Cory yawned loudly as he stood close to Zeivite on the crest of a defensive embankment. Chirping crickets played a rasping concert in the grasses.
"Isn't there a way to do this without me standing here in my armour all night long?" said Cory.
"It makes the most sense," Zeivite replied from his sitting position.
"I'm not sure the night watch agrees," Cory observed the camp guards watching him.
"Some kind of attack on the first night," said Zeivite.
He reached deep into the darkness with his battle sense, out to the east and the mines, south down the valley, north towards Dendra Castle and then all over Tranmure.
The church's gong pulsed three slow beats into the night air, the sound like gentle ocean waves caressing a pebble beach.
Cory slumped into an uncomfortable sitting position and stared at his mail gauntlets, unable to rub tired eyes.
"When do we get to sleep?" asked Cory shifting his gaze onto the lake.
"After dawn. When others can see far enough to find trouble before it finds us."
Cory sighed. "It never said, in any of the history books I've read, 'and then the general stayed up all night on watch'."
"There are a lot of things the history books never say," Zeivite replied.
A while later Cory stood and looked around. The camp guards were no longer watching them. He could see two of them feeding the fires more wood. The spit and crackle carried over the tents, their sides undulating lazily in the air currents.
Cory sat and tried to focus on the stars reflected on the surface of the lake. He tilted his head and attempted to imagine a group of six stars he was looking at in mirror image taking on the form of Pilgrim Father Jeramiah's horse. He couldn't remember its name. Persicuse, Persicuous or something similar. Pragius knew all the star constellations. If he were here, he would be standing with his arm around Cory's shoulder, pointing to the sky telling him all their stories. Cory drew a deep breath and sighed, trying to expel a sudden sadness that had risen inside him.
He stood again.
The church gong sounded four beats. Zeivite sprang out of a faraway stare and to his feet, reached into the sky with one hand muttering sounds. A globe of blinding white light shot upwards and hovered over the encampment like a second full moon illuminating all. Then the mage pointed a finger sending three white sparks into the air, each disappearing with a flash and a bang like thunder in miniature. Horses shrieked, bucked and herded around their coral.
*
Quain's eyes opened as he leapt up from his sleeping pallet and immediately started to buckle on armour.
"Greg, go out and see what's going on, find out if I've got time to do this. Up Squire John, help me on with this armour, this is why I pay you. And don't touch the sword."
Greg rose, eyes half closed, pulled back his hair and tied it with a leather lace, missing several strands which he ignored as he staggered out of the tent.
Greg thought for the briefest moment the morning was well underway before he noticed the alien white moon.
"I can't see anything coming, men are looking out the tents, wondering what's going on I think."
"Sun's light! Get ready, get out there, get the other commanders, get the men armed, armoured and get them into formation. John, when we're done here, get all our horses ready."
*
Junaid sat at the head of his cavalry formation on a black and white patch stallion looking back, pleased with the speed with which the horsemen had formed up.
"That's how it's done boys," he muttered turning to watch a scatter of foot soldiers form up outside the banked defences. He urged his horse into a walk and led the column forward until it came level with Cory, Zeivite and Quain. They were looking up the valley, deep in discussion.
"What ghosts have got the battle mage spooked now?" he asked himself, squinting and trying to see what was beyond the lake.
There was nothing but the blackness the night until another bright alien moon shot up casting its white light over and beyond the lake.
Junaid saw them, standing like frail marble statues placed in a lakeside garden without regard for artistic appeal or order.
"There can't be more than a couple of hundred of them," Junaid said to his second, "a quick cavalry charge will run most of them down. What are they waiting for?"
He turned to watch the three men as Theo, Archie, Greg and the Warrior Priest appeared from between the tents to join them on the embankment. Four more contributing to the continuing indecision.
"Good of them to invite me to the briefing," he muttered to himself. Junaid looked behind him, thousands of soldiers were now forming up behind his cavalry. He released a sigh of frustration facing forward again.
"Is it just me, or do you feel like we're all that's left of the old command?"
"It does feel a little that way sir," his second replied.
"Listen up men," Junaid roared back down the line, "we will finish this fast, lances lowered and spread six abreast, pass it back."
"You sure about this sir?"
"Someone's got to do something or we'll still be here at dawn. Are we the only heroes of Valendo brave enough to smash the enemy where they stand?"
Junaid slapped down his visor, lowered his lance, clamped his legs to the saddle and the horse launched itself forward.
