Stronger than Bone (25 page)

(Present Day: 237 Cycles into the Light)

General Virden and just over a thousand horsemen looked down at the battlefield from high in the foothills. They were not yet in pursuit of the Royal Guard battalion they had ambushed because they had a little problem of their own right now.

“The resurrected have killed nearly as many as the King’s army!” he realized. They had begun reanimating before the battle was over and attacked any living thing within view. They were relentless, killing everything they could catch including horses, the enemy, and their own brothers in arms.

All of the wounded who had not taken the blood rights were lost. They had been the easiest prey for the revenants. The first of the returned were passing the ravenous blood-lust stage of resurrection and were beginning to drop in place. “Dear God…what a magnificent sight,” whispered the general.

“Pardon me sir?” said the rebel closest to him. He looked puzzled as to why the General would be pleased at such a sight.

“Imagine that was not our army down there. Imagine if a thousand men, initiates in the blood rights, sacrificed themselves to be killed valiantly among the enemy ranks. Imagine them resurrecting amidst the King’s army. Can you imagine that? They would decimate an army of any size!” He looked at the man next to him with wild eyes. He was ecstatic now that he could see the true power of this magic: this weapon.

“Yes sir,” said the man who now wore a hard look of purpose and reaffirmed hope on his face.

To the commanders on the hill with him, the General shouted, “Leave one hundred men to gather the resurrected when they have recovered! As for the rest…We have a hero to kill!”

Shouts echoing the command rang out and all but one hundred men left the hill in pursuit of the battalion of King’s Royal Guards and the man who led them. One thousand horses thundered down the slope and to the west. At the front, a rider with long red hair wove his way through the trees and onto the road. He would not rest until he carried the severed head of the King’s champion in a bag hanging from his saddle.

Those left behind dismounted and began making camp. It would be several hours before the resurrected slept off their blood feast and regained what was left of their humanity. None of them wanted to go down and test whether or not their former comrades were truly asleep.

“Alright, let’s break this down and get some rest while we can,” called out the Sergeant in charge. “One man awake for every five asleep.”

He tossed out his bed roll and dropped on top of it. “You better no let me get eaten either,” he said, not joking in the slightest.

(Present Day: 237 Cycles into the Light)

Death watched the battle from the trees, and nearly acted when he saw Colonel Hayes go down. He was just stepping into the light when he saw him regain a mount and break free of the rebel lines. Dropping back into the trees, Death followed the riders from the shadows. He was nearly as fast as the horses they rode and had little trouble keeping them in sight as they slowed from time to time and stopped once before reaching the river.

Once at the river, he stopped and assessed the situation. He looked over his shoulder, and thought he could feel the rebel horsemen coming although they were still several minutes from view. He hid in the shadows of the dense riverbank foliage, and watched the soldiers making preparations for their pursuers.

“Clever,”
he thought as he saw them still carving away at the far bank up and down river. The last of the soldiers and civilians appeared to be across the river, and the ferry was anchored to the far bank as well.

Death crept back from the river and waited near the road for the rebel army to arrive.

He didn’t have to wait long. Thundering hooves from a thousand horses pounded the hardpan dirt road to dust as they closed the distance to the river.

The front ranks, led by a red maned warrior, halted in a cloud of dust. The sound of following ranks slowing and stopping could be heard for quite some time as the General and his commanders carefully assessed the river crossing.

The soldiers on the far side pulled out when they noticed the cloud of dust coming down the road, and only the trail end of the battalion was visible as they retreated. Some of the rebel soldiers yelled insults and challenges at the fleeing King’s Guards. Others began going through the abandoned supplies and wagons left at the river crossing by the supply train.

Death stood to the side and waited with an amused look on his grotesque face. He was not going to give help if it was not asked. His days of service to the rebel army were over. If they needed his help, they would seek him out, not the other way around.

