Ferral's Deathmarch Army

by Tod Langley

13

  The Battle for Shuru Kaithep

  The sun began to set behind the western tree line, and Kristian and his comrades knew that the next assault would come soon. Cairn had come up with the best plan that any of them could think of. When the Atlunam could no longer hold their position and the two enemies fought hand-to-hand, they would move east through the village and into the forest. There, they would hide just out of sight of the village and try to move around the battle toward their escape route. Their plan was to find the abandoned tunnel and head back the way they had come. Cairn reminded them they had rested at a place where a tunnel had broken off toward another village. They could get there and, using Cairn’s knowledge of the culture and language, persuade the elders to give them a chance to speak.

  Only Mikhal spoke out against the plan. The cavalier felt a connection to Hin’cabo and his hunters and leaving made him feel that they were betraying their new friends. “They saved our lives, remember? How can we leave them when they face certain death?”

  Cairn spoke first. “They did not save your lives out of some sense of compassion. They did it because they needed something from you. The Atlunam wanted information. If you had not carried with you vital news of what was going on in Belarn, they would have killed you as quickly as they killed your enemies.” Cairn nodded toward the hunters who, even now, prepared for the attack. “The Atlunam do not want you here. They do not feel this is your fight.”

  Kristian hesitated, afraid that what he was about to say would push Mikhal further away from them. “Mikhal, remember why we came here to begin with? We came here because we pledged to save our people. Don’t you remember Ferral and what he has done?”

  Mikhal flushed, full of anger. “I remember many things, O Mighty King of Erand. Don’t try to guilt me into doing what you want by turning my words against me.” Mikhal wanted to say more but hesitated. He lowered his head in disgust, swearing, and then he nodded in defeat. “Fine, let’s go, before it’s too late,” Mikhal snapped back at them.

  Mikhal’s words hurt.

  I should have expected it, Kristian thought.

  A part of Kristian needed to hear those words; either Mikhal’s constant reprimands or his own guilt would ensure the young king never forgot what he had done. Kristian never wanted to forget his mistakes.

  Mikhal stood after a moment and walked away from him.

  Maurin could not stay silent after Mikhal’s outburst. He stood, full of anger as well. The healer looked at Mikhal and asked Kristian, “How can you let him talk to you like that? You’re his king, and what he just said should never be allowed.” Even Cairn seemed to agree, but Kristian shook his head.

  “I will never be able to earn his respect as a king. He stays because we share a common goal, Ferral’s death. Mikhal wants Ferral dead as much as I do for what happened to his comrades. But he will never bow to me.”

  Maurin tried to understand but could not. Kristian added, “His comrades are dead because they chose to save me. They chose that, even though every one of them knew that I was the one that had led them to their doom. Mikhal is justified in hating me because he was ordered to be the one to protect me. It is the hardest task he has ever been assigned.”

  Kristian had barely ended his words when a great shout arose from the Holtsmen on the other side of the river. Kristian ran back to his position at the outskirts of the village to see what was happening. The Holtsmen had finally lost their patience. They charged the bridge with reckless abandon, hoping to reach and secure their only way across before the arrows started flying. Hin’cabo and his men were ready.

  For a second time, deadly Atlunam arrows streaked by Kristian and his comrades, finding small chinks in their targets’ armor. A score of men fell right then, never reaching the bank of the river, but the attackers’ momentum did not slow. They continued on, suspecting the Atlunam had few arrows left. The Holtsmen reached the bridge and continued on despite losing several more warriors. Then the arrows stopped. The hunters dropped their bows and pulled free their short swords.

  Hin’cabo’s men moved into a loose wedge blocking their side of the bridge, crouched and ready to meet the charging Holtsmen. With a triumphant roar, the warriors ran headlong into the Atlunam. The fighting was fierce. Yet, few fell. As deadly as the Atlunam had been with their bows, the Holtsmen seemed equally matched in hand-to-hand combat.

  For the first time, Kristian could clearly see what the Holtsmen looked like. They wore steel chest plates and helmets and carried heavy broadswords and axes. Each of them had long braided beards. Their movements were slower than the forest hunters, but they were more powerful. Each time they swung at the Atlunam they forced them further back away from the bridge. The hunters would gracefully parry the blows and respond with a series of attacking cuts. It was harder for them to find the gaps in their enemies’ armor with a sword than it was with a bow, however. Slowly, the Atlunam gave ground.

  Hin’cabo suddenly gritted his teeth refusing to go another foot backwards. The hunters’ wedge changed into a protective circle that gradually tightened as more of their enemies crossed over the bridge.

  Mikhal’s anxiety was plain to see. It was taking everything he had to stay out of the fight and remain with his companions. An inexplicable commitment drew him to the hunters.

  Cairn had already started off toward the far side of the village. Maurin pulled Kristian in that direction, yelling at Mikhal at the same time. “It’s time to leave. Now, before it is too late!”

  Reluctantly, Mikhal turned and followed them. They reached the forest edge leaving the sounds of battle behind in the distance. Cairn led them over a small ridgeline and into a depression where he motioned for them to conceal themselves in the undergrowth. They sat there silently, barely able to hear the fight that still continued in the burned-out village of Shuru Kaithep.

  Soon it was even too dark to see the faces of the others around them. Kristian looked from one silent figure to the next. Though unable to see them, he could easily identify each of his companions. Maurin was barely able to keep silent. The healer fidgeted as he waited, as if he wanted someone to tell him it was all right to speak. Cairn was immobile, seemingly aware of everything around him and comfortable with waiting forever, if necessary. Then Kristian turned to look at Mikhal’s dark form. The cavalier was nearly as still as Cairn, however, Kristian could feel the anger emanating from within Mikhal.

