Ferral's Deathmarch Army

by Tod Langley

15

  The Holtsmen

  Balhir moved them as far west as he could that night. Cairn and Kristian had destroyed the bridge, but Balhir and his men took no chances. The macabre and terrifying events in the village filled the Holtsmen’s minds; they were glad to keep moving. As dawn broke, the exhausted men of the Cougar Holt and their prisoners dropped to the ground.

  Mikhal and Maurin moved to check on Hin’cabo. The Atlunam hunter had faded in and out of consciousness throughout the night. Their injured companion slept now. Maurin could hear him breathing more regular, if a bit shallow. Maurin’s eyes were filled with worry as he looked at Kristian.

  “Other than the stab wound in his side, most of his wounds are minor … I think he has a punctured lung.” Maurin showed Kristian the bandaged wound. “It has stopped bleeding, but … I don’t know what else to do. I’ve never had to treat battle injuries. I wish I knew more.”

  Kristian tried to smile. “You’re doing fine. He would not have made it this far without your help.” The words held little comfort. Neither of them wanted to see Hin’cabo die.

  Balhir hobbled over to them, his own injuries making it difficult to walk. Dropping his helmet and shield he sat down wearily next to his prisoners. Balhir wiped sweat and blood from his forehead and then looked at his former opponent with unusual compassion.

  “It may be better if he dies now. My father will take little pity on him. The hunter fought well and showed great courage. He was a worthy opponent.”

  “His name is Hin’cabo,” Kristian stated, barely holding back his anger. Balhir nodded.

  “This wound is more serious than I thought. Hin’cabo will die if he does not get better help,” Maurin added, staring with defiance at his captor. Balhir struggled back to his feet, stretching his sore limbs.

  “I offer you this then. I care nothing for this heathen or any of his people, but I will not forget that you tried to warn me of those creatures.” Balhir turned to leave, then added, “If you want my assistance, I will do all I can to help him … until he stands before Vortah.”

  Later that morning, Hin’cabo opened his eyes while Mikhal watched over him. The hunter drank some water, but refused food, and grabbed firmly on to Mikhal’s hand. Hin’cabo looked determined, stubborn, and the Erandian officer knew that his Atlunam friend could survive—if he wanted to.

  Mikhal thought he knew what might motivate Hin’cabo. “You must fight hard to get healthy again, Hin’cabo. We must get back and warn your people about the dead invading your land, but it is going to be difficult. None of us can speak your language except Cairn, and I doubt your king will listen to an outsider. Your people will need to hear it from you.” Mikhal leaned close, whispering. “I swear that I will lay down my own life before I allow them to take yours.” Hin’cabo must have understood. He smiled faintly and gripped Mikhal’s hand as hard as he could. Hin’cabo, the Hunter of Shuru Kaithep would survive.

  Mikhal smiled back, hoping he could keep his end of the bargain. He must survive, Mikhal thought in desperation, because I need to understand what is happening to me. I must understand why I am tormented by the demon.

  Mikhal stayed by his side the remainder of the day, giving Hin’cabo water, a little food, and protection. The cavalier continued west with his companions, toward Balhir’s stronghold, acting as a personal body guard to the injured Atlunam. Even without his sword, Mikhal carried himself with a presence that forced the Holtsmen to reconsider any plans they may have secretly had about killing their prisoner.

  Balhir was true to his word. During their second break for the day, he had Maurin re-dress the wound, applying a salve to prevent infection. He also shared his limited knowledge of treating wounds.

  “Maybe I should wrap his chest to prevent him from breathing too heavily and hurting himself more,” Maurin said to Balhir, asking more than suggesting.

  Balhir shook his head in disagreement. “It is a small puncture wound, and I do not think his lung has collapsed. Wrapping may do worse harm than good. Shallow breathing, associated with a wrap, often allows foul air in that can’t be forced back out. Your friend could get worse.” Balhir’s words made sense to Maurin. He did not wrap Hin’cabo’s chest but contented himself with cleaning and re-bandaging all the other wounds.

  The healer had little time to finish his work. The Holtsmen were eager to put more distance between themselves and the Atlunam village and convinced Balhir to leave by mid-afternoon. They made a litter for Hin’cabo out of strong branches from the surrounding trees and started out again as soon as they had finished.

