Chapter 22

The officers rushed from the tent. Outside in the cold snowy camp confusion reigned. Troopers were standing looking in the direction of the screams, fear in their eyes. It was the first Dryden had seen that fear from his men. Mist now blanketed the camp thickly. It writhed like a living thing. Only the cooking fires of the camp burned through the hoary frost. A bugle sounded again from further off, towards where the infantry was camped. Somewhere off in the distance a musket fired, then another. More screams cut through the misty night.

“Sergeant!” The lieutenant colonel half growled half shouted, his eyes hard.

“Sir!” Sergeant Locke appeared seemingly from nowhere.

“Sound the bugle, get the men formed up…” Before Havor could finish giving orders someone stumbled out of the frozen mist. The figure was cloaked in the garb of a Vuruni noblewoman, a colourful sari, and golden jewellery. Her hands stretched out towards the soldiers. Her face was blue. Her eyes were cold. Her mouth gaped wide, but no sound came from it. She lunged at Lieutenant Camford from Wilson’s squadron. Everyone was rooted to their spot. Dryden found he could not move, he was frozen with something between surprise and fear. Camford tried to step aside, but he was slow. He tripped over something under the snow. As he fell, the woman bowled him over and began to bite him savagely on the neck. He screamed and struggled beneath her. His scream became a cry and then a gurgle.

Adrenaline coursed through Dryden. He heard the voice of his father, “Fight, damn you!” He could have sworn the voice was real as if his father stood beside him. He ripped his sword from his scabbard. He moved to help the lieutenant, but Sergeant Locke was faster. The sergeant kicked the woman off Camford and ran her through the chest with his sabre. The woman screeched, a sound issuing from her chest. Men near her held their ears. The screech was deeply disturbing. Dryden stepped forward and hacked her head from her body. Her cold eyes went dark, and she was no more. Camford still writhed on the ground holding his neck, blood oozing from between his fingers.

“Get the lieutenant to the surgeon, if you please,” Havor commanded. Nobody moved at first. He reiterated himself, “You there, troopers, take your officer to the damned surgeon!” His voice was hard and commanding. They hopped to obey.

“Blood and hounds. What was that?” Captain Baker asked once they were gone.

It was Mar who spoke, standing at the entrance to the officer’s mess tent, “One of our dead refugees. It seems our necromancer has no qualms about raising the recently deceased. They must be powerful indeed. I expect we’ll see many more this night.” He raised a long cigarette to his lips and took a drag, puffing indigo smoke out into the night.

“There were thousands of dead, how can we face so many?” Baker asked.

“They can be killed, as you have seen. Kill them as one would any other monster. Cut off its head or burn it with fire.” Mar replied coldly.

“Sergeant Locke, did you forget your orders? Form up.” Havor said.

“Apologies, sir.” The sergeant turned and began grabbing troopers from their tents and shouting orders. At first, the men were frozen with fear, as the officers had been, but as sergeants began to rouse them and pull them into formations, instinct and training took over, and the men began to act as soldiers should. The men of the 13th were formed into ranks. Muskets were loaded.

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Off in the distance, more screams were heard. Guns fired haphazardly into the frozen night in other parts of the enormous camp. Among the cacophony of desperate fighting came the horrible screeches, like banshees or ghasts. The sound was from a nightmare. Primal. Awful. The screams of the dead were filled with the grief, agony, and hatred of the abandoned. It was not long before more dead came stumbling from the gloom. A volley was fired. The dead stumbled. Some fell. The second rank fired. More fell, but still they came, frozen hands outstretched towards the line of troopers. There was no time to load. The hands of the soldiers were too cold in the night. The dead were plodding and slow, but the men could not have reloaded if given all night to do so.

Havor saw the problem at once, “Bayonets!” He bellowed into the night.

Mar was standing between Havor and Dryden, “May I?” He asked, his voice the only one with no quaver in it. Dryden wondered if the man was truly fearless, or if something in the aethium calmed him.

“By all means,” Havor replied.

The wizard removed his bicorn hat and handed it to Rathma who was standing in the dark behind the officers. The mage took his long cigarette from his mouth and held it out in front of him. He exhaled a puff of smoke and took a deep breath of the night air. He stepped forward in front of the line of soldiers. He paused dramatically, his hands up in the air. Finally, he began to wave his wand in front of him as if he were conducting an orchestra. Somewhere a symphony began playing. Dryden was not imagining it. Soldiers looked around for the source of the sound but found none. He recognized the music. It was Rachard’s 9th. He had heard it performed once in the capital when he was a young man. It was a vigorous piece, grand and military in its sound. There was one other thing about it that Dryden remembered of the song. It used cannon as an instrument. The ethereal symphony echoed through the night, following and keeping time with the movements of Mar’s make-shift conductor’s baton. The dead continued towards the wizard. Hands grasping, mouths open. Just before the dead reached him, the song reached its crescendo, and the first shot exploded from his wand. The dead were blasted backwards by the spell. Supernatural cannon fire ripped through the ranks of undead in time with the music. It seemed an eternity. The spell fired off shots again and again. When the song was done, the field was quiet except for the occasional shot or cry from elsewhere in the great encampment.

Mar turned and came back to Havor. He took a drag from his cigarette, “I’ll be in my tent.” Then he sauntered off. Dryden knew Mar would be exhausted. Sorcery took an incredible toll on the wizard.

Some of the dead still crawled towards the line of men. “Men of the 13th! Finish them off.” He shouted. The line moved forward, bayoneting those that still crawled or moved. Some moved with oil and torches, burning remains that continued to move even after being pierced. Once the field was quiet again, the men moved back towards the rest of the camp, helping to clear what undead remained. By the time the cold morning light first came over the horizon, the camp was silent once more.

In the morning, Dryden found Havor back in his tent. Light filtered through the tent opening. It was just as cold inside as out. The small wood stove had gone out overnight. The colonel was wrapped in his greatcoat. His eyes were sunken and hollow and he looked haggard, “Camford died in the night.” He said, “News came from the surgeon just a moment ago.”

“Orders, sir?” Dryden asked.

“We’re to break camp shortly.”

“The men need rest, sir, after last night.”

“Indeed, John, I am aware. They are our orders, however, and we must obey.”

The camp was packed up. It was done efficiently. All were exhausted, but few complained. None wanted to linger in that place where the dead had risen so easily. General Blackwater led the soldiers out. He looked dignified as he rode, his head held high. The army and the colonists and the baggage train flowed past them, up the road towards the Settru Pass that led over the Korum. Without refugees to wait for, it went quickly. As always, it was the Bloody 13th that brought up the rear.