by Damon Alan
“How bloody long have you been holding that thing?”
“Twenty minutes,” Miller said like he was reporting how long it had taken him to walk to the market.
“Can you get rid of it?”
Miller turned his hand over and the little fire winked out, and with it Miller’s quiet attitude about the entire thing.
“I made fire!” he exclaimed.
The chorus of death that erupted from below made Harry slap his forehead. Hopefully the barrier his men had nervously named the Bone Barricade would hold.
Harry grabbed Miller’s arm and shook him as he whispered a sharp admonition. “Shut your damned mouth, you.” He let go of the man and walked to the window, looking out on the mass of dead men. “You’ll get us all killed. We have to be as silent as possible. When we are they forget we’re here.”
“I’m sorry, Sergeant,” Miller whispered contritely.
“You were distracted,” Harry admitted. “I’ve never seen anything like what you did there.”
“Great for parties, I’d imagine,” Miller whispered back. “Or when the batteries on the torch give out.”
“Is it fire?”
“I think so,” Miller replied. “I wasn’t going to stick my other hand in it, but it warmed me.”
“Made the rest of the room like an ice box,” Harry said, still chilled. “Wonder if that’s where it gets the energy? You weren’t burning wood.”
“Maybe. If we get out of here, I’ll have to experiment.”
“That you will,” Harry agreed. “But it’s when, not if.”
“Of course,” Miller nodded.
“Get some sleep, you’ve already done your watch. No need to spend tomorrow in a daze.”
“I doubt I can, but I’ll try.”
“Good lad.” Harry walked out of the room as Miller lay down on the mattress he’d pulled to the floor earlier for the aerial.
“What was his thing?” Timothy whispered.
“We’ll discuss it tomorrow,” Harry said. “One problem at a time is all I want right now.”
It was hard to see Tim in the dark, but Harry thought the man shook his head. He clasped his friend’s shoulder. “We’re going to get out of this. Whatever it takes.”
“You’re in charge, Harry. It’ll be a cold day in Morocco before you go down without a fight.”
Harry didn’t respond. There was no reason to fight and expect victory. If the dead didn’t move on of their own volition, his men would starve, or die trying to break through the masses of skeletons and horror to safety.
At least this chalet had running water. Death wouldn’t be because of thirst. The one bit of surprising good luck considering they were in a country where running water wasn’t that common.
He’d be awake the rest of the dark hours trying to figure out a plan. They might stay one more day. After that, without food, they’d only grow weaker.
But better to die fighting than starving.
Chapter 15 - Stormfront
The storms of this world were no different than on Aerth. Lightning crashed, thunder rolled.
So did Iron Company. They rolled southeast, pass the direct effect of the gate. More than once the dwarves had skirted graveyards that writhed with the struggles of the dead.
Human dead.
That was why it was good to be dwarven. Dwarves did not come back to life to kill their own. Or others, for that matter. When a dwarf died, he had the dignity to remain dead, as it should be.
Humans, on the other hand, were even worse than the elves. The elves were bad enough, with certainty, but by Irsu’s estimation it seemed like every human that hadn’t completely turned to dust was trying to rejoin the living.
Judging by the screams coming from some of the houses near graveyards, a few of the undead were successful at the coming back part. If the teachings of the Ekesstu priests were accurate, as the dead killed more of the living, they’d grow stronger until their minds returned. Or at least some of their mind, because they’d have no shame for what they’d done to the living. No. The dead would see the living as sustenance and want more.
Dwarves were lucky in that sense too. The dead would seek out their own kind, for some reason. Maybe the dwarven souls tasted wrong. Or maybe dwarfs were the soulless bastards the elves claimed all along.
Irsu chuckled.
“What’s the joke?” Coragg asked.
“Nothing, my friend,” he answered. “Just reflecting on how these storms were no different than in the Iron Mountains. Loud, wet, and hard on the armor.”
