Terry W. Ervin Page 3

  Guzzy nodded.

  I looked from Guzzy to the mercenary. “I’ll carry him.”

  “One final minute, with him,” Road Toad said. “I must do this before he dies.”

  Then I remembered my drill sergeant’s dispassionate voice. “Salt in a death wound will ward off a necromancer’s magic. Either that or maim the body so it can’t walk or fight. Otherwise it’ll become a zombie to march against you.”

  I couldn’t sever the tendons in Guzzy’s legs and arms. I wouldn’t let Road Toad do it either.

  “Krishhh,” whispered Guzzy. “Tell my pappy…” His eyes widened. “We slew an ogre…fight on for me.” His eyes rolled up, showing their whites.

  I held my cousin’s hand. His grip weakened. Tears blurred my vision. “I’m here, Guzzy. I will. I promise.”

  “Pops Weasel, over here,” said Road Toad in a harsh, restrained whisper. “Pull the spear.”

  The old mercenary placed his foot on Guzzy’s chest and tugged the spear out. Guzzy’s body tightened. Blood flowed from the open wound. Road Toad slapped a fistful of salt into the wound and pressed it in with his fingers.

  A few seconds later, Road Toad wiped his leather gauntlets on Guzzy’s padded armor before adjusting my cousin’s body. The mercenary rested Guzzy’s battle axe upon his blood-soaked chest before sliding Guzzy’s sheathed boot dirk into my belt. He placed a hand on my shoulder. “He’s gone.”

  “We should be too,” said Pops Weasel after spitting a stream of leaf juice through his rotting front teeth. “No shame in mourning the loss of a comrade.”

  I stood. “He was my cousin.”

  “Even more reason to mourn,” the old mercenary said, handing me my spear.

  I didn’t want it, and pulled my hand back. “No.”

  “Take it,” ordered Road Toad. “You fight best with it.”

  “Here,” said Pops Weasel, handing me a quiver with a half dozen crossbow bolts. Then he looked up to Road Toad and patted a fattened satchel. “Rations. Didn’t have to do anything for the captain. Took care of Bendell, and that damnable ogre too.”

  I looked to where Pops Weasel had pointed. The ogre lay with gauntlets removed and hands severed. Bloodstained gashes lined his boots at the ankles. Its severed head lay two feet to the side.

  The mercenary, Bendell, lay with his battle axe like Guzzy. Captain Plarchett, or what was left of his crushed and mangled body, lay heaped at the feet of the ogre. The sword that lay across the body didn’t catch and reflect the waning firelight as I thought it should. The sword wasn’t his.

  I looked around, and noted Road Toad’s hilt. I interrupted his whispering of plans to Pops Weasel. “You took Captain Plarchett’s sword.”

  My accusatory tone brought a surprised glance from Pops Weasel, but not from Road Toad. “He was a brother,” Road Toad said, and raised his leather-gauntleted right hand. “That is all you need to know.”

  A design in the shape of a dog, maybe a fox, leaping over a rising sun showed on the worn leather. It appeared recently re-inked. Twice I’d seen that design on soldiers who’d passed through Pine Ridge, but tattooed on their right palm. I wondered if Pops Weasel’s leather gauntlet bore the mark, and if Road Toad bore the mark on his skin.

  Road Toad looked around warily. “We’ll make for the bridge. Try to slip through the enemy lines and cross.” He led the way into the woods, I followed and Pops Weasel trailed behind as we snaked silently through the trees.

  We made it to the bridge only to find a host of zombies clustered in two masses eighty yards back, on either side of the road. We might have made a run for it, except for the twenty or so goblins. Their appearance surprised me. Both Road Toad and Pops Weasel frowned, silently meeting each other’s gaze.

  Most of the yellow-skinned creatures hid behind large trunks, spying on activities across the river; watching with their sinister cat eyes and listening with their pointed ears. A few goblins had climbed into the trees. Most carried short bows and long curved daggers or short, stout spears. They were no larger than a boy of eight summers, but appeared far more menacing.

  I began to sweat, wondering what we were going to do with the goblins and zombie hoards between us and the stone bridge that spanned seventy feet across the raging river.

