Richard Tuttle - Army of the Dead

Doralin frowned at the mage and shook his head. “The two of you are dismissed,” he said with finality. “In the future, I will be notified personally before any more such meetings take place. Make sure that the entire camp is informed of my order.”

The general saluted and led Zatho out of the tent. Doralin shook his head and spat towards the door flap.

“I detest such people,” he said with disgust. “Where does Vand find them?”

“The mage ranks are full of them,” replied General Valatosa. “While it may hamper our ability to communicate, I do not miss the mages we lost at the ridge. They were a despicable lot.”

“Well,” sighed Doralin, “the Sakovans missed one of the worst. Zatho is like a rabid dog. He should be put down.”

* * *

It was late afternoon when the wagons appeared. Cheers and shouts of joy started at the eastern edge of the perimeter and soon rippled through the entire encampment. The sentries quickly moved aside as the wagon train galloped into the encampment. Motangan soldiers crawled out of their tents and rushed to form a human corridor for the food shipment. Even Premer Doralin came out of his tent to see what the commotion was about. General Valatosa was at his side. They watched the first wagon race past and smiled broadly. Doralin’s smile faded almost instantly when the second wagon came into view.

“Something is wrong,” Doralin scowled. “There is no escort.”

“And the soldiers driving the teams are too wooden,” added Valatosa.

“Stop those wagons!” shouted the premer, but his words went unheard.

The Motangan camp was roaring with cheers. The jubilation finally died when one of the wagons ran over a tent stake and crashed. The wagon flipped, spewing dead Motangan soldiers over the nearby tents. The encampment grew deadly quiet as word quickly spread. Soldiers leaped out and halted the wagons. Others sprang forward and ripped off the canvas coverings. Howls of protest and revenge spread through the encampment like wildfire. Premer Doralin clenched his fists in rage.

“Get me a count of the bodies,” the premer snapped at General Valatosa. “I want them identified, although I suspect that I already know who they are. Report to me as soon as you are done.”

The premer spun around and marched into his tent. General Valatosa sighed heavily and walked off to do his duty. He already knew whom the bodies belonged to. He recognized more than one of the soldiers who had just recently been sent to Alamar. He also knew that Doralin would now accept the invitation to parley with the Sakovans in the morning. He walked to the nearest wagon and inspected the way that the dead Motangan soldier had been tied to the seat of the wagon. He shook his head and spat on the ground in disgust.

* * *

Thousands of Khadoran archers lined the western side of the second trench, while thousands of Motangan archers opposed them on the eastern side. Arrows flew through the air in numbers uncountable. Bodies on both sides of the trench fell and were immediately replaced by others. Lord Saycher of the Morgar clan watched from a knoll a safe distance behind the front lines. He cursed at the losses his forces were taking and called for an air mage.

“The archers are to move back twenty paces,” Lord Saycher barked at the air mage. “The Motangans are killing too many of our men.”

The air mage nodded and sent the message out to other air mages all along the front lines. Lord Saycher watched as the archers began to move backward. The Motangan archers immediately moved to the brink of the trench, trying to extend the reach of their arrows. Behind the Motangan archers, enemy soldiers started carrying long planks forward. Suddenly, an officer wearing the orange and yellow of the Balomar clan galloped up the knoll. He leaped off his horse and raced over to Lord Saycher.

“What are you doing?” shouted the officer. “Why did you order the archers moved back?”

“Because they were dying too quickly, Marshal Berman,” Lord Saycher replied brusquely. “What would you have me do? Should I let the Motangans kill them all? It was your advice to move back earlier. Now you try to fault me for it.”

“My advice was to withdraw to the third trench,” snapped Marshal Berman, “not to move the archers back and allow the Motangans to cross this trench. They will swarm all over our armies before we can retreat in an orderly fashion. Either defend the trench or retreat to the next. There is only death and defeat in half way measures.”

“The third trench is the last,” retorted Lord Saycher. “We cannot afford to give up ground so quickly. The Emperor has asked us to buy time to assemble the armies of the Imperial Valley. That is exactly what I am doing.”

“That is not what you will accomplish,” scowled Marshal Berman. “Where is your marshal? Ask him for his advice if you do not believe me.”

“He is dead,” scowled Lord Saycher. “Besides, he would have agreed with my orders. I was the marshal of the Morgar clan before I became lord. I think that I can handle the job.”

“I think not,” Marshal Berman retorted emphatically. “You are not waging war against another Khadoran clan, Lord Saycher. There are several hundred thousand Motangans on the other side of that trench. They can afford to fill that trench with the bodies of their dead and march over them if they have to. You must order a retreat to the third trench immediately. This battle is lost.”

“You are distracting me, Marshal Berman,” snapped Lord Saycher. “Please remove yourself from my presence.”

Marshal Berman whirled around and stormed off. He marched purposely towards the group of air mages at the rear of the knoll and picked one out.

“I need to talk with the Emperor immediately,” Marshal Berman said softly.

The air mage nodded dutifully and wove an air tunnel to Khadoratung. Within moments Emperor Marak spoke into the air tunnel.

“I am sorry for this breach of protocol, Emperor Marak,” the Balomar marshal said, “but it must be done. This is Marshal Berman and the situation at the second trench is critical.”

“I recognize your voice, Marshal,” replied the Emperor. “What is the problem?”

“This army cannot be run under Lord Saycher,” the marshal said emphatically. “While he may be a strong ally of yours, his actions will cost the lives of many Khadorans.”

“This is very disturbing to hear,” frowned the Emperor. “I have a great deal of faith in the Morgar lord and his marshal, as I do you. Why do you feel that there is a problem?”

“The Morgar marshal is dead,” replied Marshal Berman. “Were he alive, I believe he would agree with me. The second trench is about to be overrun, but we have not even started to move towards the third trench yet. Lord Saycher believes that he is buying your armies more time, but he does not realize the speed with which we will be overrun. Our infantry and mages will be unable to reach the third trench in time to get across safely. We are about to have a catastrophe of unspeakable dimensions.”

“What is your solution, Marshal Berman?” asked the Emperor.

“We must start the retreat immediately,” Berman said without hesitation. “The archers will have to be brought forward and probably sacrificed unless we can get reinforcements to slow down the Motangans. Saycher just ordered the archers to move twenty paces back from the rim of the trench. That is all the Motangans need to bring planks forward, which they are in the process of doing.”

“Do you understand the implications of my overriding Lord Saycher’s orders?” asked the Emperor.

“I do,” replied Marshal Berman. “I am willing to take full responsibility for this decision. I will forfeit my life, but you must order the retreat. If you do not, thousands will die needlessly.”