Ferral's Deathmarch Army

by Tod Langley

14

  Dancing With Death

  As the laughter died out, the spectators turned back toward their warrior-captain and his opponent, Hin’cabo. They raised their torches high, shining light down upon the combatants within their small, makeshift arena.

  “Hark tanzatzi, krup?” the Holtsman said to Hin’cabo. He waved his sword around in an easy manner suggesting they continue.

  Hin’cabo did not respond, but his eyes narrowed in hatred; he moved his injured leg back and raised his sword into a high attack stance.

  The Holtsman smiled before rushing in, jabbing at Hin’cabo’s middle with his heavy sword. Hin’cabo held his ground, twisting to the side and parrying the thrust away. Then he lunged, swinging diagonally with his short sword toward the Holtsman’s head.

  Hin’cabo’s movements were fast, despite his injuries but not fast enough to catch his opponent off guard. The Holtsman ducked under the strike and kept bowling forward. Hin’cabo, seeing his initial attack miss, dodged to the side. The Holtsman sliced again, his experience and size belying his speed. The Holtsman’s tactics were not as graceful as those of the Atlunam, but they were just as effective.

  He shouted in fury at Hin’cabo and chopped with his sword. Hin’cabo had no choice but to block the attack. A loud clang echoed through the clearing as their swords crashed together; the force of the blow hard enough that Hin’cabo thought his smaller blade had shattered. The hunter took precious seconds to check his sword and saw that it remained whole, but neither he nor it could take much more.

  Gasping for air, Hin’cabo limped away from his enemy, trying to circle around him, looking for an opening. He found none. The Holtsman shouted again and swung his sword in an arc that would have cut Hin’cabo in two. Hin’cabo rolled underneath the attack but had trouble getting back up in time to meet his attacker.

  They locked blades again, pummeling each other’s face and shoulders with their free fist. The bigger man dropped his sword and grabbed Hin’cabo’s sword arm with his right hand while reaching for the dagger belted to his left hip.

  He drew it and sliced at Hin’cabo’s side. Hin’cabo saw the attack just in time and jumped back, but the warrior still held his sword arm. The long dagger pierced his clothing and jabbed into the right side of his chest. Hin’cabo grimaced but did not hesitate. He kicked the warrior in the groin with all of his strength.

  The two remained facing each other for another few moments before they let go and cautiously backed away. Hin’cabo limped and held his side. The Holtsman bent over, gasping for breath.

  Then they both heard shouts coming from the back of the ring of spectators.

  Kristian climbed the small hill that overlooked Shuru Kaithep and felt the same eerie feeling creep over him. “Hurry. They are closing on us!” The four ran harder up the hill. Cairn reached the top first. He stopped, frozen. Kristian knew immediately what was wrong. The young king reached the hilltop a moment later. Less than one hundred feet from them the army of dead appeared from among the trees.

  “It’s too late!” Even as he said this Kristian saw forms emerge from the tunnel. It never would have mattered, Kristian realized. They had gained control of the tunnels. If they had made it down the stairs, they would have been trapped between those already occupying the tunnel and those that were above them.

  The dead ambled forward, sensing the large group of people in Shuru Kaithep. Some wore armor while others were not even clothed. Many had ghastly wounds where bones or rotting organs jutted out. Maurin nearly vomited from their stench.

  “The bridge,” Mikhal shouted. “We must use the bridge!” Maurin and Mikhal ran back down the hill. Kristian pulled at Cairn, but he would not move. Puzzled, Kristian looked at his friend. Cairn did not see him. The swordsman focused on the dead creatures, now very close. A little smile appeared on Cairn’s face.

  “You can’t destroy them all. Remember what you said earlier about choosing when and where you would fight?” Kristian pleaded.

  Cairn pulled himself free of Kristian’s grasp. Without saying anything he walked forward to meet the dead. He raised his sword and cut into them. Kristian stood and watched for only a moment. The Erandian already knew the outcome of the battle. No one could stand against the dead. He wanted to stay and help Cairn but knew the hopelessness of that course. Kristian ran down the hill, hurrying to catch up with Mikhal and Maurin.

