Rise of the Dead Prince (22 page)

Raven sat on his branch, watching on in horror. He had never intended for this to happen, nor had he imagined that it was possible. Meier was losing himself in the darkness, and once that happened, there was almost no chance of coming back. The boy’s desperate and ample supply of revenge had given him such immense power that it had become seductive to the point of corruption. If only Raven had known that it was possible for him to go so deep, he would never have pressed him so
hard.

“He should never have been able to come so far,” said Raven solemnly. Still, it was true that his power just might be enough to face the necromancer. Yes, that is what Raven would believe, for the alternative was just too terr
ible.

When the
strigoi
had all fallen and had been desecrated, Meier looked around for more enemies. Finding none, he felt a moment of pure frustration that translated into a shrill and ethereal cry of anger. Every bonewalker and
strigoi
within a mile heard the cry and stopped at once. It was the voice of darkness, and it was the one thing they knew to fear. Wherever they were when the cry went out, they began to move in the opposite direction. The whole of the roaming dead in Meier’s range had been shaken from the will of their master, if only for a while. It was in that appalling moment that Meier had a moment of cla
rity.

He saw what he had done, and he was both ashamed and terrified. He thought of one thing. If his loved ones could see him now, what would they have thought? What would they have
felt
? Meier came rising from the darkness in a steady ascent that felt much like climbing a ladder in a deep pit. For a long while, he saw no light. When at last he had returned, he felt cold and spent. He was thoroughly depleted and despondent. He fell back on to the springy green moss and felt the life in it as though he would never feel such a thing again. Raven stayed on his branch, and as he gazed down on Meier, he turned his head out of respect. Meier put his head in his hands and c
ried.

30
The Expedition

K
ing Lotho would not be moved. Those that were left argued that there was no heir, for he was the last alive. His life was precious, they said. Still he insisted on leading the expedition personally. After all, there were not many of them left to argue. At twenty-one years of age, he was the youngest king of Karavunia in over three centuries. To him, it did not matter, for there was no real kingdom anymore. He did not wear the crown of kings. His was a crown of brambles. He was a king in exile in his own country. It was a title forced on him like a bitter medicine. The capital had been taken by the dead, and the survivors of every major city had been scattered like leaves in the wind. Seven hundred had come to march with him. There were no banners save for those trampled in the dust as they rode. They did not march for victory, for that fight had been lost some weeks prior. They no longer fought for their king, nor their country, nor even their very homes. They fought for one thing alone, and that thing was a kind of reckoning, owing to an irreconcilable debt for all that passed. There was no real answer, but it was all they had
left.

The expedition, if it truly could be called that, was comprised mainly of guerrilla fighters, known more commonly in Karavunia as the ‘green men’ because of their attire. Most of these men were as wild as the beasts they hunted. The rest of the force was a mix of all kinds. Only a few dozen regular soldiers were left. All others had deserted or else been slaughtered. The fact that one member of the royal family remained was in itself a miracle. Lotho was the nephew of the previous king, who had been slain in battle along with his only son and daughter. Lotho’s immediate family was gone as well. They had risen, and he had seen to the gruesome business of quieting them himself. Lotho had been tested in battle, and he had a penchant for one thing alone. Surviving. He fought, he ran, he kicked and gouged, he clawed and bit. Through blood and fire he clung to life, and he cursed himself for it. His was a horrendous tale that had emptied him out. He was no hero, nor did he wish to be. All the heroes were gone. They stood their ground, and they charged, only to fall and die in unsung honor with the cowards and the wretches. Death did not discriminate for acts of valor. Be it by blind luck or by designless chance, Lotho was still alive. It was an inequity that weighed on his mind. It was a question for which he had no answer, so he no longer asked. Despite all these horrors, these few hundred gathered and rode. What happened after did not matter. They just rode. They had nowhere else t
o go.