“We’re going to need to source some leather,” Coragg said, “since you mention it. The joints of these plate monstrosities will only last so long.”
“Aye. Next field of cows, we’ll harvest some.”
They walked in silence for a while. The rain didn’t let up, and the darkness it brought made traversing the fallow fields they were on harder. He’d hear a soldier grunt as a root grabbed his boot far more often than he would have thought possible for the warriors of Iron Company.
They were tired. They’d marched twenty hours a day for a long many days.
“Not many of the gray soldiers around,” Coragg said. “I’m surprised they didn’t come after us with you letting the children go.”
Irsu growled deep in his throat. “Don’t question that, unless you want a dent in that faceplate of yours.”
“No, not questioning,” Coragg replied. “Just saying I expected the kids to put the grays on our tail.”
“I think one of those men was the father,” Irsu said. “They probably have no joy left in their days to power their words. Grief will keep them silent.”
“Maybe.”
Rain spilled down through the minuscule gap between the visor and his helm. Several times a minute a drop would run down his nose, then drip into his beard.
“The dwarf in my squad I see killin’ kids, I execute,” Irsu said. “The one that murders children will murder anyone.”
“We all know,” Coragg confirmed. “You made that clear. I just have one question.”
“Spit it out,” Irsu grunted. “You deserve my thoughts.”
“How are we supposed to do the Underking’s bidding and take this world if we never deal with the children of the humans?”
“We’re not going to kill the humans,” Irsu said. “We’re going to push them back through to Aerth. That’s what Hagirr wants anyway. He wants his people back with him, and we want a world with almost no magic.”
“So we’re trading?”
“Best we can. Some are going to die,” Irsu admitted. “But not the kids.”
“Not the kids,” Coragg agreed.
“Not the kids,” several of the dwarves right behind them repeated.
Irsu laughed. He wasn’t worried about his own troops. But for the first time he found himself wishing he was in charge of the entire company. Because his soldiers would obey. The others had different masters.
“Keep them in order,” Irsu said. “I am going to talk to Bordnu.”
“As you command,” Coragg answered. “On me, you lumps!”
Lightning crashed nearby as Irsu stepped to the side of the marching column. As usual, his platoon was in the front. Bordnu’s in the rear, ostensibly to guard the provision wagons.
As the lines of silver metal clad dwarves marched past, several raised their weapons in salute.
Irsu nodded at them. Dwarven soldiers outside his own platoon respected him. He should, if it ever came to it, not have trouble spreading his ideas.
But it would be better if Bordnu set the standards.
Finally, the front of Iron platoon came into view. Bordnu handed command over to his second and broke ranks to walk with Irsu.
“Why are you back with me?” his brother asked.
Irsu could tell Bordnu was still angry about the events at the house. Nothing had come of it, and no shame stained their blades. There should be gratitude for that, but instead there were thin lips pressed tight
in displeasure.
“I want you to set our policy,” Irsu replied.
Bordnu didn’t say anything for a few dozen steps. Then he answered with a simple, “I have.”
“No kids, brother.” Irsu clasped Bordnu’s shoulder. “We don’t kill children.”
“Is this because you think none of the daughters of our hearth will have children with you?” Bordnu asked. “Do you have some soft spot for wolf cubs too? Or maybe you might adopt an ogre child as your own?”
Red immediately welled up in Irsu’s eyes. Clearly his brother was angry. But he would quickly make Irsu just as enraged if mockery was the path of conversation he would follow.
“We dwarves honor children of our hearths. We protect them, we coddle them, we raise and educate them. When a mate sees me as having what she wants for her future, I will find a wife, and I will father a brood like hasn’t been seen in centuries. But I am just starting,” Irsu replied, “and I do not think children carry the evil of their parents. Do not pick this fight with me.”
“You shouldn’t even be here,” Bordnu grumbled. “Secondborn who haven’t contributed to our numbers are supposed to see to that first, not seek out adventure.”