  The swordsman disappeared in a sea of corpses.

 

  Cairn wanted to fight them alone. He attacked the creatures using every skill he knew. Even though he had avenged Julia, emptiness lingered within him. Cairn thought killing those involved in her death would give him peace, but nothing had replaced the anger. He needed to understand why things happened the way they had so long ago.

  Cairn could not accept the fact that his love was dead, that she had been taken from him. The bitterness of having to live without Julia consumed him. He did not fight the dark feelings inside him—he used them. Cairn knew his hatred might destroy him, but he did not care. He could never forget what had happened and did not want to. Cairn was torn between keeping the memory of Julia alive and burying the past. He wanted closure but needed to know the purpose of his existence.

  His graceful dance with the blade took him to a place of strange silence and gratification. Cairn had undergone years of training to ensure he could avenge Julia. Ever since he had finished off Garnis and his men, Cairn had asked himself one question over and over: what do I do now?

  Cairn obtained some peace of mind in helping Kristian and Mikhal, but the feeling of uncertain destiny continued to haunt him. The pondering never did any good. It left him with more questions than when he started. In the end, Cairn always condemned himself for not saving her. Julia’s beautiful face was the center of every dream he remembered. Cairn still saw the long, dark curls falling over her pale shoulders even after all these years. He still remembered the sound of her voice filled with joy and the brightness in her eyes.

  “You do still remember me,” Julia’s smiling voice whispered.

  Always. Forever, Cairn assured her.

  In a series of actions and counteractions, Cairn sprang from one place to another. Each time, his blade cut into the walking dead. At every step, Cairn remained just out of their reach, knowing that once they grabbed him they would swarm in and tear him apart. So, he kept moving, scything them down like wheat in an endless field. His work had little effect. The dead kept coming for him in their slow, but determined, manner. Even the ones Cairn cut down rose again to continue the assault. Those missing limbs, thanks to his strokes, continued to crawl, reaching out for him.

  In the distance, Cairn saw one figure stand out from the rest. The armored thing sat atop a horse motioning for others to join the fight. The rider was dead like the others, but for some reason, it did not act like one of Ferral’s mindless tools. Cairn took stock of the rider as he blocked and parried attacks by those carrying weapons. Then Cairn got to a spot with a better view. He had seen the man before somewhere. It was Derout, Ferral’s personal bodyguard and leader of the Black Guards.

  Cairn could not remember exactly when or where he had seen Derout but assumed it was while spying on one of his targets. General Derout still wore his black armor with the trademark blood smeared symbol across the breastplate. The armor seemed battered and rusted now. Despite his more animated actions, the visible gash that stretched across the general’s neck indicated he was among the walking dead. Blotchy purple bruises that could no longer heal covered his skin and his eye sockets were empty. In their place, glowing embers burned. A chill ran through Cairn as Derout looked directly at him. A booming voice emanated from inside the general, though his mouth did not move.

  “Destroy him!”

  Cairn quickly jumped away putting some distance between him and the dead. The voice continued to resonate through the trees near him. Cairn paused, discouraged and a little bewildered. Hundreds more poured out of the forest and Der
out’s eyes frightened even the skilled swordsman.

  Cairn ran down the hill to catch up with his comrades. Arriving, he saw mass confusion where Hin’cabo had fought the Holtsmen. The living ran everywhere, trying to stay alive. In the gloomy distance, Cairn could see the dead moving in on the village from all sides except from the west near the river.

  The men cursed and shouted as they fought the army of dead. Nothing slowed the creatures’ advance, and they continued to pull people from the defensive perimeter the Holtsmen had established. Then, small groups of Holtsmen began breaking off from the main line of defense to protect themselves. Cairn could see that few would survive.

  “Cairn!” someone shouted from the bridge. He looked over and saw Kristian and the others standing on the wooden structure that led to safety. Cairn ran over to them, dodging grasping hands that reached out for him.

