Trail of Pyres

by L. James Rice

  Ivin’s mare bumped Meliu’s horse as he stared at the line of people ahead.

  She turned and smiled. “Head from the clouds, Choerkin. You about ran me over.”

  “I blame Nameless.” He traded horses damned near every day, and since Meliu named every one, he’d taken to the same Nameless name for each.

  “Poor Enud, getting clobbered by your big brute.” She stroked her horse’s neck.

  The sun reached its zenith in the sky and a wind blew in from the west; chill, but nothing compared to a winter on Kaludor. Their canteens didn’t even freeze over night. He was about to make a quip about her horse’s name when Silone on the horizon scattered.

  Subtle at first, but the chaos grew, people scrambling in crazed masses. The chaos flowed like a wave through the caravan. “What the hells?”

  A string of galloping riders capped the hill, and it took his mind flickers to reconcile what his eyes told him: Merseng archers. Their hooves fell silent as arrows soared into the Silone people, and he imagined the screams even if too far away to hear them.

  He pulled his black shield from its saddlebag buckle; his first instinct was to ride like a hammer from the Forges straight at these bastards, but the Tek kept coming. A hundred, two hundred, there wasn’t an end to them loosing, nocking, and loosing again. Casual in their saddles, they didn’t bother to hurry.

  Silone fell wounded or dead, terrified folks trampled others. White fire engulfed a dozen people, and Ivin’s eyes went wide.

  Meliu screamed, “Wyvern’s Flash!”

  People scurried all around him; the instinct to attack was a fool’s play. He wheeled his horse, putting himself between the riders and Meliu, shield raised. But would good a shield against such destruction?

  Shields rose around them, then came thundering hooves before a single scream. Then another. The rushing whoof of fire turned individual shrieks into a horrifying chorus, and all he could do was lock eyes with Meliu and keep his shield raised.

  Hooves thundered, arrows rained and Wyvern’s Flash brought the lightning to a storm which felt it’d never end. He flinched as something struck his shield, but no flame came.

  Meliu pointed. “Ivin!”

  Riders in the middle of the caravan broke from the chaos and tore turf in a headlong charge at the enemy. Ivin’s heart beat a new rhythm. “Stay here.”

  He reined and heeled Nameless into a full run and he heard “Choerkin” bellowed from his own lips as he raised the Ar-Bdein’s sword, tip toward his goal. He angled to where the other riders would strike; Sedut’s black hair streamed above the tail of her horse, leading the counter of warriors and holy, a people no longer separate as they rode into a hail of shafted steel.

  One moment she was there, the next her horse peeled from the charge riderless, and he feared her fallen until a brilliant light erupted into blood red in the middle of the Tek. Horse and rider tumbled into pieces with a spray of gore, then a second and third before riders wisened to ride around her. Horses collided in the chaos as more Silone reached the fray.

  Wyvern’s Flash ignited in Sedut’s swirling blades but she strode forward unfazed, disappearing and reappearing in another splash of death.

  An arrow struck his mail. A hundred strides, fifty, twenty, ten, and more arrows sailed past before the Ar-Bdein blade bit through an archer’s bow to take off his arm at the elbow. A Tek’s horse slammed into Nameless and they spun; only then did Ivin realize he wasn’t alone. Tudwan and Polus slammed into the enemy before a dozen more Silone.

  The enemy scattered, but they left a flight of arrows in their wake as they twisted in their saddles, and a Silone horse screamed.

  Ivin shouted, “Hold!”

  Polus’ horse spun a circle, and the man’s brows knitted as he pointed at Ivin. “You all right Choerkin?”

  The pain didn’t register until he noticed the arrow sticking from his right thigh. “Shits! I have to be, don’t I?”

  The Broldun guffawed.

  “The next time you ask yourself, what the shittin’ hells would Solineus do about now, you do the opposite, hear me?” Meliu jabbed Ivin’s shoulder as Izilfer prayed and laid hands to his bleeding thigh.

  “I’ll try to remember that next time… and I wear full armor from now on. Unholy Forges!” The pain was like someone pulling a red-hot ingot from his leg.

  Izilfer said, “It’ll hurt most as the arrow works its way from the wound.”

  “Godsdamn, think I’d rather take another arrow.”

