Richard Tuttle - Army of the Dead

“We will invite only the witnesses,” answered HawkShadow. “We have chosen Goral and StormSong to witness for us.”

“But the others will want to wish you well,” frowned Lyra.

“Others may come if their tasks are complete,” shrugged HawkShadow, “but we do not intend to slow down the preparations for the Motangan attack. A simple ceremony is all we ask for.”

“And your blessings,” added StarWind.

“My blessings?” smiled the Star of Sakova. “You shall certainly receive my blessings and my prayers. When do you wish to do this?”

HawkShadow whistled loudly, and Goral and StormSong suddenly appeared. StormSong was carrying a bunch of wildflowers and handed them to StarWind.

“Now would be a good time,” the assassin grinned.

* * *

“Come on,” shouted the Motangan general, “get those wagons loaded. The sun is already setting, and this caravan was supposed to be out of here this morning.”

The black-cloaked mage stood beside the general and shook his head in disbelief. “Do you think your men could work any slower?” he scowled. “Premer Doralin is certainly going to be asking questions about this delay, and I will not take the blame for it.”

“As you have made clear all afternoon,” snapped the general. “You file your report, and I will file mine. There is something spooky about this city of Alamar. All day I have had men coming to me and telling me that the supplies were not where they were supposed to be. It is almost magical how things have been moved around.”

“What are you suggesting?” frowned the mage. “Are you accusing my mages of hampering your efforts to load the supply caravans?”

“I made no such accusation,” retorted the general, “but it is curious that things are not where we left them. It certainly is not the fault of all these cats that have suddenly invaded the city. You tell me how it has happened.”

“I will tell you,” countered the mage. “Your men have probably been drinking again and have no idea where they stored the supplies when they came off the ships. Do not even think of pinning the blame for your incompetence on my mages. With ten thousand men you surely should be able to handle the shipment of supplies without magical help.”

“You handle your mages,” snapped the general as he strode briskly towards the caravan, “and leave the handling of my men to me.”

The general was fuming as he approached the caravan. Dealing with mages always set him off on a rampage and he decided to get away while he still had some vestige of calm within him.

“What is the hold up this time?” the general bellowed at the officer in charge of the caravan.

“Sixty crates of smoked meat are missing,” the officer replied with exasperation. “I personally saw them loaded into the cellar of one of the destroyed inns, but the crates are not there now. The caravan cannot leave without them.”

“Are they being stolen?” the general asked with concern as he started to calm down.

“I don’t think so,” shrugged the officer. “Everything else that was missing has turned up elsewhere, some of it in the most illogical places. I think the city is haunted by spirits.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” scowled the general. “Spirits do not move crates of meat around. It is more likely a band of your men that do not want to make the journey into the forests. Find the culprits and execute them. That will end these annoying movements of supplies.”

“I can hardly do that and load this caravan at the same time,” sighed the officer. “I will make a map for the next shipments from Duran. Every crate will be numbered and stored in a specific location, and I will assign guards to watch over it until the next caravan is loaded.”

“I like that idea,” brightened the general. “It is too late for your caravan to leave today. Tell your men to find those sixty crates and load them. Your caravan will leave at dawn. The sooner they find the crates, the sooner they can go to sleep.”

“I will see to it,” saluted the officer. “We will leave promptly at dawn.”

The general nodded with satisfaction and left the caravan. He returned to his headquarters in the old schoolhouse once used by the Omungans to teach magic. As soon as he entered the schoolhouse, the kitchen staff scurried to prepare the evening meal.

The general and his staff sat down in the dining room and talked amicably as the kitchen staff provided a feast for the officers. Several hours later, the general and his staff turned in for the night. All over the partially destroyed city of Alamar, soldiers bedded down for the night, well fed and comfortable in the buildings that remained standing.

* * *

The alley was dark, although the sky was studded with brilliant stars. The pale orb of the moon was just rising over the horizon as the small black cat darted along the alleyway. It ran openly down the center of the alley, confident that the only Motangans awake were those sentries guarding the perimeter of the city. They were of no concern to the small cat.

The cat reached its destination, a window near the door to a large mansion once owned by a wealthy Omungan. There it moved into the darkest of shadows and waited. It did not have long to wait. The cat tilted its head upward as it caught the new scent drifting lightly on the wind. It purred softly as it listened intently for the sound of footsteps that were sure to follow.

In the dim light of the city, the cat saw a dozen Chula warriors enter the mouth of the alley. Without waiting for them to arrive, the cat leaped onto the windowsill and entered the mansion. It made a quick circuit of the interior of the building where over a hundred Motangan soldiers were sleeping. It found no one awake. The cat returned to the door to the alleyway and instantly vanished. In the cat’s place stood a Chula shaman. The shaman opened the door to the alley and silently greeted the dozen warriors outside.

With swift hand signals, the shaman gave orders to the warriors. The warriors dispersed throughout the building while the shaman waited to see if his assistance would be needed. Within minutes, the warriors began to gather at the door, their knives dripping with Motangan blood. There were no cries of alarm issued, and the shaman immediately transformed into a cat and dashed through the open door and into the alleyway. It hurried to the next building on its list, knowing that other groups of Chula were working just as hard all over the city. It was a race to see how many Motangans could be killed before an alarm was issued to wake the city up.

Several blocks away, a tawny kitten led a group of cats into the alleyway alongside an inn. When the kitten halted, a dozen cats halted beside it. It was a strange sight to behold as the dozen cats formed a semicircle around the kitten and sat down as if they were preparing to listen to a lecture. In the blinking of an eye, they all disappeared. In their place stood twelve head shaman from various tribes in a semicircle. In the center stood Ukaro, the head shaman of the Zatong tribe, and the father of the Torak. The shamans looked attentively towards their leader.

“There are a hundred black-cloaks inside,” Ukaro warned softly. “They would have to be quite foolish not to have magically alarmed this building. Our task here is not one of speed, but of stealth. If any alarm is given, you are to attack without regard to stealth, but until that time, tread softly and take no chances of being discovered.”

“Are you saying that entering through windows is unacceptable?” asked one of the shaman.

“I must suspect that it is,” nodded Ukaro. “I will not underestimate my opponents.”

“Then how can we proceed at all?” asked the shaman.

“I plan to enter through the roof,” explained Ukaro. “I will take three others with me. The rest of you are to prepare for battle the moment an alarm is sounded. I want every door and window guarded. None of the black-cloaks are to escape. Destroy the building and everyone in it if you must, but do not let a single Motangan mage get outside.”