The way was fraught with death and the dead. The Karavunians fought with a savagery born from the angst of losing everything. The one thing that remained was their lives, and these were no longer of any great value to them. It was best to ride into ruin and let the end come. This was not to say they had given up, for surrendered men did not ride to the enemy. They were free, and the expedition was their final act as free men. It was an act born in defiance of an undeniable truth. Karavunia was now as much a land of the dead as was Arnovo. And so they rode. They had nothing left t
o do.

They rode due south and only stopped to fight. They lost their numbers steadily, but these were not mourned. In many ways, they were envied. It was on the edge of Arnovo that King Lotho spoke the first words that he had spoken in
days.

“We ride until the horses sink,” he said in a gravelly disused voice, “then we walk until we fall.” His captain, Terimus, spread the word, not that it mattered. It was every man for himself. None were pressed to do more than they would. They traveled as one only for the strength found in numbers and their solidarity of purpose. Some still spoke among themselves, or even to themselves; but for the most part, the expedition was as somber and silent as a funeral procession, as was appropriate. Despite their sorrow, every eye was dry. There were no more tears among them. They had all been spent. And so they rode. They had no one left to retur
n to.

The brave men and few women of Karavunia made their way into the swamp on horseback, forsaking all stealth. They fought at least one hundred and fifty of the undead on the first day they marched. They lost thirty-five of their number. They slept around high fires, as if to declare their defiance and provoke the enemy, and as a result, they fought in turns throughout the night and lost ten more. The next day, they had to abandon the horses and proceed on foot. The marshy terrain had become too much for narrow legs and heavy bodies. They fought through the days, and they fought through the nights, always surviving as a whole, but losing more and more. Again, Lotho was among the ones who always managed to stay alive. There were five men in particular that clung to him, and they fought as one to great effect. They had mastered the art of fighting, running in the face of superior numbers, only to turn and fight again. In this way, they divided their assailants and defeated them as a group. They fought through a wall of shields, each guarding a man’s back. The green men fought savagely, often fighting through the pain of many injuries before finally falling. And so they marched on. There was nothing left to
lose.

By the sixth day, the force had been halved from the near constant fighting. It was on the seventh day that they encountered the armored dead. It was a sizable force, but none among them had the will or care to count them or indeed even estimate their number. It didn’t matter. They fought the armored dead on equal footing, bashing the plate from their bodies or else crippling them by removing their arms or legs. The fighters that remained were the hardest and most clever. They inflicted much damage before falling. Each remaining man (for the last woman had died only the day before) had his way of attacking and surviving. There was not much in the way of concerted strategy. In this way, they fought much like the dead; and the battles were often spread out over a vast area, sprawling across the marsh like an open
hand.

The general strategy was to run from groups, which were far slower than the typically unarmored men, and then attacking the weak or slow among them, dwindling their numbers with endurance and guile. Despite their considerable skill, the dead were too many. Many men fell only to pure exhaustion, to which the dead were immune. The battle raged on for over thirty minutes, leaving only the lucky or the superhuman among them alive. Lotho was among the lucky, or perhaps the very clever, for he was certainly not superhuman. His tight formation of men had made such a pile of the dead that they had adapted in places to using the heap as a wall. Still they strafed and retreated, only to turn and form up again. Lotho had broken his weapon, a long battle hammer, near the start of the fight. Ever resourceful, he found a replacement among his fallen countrymen. It was a flail with a large iron ball at the end. After the first swing or two, he was familiar enough with its use. He found that if he could manage to bring the heavy ball downward into the collar of their plate armor it would often knock the head and breastplate off completely, sometimes even breaking the spine as it fell. He silently thanked the man who had carried the weapon before him. It was most effective, if not somewhat tiring to w
ield.

