by Rob J. Hayes
Archie had a few more visitors during the night, but that was no surprise. Tristan knew how popular Archie was; everyone seemed to like him, even those unsettled by his persistent calm. Most of his visitors talked about squires that Tristan either didn't know or didn't care to know, the others talked about events back home for Archie in the eastern kingdom.
The disapproving looks from Sir Kevan aimed at David grew more frequent and, as they did, so did David's agitation. He did not enjoy having a chaperone and was aware that, at any time, his master could decide his night was over.
When Tristan’s enlarged bladder was becoming painful, he made a quick explanation, then stood and made for the back entrance.
Out back were two outhouses. Tristan tried the doors and received an angry grunt from inside both of them. Giving up, he decided to water a nearby fence instead. In truth, he was glad — the smell of the outhouses was legendary.
As he started to release a steady stream, Tristan felt his skin crawl. He glanced around and saw no one, but couldn't shake the feeling he was being watched. He shivered and finished as quickly as he could, then turned to go back inside.
That was when he heard it. The unmistakeable ringing of steel on steel and the drifting sounds of raised voices coming from the knight's camp. There wouldn't be many folks in the camp this late, and there was no way any training should be happening in the darkness of night.
Tristan was about to investigate when he saw a younger squire sprinting down the road from the camp, terror etched plain on the boy's face. He moved to intercept, but the boy ran straight past him and into the tavern. Worried, and more than a little confused, Tristan followed him inside.
“...camp is under attack!” There was an unusual silence in the room, save for the young squire, with all eyes focused on him.
“What? Who? How?” This from one of the knights near Tristan's table.
“The dead...” the squire said between breaths. “Tunnel...”
Sir Kevan Verit wasted no time. He stood and took charge of the situation. “You know where the Hog's Head is, boy?”
The squire replied with a shake of his head.
Tristan seized the chance. “I do, sir.”
“Inform the knights of the situation. Everyone else to the camp. NOW!”
Tristan spun, ran out the door, and sprinted into town towards the Hog's Head.
The village sped by Tristan in an adrenaline-fueled blur. He was aware of the odd passer-by gawking at him, no doubt confused by the sight of a squire dashing through town in the middle of the night. Tristan didn't care. They were finally going to see some real battle. He was finally going to get a chance to prove himself.
He skidded to a stop outside the tavern and pushed the door open with more strength than intended. It slammed against the wall, and all eyes locked onto him. He swallowed, made nervous by the situation, his tongue felt like a strip of dried leather.
“We're under attack!” he blurted out. “Dead in the camp. A tunnel or something.”
Every knight in the room stood as one. Chairs were knocked over and tables were shoved out of the way, mugs smashed to the floor. They marched to the exits. One knight stopped by Tristan.
“Who's your master, boy?”
“Breen Colf, sir.”
“He'll still be at the camp. Get back to him quick. We'll follow.”
Tristan nodded and was off again at full pace, sprinting towards the camp and the battle.
#
The camp was almost empty when Tristan arrived. He could hear the sounds of battle close by, could see the torchlight bobbing in the distance. He hoped that meant they had beaten the dead back to their tunnel.
He located his tent and ducked inside to retrieve his sword. He found Sir Breen still on his pallet, but with a sword through his chest. The dead must have got a few of their number into the camp.
Tristan swallowed down bile and said a quick prayer to the God of Death. Sir Breen may have been aging, fat, and a terrible bore, but he was a good man and something of a legend in his own time. Tristan had counted himself lucky that a hero like Breen had taken him on as squire. Now, the man was dead. Gone.
Tristan glanced about for his sword. There was so much blood. It was still seeping from the corpse into the confined space, soaking everything dark red. The smell, even so fresh, was almost unbearable. Tristan suppressed a gag.
His sword was gone. He knew where he had left it, but it was no longer there.