  “Goblin’s ain’t much,” whispered Pops Weasel, “but them arrows would get us before we made it across.”

  Road Toad nodded and I agreed. We were hidden forty yards west of the bridge near the river’s edge. The water was high, rushing by just below the bank. Four more feet and it’d reach the bridge’s underside. A twenty-yard area around the bridge had been cleared of trees years ago, and recently of brush.

  Across the river, powerful lanterns backed by reflectors lit the bridge. I spotted movement inside the narrow windows of the two-story granite blockhouses that guarded the bridge’s far side. Men moved in the shadows in the woods beyond.

  Bellowing ogres sounded not too far away. Pops Weasel asked, “What’re they saying?”

  “Mostly cursing.” Road Toad nodded. “They say, ‘No rock throwers. No cut trees to roll behind. Many puny men.’” He smiled. “I have to agree with them.”

  Road Toad led us a few feet further back into the brush and bushes. “We’ll wait until morning.”

  We watched for an hour and twice a patrol of goblins walked along the river and past us, only to return ten minutes later. Each time they came close I froze with my heart racing, prepared to run or fight. Between the patrols I thought about Guzzy, and if he’d be dead if I hadn’t thrown my spear. I gave the ogre the weapon used to kill my own blood. When I tried to forget that, I worried that Road Toad knew I was a healer. I wasn’t sure if Pops Weasel knew, but Road Toad did.

  Pops Weasel had slid into the darkness after consulting with Road Toad. He’d just returned to report, but refrained as goblin voices approached. Pops Weasel’s wide eyes and anxious movements told me that he’d found more than he’d expected.

  A third goblin patrol marched along the river past our position, when a deep growl from our side of the river, sounding like continuous thunder, caught their attention, and ours. As the goblins hurried back to the road we crawled to the edge of the brush.

  The rumbling sound increased. Road Toad spotted its cause first and pointed. “There, see that…” He stopped, at a loss for words.

  “Some sorta siege engine,” Pops Weasel whispered. “Two more further back on the road.” He nudged Road Toad. “Would you say that looks like a long Crusader cannon?” He pointed. “There sticking out of that slanted box on top of the metal wagon. Look at that row of wheels.” Pops Weasel squinted and looked closer. “They’re metal too.” He rubbed his unshaven chin. “With a belt around them. What it’s for?” He shrugged and scratched his neck. “Saw more zombies back up the road than I could count. And a couple companies of ogres.” He looked from Road Toad to me. “Trained and armored for combat, not the wild type you fought.”

  A bugle from across the river sounded, but our attention remained on the siege wagon as it rolled to a halt. The zombies stood, mindless and unimpressed, but goblins bearing torches approached the rumbling wagon in hesitant steps, ready to flee at any second.

  “No beasts pushing or pulling it,” said Pops in a low voice. “Must be Crusader.”

  I couldn’t believe the Reunited Kingdom would join forces with the Necromancer King. In the added torchlight, I spotted a black cross outlined in white on the side of the siege wagon. The enemy had also painted an unusual black symbol emblazoned in a white circle near the cannon. It reminded me of a cross with the ends bent to the right, almost making it look to be rolling.

  “It’s got a cross on it,” I whispered. “Must be Crusader.”

  “No,” disagreed Road Toad, shaking his head. “The Crusader cross stands taller than its cross arms. They’re always white on a green or orange background. Never black.”

  “Maybe a new faction,” said Pops.

  Road Toad shook his head again. “Crusad
ers are sworn enemies of the Necromancer King. Even though they don’t work with magic, this siege weapon is beyond them.”

  “Then what is it?” I asked. “Whose is it?”

  Road Toad shrugged.

  “We’re about to find out,” said Pops Weasel, gazing across the river at the moving soldiers and then back toward the goblins who’d gathered around the metal contraption.

  A hatch raised and a zombie stuck its head and shoulders out. It looked about and addressed the goblins as only a souled one could do. A second souled zombie appeared from within the hulking, wheeled weapon and took hold of a swiveling, miniature cannon. The goblins began to chant, slapping their weapons against their shields. “Panzer! Panzer! Panzer!” Their eager, shrill yells rose in strength with each repetition.

  I asked Road Toad, “What does ‘panzer’ mean?”