  “You’re insane,” Kristian exclaimed more than a little angry. “Now do you believe me?” Cairn looked back over his shoulder at the fools still fighting in the village. The Holtsmen were nearly finished. A few ran toward them, realizing at last that the bridge provided the only means of escape. The companions saw the desperate nature of the situation and moved across the water to the far side. When they reached the other side, Cairn noticed Hin’cabo was with them. Limping and breathing heavily, the Hunter of Shuru Kaithep was nearly unconscious. If it were not for Mikhal holding Hin’cabo up, he would never have made it.

  “Bhalia,” Hin’cabo said weakly, pointing at one of the posts next to them that supported the bridge. Cairn came closer to hear him. “Bhalia … Bhalia mafi dundera.” Cairn looked from the hunter to the post and back again. He finally seemed to understand what Hin’cabo wanted and moved over to examine the post.

  “He said to destroy the bridge,” Cairn explained as he examined the wooden post. Strong ropes, used as handrails, were secured to the post and then staked into the ground to keep the ropes taut. As they all continued to look for a way to bring the bridge down, several of the Holtsmen ran across to safety. They continued on into the forest ignoring Hin’cabo and the others.

  Cairn was puzzled; he looked back over at the hunter. Hin’cabo moved his hand up and down in a chopping motion.

  Without hesitation, Cairn used his sword to cut the rope between the post and the stake. Kristian did the same to the rope secured on the other post. The handrails sagged slowly before the entire bridge collapsed. Some built-in design had caused the entire structure to fall all at once.

  Just as it fell, one last warrior made it across by lunging for the opposite bank. He landed on his chest, half of his body hanging over the edge of the embankment. Others fell to the water far below, shouting curses.

  The warrior scrambled up by grabbing hold of exposed roots. “A true warrior would not stand there when another warrior requires assistance,” the man said between gasps for air.

  They recognized him as the same man that had fought Hin’cabo in the village. “You didn’t want our help before,” Maurin accused. The man nodded amused by the rebuke.

  He stood up, saw those standing around him, and then spotted Hin’cabo. The Holtsman reached for his scabbard, but it was empty. Hin’cabo’s friends raised their swords aiming their points at his throat. Seeing his predicament, the Holtsman raised his hands in surrender.

  “Perhaps, we should have listened more closely to your warning,” the Holtsman offered calmly. The Holtsman looked back over his shoulder to the fallen bridge. The dead were content, for the moment, to destroy those trapped in the village. “Dashamn! Kabileh jugandar o fleih! Run or fly, my Holtsmen!” He pounded his fist against the side of his leg, cursing. Fuming, he turned back to those who still held swords against him.

  Then his shoulders sagged, and he shrugged in a gesture of capitulation. “I am Balhir, Firstborn of Vortah, the Chief of the Cougar Holt. I am at your mercy.”

  Hin’cabo looked at him in contempt, his words slurred so bad that Cairn could not understand him.

  “He said that I deserve no mercy. He said that none of my people deserve mercy.” Balhir’s brow furrowed in hatred, his lip turning upward on one side.

  Cairn broke the silence. “It won’t take them long to find a way to us.”

  “They’re able to find people over long distances. It’s as if they can sense the living,” Kristian added. The group backed away from Balhir with caution, lowering their swords. Their mercy had a two-fold purpose. For one, if they killed the Holtsman, he would just come back as one of Ferral’s minions. Second, no one deserved to become one of the walking dead. Keeping an eye on Balhir, they turned and ran, as best they could with Hin’cabo, into the woods.

  They did not go far before they heard someone shout, “Wait!” It was Balhir again. He came running up to them almost as exhausted as Hin’cabo.

  Panting, Balhir offered, “I have no love for your friend. He is my sworn enemy.” He looked from the wounded Atlunam hunter back to Kristian. “But you tried to save me and my men. Thank you.”

  Kristian stood there for a moment unsure of what to do. Finally, he nodded. They turned to continue their escape, but Balhir called again, “please, wait. What are your names? Where are you going?”

  Without looking back Kristian said, “I am Kristian, and we have no idea where we’re going.”