“Don’t you think I know that? The Underking asked me. What he saw in me I don’t know, but I am not bragging when I say I wield this axe as well as you have ever wielded any weapon.”
Bordnu didn’t respond to that provocation. “If we both die, only my bastard daughter will carry the name, and then only until she is betrothed,” he complained. “You, little brother, should be home, making sons with a round female.”
“You have a daughter? Why have I not met her?”
“Did you hear the bastard part?” Bordnu asked. “I was indiscreet in my youth.”
“Crackstone is a lousy name anyway,” Irsu said. “She’ll be better off marrying out of it. Maybe that is why I haven’t found a partner. I mean, seriously, who wants a cracked stone?”
“Worthy or not, we are the only that carry it. Father was no warrior, he was a second son and a blacksmith. But when called to fight, he fought. Because he had us boys already. Irsu Crackstone,” Bordnu pushed his shoulder, “needs to be home, bouncing a baby boy on his lap. Then, when the lad reaches an age to carry on our hearth, you can go to war.”
“I need to be here, keeping you from disgracing your axe with the blood of children.”
Bordnu stopped, grabbing Irsu’s armor at the elbow, jerking him to a stop as well. His brother lifted his faceplate, so Irsu lifted his.
“If our family doesn’t get to continue, why do you care about the humans?” Bordnu’s volume rose over the length of the question.
Irsu was shocked by the fact the question even had to be asked. His family wasn’t in competition with human lineage.
“Why?” his brother yelled.
“You did not seem to care so much about killing the humans when we were coming through the gate,” Irsu said as the last of the Iron platoon soldiers passed them. “Why the change?”
“We came through the gate with a hundred and sixty-eight of us. We are already under a hundred and forty. Your platoon has taken a particularly hard hit in regard to numbers.”
“And yet here I am,” Irsu said.
“We will take no chances,” Bordnu said. “No survivors from now on, as I commanded at the farm house.”
“No,” Irsu said. “This isn’t right.”
“It’s my command,” his brother sneered. “And you will follow it.”
The Iron Mountain clan of dwarves worshipped four gods of the elements, each with two faces, one of each gender. A face of light, and one of darkness.
Mordain, Lord of the Air, of weather, also bore the face of the great female sky that brings panic.
Ekesstu, Mother of the Aerth, of soil, fertility, and a male face of death and rot.
Semesku, Purveyor of Fire, of warmth, but also of the male aspect of war and rage.
Zein, Master of Water, of rivers, but also of the angry feminine face of cold, ice, and erosion.
The gods mated, producing the things that dwelled between their domains. Mordain, for example, would mate with the feminine aspect of Zein to create rain. If Zein’s aspect was strongest in the mating, storms would follow, or freezing rain, or flooding. If Mordain’s was strongest, gentle rains would fall and nourish crops.
Lightning was such a mating between Mordain and Zein, although some clerics said it was Semesku and Zein. Whichever gods made lightning, it was hard to tell if the good or the bad was dominant in most cases, as the flash was over so quickly.
Such a flash struck down from above, lancing through Bordnu’s helmet, killing him instantly.
Irsu watched as his brother’s eyes lit from the inside, and then instantly rolled back in his head. Red hot slag spewed from his armor in several places as the burning lance of skyborne energy ripped through the metal to race into the ground.
His brother fell backward into the loose mud with a plop.
Irsu, but one step distant, felt nothing from the lightning bolt. But he felt everything from the death.
He threw himself on top of his brother’s partially burned body, weeping with an agony only the loss of a brother could create. Smoke rolled out through the joints in Bordnu’s armor.
To make it worse, his brother hadn’t died in battle. He’d died at the hands of avaricious gods, or maybe at the hands of stupid bad luck.
No death for a warrior.
Irsu had no idea how long he wept over his brother, the cold rain on his back, drenching his body, didn’t keep the time. It just reminded him that he wasn’t dead as well.