  The Holtsmen treated their captives well, surprising Kristian. They walked in the middle of the small band of Balhir’s men talking freely. Nor did the Holtsmen bind them in any way. In fact, Balhir often came up to Kristian to ask him questions about the dead. Kristian told him what he knew. Cairn told of his own encounter with the creatures and their leader, General Derout.

  “This general that spoke with another’s voice must be Ferral’s link to his army of dead soldiers,” Kristian thought out loud.

  Cairn agreed. “I’m pretty sure I have seen him before, but I’m not sure where.” Cairn shrugged, pushing it out of his mind for the moment. “I would never have believed any of it had I not seen it for myself. I’m sorry I doubted you, Kristian. Ferral has a lot of power, but I will help you defeat him by whatever means I have at my disposal.”

  Speaking with Cairn reminded Kristian once more of his quest. He swore, shaking his head in defeat.

  How many more times will I be forced further away from Allisia? How much more can she endure as Ferral’s prisoner? Whatever else Ferral had said or done, Kristian felt the sorcerer would do little to physically harm her. Ferral had said he would claim her as his own to make Kristian’s defeat even harder to endure. As awful as it sounded, it was better to hope that Ferral wanted her for himself rather than use her as a sacrifice and murder her.

  “How far is it to your father’s stronghold?” Kristian asked.

  “One more day, at least,” Balhir replied. Kristian lowered his head in frustration.

  That night Balhir did not risk a fire, afraid the Deathmarch Army might still find them. Mikhal told him that it did not matter. “The dead can find you whether you are shining as bright as a star or hiding in the dark. They seem to sense the living, craving our souls or something like that. The creatures need no light to help them.” The Holtsmen grew visibly distressed by this revelation but still decided that it would be wiser not to light a flame.

  Mikhal checked on his friend again before lying down. Hin’cabo seemed improved, and the hunter slept fitfully. Mikhal lay down next to him, somewhat comforted, and after spending time pondering what would happen once they reached Vortah’s stronghold, he fell asleep.

  Again, Mikhal dreamed of her.

  He sees no beauty, feels no lost love. She is the demon monster and leads an army of the dead through the night. Thousands march under her direction as they silently move onward toward some distant objective. Mikhal fears and loathes the demon. The dead surround her, their wounds and rotting features as horrible to look at as the monster she has become. She wears black armor beneath her blood red cloak, the personification of pure hatred. She lifts her hand, pointing toward distant hills in the darkness and the army moves onward … silent.

  She laughs and the sinister sound makes Mikhal hate her even more. He does not care how beautiful or mysterious she appeared to him before. The demon is a destroyer that has to be killed. The demon turns to look at Mikhal, sensing his anger and hatred through his dream. She looks into his soul and whatever she sees there frightens her. Mikhal can see it in her glowing yellow eyes. The look of fear breaks her hold on his dream, and the demon and her army fade away.

  The next morning the small band of Holtsmen and their prisoners left the seclusion of the Great Forest. Before them was an expanse of rolling plains covered by long, brown grass. Kristian and Mikhal pulled Hin’cabo on the litte
r, but they stopped to take in their surroundings. A few, solitary mountains dotted the horizon. They jutted from the earth like the knuckles of a clenched fist. Balhir indicated the closest of them was their destination. They would have to hurry to reach it by nightfall.

  On a hilltop, not far away, pennants flapped in the wind. Kristian looked at Balhir, puzzled. The big warrior scowled at Hin’cabo’s sleeping form then looked back to the hill.

  “Come. This will not take long and it is something you need to see. Now, I will show you who the true monsters are,” Balhir promised. With reluctance, the prisoners marched toward the hill.

  Banners marked the corners of a large open pit. Kristian looked down in disgust at the remains of at least a hundred naked bodies, arms and legs bound by leather straps. Balhir’s muscles tensed, his eyes narrowed, and his lips curled into an angry snarl as he came forward and pointed down into the mass grave.

  “I suspect my brother is somewhere within that heap,” Balhir claimed, barely holding back his anger. “He and his men did not return from their patrol nearly a month ago. The nearby village under my brother’s protection is deserted.” Balhir stopped, unable to go on.

  The Holtsman shouted, “I’ll wager there is another such pit nearby, and in it, we will find many more bodies.” The Cougar Holt warriors turned as one to stare at Hin’cabo. “Whether he is to blame or not, we do not care. He is an Atlunam hunter and shares the guilt of all his people.”