  “It’s a new word in the foul tongue.” He stared intensely at the still rumbling metal wagon. “For that weapon out there.”

  Chapter 3

  North Africa

  2,873 Years before the Reign of King Tobias of Keesee

  Ivan Mugdalla stood patiently while a guard patted him down. He dared not flinch or even roll his eyes. The 9mm Beretta nestled into the base of his skull made sure of that. This was the fourth search since he’d entered the subterranean bunker, not counting the two above ground. At least these fellows were more professional than the bandits wielding AK-47s who’d escorted him through the barren terrain.

  “He’s clean,” said the guard.

  The other withdrew the pistol, flipped a switch and spoke through a primitive intercom. “The messenger is clean.”

  A buzzer preceded a clacking as the steel door’s locks released. Yet another pair of bearded, burly guards emerged and signaled to Ivan. He followed them down the corridor lined with pictures and tapestries that did little to camouflage the hewn stone walls.

  A bugle across the river called the defenders to stand ready. A sergeant urged the men on as they responded to the goblin chant with cries and jeers of their own.

  “This is bad,” whispered Road Toad. Pops Weasel nodded in agreement.

  “Why?” I asked, slipping a piece of stale bread into my mouth.

  “The troops across the river aren’t organized,” said Road Toad. “More a patched-together rabble. Can’t even muster a unified rousing cheer.”

  Pops Weasel motioned for my waterskin after I’d had a drink. He took a gulp and said, “They’ll fight.”

  “They’ll fight alright.” Road Toad shook his head. “That siege wagon—panzer, and the number of zombies and ogres.” He rested a gauntleted hand on my shoulder. “Your cousin was correct. The Necromancer King intends more than annual crop disruption.”

  Both sides continued to yell across the river, taunting each other.

  Pops Weasel said, “Lord Hingroar knew more was in the works than stoppin’ planting. He hired us.”

  Road Toad wasn’t listening. “They’ll want that bridge.” He began rummaging through his satchel.

  “Why don’t they cross elsewhere?” I asked.

  When Road Toad didn’t answer, Pops Weasel did. “Zombies don’t drown, but they’d get washed down river and spread out. Too scattered and zombies’re useless. Ogres might make it, but not goblins.” Pops scratched the base of his neck under his helmet. “Neither will we.”

  “They need the bridge to get their panzers across.” As Road Toad spoke, a second panzer rumbled up behind the first. The mercenary sliced one of his doeskin pouches. With a bit of ash from his tinder box and a stick he proceeded to scribe words on the skin. The task was difficult with only the moon and torchlight filtering through the leaf-filled branches. “Hand me one of your quarrels,” Road Toad said after finishing.

  “What’cha write?” asked Pops Weasel.

  “That was Sergeant Hocks shouting there, so some fellow mercenaries are across the river. He took the quarrel and blunted the tip before securing the message with a thin strip of leather. “Wrote, destroy bridge, vast enemy ready to cross.”

  “Why will they believe that?” I asked, readying my crossbow. “Even if I can get it across.”

  “And they don’t spot us doin’ it,” warned Pops Weasel.

  “I signed my name. Someone there might know me.” He gave me a wide, serious gaze. “If the enemy gets over that bridge now, Krish, they’ll run rampant across the countryside. Through Pine Ridge.”

  “But you said there’re reinforcements on the way.”

  “There are, but I doubt Pops spotted all the enemy massing.” He handed me the quarrel. “Not enough. And, I suspect the Necromancer King is pushing hard more places than the Gray Haunt Forest. Attacking on multiple fronts, or we’d have more reinforcements, and King Tobias of Keesee wouldn’t be sending help.”

  I sat back, wondering if this would be as bad as the Great Corpse Incursion. Few elders still lived that had witnessed it, but stories of the three years of relentless attacks and devastation lived on. “The Necromancer King can’t be that strong. What about the Crusader invasion?”

  “That was twelve years ago,” said Road Toad.

  “And the Necromancer King sent them running,” chuckled Pops Weasel. “In quick order, he did.”

  Road Toad leaned close to Pops Weasel. “Maybe they ran into those panzers. We don’t have islands to retreat to.” Pops considered the troubling thought while Road Toad instructed me. “Now, while they’re still occupied. Aim your quarrel to land among a group of men, a little back from the front.”