After a few minutes the commanders ordered a company of horsemen to strip off their heaviest weapons and armor, and attempt a mounted crossing of the river. Scouts were sent upriver and downriver to find alternate crossing locations. Others were tasked with seizing the huge rope that still spanned the river, and to pull the ferry across to the near side.

One of those stripping off his heavy leather armor and weapons heard a gravely chuckle behind him near the trees. It was the same rebel soldier who had dared to question the General on the hill earlier. He looked over his shoulder and winced at what he saw.

“Oy, you’re an evil looking bastard,” said the soldier. He was not afraid, but he was no fool either. Evil and ugliness were part and parcel to the culture he grew up in. He continued getting ready for the river, but kept one eye on the giant.

“Don’t be among the first to cross,” said Death so only the one soldier could hear him. “Those who cross first won’t survive.” And with that warning he slipped back into the trees and waited.

The company of rebel soldiers, all mounted on seasoned and well-trained horses, walked slowly into the river in columns. The soldier who Death warned was close to the front, and for a moment, just before leading his horse into the water, he looked back at the place where Death had been standing.
“Crazy old bastard,”
he thought, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that crept over him. He shrugged it off and refused to let it take hold again. He was no coward.

When the lead horses reached the middle of the river, they were swimming. Not even the tallest of the horses could reach the bottom. The lazy looking river proved to be faster and stronger than it looked and they were pulled or pushed downriver by the relentless current. The horses struggled to continue across, and some made headway, but many others tumbled and lost their rider, or went under themselves and were not seen again. To compound the issue, some of them had to swim around the opposite traveling river ferry that was being pulled across by their own comrades.

Those that fought the hardest found purchase on the bottom a few yards from the far shore and bolted for the riverbank. The first few slipped, tumbled and fell back. Those behind trampled them or pushed them off kilter or sideways onto the sharpened posts jutting out of the bank.

The soldier Death warned was off his horse and stuck fast. He had sunk waist deep in the muck and mud against the far bank. He could not move when the hooves from his own horse smashed down on his shoulders. They drove him deeper into the mud and broke his bones. He cried out in pain until the same frantic horse fell on top of him and crushed him.

Not a single rebel soldier from that first company made it up onto the far bank of the river.

The ferry was pulled to the near shore and loaded with fifty horses and riders. The first load set out across the river as fast as the shore team could pull the heavy rope. When they reached the far side, the raft slammed into the shore and the riders coaxed their horses up the sharp incline and past the obstacles at the top. It wasn’t possible for more than one horse and rider to go at a time, so the process was long and tedious. The first horse that managed to keep its feet and scramble up the slippery slope still had to leap over the logs laid at the top of the hill. It took several attempts before one of them was successful, but once over, the lucky rider used his horse and a length of rope to pull the logs out of the way.

The second ferry load had an easier time of it. The first to cross had cleared most of the jutting posts and other obstacles. By the time the third load crossed, the trail up the slope was clear, and the horses could go up three or four abreast. It wasn’t until the fifth load was nearly to the shore that the ferry began to come apart.

A creaking sound grew louder and louder, and was followed by a loud “SNAP!” Fifty horses and riders suddenly found themselves plunged into the murky river as the barge split apart into several pieces and sunk. The engineers had identified and weakened some key structural members of the craft before leaving it for the rebels to use.

Two hundred rebel horses and riders had been lost in the river. Another two hundred were on the far side of the river, separated from the main force. The General, who had been in the third group to cross, looked back over the North River at nearly four hundred rebel horsemen. His force was effectively split. Furious, he looked upriver and downriver, wondering if the scouts had found any other crossings. He saw no sign of them.

“Signal them to fucking cross!” he snapped at the commander nearest to him. Then in a calmer voice he said, “They can tie off to each other and come in a single column. Once they get here, they can come up the ferry launch.”

“Yes sir,” the commander said immediately. Then, with less confidence he asked, “Isn’t it deeper at the ferry launch? Can they make it up?”

