Strong Bones - Michael R Fletcher

by Warhammer

  We…

  Finally, the sorcerer turned away and Stug drew a shuddering breath, his heart slamming in his chest.

  ‘We have to–’

  The thunder of hooves interrupted Stugkor, and he turned to see an armoured corpse wielding a sword, blade the same smoking green-black jade as the scythe, and mounted on a similarly armoured dead horse. Iron hooves kicked sparks as they crossed a stretch of exposed stone.

  Chidder grinned yellowed teeth. ‘Finally!’

  Whooping a war cry, Algok and Chid unslung their warclubs, and kicked their mournfangs into a roaring charge.

  Unease bubbled deep in Stugkor’s belly. He hoped it was just the squashed snowrat he ate last night. Screaming his own war cry, he followed after his mates.

  ‘Look how small it is!’ bellowed Chidder as he tried to crash his mount into the armoured corpse.

  The dead warrior easily evaded Chid’s charge, his bone-and-iron horse neatly sidestepping. That smoking jade sword darted out, punching through the side of Chidder’s mournfang’s neck. The beast crumpled with a wet cough of blood, forelegs folding beneath it, sending Chid somersaulting forward. He landed in an awkward pile, winded and moaning.

  Algok went wide, hoping to attack the corpse from the far side, but its torso twisted alarmingly. Parrying her massive club with smoking steel, it spun the weapon in bone fists and decapitated her mournfang with a single stroke. Algok, too, was thrown from her mount. Unlike Chid, she broke her fall mostly with her face. She lay motionless.

  That feeling in Stug’s gut definitely wasn’t the snowrat. Already committed, he drove his mournfang at the warrior. Even though Shard was only young, sitting on the beast’s back Stugkor towered over the undead warrior he faced. The thing should have cowered like those weak little humans. It should have trembled before his might, fled before his ravenous hunger. Instead, it ducked under what was supposed to be a skull-shattering backhand, and skewered Shard with a single neat thrust through the chest.

  Having seen what had happened to Chid and Algok, Stug leapt free, rolling across the hard ground and regaining his feet.

  The deader made no attempt to follow him. Instead, it studied Stug. Faint sparks of green fire flickered in the hollowed sockets of its eyes. Neither it nor its mount moved or twitched.

  For a moment all was still. Only Chid’s groan of pain broke the silence. Algok hadn’t moved, hadn’t made a sound.

  The deader dismounted. Its horse backed away and waited, even though it had received no command.

  Lying at Stug’s feet, Shard made a strange noise, half grunt, half annoyed whine, and died. That uncertain unhappy feeling in Stug’s gut was gone. Something new replaced it. Something hot. Rage.

  Stug bellowed and charged the corpse, swinging his warclub in mighty, crushing blows. He hit nothing but air, the deader always swaying just beyond reach. Instead of stabbing or hacking his head off, it used its sword to trip him and he sprawled into the mud.

  ‘Slow,’ it said, voice dry and squeezed like someone was choking it.

  Regaining his feet, Stug went after his enemy. Either he killed it, or they were all doomed. Chid lay stunned and mumbling, and Algok still hadn’t moved.

  Unhurried, as if the ogor offered no threat, the deader avoided Stug’s every attempt to mash it. Over and over it stabbed that foul sword at him and Stugkor retreated, desperately looking for an opening. Flashing jade left trails of writhing smoke as the corpse followed.

  This wasn’t at all how fights were supposed to happen. Where was the joyous mayhem, the crunch of bone and spray of blood? The only blood being spilled here was his.

  The deader lashed out, leaving a long bloody gash in Stug’s belly.

  ‘Slow and stupid,’ the corpse ground out, accent harsh.

  Seeing the decapitating attack coming but too slow to avoid it, Stug blocked it with his arm. Smoking green steel cleaved through flesh and muscle like it was nothing, and stopped dead, lodged in bone.

  Pain, unlike anything the young ogor had ever felt, smashed through Stug’s thoughts.

  With a scream, he yanked his arm away, dragging the sword from the corpse’s bony fists.

  The deader stepped back, appraising. ‘Strong bones,’ it said.