He heard an odd rattle noise behind him and spun. A skeleton stood in the tent entrance, its fleshless skull grinning at him. It had all the correct bones in the correct positions, but it looked to Tristan as if many of the bones had come from different owners; its right arm was shorter than its left, and some ribs were discolored, yellowed from age, whilst others were bleached white. It held a single sword in its left hand.
The skeleton took a lurching step towards Tristan. It was almost in striking range. Tristan took a step backwards. The skeleton took another step forwards. Again Tristan retreated, his mind reeling, struggling to find an escape route.
He fell backwards over the body of his dead master, landing in a pool of blood. It soaked into his tunic, covered his hands, sticky and wet and so very red. The skeleton advanced again.
Tristan grabbed hold of the sword in Sir Breen's chest and wrenched it free. It was slippery in his blood-soaked hands, but he held it tight.
Tristan swung. The blow lacked finesse, but more than made up for it with raw power. The skeleton parried. Tristan swung again, wild and low. This time, the sword bit into the skeleton's leg, taking off everything lower than the knee. It toppled, fell forwards across Sir Breen's body. Tristan knew he’d yet to finish the creature; the dead were notoriously hard to kill.
As the skeleton struggled to right itself, Tristan brought the sword’s pommel down on its skull. A large chunk of bone broke off, but still the creature moved, trying to get its hands beneath it. Tristan smashed it with the pommel again and again and again. By the time he finished, little remained of the creature's skull but shards of bone. Most importantly, it no longer moved.
Tristan crawled into a corner and heaved. His stomach contents tasted bitter on the way back up. After he was done he turned and fled the tent, snatching up the sword as he went.
The knights from the tavern had caught up with Tristan. Many were in their tents trying to fasten their armor by themselves, others were already heading towards the sounds of battle, some armored, some not, some with the odd bit of plate attached.
One knight stopped in front of Tristan. He looked the squire up and down with a concerned expression. Tristan didn't recognize him.
“It's not my blood,” Tristan said, holding up his hands to show the Knight. “Sir Breen is dead. They got him in his sleep.”
“Damn!” the knight swore. “Well, what are you waiting for, boy? An invitation? Get to the fight!”
“Yes, sir.” Tristan gave a hasty salute and ran towards the sounds of fighting.
The battle was not far from the camp. Torches had been driven into the ground close by to give enough light to fight by, while David's master, Sir Kevan Verit, bellowed orders from the back lines.
A loose ring of knights and squires, some in full armor, but most with only breastplates or no armor at all, fought side by side and surrounded the tunnel, trying to hem the dead in. There didn't seem to be any real attempt to push the dead back, but with a never-ending horde reinforcing itself from the tunnel, pushing back seemed an impossible feat. No doubt they had already sent riders to Falcon Keep; Tristan doubted, however, whether they could hold for the three hours it would take for reinforcements to arrive.
He pushed his doubts aside, spotted his friends, and ran over to help them. All five were in a group with a single knight close by giving orders. Kernard, David, and Archie were holding up the front lines, whilst Simon and Higson backed them up where necessary. They seemed to be holding their own,
despite it being the first real battle for any of them.
Tristan arrived just as Kernard took the head off a skeleton with a savage swing. He was wielding a two-handed great sword that looked a lot like his master's, and Tristan wondered whether Sir Kevon Nown had been an early casualty like Sir Breen.
Simon spotted Tristan before the others and waved him over, handing him a sturdy iron mace.
“Here, better than a sword against these types,” Simon said. “Aim for the head.”
Tristan took the mace in his right hand, but kept the sword for his left; he'd always been better with two weapons than with a shield. He thanked Simon with a nod, and then inserted himself into the front lines between Kernard and the knight.
“Nice of you to join us, Tris. Thought you were going to sit this one out!” Kernard then glanced at Tristan. “Shit! Are you all right?”
“It's not mine,” Tristan said, swiping a skeleton. “It's Breen's.”
Kernard blocked an attack and hit a skeleton with the handle of his sword, knocking the creature to the ground before stomping on its neck. The head detached with a crack, and Tristan noticed his friend had donned a pair of plate boots.