The General turned and stared at the man with anger visible all over his face. A thick “V” formed by two veins stood out and pulsed in his forehead and his red face was quickly turning much darker than his red hair.

“I’ll have men standing by with ropes,” the commander said and then coughed nervously. He turned and began shouting orders before the General could say anything else.

Death looked back over his shoulder and spit in the direction of the miserable General. No one seemed to notice when he had crossed the river with the fourth load of horses and soldiers, and no one was watching him now as he strode swiftly down the road after the battalion of King’s Royal Guards and his prey.

He wouldn’t wait to see the rest of the rebel horsemen decimated by the ill-conceived river crossing. The commander who had questioned the General was correct. The bank would drop deeply at the waterline so that the ferry would not get stuck in the muddy bottom of the river. Ropes from above would not help the drowning horses and men thrashing and dragging each other under by tow-lines.

He briefly considered warning the General and decided against it. His only goal involved killing and skinning the face off of Lynn Hayes. That is what occupied his mind. He would feast on his blood and break his bones, and then he would do the same to the girl.

(Present Day: 237 Cycles into the Light)

Charity was back in the front seat of the wagon next to the driver as they sped toward the capital. Most of the supplies and wagons were abandoned near the river to speed the crossing and hasten their getaway. The wagon she was riding in carried more passengers now, but it was of sturdy construction and carried them well.

Joszette was talking with one of the ladies that joined them in the wagon about healing herbs and poultices. Charity could hear them talking, but she wasn’t paying attention. She was more interested in the young, blond haired soldier riding next to the wagon. Corporal Nash was his name. The other soldiers called him Corporal Dash. Apparently he was uncommonly fast on his feet.

She had not tried to speak to him. Everything she knew about him was overheard, or gleaned from conversations with others. The corporal was soft spoken and shy. He hadn’t said anything to her except to ask if she was okay every once in a while, especially at the river crossing. Charity found that she was shy also. He was only a couple of years older than her, but it seemed like more since he was a professional soldier and a Corporal.

Joszette caught her staring at him more than once and teased her quietly. He was a welcome distraction after all that had happened. She found herself smiling more and daydreaming about painful memories less. Even Joszette seemed to be feeling more her old self, although she was also more irritable and quick to anger.
“That may just be from the danger,”
thought Charity. Besides, it was hard to hold a grudge against her after what Charity had done.

On the hill above the King’s Road where the ambush occurred, the rebel Sergeant woke up suddenly to the sounds of frantic shouting and fighting close by. “What’s happening?” he mumbled as he unsheathed his sword and jumped to his feet. His helmet, which had been tipped forward to cover his eyes as he slept, was still perched high on his head and too far forward. He realized he was tipping his head back to look under it and angrily slapped it back and off of his head with his free hand.

The men in the make-shift camp were scrambling. “Are we under attack?” he shouted. “Did one of them make it up here?”

“No! Knutsen knifed Dietz on security!” yelled a brutish looking rebel with a stocky build and short red hair as he fought to keep a revenant at arm’s length. “Now it’s all just going to hell!”

He was wrestling his former comrade with his bare hands, apparently trying not to hurt him.
“He’s a brave one,”
thought the Sergeant. He took a quick look around, noticing two others had turned. If they didn’t get the situation under control soon, they’d be in big trouble. He was keenly aware that he was among those who had not taken the blood rites, which meant there’d be no coming back if he died here.
“Screw this,”
he thought. He quickly called out, “Put them down and mount up! We ain’t waiting around for more of this crap!”

Looking down on the battlefield he saw men walking around and looking dazed. The rage and madness he had seen earlier was gone.
“Damn,”
he thought. “Okay, we’re going down to collect the reborn and then we go!”

The stocky red haired warrior grunted as he kicked the revenant off the end of his sword. He had hacked him through the torso with a powerful side cutting blow that stopped after traveling more than half way through the man’s body. “Sorry bud,” the man said as he wiped his sword on the side of his trousers.

“Come on Red,” said the Sergeant. “You’re with me.”