They separate the survivors from the victims.”
“So I’m one of the few rookies to make it?”
“A rookie no more, lad. You’re now a veteran, and expected to act like one. When next we go into battle you will know what to do. Right?”
Conner nodded, not sure that he actually agreed with the man. He wasn’t looking forward to another fight, but the only other choice was desertion, and if caught he would be hung as an example to others who might be thinking of running. Then thoughts of his friends, Caohm, most likely now a zombie, Faelan, burning in some unknown hell. It didn’t seem fair, and he didn’t want to end up like them. They required vengeance, though, and who else to administer it than himself.
“I will know what to do,” he replied to the veteran. “Kill all of the bastards.”
Chapter Twenty-six
The sun rose an hour after the army started on its way. The stench of the approaching zombie horde lay thick on the morning fog, though the horsemen screening the army found no other trace of them, yet. Over forty thousand infantrymen marched along the slopes of the hills. Six thousand
artillerymen moved their draft beasts along the paths scouted out by the light cavalry, stopping in places to move the heavy guns up the sides of hills by block and tackle. Light cavalry rode ahead, five thousand of them, scouting the terrain, while ten thousand more, a mixed force of light and heavy horse, screened the rear of the army, ready to repel any attack by the nomad horsemen.
Word had gone out in the night to the auxiliaries who had not come onto the field of battle the day before. Thousands of peasant archers from several kingdoms, a couple of thousand archaic spearmen, as well as thousands more irregular light cavalry, were moving through the hills several miles to the east. They had not participated in the other day’s fight, but they would have a part in the next. And every hour some more soldiers arrived, lost during the retreat, finding the army and rallying to their leaders.
Marcus sat his mount, a gentle mare that was in no way a warhorse, but transportation enough. The surviving mages from the fight were riding around him. Over a hundred had entered the battle, many of them barely trained youths. Eighty-three had survived, including almost all of the fully trained journeymen. All but Master Aepep and Ruhak, he thought, two that they could really use about now. They weren’t here, though, whether dead or lost, he didn’t know. Which meant they had to make do with what they had. And some of those youths had shown that they could control great power when pushed to it.
The infantrymen slogged ahead, obviously still fatigued, but having summoned up enough energy to move away from the death that followed them. They weren’t moving very fast, muskets or pikes angled over their shoulders. Still, at their present speed they could cover enough distance in a day to put the zombies three days further behind them.
“Keep moving,” yelled a mounted officer, riding up the road, his horse kicking up more dust for the foot soldiers to eat. “I know you’re tired, but there’s food and rest at the end of the day.”
“I wonder how much rest?” asked Bastet, keeping her horse beside Marcus’ beast.
“I wonder how much food?” asked Ankhu, eliciting a laugh from the other mages that was quick to die.
I could use some more food myself, thought Marcus, feeling his stomach rumble. They had taken an actual hot meal the night before, prepared by the cooks, and some iron rations before the dawn. It had been enough to cut into the hunger a bit, but not enough to satisfy.
“Do you think we can win this?” asked Hemetre, riding up beside Marcus.
The young master looked over at the beautiful dusky skinned daughter of Aegypt, a princess in her own land, here but a penniless wanderer, dependent on the generosity of King Rory, like all of his people.
“I spoke with the king during the night,” he said, and every young wizard close enough to hear him leaned forward. “We discussed using illusion magic, something you would be better at than myself.” He looked at Bastet. “I found Master Aepep’s grimoire in our wagon, and can confirm that there are the spells within to do what we need.”
That was another lucky break. Not all of the drovers had had the presence of mind to harness their horses and move away at the maximum speed of their wagons. The one who had driven the wagon belonging to the mages had been one of those who had, and now they had all of their materials, including the grimoire.
“But how long will it take?” asked Bastet, a wide frown on her face. “It could take us months to master those spells, and we will not be doing so while on the backs of horses.”
“Tonight we will look over the spells when we make camp,” said Marcus, trying to keep his tone confident, and the spirits of the others high. “In three days we will reach a plateau that the people hereabouts swear can be fortified, there to rest, heal our wounds, and get ready for the next fight. The leaders want to strike the enemy again in six days.”
“Six days?”
Marcus couldn’t tell who had spoken. It had sounded like several of the wizards, all speaking in tones of disbelief. He knew how they felt. It took months to master even the simplest of spells from a new school. Several of the wizards had dabbled in illusion magic, but none had mastered it. The combat magic of fire and force had seemed to be more urgent. Bastet was probably the most proficient at illusions, and even she had not achieved what anyone would call mastery.