  A cork popped and Polus offered him a bottle of whiskey. “This here might help.”

  Ivin snatched the bottle. “Am I supposed to drink it or pour it on my wound?” But it went straight to his mouth before he eyed his thigh. Blood pulsed from around the shaft jammed in his leg, and he was sure it’d struck bone. Izilfer wiped the blood, and he watched his bare flesh tremor and bulge. It took a flicker to realize the arrow was rising from the wound. “Hells, this’d be fascinating as the hells if the hells it didn’t hurt so much.” He rammed the bottle to his lips so hard he banged his teeth, then guzzled the burn.

  Izilfer said, “Half a wick and I can pull it out, then I can get to work on your bone and muscle. Prayers will ease the pain then.” The healer glanced at Polus. “I can heal that finger of yours after a bit.”

  Ivin quaffed whiskey. “Broken?”

  “Your thigh or his finger?” Her smirk did nothing to make him feel better. “Broken is one word for your thigh, his finger is far less severe.”

  Polus stared at his hand. “Mmm, don’t hurt none.”

  Meliu rubbed Ivin’s shoulders as Izilfer popped the arrow’s head from his thigh; his head swam and his eyes blurred, his skin going cold, but it was a still a peculiar relief. He leaned into Meliu’s arms and handed Polus his bottle. “Either your booze is kicking my head, or her prayers are getting better.”

  His eyelids drifted closed, and he opened them again with a jerk to his body. But the next time they closed, he surrendered to sleep.

  Meliu left Ivin napping in the tent and found Solineus right outside the flap. “How is he?”

  “Asleep, but he’ll walk again by tomorrow morning. I see you’re still in one piece.”

  “I reckon I stay lucky. Lots of folks can’t say the same.”

  Meliu turned a circle and people’s moods were as bleak as her own as they made camp. “How many did we lose?”

  “Ah, hells. I helped move half a hundred, that damned fire got most of ‘em. Way I hear it’s anywhere from a couple hundred to a thousand wounded. We’ll lose more over night even with the holy at work.”

  Something in his tone grated her nerves, and she turned on him. “Prayers can do only so much.” True and painful. She’d wanted nothing more than to follow Ivin into the fray, but a single powerful prayer for Dark might’ve ended her sanity. Or worse.

  “I wasn’t disrespecting your holies none.”

  “Adherents.” She smiled and shook her head. “I know, I’m just tired and angry. Let’s walk, I need the air.”

  But as they walked, the air wasn’t fresh, it carried the scent of burned flesh; there was no escape without a bottle of the Broldun’s whiskey. The dead laid side by side in small groups around the camp, covered in blankets, while hundreds dug shallow graves.

  “Quicker to burn them.”

  Solineus sighed. “No one wants to waste the kindling in case winter worsens.”

  “We’re heading south.”

  “I’ll let you explain that to folks used to toes and ears freezing off.”

  “I suppose, still a lot of time and energy.”

  “The dig crews get double rations.”

  “And if the Tek strike again?”

  Solineus led her to a sharp rise and pointed to two horses distant in the west, long hair of silver and black. “Lelishen’s eyes and Sedut’s prayers… or whatever the hell you want to call what she does. I don’t expect to see many Teks soon.”

  “How many Merseng did we kill? A couple dozen?�
� She knew Ivin would say a war of attrition was one they’d lose, but a couple hundred dead versus a couple dozen wasn’t even attrition, it was losing straight and simple.

  A mist swept across the pellucid blue sky this evening, and Solineus wondered whether he dreamed. The Lady’s… The Lady’s what? Home felt too personal. Place, too vague. Realm too regal. Where the hells was he when he visited the Lady’s reality? Reality, no that stunk.

  Why the hells am I worried what I call this universe? Maybe it was the day he had.

  He took an unreal breath. “Hello, my love.”

  And a giggle came from everywhere. “I am with you, always.”

  “But where are you? All I see is mist.”

  “The mist is you, my love.”

  His snort echoed across the universe and back. “I am me.”

  “Your mind is troubled and brings the mist, like tears in your eyes. If not for exhaustion you’d be awake to face what comes.”

  “So, you’re here to wake me?”

  “I am sorry, my love.”