  “But we know better than to stay here,” Maurin added. By this time Balhir had caught up to them again.

  “My father would speak with you. He would surely offer you comfort and aid for saving me.”

  “We did not intend to save you,” Mikhal exclaimed. “If you hadn’t jumped, you would be in the river with your comrades.”

  Balhir hesitated and then smiled. His mustache curved upward as his grin widened. He laughed. “That is true, friend. But you did try to warn me, and you did not kill me when you had the chance. I am sure that if the Atlunam traitor had his way my throat would already be slit.”

  Agitated, Kristian turned away.

  “Please, come with me. Let me repay your act of kindness. Not many people will stand between an Atlunam and Holtsman as they prepare to kill each other,” Balhir pressed.

  “How far is it?” Kristian asked, giving in a little.

  “Not far. We could be there in less than two days.” Seeing that Kristian still seemed doubtful, Balhir added, “It is an impregnable fortress. You will be safe.”

  “What about Hin’cabo?” Mikhal asked.

  Balhir shook his head emphatically. “No! He cannot come!” He looked at the now unconscious hunter and shrugged. “Leave him. He will die soon anyway.”

  “He will not,” Maurin shot back. “He lost a lot of blood and needs water badly, but he’ll survive.”

  “Not on this side of the river,” Balhir stated. “This land now belongs to my father. We have claimed it as part of the debt owed us for the slaughter of the villagers that were under our care.” Balhir pointed an accusing finger at Hin’cabo. “Innocents that he and his men helped murder two nights ago. We found them in a mass grave not more than a day’s journey from here. The hunter will die as soon my father sees him. That I promise you.”

  Kristian was disgusted with the warrior. “Hin’cabo has been our friend much longer than you. He and his men saved our lives on the same day you are speaking of. There is no way that he could be responsible.”

  “Then he will die for another atrocity he and his cursed woods folk are responsible for. The men of Cougar Holt do not forget that their ancient enemy, the Atlunam, want what we have. We will not give it to them.”

  “I don’t know what happened between your two people. I can’t imagine anything so bad to have caused such hatred that people could go at each other for hundreds of years,” Kristian shot back.

  Kristian walked away from him motioning for his companions to come with him. “As I said, Hin’cabo is our friend, and we will not leave him. We are leaving you.”

  Leaves started to rustle all around them. They rais
ed their swords, waiting. The dead could not have come across the river that quickly, Kristian thought. Balhir looked around him, worried. Having lost his sword, he picked up the largest branch he could find.

  At least thirty men emerged from the brush surrounding Kristian; they were the surviving men of Balhir’s war party. The Holtsmen were gasping for air, muddy and bleeding. When they saw their leader surrounded, the warriors immediately snarled and raised their weapons.

  Balhir laughed at his turn of luck. “Ha!” he exclaimed. “Now please, lay down your swords. You seem to know quite a bit about those creatures that attacked us. My father will want to know about these potential threats.”

  “They are definitely a threat, Balhir. That, I can promise you,” Kristian said as he lowered his sword. He was in no mood to fight. Mikhal also seemed to see the futility of struggling and lowered his sword, as well. Cairn relaxed his stance, a little. Not because he appeared afraid of the men, but because he seemed interested by the turn of events. Balhir’s men came down then and took Hin’cabo from Maurin and Mikhal.

  “What are you going to do to him,” Mikhal demanded.

  “Vortah will decide his fate,” one of the Holtsmen called out in a gruff voice. Kristian looked at Mikhal uncertain of what to do. Mikhal shrugged. They let Balhir’s men take their weapons.

  A brief moment of conflict caused the Erandians and Maurin to believe they might die after all. Cairn did not seem willing to part with his sword, and Balhir’s men surrounded him. Kristian gave Cairn a pleading look, wondering why the swordsman had become so unpredictable. Maybe he has always been unpredictable, Kristian thought.

  The look the young king sent Cairn was a strong warning not to provoke a fight. Cairn nodded calmly but with a little disappointment. Then he, too, let down his guard and allowed the Holtsmen to take his sword.