He grinned beneath his visor. The old queen and kings would be smiling down at him from their seats in Heaven. One day Junaid would join them there, his own throne reserved. They would welcome him with slaps on the back, great stories of old and giving thanks for his protection of their descendants. The cavalry formation stretched away from the front, their glorious fate drawing them on, pouring them around the lake like the finest ale from a serving jug. Lances were brought low, ready to bear down on the enemy. Rider's at the back of the galloping formation waved swords that glinted in the night. The alien moonlight stole the image of the patchwork horse's bodies and their riders and spread it over the faintly dimpled lake surface. Immortalised in reflection on an unfaithful temporary canvas. An image that could be distorted by the gentlest breath of wind or the faintest shadow of a doubt that came from anywhere but the cavalry commander's mind. He could see the distance to his enemy closing, but not the hot breath snorting from the horse's nose, or a pair of skeletal hands lost in the forest of bone men and thrusting into the sky. Mage fire followed.
The scene reflected on the lake's surface was swept away in glittering, billowing and dancing oranges and yellows. Junaid saw no more, the sudden bright light pained his eye, adjusted to the dark as they were. He gripped harder on the saddle to remain on the now bucking horse. There was screaming all around and the smell of burning hair. His feet stung with a hot pain that rushed up his legs. More screaming, so much louder this time. It came from his own throat. Forgetting what it felt like to not be in agony, he opened his eyes to search for an escape route. A blinding yellow light hit him and everything went black, his eyes shrivelling in the flame. He sucked in a lethal fiery breath that sent his soul fleeing from its burning body.
The horses shrieked, regained a mind of their own and dashed anywhere that was away from the burning ground. They bucked and pranced, everywhere they tried to flee more blistering yellow pain spread and followed them under hoof. Five horses leapt from the fires into the lake and heaved through the cooling waters back the way they had come. The rest lay in the fire to die, their minds and muscles unable to do no more to escape.
Cory watched each horse and rider fall, like burning tangles of sticks. He stared, transfixed by the flames and the horror of mage fire he had only ever imagined while plotting war games at the castle briefing room table. The realisation that the cavalry was lost seeped into his mind, but lurking behind that horror was another far worse. Cory thought his eyes played tricks on him, his imagination running wild. Did one of the horses move again? Did a head rise and then go back down to rest? He focused on the flames. As if waking from sleep, the tangles of sticks unravelled and propped themselves up, once again taking the structures and shapes of riders on horses. They stood in the bath of raging fires, silhouetted against the backdrop of flames with the fire cleansing them of burdensome flesh. The lances were ash on the ground, the new undead cavalry drew swords and the herd turned about in unison without regard for who the leaders once were. The only leader that counted now rode no horse. The fires abated as they trod the path back around the lake, smoke rising from smouldering remnants of muscle and tendon. The treading turned to a canter, which became a galloping horde with swords that no longer gleamed, whipping around the flanks of blackened horse rib cages that oozed with the greasy remains of unburnt organs. Tongues of flame still licked at the bones and smoke streamed behind like long pennants caught in a stiff breeze.
Greg, Theo and Archie sprinted through the camp. They cried orders into the night air that were lost like autumn leaves carried on storm winds. Orders already dry, brittle and empty of meaning. The tents furled in a gentle breeze, mindless to the unfolding events. Greg's feet smashed the glowing embers of a campfire into sparks as he ran, still calling out. Soldiers braced themselves to receive the grimacing cavalry charge as if some inspirational plan would rain down on them at any moment. The hard bone of skeletal horses galloping with unholy speed cut into soldiers like a ship's prow through the water. Iron shod hooves and dull swords snatched away life like sea spray taken on the winds. A bow wave of the undead rose up and pushed back into the yielding sea of the living.
"Commander Junaid," Cory gasped, "was unhappy with us in command. Overheard them talking. Didn't think he'd do this."
"Would have been helpful if our battle plan lasted as long as the first contact with the enemy," Quain replied frowning, "we need to get the men out of the open and into the streets, somehow get the king to the castle. Look, they are on the move now."
Quain pointed to the marble white figures as they shuffled into an orderly rectangle formation. Their march was brisk and perfectly synchronised with pin-like swords pointing skywards and shining in the light of the alien moon. They came down the road on the opposite side of the lake from the doomed cavalry, heading towards the church.
The five surviving cavalrymen urged their mounts up out of their wade through the lake to relative safety. The men's eyes rolled almost as wildly as the horses they rode, their heads turning left and right looking for the next source of terror.
"Orders sir?" One asked gasping and bent over in the saddle.
"How about no-" Cory yelled the word the soldiers use in the tavern, "-stupid unauthorised cavalry charges. But it's too late now isn't it?"
With anger in his eyes, Cory looked at Zeivite and Quain.