  And then Algok hit it from behind, smashing it to the ground with her bulk. Pinning it beneath her, she roared and punched it in the chest, cracking ribs. The dead thing struggled beneath her, fingers of bone and steel clawing long rents in her flesh. She punched it in the face, snapping its head to the side and shattering its jaw. And still it fought, heedless of the wounds it suffered.

  Stumbling forward, Stug stomped the thing’s legs over and over until its knees broke. It might be made of bone, but it was unlike anything he’d felt before. Any mortal creature would have been dust. Algok still keeping it trapped beneath her, Stug went after its arms next. He had better luck bending the joints until they popped.

  Finally, when he’d reduced the warrior to little more than a crumpled torso, Algok rolled free. She pushed to her feet and wobbled unsteadily.

  The deader watched them, calm.

  Glowing jade sparks focused on Stug. ‘Strong bones,’ it said again, though its shattered jaw made it sound like Shton omsh.

  Turning, Stugkor saw Chid, too, had regained his feet. Algok bled from a dozen wounds, tongue protruding as she tested the tooth she’d snapped off landing on her face.

  ‘I don’t wanna fight two of those,’ said Chidder, collecting a shattered femur from the ground and gnawing on it. Growling, he tossed it aside when his teeth left only shallow scratches in the bone.

  ‘You didn’t even fight one,’ grunted Algok, stomping on the deader’s skull until it came apart. Leaning low, she peered into the ruin. ‘Not even a brain.’ She glanced at Stug. ‘Must be dumber than Chid.’

  Stugkor wasn’t so sure.

  All three mournfangs lay dead. It was almost like the corpse had been more interested in killing their mounts than killing the ogors.

  Why? Why would it do that?

  He looked north, back towards the tribal lands. A storm brewed there, black iron clouds blanketing the horizon. It was going to be a long walk. Looking back to the human settlement, he saw movement in the town. The deader army looked to be preparing for travel. There was no haste to their actions. Even though Stug and his mates had just mashed the warrior it had sent, the sorcerer still stood where it had before, head tilted back, staring up at Stug.

  ‘To slow us down,’ he said, with dawning comprehension.

  ‘What?’ asked Chid and Algok.

  ‘It killed our mournfangs to slow us.’

  His friends looked doubtful.

  Strong bones, the corpse had said.

  The deaders were all bone, no meat. But they weren’t just the bones of a corpse given life, they were… He searched for the word.

  Constructed.

  Stugkor had pulled enough living things apart to know what they looked like on the inside, and nothing looked like these creatures.

  ‘Bones of lotsa things in there,’ Stug said. He thought about that huge armoured beetle creature with the ribbed baskets, shucking the dead humans of flesh and collecting their bones.

  Strong bones.

  Chidder squinted at the distant sorcerer with a look of deep concentration. ‘So?’ he asked.

  ‘We ’ave to go,’ said Stugkor. ‘We ’ave to warn the clan.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Chid.

  Strong bones.

  ‘They want to kill us,’ explained Stug. ‘Pull off our skin and muscle. Feed us to that big armoured thing with the baskets.’

  ‘Don’t want my skin pulled off,’ grunted Chidder. He flexed a massive arm. ‘Muscles neither.’

  That bad, sick feeling deep in Stugkor’s belly festered. His arm hurt, leaked blood where the deader had cut him. It’d be
a great scar when it healed.

  He wasn’t afraid. Of course he wasn’t afraid.

  ‘We’re leaving now,’ said Stug.

  Chid and Algok nodded agreement.

  ‘Hungry,’ said Chid, eyeing his dead mournfang. With a shrug, he tore off one of its rear haunches.

  Equally hungry, Stug and Algok copied him.

  The three ogors walked north, the crunch crunch of their plodding steps in crumbling ice the only sound.

  Heavy with cloud, the sky looked like it was so low they might reach up and grab it. Fat flakes of damp snow fell to collect on their shoulders. The temperature plummeted, and each breath became great plumes of steam. With each passing hour the sky darkened and the snow fell harder.

  Shard’s leg having already been devoured, hunger gnawed at Stugkor’s every thought, a constant reminder of his failure.