  Mikhal took a step forward. “And what were your plans, then, for the Atlunam village? How many times have your warriors been responsible for killing innocent people?”

  “Nad nun induce isa harba … there are no innocents in this war. Both our peoples are raised knowing that the other is a sworn enemy.” Balhir’s men nodded in agreement.

  “For centuries, these arrogant people have thought they deserved more than what they had. The Atlunam somehow felt they were a chosen race, that they were entitled to certain rights and resources that weren’t theirs.” Balhir gestured to the plains that surrounded them. “The dominion of the Atlunam ends at the forest line. Our people have settled in this area for two hundred years. But every so often, a raiding party from the woods sneaks out, in the middle of the night, and kills a lot of innocent people. They are afraid of our expanding influence. They fear what they can’t control and have decided it’s better to kill and try to subjugate than to reason.

  “Yes,” Balhir added, “we were invading the woods to find the village. If the dead had not beaten us there, then we would have done the same thing. The blonde fairies deserve nothing better.”

  “Even the women and children?” Maurin asked.

  “My brother is in that heap, healer,” Balhir yelled in Maurin’s face. “Do you know what it is like to live, knowing that another group of people want you dead? That they are willing to come at you in the middle of the night, capture you, slit your throat, and then toss your body into an unmarked pit? They were slaughtered like sheep. Their hands are tied behind their backs. Their throats are slit.” He sobbed unable to hold back tears.

  Kristian shook his head, confused. “I don’t understand why Ferral even bothered sending the dead after either of your people. You’ll destroy each other with little of his help.”

  They left soon afterwards hoping to reach the Cougar Holt before it got dark. None of them wanted to guess at how far Ferral’s control over the dead extended, and they did not want to be anywhere near the dead come dark.

  Kristian and the others stood, staring at the chaos ahead of them. In the darkness they could see hundreds of flames wavering from bulwarks on top of the distant stronghold. Holtsmen struggled to repel a seething mass threatening to bring down the walls of their mighty fortress.

  The keep was carved out of the granite cliff of a single mountain jutting up from the smaller foothills surrounding it. The massive promontory loomed out over the valley five thousand feet above the rocky floor, with two sharp ridgelines running down either side of the valley. The fortress looked extremely well protected despite the vast number of invaders. The walls were high and tied into the natural defenses of the cliffs and ravines of the mountainside. The approach to the Cougar Holt was steep; the canyon littered with boulders that prevented heavy siege weapons from getting close enough to the fortress to do any damage.

  Balhir was right, Kristian admitted. The fortress seems impenetrable.

  An outer wall stood nearly sixty feet tall, and every two hundred feet along the perimeter, a tower overlooked the approach to the fortress. Now thousands of struggling forms surrounded the wall. Ferral’s dead creatures had beaten them to the Holtsmen and begun their attack. Kristian could barely make out the warriors that stood atop the wall, hiding behind the defenses, but their sharp cries came to him on the wind.

  The image shocked Balhir and his men. The size of the invading army was enormous, far beyond anything they could have comprehended before. Even Kristian and Mikhal, who had seen the creation of Ferral’s new army, realized this force was much larger.

  “How many do you think there are?” Maurin asked, dismayed.

  “Enough,” Cairn replied. Kristian knew the swordsman was right. Ferral’s Deathmarch Army did not rely upon technology to aid them in their assault. The creatures used their massive numbers to swarm defenders and would eventually prevail.

  “The dead are mindless creatures obeying Ferral. They do not require any justification from him … they have no ability to reason,” Kristian told Balhir. “Ferral tells them to attack, and the creatures attack, because it is his and Belatarn’s will. That’s all they seem to require.

  “We will have to wait until light to move closer. They can’t harm you during the day,” Kristian said. Balhir began to move toward his home. He motioned for the others to follow.

  “There is a way into the fortress from the far side of the mountain. It is small and extremely well hidden. We will not wait.”

  It took Balhir most of the night to find the secret entrance. As they approached, Kristian could hear the sounds of war echoing through the foothills. Men cursed and shouted orders. Weapons clanged and echoed through the ravine but eventually faded.

  A few of the dead sensed the small party’s approach and came to investigate. With difficulty, the living destroyed them. Balhir and his men hacked at them with their heavy swords and axes. When all of their limbs and heads were removed the bodies became still again. Kristian suspected the spell recognized when a corpse had no more chance of reaching the living and returned that portion of potential control to Ferral for use on other corpses.