After an unknown time Coragg knelt in front of him.
“We have a duty,” Coragg said. “The platoon leaders have spoken. You’re the leader now.”
Was this his fault? Had his despair at Bordnu’s order summoned the wrath of Zein? He’d wished to command the company, after all.
Irsu stood, then looked at the dwarves of Iron platoon. He set aside his agony and loss, then rose to the duty that stood like a road to follow in front of him. There would be time to question his role later. For now, duty called.
“Get his body into the wagons. We’ll burn it when we find a dry place to do so.”
“Do we make camp?” Coragg asked.
“Here? Exposed?” Irsu asked, a bit surprised Coragg would think him not strong enough to continue. “It might be a day dark with clouds, but it’s not over. We march until it is.”
“Shall I switch our platoon position with Iron platoon?”
“Them in front you mean,” Irsu said, his voice trailing off. He thought about it for a minute as the sky continued to hammer his company. It was customary for the commanding platoon to guard the supplies in the fourth rank. If Irsu was one thing, it wasn’t customary.
“No. We are Hearthfire, and I am Iron Commander Irsu Crackstone. We, Guard Commander Coragg Bloodgem, you and I, we lead from the front.”
Coragg leaned in close to Irsu’s helmet. He looked down at Bordnu’s body before he spoke, as if considering the wisdom of his words. “You’re an only son now. Your line—”
“Will end if the gods will it,” Irsu said. “If they wish another to command this mission, so be it. I lead from the front.”
“So be it,” Coragg agreed. “I am your second. I serve your will.”
“As you have since the day we met, my friend.”
Irsu looked at the two Iron platoon soldiers gathering Bordnu’s body, then reached down and picked up Bordnu’s axe. “I’ll see to this.”
The two troops stared at him for a moment.
“Now!” Coragg bellowed. “In the wagon!”
They completed their task as fast as any dwarf could move.
Irsu marched to the front. He’d talk to the company later. The company had stopped marching with the death of Bordnu. That wasn’t how dwarves covered ground.
They would keep moving. For now, they had to follow him into the storm.
He found solace in the sound of the synchronized steps of his soldiers, and of Coragg’s voice as he led the column in song.
We are Iron, we march from our clan.
If we march agin you, the end is at hand.
But if we march for you, then upon you fate smiles.
As the Iron marches in columns and files.
Our axes sharp, our wits the same.
War’s not our life, it’s just our game.
We strike and we fight, we crush and we win.
Then we march home, until fate calls again.
Some of the truest words Irsu had ever heard, sung or spoken. As he listened to the storm rage around them, he wondered if he should silence the troops to prevent the enemy from hearing them.
But then he realized this was not the time. Bordnu needed a sendoff, and Iron Company needed a morale boost even more as they faced uncertainty under a new commander.
The rain blew sideways, the lightning flashed, and whatever the reason, he knew the gods were hiding him from the gray warriors. His ancestors were watching. The gods were behind him. This moment was a defining crossroads in the history of the Iron Mountain clan.
Irsu, and his troops, would rise to that call.
They’d penetrate deeper into enemy territory, and, when the long march was done, reclaim a hold empty for ten thousand years.
Chapter 16 - Red Saviors
May 26, 1940
Harry awakened to a beam of sunlight creeping across his face.
He jumped up, remembering where he was, gasping as the recollection of where he was struck him in the chest.
The house was mostly quiet, except for the occasional creak of boards from the first floor as the dead walked around in their oblivious paths. Fortunately, he hadn’t cried out as he awakened.
It was stupid to fall asleep. He was supposed to be on watch.
He crept down the narrow second floor hall of the chalet and peeked around the corner. Tim and one of the men guarded the stairwell, the situation unchanged.
Approaching and then kneeling next to Timothy, Harry’s face glowed red with embarrassment. “I dozed off, Tim. I’m sorry.”