  His first raid. Could it have gone any worse?

  ‘Storm,’ said Chidder.

  ‘Bad one,’ grunted Algok.

  Freezing to death on the way home might be worse. When he closed his eyes for a moment, the lashes froze together.

  ‘What we gonna tell them when we get back?’ asked Algok.

  That, Stug decided, was a good question. Chances were high everyone would want to charge off and do battle with these strange dead. Stugkor didn’t want that.

  One deader almost killed all three of us. If it hadn’t been for Algok surprising it, it probably would have.

  It wasn’t even one of the bigger ones, just regular puny man-sized.

  There were hundreds in the town. An army.

  The ogors would lose. They’d lose and they’d die and they’d all be turned into more dead things.

  He stopped walking. It was easier to think when motionless.

  Could he convince the clan to flee?

  No. Ogors never ran from anything.

  Yeah? Then what are we doing now?

  Should they say nothing, make no mention of the bone collectors?

  Algok might see the wisdom, but no way Chid could keep his mouth shut. And anyway, someone would eventually notice their mournfangs were gone and they’d have to explain.

  Too hungry. Hard to think. All that wasted meat the deaders were tossing aside, all that fresh muscle and hot blood, soft fat and tender brains.

  Stug turned to look back towards the human settlement.

  His heart fell.

  ‘Algok,’ he said. ‘Chid.’

  The other two stopped and turned.

  Dim silhouettes barely visible through the snow. That huge armoured beetle thing with the arms and the massive baskets lumbering in the middle.

  ‘That’s bad,’ said Algok.

  The deaders were following them. And not just a few. All of them. So many hundreds of hundreds. More dead than Stugkor’s tribe could ever hope to mash.

  Struggling to make out details, Stug squinted into the storm. Some of the dead rode great skeletal horses that looked like they’d been dipped in molten steel. Other sat in monstrous chairs of bone and iron that walked, striding effortlessly across the barren landscape. Weapons of smoking jade were everywhere.

  The dead moved as if one mind controlled them all.

  Clean bone.

  Bright iron.

  An army of perfection.

  Strong bones.

  For a moment Stug imagined all Ghur covered in corpses, slaughtering the ogors, flaying them of flesh and muscle, admiring their sturdy skeletons, turning them into something new.

  Strong bones.

  ‘There aren’t that many,’ he whispered.

  There might be enough to make short work of his tribe, but when word spread, the ogors would crush these strange new dead creatures, mash them to bone-dust.

  ‘They’re small,’ said Algok. ‘Short legs. We can outrun ’em.’ She looked tired, staggered sometimes, like she still suffered from landing on her face.

  Stug nodded, looking back at the long path he and his friends had left in the snow. They’d be easy to follow. At least until the storm filled their tracks. But the deaders weren’t that far behind. Maybe if they ran, put more distance between them and the army. He didn’t like that. The dead marched on, ceaseless and untiring.

  ‘At some point we’ll have to rest,’ he said. ‘They won’t. They’ll keep comin’.’ He imagined the dead finding him as he slept. ‘We’re days from the tribe. Longer. We rode here but we’re walkin’ back.’

  ‘They’ll catch us,’ said Algok. ‘Day by day, night by night, they’ll gain on us. And we ain’t got no food.’

  She was right. Hunger and weakness would slow them. And if they fled back to the tribe, the dead would follow and everyone would die.

  ‘We can’t go ’ome,’ said Stug.

  His mates understood; he saw it in their eyes.

  ‘Leadin’ them away from the clan ain’t enough,’ he added. ‘We gotta warn our people. And not just our people. These deaders are somethin’ different, somethin’ new.’ He felt it deep in his copious gut. He imagined Ghur populated only by dead things made from the bones of other dead things.

  ‘They’re a threat,’ he said. ‘To everything. Ogor. ’Uman. Everything.’

  Stug watched the tight-knit army march ever closer. Was he right, was a single creature controlling all of them?

  If the dead stayed together, for whatever reason, then maybe this was the chance he and his mates needed.

