“Look at this,” Varitan said as he watched the crops that had been left to rot fall apart in his hand. “The sickness has spread so far that now even the simplest touch causes it to turn to dust.”

Einar stood by his Elven friend, still having chosen to ignore how the elf had acted almost two weeks ago.

“And why is it you haven’t burnt these fields?”

“The smoke becomes poisonous. You’ll see in a few more miles where they attempted to burn sections, and it ended up killing many who breathed in what came from that fire.”

“You don’t look happy,” Thorodd stated.

He knew his second in command spotted the frown on his face.

“Varitan, is it just the crops, or do the undead have that kind of smoke if they burn?”

“I don’t know… perhaps I can ask one of the others Shael sent with us. No record in the report I read mentioned any smoke from the undead when our mages attempted to burn some. Part of that would most likely be due to us not risking our lives to get close enough and find out.”

Einar turned when he heard Osvif clear his throat.

“If we can't do what we were hoping, this is going to cause some problems.”

“I know. Freyr never said this would be easy. That is why he is offering us the reward if we succeed.”

***

Three hours after sunrise, the caravan of Vikings and elves had finally traveled far enough to see the outer edges of the undead infestation.

Trees bordering the road looked like they might fall over if the wind blew too hard, and dead branches scattered across the dirt road. No sounds came from the forest, creating an eerie silence that was only broken by the noise of their wagons and horses.

“Shit… that’s way more than we expected,” Thorodd whispered, even though they were so far away it was unlikely the undead would hear them.

Grimacing, Einar nodded as he watched the undead that were about seven hundred yards away on the road, standing there, not moving at all that he could see.

About five stood across the twenty-foot-wide road, but after them, more could be seen until, eventually, a wall of them blocked any further sight. The undead army was outfitted with a variety of swords, axes, and clubs. Most looked like a zombie skeleton of some sort, bits of flesh that clung to the bones that weren’t covered.

“Varitan… there have to be hundreds, if not possibly five hundred if the map you showed us has their main camp in the same spot. How old is this intel?”

“Three months? No one ventures in here anymore. It’s too dangerous.”

“God, we’re so fucked,” Thorodd groaned. “Surely, there must be some in the forest as well.”

No one said anything for a few as the Viking warriors and the Elven escort stood along the road, gazing down the straight path at the task that now looked impossible.

“Eleven Vikings, three Elven mages, four Elven archers and five warriors,” Osvif muttered.

Einar watched as his childhood friend’s eyes scanned everything.

“Don’t forget me,” Thorve said. “And Shael gave us two healers as well.”

“I’m not, and I haven’t counted the men and women behind us who can fire a bow or use an axe if needed, but right now, I’m thinking. So give me a minute.”

Their healer huffed but said nothing, going silent as she stood on Einar’s side opposite Thorodd.

“Our original plan won’t work for now. We’ll have to get past this group before us and hope to reach that clearing marked on the map,” Osvif stated. “From there, if we don’t suffer too many injuries, we can employ the next part of our plan. The real problem is I’m not sure if and where the undead caster might be.”

“Casters,” Varitan corrected. “More than one.”

Einar and Thorodd chuckled when they saw the look the shortest Viking gave the elf.

“Yes… but a fool would have more than one this far from what is supposed to be where they are coming from. Then again, I haven’t dealt with any undead, so perhaps their brain is rotted and we’re royally screwed at that point.”

Light laughter from the gathered Vikings broke the awkward moment as Osvif bent down and began drawing in the dirt on the road.

“I've got a plan… it’s going to be bad… most likely Skardi will die, and–”

“Why do I have to die!?” the giant exclaimed as he glanced at everyone who was smirking at him.

“You’re the tallest and I’m going to use you as bait. Besides, you owe me a little bit of gold for losing at all those games. I’m planning on cashing out when you die first and I win the pool.”

Groans and chuckles came again as Skardi gave Osvif a crude hand gesture, smiling the whole time.

“Now then, here’s what we’re going to do.”

***

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“For Odin!”

Skardi’s shout worked like shit for flies, drawing the undead toward him.

Each step they took propelled them faster as they moved with a slightly awkward gait, yet in seconds over thirty undead were racing down the road after the behemoth who was waving his Dane axe in the air.

“Run!”

Skardi turned, running toward the mark in the dirt road where Osvif had warned him to not run past.

Once he reached it, the large Viking slid as best he could, rolling a few times before looking up and verifying it was safe to stand, and took a few more steps back.

The sound of armor banging against each other and rotten boots against the road filled the forest as they came at Skardi, who was set to fight, his weapon held ready, and his eyes locked upon them.

Ten yards before the first group reached him, their bodies found the thin metal lines that Osvif had strung up at neck height.

Four were immediately lifted up off the ground and flung into the air while the fifth one’s head popped right off, its body crumbing to the dirt.

The next row came right behind the first, hitting the same spots and running over their fallen companions.

Within ten seconds, twenty of the undead were on the ground, and those that had gotten through were clambering over the pile, the wire having snapped from the weight.