"More men if we can get them," said Quain, "make sure we contain this. Get the king to the castle and re-enforce it. We can't defend the church. We always knew it would be difficult to defend Tranmure if the enemy got behind the castle and Jeremiah's wall. The lie of the land is wrong."
"Abandon Tranmure?" said Cory.
"It hasn't come to that yet. We had to abandon Norvale three times over the years."
"But this is Tranmure!"
"It has not come to that yet. We will have to deal with this lot." Quain swept a gauntleted hand in the direction of the fast marching white skeletons.
Cory faced the cavalrymen. "When the way is clear, ride for Norvale and bring down the regiment from there."
Cory hadn't seen the Warrior Priest until now and addressed him.
"Find Greg and tell him to bring what soldiers he can up to the castle, then stay with Theo and Archie. Get the men off the open ground and into the streets."
Zeivite focused his battle sense into the ranks of skeletons marching on their position. There was a void in their midst as impossible to grasp as smoke.
"Time is short gentlemen, come with me and stay close," he intoned without moving his gaze from the marching figures.
Taking long, brisk strides he passed through the field between the church and the lake. His hard boots crunched on the road as he planted his feet in the middle of it, facing their oncoming enemy. He imagined himself as solid and immovable as the 'old soldier', the white obelisk in the Plaza a short walk down the hill behind him. His eyebrows twitched as he pushed his battle sense outwards once again picking over every detail on the road. Every pebble of gravel, blade of grass, meadow flower and reed growing at the lakes edge. There were fish below the surface of the lake at the edge, attracted by the counterfeit moon hanging overhead. The water went several feet deep into soft mud where bottom-dwelling fish fed on worms and grubs. Zeivite mapped and turned over in his mind everything that lay within a giant imaginary sphere in the path of the skeletons.
Cory and Quain took positions at the Archmage's elbows.
"Any ideas?" Cory asked concern in his voice at the faraway look in Zeivite's eyes.
He whispered a reply, "Oh yes."
The white boned soldier formation marched into the imaginary sphere and Zeivite touched his consciousness onto the bright pool of magic at the edge of his mind. It was his source of destruction and creation, his own pain and suffering, his undoing but not his remaking. It was an old and ever present friend, but more than anything it was his source of power. A power that flowed through his mind, down well-used tunnels within hardened walls like the tough skin on the soles of a man's feet. He shaped the bright flow in his mind with words that roared like nature's thunder and the crashing of sea storm waves onto rocks. He pulled in from the air around him the too-small-to-see stuff from which all things are made and combined it with the power he channelled through the pointed finger of his right hand. The white magic made its entrance into the world. Cory watched a point of light leave the forefinger of the mage's right hand and slice through the night like an impossibly bright moonbeam, disappearing into the middle of the approaching skeletons. For a heartbeat, nothing happened and then the air pushed at their backs and rushed into the light that although gone, had been so bright it left a coloured ghost of itself in Cory's vision. The blades of grass, meadow flowers and reeds by the lake all around the point of light bent flat on the ground under the force of the inrushing air. The sky groaned under the strain. A heartbeat of complete still and silence then a flash of painfully bright light like a hundred lightning bolts all striking at once. The thunderous roar of them all compressed into a split moment, shook the air so hard the breath squeezed out of Cory's lungs. An unbidden squawk escaped from his throat as the air that had rushed inwards with such great force blew back in a ferocious explosion. In its wake, a mesmerising, glowing white corona of destructive fire spread outwards and tattered light like the veils of a thousand ghostly brides trailed behind it.
Cory's vision was filled with the colourful remnants of the fading light. The air hung heavy with the super-heated steam of vaporised lake water. New lake water rushed in to take the place of that which had disappeared in the flash, hissing and bubbling as it came.
Inside the once imaginary sphere, everything from the blades of grass to the marching skeletons was no more than powdery ash swirling in the air and mixing with the steam. Heartbeats passed and the three men watched as the mist cleared. On the road in front of them, magic's coloured energies still dancing on the sphere of an invisible shield stood Pragius the undead mage surrounded by ash. By his side two skeletons remained upright, holding serrated swords and black shields.
Pragius was pointing the twig like forefinger of his right hand.
"Wow! Suns light and the holy pilgrim fathers," Cory gasped, "I wouldn't like to be caught in the middle of that."
Zeivite snapped his head to the right, startling Cory into staring back into his eyes.
