“They’re coming,” Brady culvert croaked. “The dead are coming!”
“What?” Chatta asked incredulously. Then, to the soldier who had supposedly been guarding the door. “Is this man mad? Get him out of here before I have you flogged!”
“WAIT!” General Vogle shouted over the room. “He’s one of the Redwolf’s personal guards. Look at his armor!”
Vogel strode over to Brady, and wiped two fingers across his breastplate. Twin streaks of bright crimson shone through the dust and filth where General Vogel’s fingers had been.
“My King and a few others escaped the wrath of the Westland sorcerer.” Brady swallowed hard, and pointed at the table.
Vogel understood. He handed Brady the pewter goblet that he held in his hand. Brady downed it in one long swig.
“Fetch water man! And bring the food,” Vogel ordered the nervous guard in the doorway. When he hesitated, and looked at General Chatta, Vogel added a sharp “Now!” to the command. The soldier disappeared to comply, and Brady continued.
“King Jarrek ordered me to ride, and warn Dreen of Westland’s plan to march through the Wilder Mountains. Your King got out just in time. He went south to Stroud, I think. The Westland wizard blasted the red wall away, and then in the morning he raised the dead.”
Brady looked at the two Generals in turn, trying to make them believe with his eyes.
“They all march for the Westland wizard now. Westlanders and Valleyans alike. They’ve been a day behind me, maybe I gained a day, so it could be two now, but it matters not. They’re coming this way. I saw them cross the Southron River at the village called Tip, so I’m sure Kasta Keep fell as well. I – they are dead – walking, fighting dead men. I gave them warning, but they wouldn’t listen.”
He fell to his knees, with the clank of his heavy plate armor. He was emotionally overwrought and exhausted. Tears streamed down his dirty face, and he sobbed.
“I…I…I…did what I could…all I could do… What else…against the dead?”
“Well, General Vogel,” General Chatta started, in a somewhat satisfied tone. “So much for pulling out to go save Dreen!”
The next morning, the two Generals pondered what course to take. Over the night, Brady Culvert had escaped, stolen a fresh horse, and rode out toward Xwarda, leaving them to wonder about his tale. General Chatta suggested that it was a ruse, to stall their advance on Queen Willa’s palace city. Vogel sent out riders to see if an army was really coming from the west. In the meantime, he prepared his troops to make the long march back to Dreen.
Brady had to knock-out a Seaward watchman as he snuck out of town. He hadn’t relished the idea of assaulting an unsuspecting common soldier, so he rationalized his actions any way he could. If the man had been doing his duty, Brady figured, he wouldn’t have been able to sneak up on him in the first place. The knot on his head would remind him to be more vigilant when he was on guard.
Brady figured that when the sun came up, and his absence was discovered, he would have an insurmountable lead on any pursuers that might try to follow. The ride to Xwarda would be a short one for a single mounted man. With his midnight start, he could be there before anybody even knew to look for him.
He had eaten and rested, but not well on either count. He wouldn’t succumb to his exhaustion though, couldn’t succumb to it, until Queen Willa had been warned of the coming force. His hope was that King Jarrek would already be there. King Jarrek wouldn’t question his seemingly insane claim of an army of walking dead. They had to know that it wasn’t just Pael and Westland’s army coming. It was something far worse.
Xwarda was the undead army’s destination, Brady was certain. Xwarda was the oldest city in all of the known Kingdoms. It had been the kingdom seat back when the kingdoms had all been one. He remembered from his lessons, something about a great magical force that embraced the place, but couldn’t remember the details. All he knew for certain was that if the Westland wizard took control of that ancient power, then the kingdoms were all probably doomed.
Brady was so consumed with these dire thoughts, that he didn’t see the rope leap taught across his path. It caught him across the breast plate, and stopped his momentum cold, as his horse ran right out from under him. All he saw, before blackness consumed him, were the faces of other soldiers looking curiously down on him. He couldn’t tell where they were from. It was still too dark, and his head was swimming. He tried to raise his body up, but couldn’t. It didn’t matter who they were. Now no one would be able to warn Xwarda. He fought to pull air into his emptied lungs, but before he found out if he succeeded in drawing breath, he slipped into unconsciousness.
The next morning, Pael collected his Blood Caps alone, and with some haste. As soon as he was satisfied with the weight of his basket, he went back to his little red castle with a crackling flourish and began preparing his concoction. He took special care to ward himself from the effects of the potent poisons he was combining with a deadly virus he had cultivated a few days earlier. Not only would his potion be lethal to all who ingested it, but its deadly effect would spread like wildfire among the rest of them. After a few hours, the virus would die out, but it would be too late by then: everyone in the Valleyan/Seaward encampment would already be dead.
He methodically boiled, mixed, strained, and stirred, stopping every now and again, to read, and reread, the pages of the open book lying on the table. When he was finished with his concoction, he stoppered the vial of murky black liquid, shed his goat hide gloves and shimmered away.
It was dark in the city of Plat, when Pael appeared behind a row of empty buildings, out of sight. Hundreds of campfires burned along the western portion of the city, and beyond its limits. Both armies were still here, and he was pleased. The more the merrier, he told himself, as he ran his hand down his front, turning his fancy black robes into coarse homespun rags.
He pulled the hood up over his gleaming blue and green veined head. The top of his scalp had blistered when he’d taken the time to heal the Choska demon. The healing had lasted well into the afternoon, and Pael hadn’t thought to protect his head from the sun. Now, the rough material irritated the sunburn, and Pael growled at the pain. He had to force himself to tolerate the sensation, so that he might savor the moment at hand.
He took his time strolling around the occupied city, and the many encampments at its fringes. He studied the siege engines, the catapults, and the boarding towers the Seawardsmen had pieced together and mounted to the tops of big horse-drawn carts. He estimated the numbers of horses and men as best as he could in the insufficient light of a hundred small fires.
As he walked around, and gathered in all that would soon be under his control, he began to formulate his plans to the next level.
He found the command post in a deserted building, and studied the displayed maps of Xwarda there. The city hadn’t changed in years, and Pael had to smile at the fact that a few of the little known ways into the walls, were on his own maps, but not on these.
He then went, and found the building that was being used to heat the huge cauldrons of gruel that would be bucketed out to the different divisions of soldiers at sunrise. A handful of men, full of yawns and curses, went about stirring meal mix into the boiling water, cutting fruit, and readying eggs to be fried for the officers. The smell of baking bread filled the place, and oddly reminded Pael of a time when Shaella was but a baby. The memory was fleeting.
The men didn’t seemed to notice him standing there watching them. He was far from invisible; he had only wanted himself to be unobtrusive to the eye of those that might pay attention to him. He trembled with glee as he dripped a few drops of his brew into each of the cauldrons. He had a strange moment of deja vu, remembering how he had poisoned Glendar’s father’s goblet, but it was overridden by his deviant mirth.
When the vial was empty, he tossed it aside, and began casting the spell that would reanimate those who died from his poison or the plague that it hosted. These undead soldiers would rise from the earth, whole and unwounded. No gaping gashes or broken armor for these undead troops, and what was more, they were already in position to take Xwarda for him.
He sank into his work with fervor, and soon the casting was under way. He had already given Lord Brach his new orders. Brach would arrive, and assume command of this new set of battalions very soon. Pael had planned it so that he could concentrate his full focus, and sink all his power into the casting of the powerful dark spell that would raise these men after they died. He held back only enough power to transport himself to his warded bedchamber in the castle at Dreen.
