Book 8: Chapter 73: Rest in peace
As dawn arrived, the host of Archen and its allies stood ready, such as they were. They numbered less than two thousand, many of them greybeards, some of them youths. Half had experience with battle; the others had to rely on their militia training. But none complained at the early hour or the danger ahead; all knew they fought to defend their homes and families, and it could not be any other way. With provisions packed for the next days, they marched out.
They moved swiftly along the road. Henry had built it after the miners arrived, allowing carts from their village to bring ore to the city. Marching ahead of the column, Martel felt an eerie reminder of his days during the civil war. Granted, he walked rather than rode, and his army was a militia, not five legions, but still, a sense of unease filled him. Fighting other Asterians, he had known the advantage to be his; even when defending their new home against the attempted Khivan incursion last year, Martel knew how they fought, what to expect, and how to counter. Not so this time.
He did not fear the undead, having dispatched countless of their number over many encounters; they posed little threat to an experienced battlemage of his mettle. Likewise, the other wizards in their company ought to be safe in most circumstances. But there was no telling how the rank and file reacted when facing enemies that felt no dread but inspired it, possessed only by the will that drove them forward. Martel could only hope that what his soldiers defended gave them the needed courage.
With a forced march, they reached the gap in the mountains that widened into the valley beyond just as the sun set. Standing on elevated terrain, Martel gazed east into the blackness. His ability to see heat regardless of light, his trusted sense that had won many a fight, could not help him against this enemy. They were hidden in the night for now, but knowing their relentless advance, the Archeans only had to wait.
Perhaps worse than the undead army, Martel feared the lich and what secrets the dark hid on his behalf. But for all the powers that the former archmage possessed, he was but one wizard against many. They had a spellbreaker among their number, dedicated to the fighting of such a foe. Martel’s own powers had grown considerably since they first faced Karolos in the depths of Archen, as had Eleanor’s, and the Tyrian skáld was also a formidable addition to their magical arsenal with her runes and sorcerous songs. It would have to suffice; they had no further strength to bring to bear.
While the ablest foresters among the Tyrians were dispatched as scouts and the rest made camp, the leaders of the small army gathered for council. All knew that battle was to be expected, and they might look on each other for the last time.
Setting aside concerns and threat of sorrow, they argued strategy for a while and made their plans. As their discussions of tactics ended, Eleanor spoke again. “You mentioned you had further knowledge of the enemy we face,” All eyes followed hers to look at Atreus.
“I did. I observed that the undead guarding the lich himself all carried the same manner of crude pendant. I believe it strengthens the creatures. Speed, strength, intelligence, all of it bolstered. Karolos’s enchantment, I presume.” The spellbreaker ran a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. “They discovered me and chased me away when I tried to approach. Do not underestimate them.”
“I doubt any here would be of a mind to do that,” Valerius muttered. Next to him, Maximilian shrugged and hefted his hammer.
“But it can perhaps be turned to our advantage,” Atreus continued. “How so?” asked Eleanor.
“Karolos can’t have made one for each member of his undead host. There wouldn’t be enough hours in the day even for one who never sleeps.”
“So we hope,” Henry mumbled.
“I believe the pendants serve another, more important function. No matter the skill of a necromancer, controlling such a horde is taxing, and his ability to command them in battle is limited. Little more he can do but turn them loose in a direction,” Atreus explained.
“And?” Eleanor encouraged him.
“I suspect the little bits of enchanted jewellery amplifies his will, or endows the bearers with some of his malice. It would allow those chosen to act as a form of officers, having the intelligence and also the control over their fellow undead around them to direct them in battle.” The spellbreaker shrugged. “At least, that’s my theory.”
“How does that help us?” Ketill the berserker broke his silence. His rune-engraved axe lay across his lap; he had eschewed the offer of a blunt weapon.
“If we destroy one of the pendant wearers, it would weaken the undead surrounding them,” Martel explained, having grasped Atreus’s meaning.
“Does it matter?” asked Maximilian. “They must all be destroyed regardless.”
“Him, I like,” Ketill added, nodding at the healer in mageknight’s armour.
“It may make a difference to the men. I shall spread the word,” Valerius declared.
“Very well. If there is nothing else? We all know our positions?” Eleanor looked around the circle, and everyone met her eyes with determination, though some displayed it stronger than others. Yet none spoke against or declared themselves unready. “Let us get what rest we may. The enemy will be upon us sooner rather than later.”
They all did as suggested and spread out among the camp to seek sleep.
Not long after midnight, the Tyrian scouts returned. They did so running at all speed, shouting in their own language before adding in Asterian, “They come!”
A lightstone was thrown from the back ranks of the defenders, and as it flew across the night sky, it illuminated endless ranks of dead in various stages of decay. But all of them moved with discipline, driven by a singular will. As the lightstone landed, the reanimated skeleton of an enormous creature with tusks the size of spears crushed both stone and light under its bony foot, plunging the valley back into darkness.
Returned to unlife by magic, the dead required no illumination to see the living; eyes of blue flame filled their skulls and gave them all the sight they needed. And now, as the Asterians peered into the darkness, they saw countless spots of blue staring back at them. The undead issued no war cry; the silence was only broken by the sound of countless boots and bones breaking into a run. The battle had begun.