"Oh, bad luck... BLOCK YOUR EARS!" yelled Zeivite as he jammed a forefinger in each ear. Cory panicked and clamped his gauntleted hands to the sides of his head and a clang rang around his helm. This wasn't blocking his ears. He gazed in horror as another bright moonbeam flashed towards them, leaving behind a small bright white sphere that hung in the air just out of arms reach. For several heartbeats, it hovered in place while Cory looked around wide-eyed while air rushed in at them. All the blades of grass and reeds by the lake were sucked in toward the light before them. Cory shut his eyes and wondered if he could get his helm of quickly enough to block his ears properly. The impossibly bright flash that followed cut right through his eyelids. His world filled with a brief bang, then pain stabbed through his ears and all he could hear was a sound like the keening of every angel in heaven, screaming in high-pitched agony. He fell to his knees, desperately trying to suck in a breath that, for several heartbeats throbbing painfully in his head, would not come. He opened his eyes. Everywhere around him powder white ash hung in the air like a hot fog. Curls of white flames licked the air and performed a skittish dance over Zeivite's protective shield.
Cory stood up, then pitched over and fell onto his side, feeling as if he stood on the deck of a small ship tossed around in the legendary storms of the eastern seas. He looked up and saw Quain pointing at himself and then him followed by a gesture towards the two white skeletons closing on their position. Quain appeared to be yelling, his lips moved, his teeth bared but Cory could hear nothing above the angels screaming in his ears. In his peripheral vision he caught the sight of Greg, it must have been Greg, the ponytail bouncing as he ran. Why did he pick out a detail like that right now? Valendo soldiers followed him, or were they fleeing from the undead cavalry charge? Where had the cavalry gone anyway? Zeivite now stood locked in a duel of blazing light and wild gesticulations with the undead mage, bolts of energy traded between them blinding both to the sight of each other and the stalemate they were in. It would be last man or monster standing. A duel which if Zeivite was right about Pragius's limitless power, he had no hope of winning. Cory made some sense of the scene in his mind, calling on all the lessons he had learned about battle mages in that briefing room with his grandfather, and realised winning could not be Zeivite's plan. It must be about keeping Pragius locked in battle so he couldn't afford to take his concentration away long enough to simply burn or vaporise the soldiers around them. Zeivite was fighting for time. The time Cory now needed to defeat the skeleton coming at him serrated sword raised and black shield held ready for combat. He hauled himself to his feet and concentrated his gaze on the ground so that he had a reference to balance that his ears could no longer provide. This wouldn't take long. Skeletons were fast but not skilled and as easy to cut down as chopping sticks for kindling. Cory drew his sword, the yellow jewel eye making its appearance in the dark, and he fought again for balance as the first blow from his new opponent hammered into his shield that he brought up just in time. The blow fell heavier than he was expecting, but he wasted no time considering that mystery as he swung his own sword about the horizontal arc that smashed skeletal pelvises like clay pots. His sword made contact with a swift moving black shield and once again Cory had to move his own shield to fend off another shuddering blow.
This was new.
Not a bundle of firewood to fight but something hewn from rock and steel.
Cory changed his stance, still fighting for balance and set himself into a defensive pattern of movements that there was no time to play around fighting with.
Somewhere behind his adversary a bright ball of light, another of those alien moons appeared blocking the view to the undead mage. Zeivite vanished into a blue star filled shadow. The trading of magical energy between the two mage's quickly resumed with Zeivite now stood off to Cory's right in the field by the church. A field once aglow with the beauty of the Summer Light Festival, the smell of roasting meat, the colours of sugared fruits and the beauty of those blue-as-a-spring-day-sky eyes. Why in the world was he thinking of this now? Was this life flashing before his eyes before the moment of death? Or just a madness to match the madness around him.
Cory struggled for balance through his practiced pattern of movements, coming out of defensive sequences, springing inelegant attacks that were turned aside by the shield or the serrated blade of the skeletal swordsman. He took a few chips off the bones of his enemy who left scratches on his armour in return. All of a sudden a shining blade came from behind and split his opponent from skull to chest cavity. What was left, collapsed to the ground.
Quain, the silver warrior, stepped over the bony remains and pointed behind Cory. He turned to see their horses and several others already mounted and galloping north. Somewhere in the group, he saw Sebastian, a black-robed priest, a man with chiselled features and several other familiar faces revealed in the artificial light from above. There was still only the sounds of screaming angels in his ears and he felt manhandled towards Sunny. Confused about what the plan was he could do nothing else but mount up and follow Quain's lead. Quain was focused and severe like a mountain eagle hunting for its next meal. Arms gesticulating in a clear, direct manner brooked no argument and sent people now sure of what was expected of them scurrying off to obey his commands. Cory felt like his feet were on wet sand with a receding wave stealing away the grains from under them. Men dashed everywhere. Horses' dashed everywhere. Not all with flesh on their bones. Some went into Tranmure, some headed elsewhere, like the five remaining Valendo cavalrymen who seem to have found a gap and made their break north into the night for Norvale.