“The old bear is dead?” Kernard asked.
“Got him in his tent.” Tristan found himself facing two opponents. There was no time for talking anymore. It was all he could do to keep from getting skewered.
“DUCK!” the knight beside him shouted. Tristan obeyed without hesitation. An instant later, a heavy iron-bound staff whipped over his head and shattered a skeleton’s skull. Tristan stood and destroyed the second skeleton’s head with his mace. Both sets of bones collapsed to the earth, the magic animating them no longer able to work without their heads.
They barely had time to take a breath when a swarm of skeletons was upon them. The line was fluid, moving back and forth a few steps at a time as they lost and gained ground. From time to time, Higson or Simon would appear at Tristan's side to help him deal with multiple enemies, and then they would be off to help others.
All around steel rang against steel, metal impacted against bone, and screams of pain tore across the battlefield, but the line held, even as wave after wave of skeletons came against them.
“Nooooo!” Higson screamed out in the night, his voice high with fear.
Tristan was holding off two skeletons, but risked a glance. David was on the ground, a fatal gash across his face. Kernard was holding off four skeletons at once, his sword moving at an impossible speed for such a large weapon. Higson was on the ground scrambling away from the line, and Simon was engaged on the other side of the knight. Kernard couldn't hold off four enemies at once, not for long, not with more of them arriving all the time.
Kernard roared at Higson, “You fat sack of shit, get up and help! Good, now take David's place on the line.”
“But, but—”
“I swear I'll kill you myself!”
Tristan risked another glance, saw Higson move into position. Kernard was doing most of the work, killing Higson's opponents as well as his own, but as long as Higson kept some of the pressure off they could manage. For now.
#
The waves of dead seemed endless. It felt like days had passed, weeks even. Tristan had no idea where his strength came from. Every time he thought he was exhausted, another burst of energy would hit; still, his attacks were sloppy, his blocks, out of necessity, turned to parries. Tristan knew he wouldn't last much longer.
They were stuck in a dangerous holding pattern. The dead came in wave after wave against the knights and squires. They, in turn, did not have the manpower to push back. It was not a fight the Five Kingdom's forces could win. As time wore on, more and more of them fell, whilst the dead never relented, their only limitation was the number that could exit the tunnel at one time.
Tristan never saw or heard Simon fall. In a short lull he glanced to the side. Simon was down, his eyes dull and lifeless, a gaping wound on his chest. Tristan looked around in panic. Kernard still fought on, Higson close at his side; both looked tired, but judging by the pile of bones at their feet they had cost their enemies dearly. Archie was gone, whether he was dead, fled, or moved to help support the line somewhere else, Tristan didn't know.
Then the lull was over, and Tristan had no more time to worry over his friends’ fates.
He parried with his sword and swung with his mace. The blow hit home, caving in the skull of the skeleton. It crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut.
He was so tired, too tired to respond fast enough to the next attack. He moved to dodge as another skeleton stabbed at him. The sword bit into his left side. It was a shallow slice, but it hurt like hell and he felt hot, wet blood leak down his side.
Kernard edged closer. Higson moved with him. It left a small gap in the lines, but gaps were already appearing everywhere. The dead had already breached the lines, but instead of turning and attacking their living enemies from both sides they made straight for the village. There was nothing the knights or squires could do to stop them.
“How you holding up?” Kernard shouted above the din of battle.
“I'm good,” Tristan replied, the lie etched in pain. “How long has it been?”
“Don't know. Higson reckons an hour or so.”
Reinforcements were still too far away. Neither of them said it, but they knew they couldn't hold.
Then, the Wight appeared. It strode out of the tunnel, and the other dead moved aside for it, parting and bowing their skulls like servants to their lord. The creature stood seven feet tall and was dressed in a heavy suit of chain mail. Its bones showed only in its skull and hands. It wore a faceless helm with a single spike atop, and an ethereal blue light blazed from its eye sockets. A long sword with a serrated blade rested in its hand.