  A sword plunged into his gut and he shot up to sit in his cot, breaths heaving as he grabbed his belly, the anguish of cold steel mingling with the heat of flesh fading. He glanced around the Ravinrin tent. He kicked Tudwan’s cot first. “Wake the hells up! All of you! Armor on.”

  Tudwan lurched to his feet before words reached his mouth. “Why? What the Twelve Hells?”

  Solineus slept in his gambeson so only needed to slip into his mail and helmet. The Twins were sliding over his shoulders and slipping to his hips before he answered. “Hells if I know, but something. Just get your shit together and follow me.”

  He stepped into a moonless night, but the stars shone bright. He poked his head back inside. “Bring your horn in case.”

  Night fires burned low as they conserved the kindling supply, and he didn’t see a single person; he wished he had Edan eyes or prayer to see better.

  Tudwan was the first to step outside, shifting his armor. “What—”

  “Shush!” Solineus squinted and pointed. “Something’s moving.” Solineus crouched and stalked; a black figure skulked tight to the ground on all fours. A hunting cat, a wolf… its head turned with a white-toothed smile. “Blow the godsdamned horn!”

  Solineus sprinted the thirty strides, and the Wakened Dead rose to its all too human feet. The charred body of a man, most of his clothes and skin gone, bone showing from the intensity of the Wyvern’s fire. Tudwan’s horn resounded, and the Twins screeched between his ears, but he didn’t understand their words. It stood stone still as Solineus ran, but the moment he chambered the blades for the kill the thing moved faster than any human should.

  The Wakened ducked and spun, planting one hand while the other snatched Solineus’ ankle; he somersaulted with a twist splaying him face first to the ground. The Twins roared, and he took control of his tumble, rolling from its diving, scrambling attack. Fingers reached and the man’s teeth, so white against his blackened face, clacked with flesh hungry bites. As Solineus came to a knee a Twin removed one of the thing’s arms, but the creature hammered him in the head with the other.

  His ears rang, and the world spun as he tumbled to his right.

  Tudwan’s sword arced into the Wakened’s neck, sending its head to the turf, its teeth clamping shut four times before slowing to a stop, but its lidless eyes stared as if it might still be watching. Solineus jumped to his feet and stomped the skull with his foot until he knew it wasn’t staring.

  Both men glanced to the head’s body, collapsed to its knees but refusing to fall. Tudwan stepped close and pushed it over with his foot, leaping back as it leaned then fell forward. They laughed, but screams rang from the camp.

  Solineus said, “The graves.”

  They ran by the light of the stars even as the number of torches igniting around the encampment grew. A sliding stop to stare; the mass grave stood open and if a body remained he’d be surprised.

  Tudwan said, “What was the final count of dead?”

  “Three hundred thirty-two or thereabouts.”

  “The hells are upon us again.”

  “Blow that horn more, the entire camp needs to be awake.”

  Solineus ran as Tudwan’s horn blew, eyes scanning between every tent… a tent shook and he veered, careening through its flap. The struggle inside was over with three people dead, and a dead woman’s blank eyes turned to him as the sword removed her skull. He ducked outside, shaking his head to Tudwan’s unvoiced question.

  A scream to the east, and they bolted. A Wakened drug a man from a wagon as another leaped aboard for the wife. Solineus screamed, “Here you bastard!” and the thing on the wagon looked up, the living woman rolling to the ground to run. He took two steps up the wagon’s tongue and jumped.

  The Wakened stared as a statue, but both he and the Twins knew this trick now. He feinted with a blow to the head, and when the Wakened dove he kept his eyes on its core: the eyes, hands, and feet may lie, but only a master can fool you with their belly. He redirected as it protected its head and cut the thing in half, spilling a stench that boiled his stomach. Then he took its head.

  He turned to see Tudwan helping the man to his feet, then he handed the man his horn. “Blow and don’t stop blowing until everyone in camp is awake.”

  Solineus trotted down a row of tents with Tudwan on his heels. People dashed to and fro now, difficult as navigating the Twelve Hells to tell who to kill a second time. “Wakened Dead! Wakened Dead! Out of your godsdamned beds!”

