Richard Tuttle - Army of the Dead

“Something is not right here,” Marshal Berman declared. “The Jiadin were horsemen as were all Fakaran warriors. Where are the horse skeletons? All we are seeing are the remains of men.”

“You are right,” frowned Lord Faliman. “Is it not also curious that each warrior died with his weapon in hand? Usually warriors lose their weapons in death, but not a one of these fallen soldiers is without his.”

Marshal Berman held up his hand to halt the column.

“We are turning back,” he stated.

“Because of this cemetery?” balked Lord Marshal Stanton.

“Because this is not natural,” snapped Marshal Berman. “We will take the time to learn the true significance of this battlefield before we continue. Turn the men around Lord Marshal.”

Lord Marshal Stanton hesitated a moment and then finally shouted the order to retreat. A horn blared the retreat, and the Aritor horsemen began to turn around. Unexpectedly, the field of skeletons rose as one and began slashing at the Khadorans.

“We are under attack!” shouted Marshal Berman as a dozen skeleton warriors surged towards his point position. “Keep sounding the retreat so that the other clans will hear it,” he yelled to the hornsman.

Marshal Berman drew his sword and slashed at the skeletons trying to encircle him, but there was nothing to sink his blade into. There were no screams from the victims of his swings, and his steel neither sank into flesh, nor caused blood to flow onto the barren soil.

The Balomar marshal’s eyes flicked in every direction as he parried blows from the swords of the dead. He saw thousands of skeletons racing towards the still advancing line of Khadorans, and he caught sight of Lord Marshal Stanton trying his best to keep Lord Faliman safe so that he could retreat. Berman cursed as he realized that all was lost for the vanguard. He wheeled his horse and raced towards the hornsman.

“Stanton,” shouted Marshal Berman, “leave Faliman and rally to the hornsman. We must stop the Khadoran advance.”

“I cannot leave my lord,” refused the lord marshal.

“Your lord is dead,” snapped Berman as he raced past. “We are all dead. Make our lives worth something. We must protect the hornsman as long as we can.”

Marshal Berman reached the retreating hornsman and took up his right flank. Ahead of him he saw the army of skeletons closing off the path of retreat.

“Blow, son,” encouraged the Balomar marshal. “Blow as long and as hard as you can. Give your countrymen a chance to live.”

Lord Marshal Stanton pulled up on the hornsman’s left flank and began slicing into the skeletons. Berman saw Lord Faliman race by, but the path was already blocked. All around the hornsman, Aritor soldiers cried out in pain as they toppled from their horses. Berman swung his blade hard, and his victims’ bones cracked in response, but the dead warriors did not fall. The skeletons continued attacking, switching the hands that wielded their weapons if they needed to.

“I got one to fall,” Stanton shouted in triumph.

“How?” yelled Berman as the hornsman continued to blare the retreat.

“Break their necks,” shouted Stanton.

Marshal Berman nodded in understanding and extended his reach on the next swing. His sword slammed into a skeleton’s neck and its head lopped off. The skeleton collapsed in a pile of bones, but the swing cost Berman dearly. Two swords sliced into his leg, and he yelped in pain as blood gushed out of his wounds. Marshal Berman gritted his teeth and struck out again. He scored another blow to the neck of a skeleton and watched the bones fall to the ground, but his joy was short-lived. He watched in amazement as his hand and sword fell to the ground. For a moment he felt no pain from his severed hand, as if it was all a dream, but reality returned all too soon. Blood spewed from the stump of his arm, and he closed his eyes for a final prayer to Kaltara. Seconds later the marshal’s body was struck in several places at once. He tumbled from his horse, and his world grew black.

* * *

Emperor Marak was in the forest south of Lake Jabul. He stood with Lyra, Ukaro, King Avalar, and Princess Alastasia. As the sun broke the horizon he could just make out the long line of Khadorans advancing eastward.

“So it begins,” he said softly.

“Should we be advancing as well?” asked Princess Alastasia.

“No,” the Torak shook his head. “The Khadoran army is enough of a threat to make Vand show his hand. Let’s wait and see what surprises he has in store for us.”

“What is out there?” Lyra asked with a puzzled expression. “Thousands of flickers are reflecting the sun.”

“I see that, too,” nodded King Avalar. “Something is out there.”

The Torak’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the thousands of tiny flashes. It was as if the entire ground was littered with pieces of metal. The reflections appeared on both sides of the lake and stretched out far to both the east and the west. The only area that did not have any reflections was right around the distant temple.

“I have to go look,” declared the Torak.

“On Myka?” asked the Star of Sakova. “I thought you said you would not be riding her into battle?”

“I must know what is out there,” replied Marak. “There is nothing natural about those reflections. They are Vand’s surprise.”

The Torak turned and ran through the woods to the clearing where Myka rested. He raced right up onto her back with impatience.

“Going somewhere?” quipped the dragon.

“I have no time for humor,” replied the Torak. “Get me over the battlefield quickly. Something is wrong.”

Myka wasted no words in reply. She rose up and leaped into the sky.

“Head towards the Khadorans,” instructed Marak, “but keep low enough for me to see what we are traveling over.”

Myka skimmed over the trees of the forest and was soon flying over the baked soil of the wasteland. Marak looked down with a puzzled expression on his face. Thousands of skeletons littered the ground and it soon became obvious that the sun was reflecting off the swords that they held.

“An old battlefield?” questioned the dragon.

“I don’t think so,” mused the Torak. “Do you see any of the bones crushed? Each skeleton is fully formed. How could anyone ride or march to Vandegar without crushing some of the bones?”

“Maybe no one has ever approached the temple from this direction?” posed the dragon.

“Possible,” admitted the Torak, “but I will not accept that just yet. We have been expecting some surprise from Vand, and this is surprising.”

“We will know soon enough,” declared the dragon. “Your Khadorans are about to start crunching bones.”

Marak strained his eyes trying to see the progress of the Khadoran clansmen, but they were still too far away to make out the details. His eyes drifted downward and scanned the skeleton bodies.

“Did you hear that?” asked Myka.

“Hear what?” asked Emperor Marak.

“A horn,” answered the dragon. “It came from the Khadorans.”

Suddenly, the skeletons below came to life and rose to their feet, their bony hands brandishing swords.

“Mercy!” swore the Torak. “There are thousands upon thousands of them.”

“And not enough flesh on all of them put together for even a decent snack,” the dragon said dryly.

Marak dragged his eyes away from the skeletons below and focused on the blur of Khadorans in the distance.

“What can you see?” he asked the dragon as they sped across the wasteland.

“The vanguard is being encircled,” Myka reported. “The rest of the Khadorans are still moving forward as if unaware of the danger, but the horn is still blowing.”

“I can hear it now,” nodded Marak.