  Balhir rushed Kristian and his companions away from the scene.

  Balhir is wondering how many are out there attacking his people and how long it will take to destroy those creatures. He knows there is no way they can survive, Kristian thought.

  Balhir led them past something that Kristian would have overlooked. Someone had etched a small marker into the side of the mountain face, a circular pattern carved into one of the rocks, a cougar’s face. The signal reassured Balhir, who called everyone close to him. He guided them up a small, narrow draw that turned sharply to the left, and then to the right.

  Balhir disappeared after a few turns through the narrow defile. One by one, the party moved behind a large boulder into the concealment of an entryway little more than a crack in the side of the draw. The Holtsmen had concealed the passage so well that no one, unaware of its existence, could discover it.

  “What is the fascination with all of these secret passages, anyway?” Maurin asked. The Holtsmen shot him a warning look, and Maurin lowered his head in silence.

  Balhir used flint to light a torch that he found on a makeshift shelf along the rock wall. He handed more torches out to his men and then moved deeper into the crevice. Balhir gave no words of warning as he squeezed through an even smaller crack at the back of the entryway.

  Kristian watched him go, wondering if they would end up stuck with no way b
ack out. One of Balhir’s men grunted for them to move. Kristian looked at Mikhal who only shrugged. Kristian led his companions through the second crevice. They struggled to assist Hin’cabo through but managed without injuring him further.

  After the tight squeeze, the passageway opened into a larger chamber. The Erandians and their companions could see preparations for a long defense all over the room. Kristian realized this tunnel had been man-made using precision tools for both the walls and floors. A massive round stone sat on a slight incline next to the entry Kristian had just come through. A small pin prevented the boulder from rolling down into position in front of the crack, permanently blocking the entryway. Kristian also saw several pikes, axes and swords lining the walls, as well as additional blankets and torches. The room served as a repost for patrols headed in or out through the secret path.

  Balhir went to one of the racks and inspected several swords before choosing one. He slid it into his empty scabbard then pulled two of his men over to him.

  Kristian and his friends waited uncomfortably for a few moments while the rest of Balhir’s’ men entered. Balhir conversed in quiet tones with the two soldiers pointing at the large round rock. They nodded determined to carry out his order.

  Balhir turned to Kristian to explain. “Halig and Arilton will stand watch. If the dead attempt to come through here, they will either destroy them or block the passage.” He paused to look back at the two men making sure they understood the importance of their mission. “If they block it we may end up trapped inside the keep until this battle is over. If they fail to block the entry and are overwhelmed we will certainly be trapped.” Halig and Arilton nodded with confidence and turned toward the entrance to start their watch.

  Satisfied, Balhir started off toward the opposite end of the chamber. A metal door stood ajar separating the guardroom from a passage that climbed into the darkness. Smooth stone steps cut around a central column made climbing easier for them. Kristian was glad they would not have to climb the outside face of the mountain. With the pace that Balhir set, and with Hin’cabo in tow, they would find themselves hard-pressed to keep up.

  An hour later, Balhir stopped on a landing. He stood, looking back down toward Kristian with his hands on his hips, tapping his foot. Kristian climbed the last step and bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

  At least, I didn’t fall too far behind, Kristian thought. Kristian panted as he moved to the back of the landing to make room for his comrades, light headed and heart racing. He was glad to see that Mikhal and Maurin had just as much trouble climbing the last step as he had. Thankfully, Balhir’s men had carried Hin’cabo up the stairs because Kristian was not sure he and his companions had the strength to do it.

  Balhir handed Kristian a flask of water. “Drink this and rest. We will continue again when you have caught your breath.

  “Continue?” Maurin asked, afraid to hear Balhir’s response.

  Balhir grinned, pointing off to his left. The companions could see even more steps winding up into infinity. A low moan escaped the healer’s mouth.

  Kristian was sore when they finally stopped at the top landing. Another iron door, this one secured from the other side, blocked the way forward. Balhir banged on the door with the pommel of his sword. He waited a few moments then began banging on it with more force, cursing someone on the far side. A small view port in the door slid open. Balhir banged on the door again shouting at the man. The guard on the other side glanced around at Balhir and his group then he shut the view port. A moment more passed before they heard a muffled clank. A stream of light followed as it opened.