  It struck him from the side, dragging him to the ground, and his helm flew from his head as the Twins roared so loud he felt the whole camp should hear them. He could see Tudwan’s shadow hewing at the thing, but its teeth came for his face. Instinct brought a Twin between them and the thing bit the blade; its lower jaw dropped on his chest and the Wakened woman stared with eyes rolled back in its head. Dead, but thinking, realizing its second life was over. “Sorry.” The second Twin slipped under and lifted her head from her body, and he rolled from the carcass.

  Tudwan offered his hand. “Close.”

  “Aye, don’t underestimate these bastards, they think. I could see it in that one’s godsdamned eyes.”

  Fighting broke out to their east, but it looked like the living outnumbered the dead.

  “Thinking, you say? Necromancy?”

  “Hells if I know.”

  Screams erupted from the northeast; the main clan tents. Maybe Necromancy was at work. They hit the open glade at a full sprint and the scene was blood and chaos, Wakened crawling over fresh kills, swords and axes waving beneath the stars. Polus’ great axe cleaved two Wakened in a single sweep but their scratching limbs at his ankles forced him to dance to the side.

  A Wakened leaped, landing on the Broldun’s back, feet on his shoulders, hands grabbing his jaws, and the big man bellowed and swung his ax back over his head, sinking it into the woman’s chest. She pulled on his head as if to pop it from his shoulders.

  A Twin reached and severed the woman at the hips, and she collapsed past Polus’ face. He craned his neck, bloody fingerprints from the Wakened’s grip on his face, then severed her head.

  Solineus slipped behind another and took its head before a dead man soared from the back of a wagon, landing on his back. But he slipped the embrace and shrugged, sending the Wakened tumbling onto the Broldun tent.

  The thing flailed with the ferocity of a wounded bear, and the canvass collapsed as Solineus drove into the dead bastard, removing the cap of its skull.

  But it wasn’t enough; it punched, and without a helmet he felt teeth give way. Polus’ axe took the rest of its head as the tent smoldered.

  They shared a smile before: “Shit!” Polus gashed the tent with his axe as smoke billowed and flames spread. In flickers he dragged Irose, his wife, from the flames.

  She coughed and hugged onto the big man. “I’m fine.”

  Solineus glanced at the woman’s belly, not so far from birthing another Broldun
into the world. “You stay here.” He snagged someone’s shield from the ground and handed it to Irose. “Keep that husband of yours alive.”

  The Twins chirped as he rushed into battle; like cleaving trees to test a fresh-forged blade when the bastards were engaged. The tide of the battle shifted as they fell, and as he stood searching for his next kill he saw the rush too late. A Wakened clung like an alley cat to the Broldun and nearby Tudwan fell beneath three kicking and scratching Wakened.

  “No!” And he ran. Tudwan rolled and kicked a dead woman from him, sending the thing straight into Irose.

  Ten strides from an impossible decision and the world slowed. Irose was a proud Broldun, born knowing how to fight, and pregnant didn’t confound her instincts; the Wakened crashed into her shield, driving her backwards, and her hatchet dug chunks of dead flesh. Tudwan struggled beneath two Wakened men, his armor and youthful fight keeping him alive so far.

  Solineus planted a foot on the back of one of Tudwan’s attackers and leaped as Irose collapsed under the dead’s attack. He feared himself too late as the Twins wailed, cleaving the Wakened’s head into four pieces, only one still attached to its spine.

  No time to see if she lived, he spun and rushed. A Wakened lifted Tudwan’s limp and flopping head, its teeth striking for his face. Blood gushed from Tudwan’s cheek before Solineus took its head, a second swipe killing the other.

  Solineus dropped to his knees. “Tudwan!” But the Ravinrin didn’t answer.

  Irose screamed, high and horrible, and Polus’ voice joined in: “A priest! We need a priest!”

  Solineus cast his gaze over the area, the fighting drew to an end, but the dying continued. “We need a bunch of priests.” He glanced at Tudwan; the good news was blood still pulsed from his wound, so he wasn’t dead yet.

  Solineus stood. “Get some godsdamned healers here and make sure to cleanse the camp of the dead, moving or otherwise. If you can’t fight, get busy burning the dead! Burn them now!”

  They couldn’t afford to lose people to their own dead a second time.

  Izilfer stumbled into the light of the Broldun’s burning tent, and Solineus leaped up and snagged her arm, dragging her to Irose.