Soon both the dead and the Karavunians were decimated. By the time the last fallen skeleton was bashed into the ground, Lotho looked around and could count the remaining men in his head as they trickled in from all directions. Ten regular soldiers, nine green men, and one man who seemed to be a farmer. Adding one king made twenty-one. Each man was wracked with bruises, minor cuts, or shallow stab wounds. They scavenged a few supplies from the fallen, trading cracked weapons, pierced armor, and the like. That night, they camped among the dead and slept with no fire. No one kept watch. They were too exhausted. The following morning gave no real light. At best it was a glow, no brighter than the sky during a thunderstorm. They were awakened by a clanking in the vicinity, matched by a tell-tale shuffle through the bog. The men rose at once, each with some form of painful groaning. Looking south, they saw a single bonewalker in plate mail, ambling toward them. Lotho stepped forward, lifting the flail with a grunt. His arm was incredibly sore. One of the green men walked forward and held out his arm to block him. He was hirsute and burly with a long bushy b
eard.

“I’ll take this one,” he said in a deep voice. Lotho just raised his eyebrows and shrugged. He held out his arm, inviting him to pass. The big man walked casually over to the bonewalker, meeting it at the middle. The thing hissed and swung its axe in a wide arc toward the big man’s collarbone. Rather than dodge, the green man simply stepped in and caught the haft of the weapon in midswing. He pulled the axe from the hissing skeleton’s hand as if it were a small child and then lightly tossed it aside. The thing thrust its fingers forward like a blade, and again, the large man caught the hand at the wrist. He pulled the bonewalker close and put his other hand on the elbow of the captured arm. With a clank and a snap, the arm was broken and going the wrong way at a ninety-degree angle. The thing hissed and tried with the other arm. The green man swatted this away as lazily as though it were a fly. It was time for his
turn.

The green man pulled the bonewalker forward by the collar of its armor, and with a violent jerk and a turn, the thing was face down in the reeking muck. Lotho and the others look on with a sort of questioning stare. The query was soon laid to rest however. The green man walked around and pressed his foot on the small of the thing’s back, preventing it from rising. He then stooped and grabbed the back collar of the breastplate with one hand, and with his foot still firmly on the lower edge of the armor, he pulled upward until there was a thick crack. The thing went limp, fully bent backward into a right angle. Lotho and the others nodded approvingly. The green man then held out his arm as Lotho had done, inviting the others to continue south. The most impressive thing about the demonstration was that he had done it all without any real effort. It was no wonder he was alive still. The Karavunian men trickled past him, but Lotho stopped for a mo
ment.

“What’s your name?” he asked in a near monotone. The man snorted. It was almost a l
augh.

“What does it matter?” he asked in retort. Lotho stood in silence for a few seconds, staring into the dist
ance.

“I suppose it doesn’t,” he answered at last. The big man nodded. It was his turn to be silent. He began to walk along with the others, and Lotho joined him. A minute passed and then ano
ther.

“My name is Bain,” the big man said at last. Lotho, who was somewhat surprised to be drawn from his far distant thoughts, just nodded. “For whatever that matters,” Bain concluded. Again, the men walked for a while, taking slow tired strides through the
mud.

“It matters to me,” answered Lotho finally. After a while, the answer sunk in. Bain couldn’t help himself. A smile crept onto his hairy
face.

“You’re the worst king I ever saw,” he said with a grin. This time, it was Lotho who couldn’t help himself. For the first time since it had all started, Lotho laughed, and Bain joined him. The sound was so foreign to the ears of the other men that they stopped where they stood and tu
rned.

“I know,” said Lotho after a long pause. His tone was almost merry. It was a contagion that spread to the other men. It started as soft chuckling, and over the next minute or so, it grew into a round of full blown cachinnation. The row lasted for another minute at least. It was the laughing of tired men on their last legs. It was the laughing of men long since driven mad. It would all be over soon. Suddenly, the men f
roze.

They felt the hairs rise on the back of their necks. Somewhere, far in the distance, a cold and terrible scream reached their ears. It was the most horrendous sound they had ever heard. It chilled the blood and pained the heart. For a moment, the men exchanged glances. It had not come from the south directly, but rather the southwest. They were shaken, and they had been startled, but they were beyond fear. As one, they turned to where the sound had come from and started walking. After all, it might have been exactly the thing they were looking
for.