  “With the message tied on, I hope it’ll make it across the river.”

  He held his arm at an angle. “Shoot at this elevation.”

  I nodded, already knowing the proper angle to maximize distance. I targeted a circle of men beyond the bridge, beside the nearest blockhouse. After depressing the trigger and feeling the quarrel spring away, I lost sight of it arcing into the darkness.

  “Didn’t see it land in the river,” whispered Pops Weasel. “Goblins didn’t notice. Think they’ll find it, Road Toad?”

  “I hope so. The goblins are returning to positions behind the trees. The zombies are massing forward.” At the risk of revealing our hidden position in the deep brush, Road Toad stood. “I see the ogres. More than you reported, Pops.”

  The bugle sounded again, calling the defenders across the river to position for battle. I reset my crossbow.

  Road Toad took one of my few remaining quarrels and smeared a thin layer of grease on the tip and rubbed in a pinch of salt. “You never know.” He salted our fallen captain’s sword as well.

  “I do,” argued Pops Weasel. “We’re on the wrong side of the river. If they don’t hold the bridge, we’re stuck. If they destroy the bridge, we’re stuck.”

  I had to agree with Pops. “You said they can’t hold. Shouldn’t we get away while they’re fighting?”

  “Maybe, Krish.” said Road Toad. “But why did you join the militia?”

  “To fight the zombies,” I said, surprised by the question.

  “Why do that?”

  “Because they’d run rampant through the Doran Confederacy.”

  “And?” asked Road Toad in leading tone.

  “You know,” I said, not playing into his game.

  “Right, I do know. Killing everyone and everything in sight. Destroying villages, towns, homes and farms.” He paused. “Why did you come? Why not let someone else fight?”

  I recalled Guzzy telling me of the excitement and adventure, and of afternoons we’d spend learning to fight instead of laboring in the fields. But that wasn’t why. “Guzzy, Harvid and I made a good zombie picket team. Lord Hingroar called upon us to defend his lands, and our homes.”

  “The rest of your team dead?” asked Pops Weasel.

  Road Toad sent a glare at the older mercenary, silencing him. “Krish, we may need to help them hold the bridge, at least until they destroy it.”

  Pops Weasel grunted, checked his gear, and mumbled to himself. />
  “That’s okay, Pops,” said Road Toad. “We’ll catch up with you.”

  “You’re thinking during the battle you’ll sneak close and make a run for it, across that bridge. Ain’t gonna happen, Road Toad.”

  Road Toad firmly patted Pops on the shoulder. “We run faster than you. We’ll make it.”

  Pops Weasel squinted at me. “Good luck, young Krish. Don’t let him get’cha killed. I’d hate having to cut you down as a walkin’ dead.” He nodded to Road Toad, and backed away into the foliage-filled darkness.

  With Guzzy around, I’d never considered the possibility of being killed and spelled into a zombie. I felt sick, realizing it might happen to me, this very night.

  Road Toad must have seen the revelation cross my face. “Don’t worry, Krish,” he whispered, again focusing on the opposing forces whose calls had begun faltering toward silence. “Most necromancers don’t have the power to create a zombie from a healer.”

  I hadn’t known that, but I was barely a neophyte healer. I didn’t want to discuss it, so I whispered back, “Why are you staying? You’ve no family or lands nearby.”

  “Because I’m good at fighting.” He winked. “And I intend to earn my pay.” He looked away to the bridge as if instinct directed him. “Be ready.”

  I wanted to ask for what, but simply watched and listened. The armored siege wagons could withstand any arrow or spear, but not many goblins or zombies could be packed inside them. Not enough to make a difference when they emerged from the panzers across the river.

  The panzers didn’t roll across the bridge like I expected. One took up station five yards from the bridge, and the second twenty yards to its right.

  “They’ll target the blockhouses,” whispered Road Toad. “I’ve seen Crusader cannons in action. Those panzer cannons won’t penetrate the walls in one shot. Then they’ll have to retreat out of range for the ogres to ram new loads down the tube. If the defenders have any wizards, that’s when they should make their counter attack.”