  ‘I have an idea,’ he said. ‘We gotta split up. Mebbe they’ll only follow one of us. We run ’ard for as long as we can. Whoever escapes returns to tell the clan, to warn ’em.’

  His mates agreed.

  For a moment they stood, awkwardly unable to meet each other’s eyes. Stug saw the truth: each hoped they would be the one to escape, that they would survive to tell the tale. Even Chidder seemed to understand.

  The dead marched on.

  ‘I’ll see you back at the clan,’ said Stug, unable to think of anything else.

  ‘I’ll save you somethin’ to eat, if I get there first,’ said Algok, looking away.

  ‘I won’t,’ said Chid, examining his hands. ‘I’m so hungry I’m gonna eat everything.’

  Nodding to each other, the three set off in different directions, jogging into the endless wastes.

  Stugkor ran.

  One foot in front of the other.

  Snow fell so heavy he saw no more than half a dozen strides in front of him. It clogged his nose, piled on his head, and threatened to freeze his eyes closed. Even his nostrils felt like they were about to freeze shut.

  The muted crunch crunch of dry snow, like brittle bones crushed in teeth.

  The dead nothing sounds of Ghur.

  The soul moan of a wind that’s claimed a thousand lives.

  The groan of eternal ice.

  When he slowed, unable to maintain his pace, he walked.

  Head down. Going nowhere.

  Forever.

  The sun rose and fell, the temperature dropping until icicles hung from his nose and ears. Stopping, he stooped to scoop up a fistful of ice and snow and jam it in his mouth. Again and again until his belly grumbled. But it wasn’t food.

  Looking back the way he’d come, he saw his meandering footprints weaving off into night. Of the dead there was no sign. His was a world of snow. They could be a score of strides away and he’d never see them. He wanted to lie down, to rest. Even if just for a moment. He’d never been this tired – this hungry – in all his life.

  There, beneath the sighing wind, the rumble of a hundred hundred dead, marching lock-step.

  Stugkor pushed on, staggering with exhaustion, falling often.

  Strong bones.

  They would not take him. They would not make him into some deader monster.

  The eastern horizon
brightened, and Stugkor saw the dim shapes of a great host. They followed, relentless. Tireless.

  Exhaustion ate his strength, drained his will far worse than any freeze.

  The dead drew closer.

  ‘I can’t.’

  Corpse eyes watching, flickering green sparks in hollow caves of bone.

  Empty sockets following his progress, waiting for him to fall.

  He knew then he would never escape. ‘They followed me,’ he said to the northern wind. It wasn’t what he’d wanted, but if it meant his mates escaped to warn the clan, it was still a victory.

  For a score of heartbeats he watched the dead advance. He found himself remembering that terrified hare Algok and Chidder had cornered when he’d first dreamed up his fantastic plan to go on a raid. He thought about the little creature’s pointless attempts to escape. Maybe it wasn’t smart enough to have other plans, but it still wanted to get away. He recalled Chidder mashing it flat.

  The dead would never stop. They would follow until exhaustion felled him and he lay helpless in the snow.

  ‘No,’ he told the rising sun. ‘I will stand here.’

  He’d bought his mates time to escape. Now it was time for these dead to learn the true might of the ogors!

  The great host parted as the creature with the smoking green scythe stepped to the fore. It studied Stugkor for a long moment before gesturing.

  A warrior of iron-wrapped bone stepped forward, a massive greatsword hanging in its skeletal fist. The weapon oozed sickly green smoke that ignored the northern wind, twisting with a life of its own.

  It came at Stug, poking and prodding. Icy steel left long gashes in his hide that burned like fire. Stug fought on, unwilling to fail, sheer will keeping him on his feet. His warclub grew heavy, each swing coming slower until he stood, bent over, wheezing great sucking breaths of air.

  Seeing his weakness, the deader moved in for a killing blow. Instead of trying to mash it, Stug lunged, catching it by an arm. It stabbed him, drove steel into his gut, as it struggled to break free. But he had it. Raising his club with a roar, Stug smashed the corpse. It felt like he’d struck the frozen ground, the shock of the blow slamming through his arm.

  Tossing the broken deader aside, he spat blood and showed the army his teeth in a feral snarl.