  Suddenly, there was the sharp snap of deadfall breaking under someone’s foot. The sound came from behind them. They turned to see who was there. Kristian could not see anything, and he was not sure where the sound had come from.

  Then the sound came again. They all turned toward the sound of movement. Then they heard it again but from someplace entirely different. The sounds were getting louder and closer. It sounded like many men were approaching them.

  Cairn silently drew his sword. The others stood, looking in all directions for those hidden within the darkness. Then the hairs on the back of Kristian’s neck stood up. Chills ran from his neck and shoulders and then down through his arms and legs. He had felt these same feelings before. The others also felt the same eerie sensation. Kristian had felt it the night Ferral raised the dead—when his entire army was destroyed. He felt it on the snow covered road back toward Singhal—when he found Allisia’s brother and the rest of their army frozen. Now, Kristian felt it again and knew the dead were coming for him.

  Kristian stood and walked carefully back out of the woods, slow at first, and then he yelled, “Run, quickly! Back to the village!”

  Not even Cairn stayed to see what was coming for them in the dark. Kristian sensed, more than felt, hands reaching out for him, and he ran even faster. He could smell them as they ran back toward the village. It was Ferral’s Deathmarch Army, and the foul smell of rot emanated from their corpses. The four soon outdistanced the dead as they sprinted through the ruined homes. They passed the center of the village and stopped to figure out what to do.


  “We must reach the tunnel quickly,” Cairn warned.

  “What about the fighting?” Maurin shouted. “We’ll be cut down by the Holtsmen if they catch us.”

  Kristian shook his head adamantly at Cairn. “I can’t go without warning them of what is coming.” Cairn shook his head, not understanding. “No one deserves to die at the hands of those creatures.” Kristian ran ahead of his friends toward where the Atlunam hunters and the Holtsmen still fought.

  “What were those things?” Maurin asked. “I’ve never been so scared in my life!”

  Mikhal answered him. “They’re the dead, forced to serve Ferral.” Then he turned to look at Maurin. “What did you think we were trying to warn your village about?”

  Maurin shrugged. “I never thought that I would see them. I never thought they were real.” His white face showed that he was now a true believer.

  As Maurin and the others watched, the dead loved ones of the Atlunam hunters started to crawl out of their homes. They were stumbling out of those places that Hin’cabo and his men had just laid them to rest in, reaching out desperately toward the companions.

  Kristian and the others sprinted on toward the river. They came around one of the burned out homes of the village to where a single Atlunam hunter stood defiant against fifty Holtsmen. They formed a circle around the hunter, holding torches high, providing plenty of light for the two men still locked in combat.

  It was Hin’cabo. His friends lay on the ground around him wounded or dead. Just one Holtsmen warrior faced him. Kristian could see the eternal hatred in both their faces. They sought to finish the battle with one last fight to the death. A shout broke the silence as they both raised their swords and snarled at each other.

  “Stop! Stop,” Kristian yelled. He could hear Cairn shouting something in the native language of the Atlunam.

  The warriors turned to face him, their stances wary, their swords and axes raised high.

  Kristian did not stop but kept coming at them, pointing back behind him. “Cairn, tell them death comes for them out of the forest. Tell them that the sorcerer of Belarn has sent his army to destroy us!”

  Cairn said something to them, his voice calm, but threatening at the same time. The crowd started laughing; they did not fear Kristian and his friends or heed their warning. Kristian looked at Cairn waiting for a translation.

  When he finished, Cairn looked over at him and shrugged. “I don’t know their language very well. I did the best I could.”

  Kristian was furious. He had lost his patience with all those who scoffed at him every time he tried to warn them. He pushed himself through the warriors to the middle of the circle. Several of them tried to grab him and pull him away, but the man facing Hin’cabo barked something and they let Kristian through.

  The Atlunam hunter eyed Kristian with caution. Scratches and wounds covered him, including a terrible gash across his right leg. His heavy panting revealed how hard Hin’cabo had fought and how close he was to defeat. His eyes, however, showed that the Holtsmen still had much to account for. Hin’cabo did not plan to go down easy.

  Kristian stepped between Hin’cabo and the Holtsman. He again pointed toward the forest where they had just escaped the evil lurking in the darkness. Hin’cabo shouted, motioning for Kristian to get out of his way. Cairn stepped into the circle, as well. “Hin’cabo says that this is the leader of these murderers. He must kill him to let go of some of the pain he feels.”

  Kristian shook his head in disgust. “We don’t have time for this.” He pointed his finger, first at Hin’cabo, and then at all of those around him. “I warned you!”

  “Leave, young man,” a gruff voice said. “This fight will take long enough as it is. I do not need you further delaying it with your nonsense.” The voice belonged to the warrior that faced Hin’cabo. Surprised, Kristian turned to face him. He was tall and had broad shoulders. His dark brown hair fell out from around his helmet hiding many of his features, as did his long beard. Kristian noted that his finely wrought armor had many dents in it.

  “It isn’t nonsense,” Kristian retorted as he pushed his way back out of the circle, “and you have very little time left.” He cleared the ring of warriors and headed toward the small rise where the tunnel was located. Kristian’s companions followed, eager to leave.

  Mikhal added, “It’s true. Leave while you can. You can’t destroy them.” Suspicious, the warriors looked around them for signs of attack. Kristian and his companions left them behind and headed for their escape route. Many of the victorious Holtsmen laughed at Kristian as he fled up toward the hill and escape.