“We will do what we can do in that time,” said Marcus, keeping his voice calm. “Every day we refrain from battle is another day these evil bastards run roughshod over the people of these kingdoms. Every day they kill more people and raise more of their undead monsters to prey on the living. Every day they doom more souls to the hells of their death god. So we will do what is necessary to stop them.”
No one said a word. Some stared at him, some looked away, while their horses continued to plod down the road. Marcus wasn’t sure how they had taken his little speech. Leadership wasn’t something that he had wanted, but with the presumed death of Master Aepep the job was his. And so it was on him to make sure they paid the king back for the kindness he had extended to them. Plus, it was just the right thing to do.
About midafternoon the sounds of combat came to them from over the hills to the east. Horsemen riding along the road turned their mounts and spurred toward the sounds, and Marcus was sure that some of the nomads were now in contact with the screening forces to that side of the army. The infantry stopped for a moment, looking around, some hefting their pikes as if preparing to repel cavalry.
“Keep moving,” yelled a man on horseback, wearing the armor of a senior officer. “The cavalry will take care of the enemy. We’ll let you know when it’s time to ground pikes and fire muskets.”
“I would see what is going on over those hills,” said Hemetre.
“The king’s officer told us to keep moving,” said Hes-ra, now the youngest of the wizards. “I think we should keep riding to the camp.”
“I am not a soldier in that man’s regiment,” said the haughty princess with a sneer. “I will ride where I will.” She looked over at Marcus with a slight smile. “Will you come with me, brave leader?” And with that she turned her horse and spurred toward the low hills.
Marcus shook his head and cursed under his breath. Hemetre was the most powerful among the mages, after himself. And he could not afford to let her run off into peril by herself, possibly getting herself killed. Besides, he felt great attraction toward the princess, and would prefer that she stay among the living. “The rest of you, keep moving to the camp. I’ll be back soon.”
The young master spurred his mount after the headstrong princess, wondering if all sense had fled him as well. He had almost caught her by the time she reached the crest, where she reined her mount to a halt and sat there staring down at the small valley below.
Marcus rode up beside her and stopped as he too stared. Two mounted forces were in battle, a thousand nomads, slightly fewer Eirish and Frank cavalry. The nomads were all light cavalry, horse archers, who tried to keep their distance from their enemies so they could send shaft after shaft into them. The Western soldiers fired back with carbines and pistols, while trying to close. Some nomads fell from their horses, but more of the westerners fell from theirs with arrows through their light armor.
“We must help them,” cried out Hemetre, looking over at Marcus.
The sounds of shouting men and screaming horses came to their ears. Surely this small a force of nomads couldn’t really threaten the army. If they went over the hill they would be facing prepared infantry and would have no choice but to retreat. But here and now they were killing the men of the army the mages had sided with, and they had to do something.
“Fireballs,” yelled Marcus, pointing over the field. “But not into the nomads. No, there.”
Hemetre nodded and went into her casting, Marcus following suit. He was the faster, but he held back on the triggering words until she was almost finished with her own chant. Then he followed her as he tossed the white-hot pellet of fire to the chosen spot, not within the ranks of the nomads, but behind them.
Two furious blas
ts of flame erupted just behind the nomad force. Dozens fell from their horses as the beasts reared in terror while the flames washed over them. The rest of the force recoiled in fear, their horses running out of control from the flames. The duo landed another pair of balls landed, again chasing the enemy away, right toward the charging Eirish and Frankish cavalry.
Then it was stiffened leather against chain and plate, light curved swords against blades made to slice through their own kind of armor. Suddenly the press was too close for horse archers, and some of the western cavalry still had loaded pistols that they discharged to best advantage.
“Into the center of them, now,” shouted Marcus.
“I only have enough for one more.”
“Then place it well,” said Marcus, launching himself into his chant. His fireball went out first, striking near the center of the nomad mass, hers following a moment later to strike slightly behind it.
The nomads broke, though for most of them their retreat was cut off by the flames, and all they did was turn into a fleeing mass riding by their enemies, cut down along the way. A mere couple of hundred made it off the field, pursued by half a thousand of their enemies. As soon as the friendly horsemen reached the next rise of hills they halted, milling around before over half of them came back down the hill and rode back into the valley that had been their station before the fight.
“Why don’t they continue after them?” asked the princess, a look of confusion on her face.
“The Turks have a reputation for feigning retreat to lure their enemies into an ambush,” replied Marcus, shaking his head, then spitting on the ground.
“But, they were fleeing. We saw how they had been beaten on the field.”
“The job of our cavalry is to screen the rest of the force until they make it to the camp,” said Marcus, not an expert on the military himself, but appraised of the rudimentaries of the art of war. There are still a lot of nomads out there, and if those horsemen ran into a large force, most would never make it back.”
The Chronicles of the Eirish: Book 1: The Lich's Horde Page 26