  Balhir moved to grab the shoulder of the guard with one massive hand. He pointed back toward the stretcher that carried Hin’cabo into the room. “Importu moi pad, Vortah, nuzshna goboreet ohn. Nuzshna gustans ee Atlube!” He translated for the benefit of Kristian and his friends. “Inform my father, Vortah, that I have to speak with him. I have brought guests, as well as … an Atlunam prisoner.”

  The guard’s eyes widened in surprise. He quickly nodded, saying something that must have meant compliance before he darted out of the room.

  Mikhal moved to hover over Hin’cabo. “What will you do with him?” Mikhal asked.

  Balhir looked at all of them, raising his hands to placate Mikhal. “My father will determine the Atlunam hunter’s fate. I promise to do what I can. He will receive treatment until he is ready to stand against the accusations.” Balhir motioned for some of his men to take Hin’cabo out of the room.

  Mikhal stood in front of them, fists planted firmly on his hips.

  “Somehow, Balhir, I don’t think your word is good enough protection to ensure Hin’cabo remains safe,” Mikhal said.

  His words set Balhir off. “Mother of Goats! You think my word is worth less than yours?” He was so furious that spittle flew from his mouth landing in his beard.

  “When Balhir says that he will be taken care of, then it will be so, young fool. I am the son of Vortah, First of Cougar Holt, and my word is a promise that all in the clan must obey.” Balhir stood there, challenging Mikhal to say anything. They stared each other down, the tension building between them. Finally Mikhal nodded, satisfied, and stepped aside.

  Hin’cabo could not understand what they said, but he seemed to comprehend what had just happened. The hunter raised his hand, resigning himself to whatever fate Vortah decided. He was still too weak to fight his enemies, anyway. Hin’cabo waved in silent farewell to Cairn and Mikhal as the Holtsmen took him away from his companions.

  “Come,” Balhir said. “I will take you to a place where you can rest for awhile. I must speak with my father about what we have seen. I am sure that he will want to speak with you also.” Balhir led them out of the guardroom and into a dark corridor. He turned to his right and moved around another corner to his left. Only small torches, unevenly spaced along the walls, lit the hallway. The number of turns the Holtsman made soon confused Kristian’s sense of direction. If Kristian later had to navigate on his own, he would easily become lost.

  Balhir stopped in front of a small staircase that led upward. Maurin moaned, “Not more steps?”

  Balhir did not bother to reply. Their climb was short, only two flights. They walked out of the stairwell into a larger hallway. Sconces, set with regular spacing along the walls, lit this hall better than those below. Kristian also noted the walls and ceiling were better maintained. Everything was made of the same rock as the mountain.

  Mikhal gave voice to Kristian’s thought. “Are we still inside the mountain?” Balhir nodded as he continued to guide them down the hall. “How long did it take to build this place?”

  “Cougar Holt was one of the first strongholds established to protect our mines from the Atlunam. That was roughly eight hundred years ago. We continue to carve into the face of the mountain as our Holt grows.”

  “How many people live here?” Maurin asked, astonished by the size of the stronghold.

  “There are over four thousand people living under the protection of the Cougar Holt. One thousand of them are battle-hardened warriors that have fought many campaigns against the Atlunam.” He turned to look at Kristian. “Though we are the oldest Holt, we are one of the smaller ones. The Dakir, Bear Holt, is where our king, Chandahk the Second lives. There are over nine thousand under his protection.”

  “Why would the Atlunam come all the way out here to attack you?” Kristian asked. “They seem to have everything they need within their forest. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Balhir smirked. “You can’t make sense of the Atlunam, Kristian. They’re inbred fools still clinging to the empty promises of power from a forgotten empire.”

  “But you said they wanted the precious ores and minerals that you mined,” Mikhal interjected. “I don’t see why you can’t work this out … why you can’t trade peacefully with each other.”

  Balhir shook his head, emphatically denying Mikhal’s logic. “We’ve
tried all of that before. Concessions have been made and there has been peace before … not for very long but there were chances.” The warrior hesitated, unsure of how much to tell the outsiders. After a moment of internal battle, Balhir threw up his hands. “The damage was done a thousand years ago and they can’t be trusted—your kind will never understand!”

  The big warrior stormed off, leaving them there in the hallway. Several of his men motioned for Kristian and his companions to move down a different corridor. They had no idea where the Holtsmen led them.