Collapsing upon the ground, she wept.
Some moments later, a strong hand descended upon her shoulder. She scrambled to her feet from fright…and hope. But it was only Lionel. Had he witnessed the terrible fight? Clarysa wondered how long he had been there.
“Come,” said the Duke, drawing her close against his warm, familiar body, “it’s time to go. You can tell me all about it on the way home.”
Chapter 21
Marcus wiped the sweat from his moist, blond locks. Exactly five hundred and twenty-two paces he marched before turning. Five hundred and twenty-two was the breadth of his surveillance area before he spun on one heel and commenced marching five hundred and twenty-two paces back. He knew the exact number. It was burned into his memory forever, for he had counted each pace time and time again to pass the long, lonely hours.
The day was shaping up to be hot enough to squeeze water from his sweat-soaked clothes. He stopped marching at three hundred thirty-four steps and sighed. This was his lot day after day, parading up and down around the kingdom’s western perimeter as…well, as a lookout for cows, apparently. He glanced over to the contented beasts lying in the shade, slowly chewing their morning cud. That’s the life, he thought. Not out here traipsing up and down for twelve hours a day in this stifling garb.
But his commander had doubled the border patrols a week ago. Apparently, the order had come directly from the King himself. What they were supposed to be on the lookout for, he wasn’t sure. Foot soldiers were never consulted about these matters.
Marcus fingered the rough material of his uniform, standard issue for all Aldebaran military. With little education under his belt, and no money to his family name, it had been either join the army or something along the line of stable hand. Marcus grimaced. Better to be a cow’s guard rather than a horse’s butler. Step number three hundred and thirty-five it was then…
An expansive shadow loomed across the sky. Marcus glanced up. A large flock of ravens flew by, large enough to momentarily blot out the sun. Never seen anything like it before. Wonder what’s got them all spooked?
Marcus heard footfalls. Turning around, he discovered the cause. Hundreds of people were pouring out of the forest. He frowned. They had the appearance of men, but…weren’t. For one thing, their flesh was covered in boils, and–in some cases–hung down, swaying in the wind like rags. For another, they all shared a unique trait–a pair of blood red orbs for eyes.
These were not men and women, but the walking dead–and they were rapidly advancing across the clearing straight toward him! Marcus turned and blew his horn in warning. Onward he ran, channeling every spare breath into the horn. But the creatures were moving distressingly fast. He risked a glance over his shoulder to see how close they were.
Marcus never made it beyond step number three hundred and seventy-six.
Chapter 22
Stellan’s broadsword shimmered in the air as it came down with the force of thunder. The ancient blade had long since seen better days and cracked upon finding its target. However, the blade’s last act was still true as a mottled, hairless head was separated from its skeletal frame.
“Strike for the heads, and do not let them touch you!” he boomed to the men around him. He drew two swords from their scabbards, then jumped from Midnight straight into a massive throng of Pestilence victims. Whirling about like a one-man army, he hewed hands from arms, and arms from bodies. He breathed hard through the bandana affixed tightly across his face; only his eyes were visible. When fighting Pestilence, the less exposed he was to contamination, the better.
“Clear!” Patrulha’s voice sliced through the air, prompting Stellan to leap out of the fray. A downpour of arrows rushed toward the Pestilence horde.
“Reload!” Patrulha called.
Stellan remounted Midnight and stormed across the field to her.
“Loose arrows!” she ordered.
Again, a fresh volley sang and found their targets. The division of Aldebaran soldiers–what was left of them–stood back from the battle, confused. As Stellan reached Patrulha’s position, a bloody, heavily bandaged officer joined them.
“You have no right to interfere, sorcerer,” barked the officer. “This is our territory and ours to defend.”
Stellan reigned in his stallion alongside Patrulha, ignoring the soldier. “Any of ours injured?” he asked.
“Two, but minor. As for Leopold’s men, the numbers are much worse. I estimate twenty fatalities, at least.”
Stellan loosened his bandana. “I see. Burn the bodies.”
Patrulha nodded and gave the order. Stellan looked across the battlefield. Word of the attack had come while he had been investigating a reported sighting near a bustling Aldebaran village. An old codger and his wife had tipped him off. They cared not in which guise the help was cloaked, only that it was forthcoming.
If only he had arrived here earlier, he could have saved more lives. The people of Aldebaran had no idea what they were up against. That proud fool of a king’s son should have listened to me. Another thought came, unbidden. At least I know she is safe, for the present. If enough time went by when Stellan refused to acknowledge even her name, then there might be a chance he could forget.
He made a fist. It would take an eternity, at least.
The officer cleared his throat. “Listen to me! This land is under the protection of His Majesty Leopold. Seeing as how the first attack wave caught us unawares, I am now the highest-ranking officer on the field. Because of this, I must…”
Patrulha cut him a dour look. “Be silent, little man. You’re dealing with forces beyond your understanding.”
The officer sputtered a protest.
Stellan shielded his eyes from the sun. Something moved at the forest’s edge. “Looks like they’re