“For Odin!”

From the trees a little further down, the Vikings and elves came out from hiding, rushing toward the undead. Skardi reached the closest undead before his reinforcements arrived, his axe cleaving through rotten armor and flesh. The blade got stuck inside the shambling, and as he tried to yank it free, two spears were thrust forward from the undead pair behind the one he was killing again.

He managed to avoid the first thrust but took the other to his leg, grunting in pain from the tip that pierced his armor and sank an inch into his thigh.

“SHIELD WALL!” Thorodd shouted as the men reached their injured ally, helping to dispatch the two that were attacking Skardi.

The sound of shields clinking into position came and the Viking wall moved toward the writhing mass of undead bodies.

“Fireball the back ranks!”

Arrows flew overhead, impaling the undead and appearing to do nothing as the elves sent the projectiles into the pressing horde.

Hands and arms moved in unison, chopping and hacking off decaying limbs and heads, trampling the bodies of the ones they defeated.

About fifteen seconds after the call for a spell came, a pair illuminated the blackened trees as it flew above the rows of Vikings, crashing and exploding into the still-growing number of undead down the road.

Weird cries of agony came from where the fire had landed.

“That’s weird,” Thorodd shouted as he continued to cut through the lines of undead, which seemed to stay on the road, with none venturing off the dirt. “They won’t leave the road, and none of the undead who we hacked to bits made a single sound.”

Einar knew his second in command was right and began to fill his axe with his wyrd, causing it to burst into flames.

Chopping with it took the head off an undead, a cry rising from inside its chest as the body began to burn.

“SHIT! BACK UP! THEY AREN’T DEAD!”

As if Thorodd’s shout had been a signal, the corpses behind them started to rise, finding heads and arms to reattach and grabbing a nearby weapon.

Half the men turned, letting the front half deal with the pressing army, while Einar led the fight against the ones that were pressing in from behind.

His axe cleaved and ripped apart the undead, each one he struck with flames crying out as the first, the sound coming from inside their body and not from their bone lips.

A howl, followed by another, came, and Einar saw that Ospak and Hallad were both struggling to walk, having been stabbed in the back of their legs by an undead under their feet.

“Break ranks! Run! We need to get past them!” Einar called out, never stopping his attack.

I’m a fucking idiot… undead don’t just die!

His rage grew, and the fire from his axe spread to his shield, allowing him to slam it into other undead. He watched as the fire seemed to catch immediately, roaring like a match, blazing hot for a moment and then gone the next.

He saw Thorodd move past him, helping Skardi, who was struggling to stay upright, limping on one leg while his tall friend supported his other side.

Everywhere was chaos as men groaned and cried out in pain.

All Einar could think about was helping his men to escape.

Two more fireballs flew overhead, striking closer to the group of warriors trying to escape. The sound of wails echoed off the darkened trees.

With no time to lose, he tossed his flaming shield, watching it slice through three undead that had risen, attempting to hack at the fleeing Vikings.

Bending down, Einar yanked an axe from one of the rotting hands, engulfing it with fire.

Turning toward the horde, he saw the grim expression on each of his Vikings as they ran for the safety of the road.

Most were bleeding. Only Osvif and Geir appeared to be uninjured.

“Make space!” Einar shouted, twisting his body as he prepared to throw the larger axe he had just picked up.

Starkard and Thorleif shifted to the side as the flaming weapon spun, cutting a path through dozens of undead before the weapon was lost in the sea of bodies.

Without hesitating, Einar grabbed another, repeating the process, trying to buy time as the men ran past him.

A cry came, and he saw Hogni down on the ground, two spears pressed through his chest.

Unable to hold back anymore, Einar roared.

“RUN! GET SAFE!”

Someone called out his name, but he didn’t care.

No more…

The memory of Dawson and Martinez lying on the tile floors flooded him.

[ Rune Empower ]

[ Divine Protection ]

[ Blessed Healing ]

Once more, an axe found his hand, almost as if summoned by his will, as Einar rushed toward the fallen body of Hogni.

Flames danced around him like a wave of power, and his wyrd felt supercharged from the sudden increase in stats.

Wails came as the flames touched the undead.

A small window came as anything that drew near was burnt to ash.

Grabbing the body of his fallen warrior, Einar lifted it like nothing and threw it in the direction of the retreating Vikings.

Both weapons were retrieved the moment Hogni’s corpse was airborne, and Magnus charged into the horde, prepared to buy all the time his people needed to escape.

The sounds of wails drove him on, sounding like a chorus of angels, telling him that each swing of his axe had done its job.

Nothing stood before him as he zigged and zagged between each side of the road, twisting, turning, slashing, and hacking.

Time felt so slow, his perception helping him to see where to block and when to parry or dodge to a side. Sliding under a pair of attacks, his axe came upward, slicing the attackers in half from groin to neck.

He was death.

He was unstoppable.

For this one moment, this one minute, he was exactly what Odin had told him he would be.

Einar was an Einherjar.