The Wight took only a moment to survey the battlefield, then strode forward, straight towards the weakest link. Straight towards Tristan.
A knight appeared from nowhere and rushed towards the Wight. The creature didn't even break stride as it turned aside the attack and ran the knight through. His scream pierced the noise of the battlefield, and Tristan felt his bowels turn to water.
The creature was almost upon him. Kernard shouted a battle cry and charged the Wight. It parried his attack and backhanded Kernard with its free hand. The blow spun Kernard, and he hit the ground with a loud grunt, stunned.
The Wight advanced on Kernard to finish him, but then Higson was there. The small, fat boy rained blow after blow on the Wight, his attacks fueled by rage and terror. To Tristan's amazement, the Wight retreated under the flurry of attacks, but then it caught Higson's sword in its hand and raised its own sword.
Tristan rushed forward and blocked the downward strike with both his weapons. He felt fresh blood seep from his side, and the jar from the blow jolted his very bones.
The Wight was fast. Its free hand snaked out and caught Tristan's left wrist. A freezing cold seeped into his arm. Tristan’s flesh turned a pale blue, and he began shivering from his head to his feet. All the while, the Wight grinned at him from its lifeless skull, the blue light from its eye sockets burning into his soul.
Behind the Wight, Kernard had regained his feet and recovered his greatsword. The Wight hadn't noticed, and Kernard braced himself, swinging with every ounce of his strength. The blade took the Wight in the mid-section, loosening its grip on Tristan and knocking it to the ground. Its chain mail held together, but without flesh to soften the blow the force of Kernard's attack snapped the Wight's spine.
Tristan stumbled backwards, and Higson was there to steady him. Kernard stood close by, panting, so tired he was unable to raise his sword.
The Wight clawed towards them, dragging its useless lower body.
A warhorse suddenly appeared, canting forward. The steed reared and brought one of its massive, shod hooves down on the creature's skull, crushing it to shards of bone and dust. The horse snorted and pawed at the earth, as if to make sur
e the undead thing was truly destroyed.
The three boys looked dumbfounded, unable to comprehend what had just happened. They all peered up at the warhorse’s rider, recognizing Prince General Sir Jerard Fulf, supreme commander of the Five Kingdoms military. Behind him came an army. Hundreds of knights joined the battle, pushing the dead back in a tide of armor and steel.
“Get them back into that hole,” the Prince General bellowed, then turned to a knight close by. “Sir Bryne, take some men into the village. Clean up any that got through the lines.”
“Yes, m’lord.” Sir Bryne spurred his steed away, calling out orders of his own.
“Where are my engineers? I want this tunnel collapsed.”
Tristan found it hard to form a thought as the Prince General’s gaze looked towards him and his brothers-in-arms. The man swung from his horse with practiced ease.
“Names?” the Prince General asked, looking at Tristan, whose tongue seemed stuck in his mouth.
The man was tall and muscular. He wore plate armour that glinted in the torchlight, despite the dust from his ride. His once-black hair greyed around the ears, and his face was hard and stern, and there was pride there, too.
Kernard was first to find his tongue. “Kernard Wulfden, m’lord.”
“Lyndsey Higson, sir.”
“Uh, Tristan Southerland, Majesty.” Some of the shock was wearing off, as Tristan's side began to hurt like hell. He put a hand on the wound and could feel it wet with blood. His vision blurred a little, and his legs wobbled.
“Squires?”
“Yes, sir. All of us, sir,” Higson replied.
“Kneel then,” the Prince General commanded. “Be quick.”
All three boys obeyed without question.
The Prince General walked behind them, drew his sword, laying first on Tristan's shoulder, then Higson's, and last of all, Kernard's.
“For your courage and service on this battlefield, I hereby knight the three of you. Rise, Sir Tristan Southerland, Sir Lyndsey Higson, Sir Kernard Wulfden.”