Quain grabbed his arm once again, this time, he was mounted on his white warhorse that seemed to have taken on its own look of concentration. Quain gestured north with both arms pointing and launched into a gallop. Cory spun his head around and glanced across the land. All he could pick up was the scattering of Valendo soldiers in all directions, pursued by the undead cavalry and the freshly dead rising up against their former comrades. Breaking out of that chaos and galloping right at him at an unnatural and terrifying speed came ten? Twenty? Well, some skeletal horses. They were no longer the beautiful and unique patchwork beasts with boots of hair in colours that matched their patches. They were all the same grimacing fleshless horrors fresh out of nightmares he had never had before. They carried on their backs what had been men only minutes before, each with an identical toothy grimace on their face and holding a cavalry sword aloft.
Cory urgently clamped his legs onto Sunny's sides and yelled something he couldn't hear past the keening angels in his head. Sunny launched them both into the dark after the others at a full gallop. Looking behind, he had trouble seeing through the opening in his visor, but he caught glimpses of flailing bony hooved legs that were ever closer each time he looked. He focused forward again and being the knowledgeable horseman he was, began to worry about how long Sunny could keep up this pace. He had travelled with speed all the way to Dendra Castle many times before, but never at a full gallop all the way. What was behind him was faster and somehow he knew would never tire however many nights and days they ran for. His eyes streamed tears from the blast of air in his face from the speed of their flight. The tree canopy of the forest in the valley leading to the castle rushed overhead and the road they fled down went pitch black. Too dark for a horse to gallop down. Every stone, depression and crack turned into leg breaking danger that the already dead cavalry behind him ignored.
How long had they been galloping now? How much longer could Sunny keep up the pace? The answer to his question came as he sensed the straining agony of the horse beneath him and the slowing of the blast of air through the slot in his visor. Those ahead of him must have been slowing too, as they did not pull away. Sunny was gaining on them, but not as fast as what galloped behind as they closed the distance. This was going to turn from flight to fight at any moment, he thought as he saw a bright yellow point of light in the darkness ahead of him. That would be the yellow jewel on Quain's sword free of its scabbard.
Cory glanced back right into the empty eye sockets of a charred horse's skull. He drew his sword and waved it frantically behind him to no avail before it struck him that he could see the sword in the yellow glow of fires. Looking forward again, something flying through the air with a rope streaming behind it came into view. It wasn't until he followed its flight behind him that he realised it was a giant barbed crossbow bolt. It smashed through the fleshless rib cage of the pursuing horse, the barb catching onto the remaining intact ribs. A heartbeat later the rope pulled taught and the skeletal horse was yanked out of its flight, dashing it and the rider to the ground in a splintering crash. Other barbed bolts sailed out of the dark pulling bone horses to an abrupt destructive halt. Bald headed men lined the sides of the road Cory sped along. Some fired heavy crossbows into the midst of the macabre cavalry, others wielded maces and swords. Cory copied Quain and hauled a wild wide eyed Sunny to a halt and turned him to face their remaining pursuers, blocking the path. The undead cavalry had to stop and take on the fight, now suddenly weighted against them. Boxed in by maybe thirty men, Cory and Quain, it was a matter of minutes before maces and swords took out the legs of the horses from under them and crushed the bones of their riders on the ground.
Cory sat on Sunny breathing hard, his hammering heart beating a throbbing pain in his ears. Men all around him started sheathing swords and placing down maces to greet each other with the warrior's handshake, and words that Cory could not hear. Within the group, he thought he recognised a bald head, teeth with a golden glint, a tuft of a moustache and a beard covering just the chin. Cory leaned forward, lifted his leg over the back of Sunny and clumsily slid from the saddle on his stomach. Adrenaline drained away like melting snow by a fire. Dimly aware of being on his feet, managing to scabbard his sword, he turned to face the other men and started to realise standing up might have been a bad idea. A sickly burning feeling bloomed out from his stomach. He felt cold and hot at the same time, couldn't keep the ground under him from pitching left and right. Exhaustion, throbbing pain in his ears and the inability to balance joined forces and felled him like a wolf pack pouncing on a weakling deer. The keening of the angels in his ears followed him all the way down.
[End of Chapter...]
[Quick fact: This whole battle scene was playing through my mind for months before I wrote it. This whole part was written in two one hour train journies to and from London, UK. If I had been able to write at this pace all the time, the whole story would have been written in one-third the time it actually took. This part also holds the record for the least number of changes made by the editor in the published edition. (Rememeber you are reading the unedited version here)]