“They’re coming.” Collin whispered, shifting and feeling his locked muscles work themselves. They didn’t numb with motionless the way others did, not even warriors were as limber as his kind. Easier to get muscle cramps as a cat than a Ranger. By the discontented groans of his allies, they apparently were no exceptions to the general rule.
“What sort of enemies are we looking at?” Galukar asked, remaining hunched, ready to pounce like some coiled snake. Collin could appreciate the sense for an ambush, at least.
“We have a minute or three before they’re on us.” He whispered. “And the column looks to be about…Yes, one thousand.” He counted swiftly. “No orcs, just undead, I’d guess this isn’t one of Venka’s originally. He’s probably calling them in to link with his forces before the attack…Which means that we know whichever way they’re marching now, he lies there.”
Galukar nodded.
“Their strength?” He asked, absorbing the information quickly. Collin peered back.
“Twenty Dullahan, three Fomori. Otherwise…Skeletons, I think.”
It wasn’t good, but it could be worse. Skeletons were old reanimates, old enough for their flesh to rot away and the magic keeping them active to settle and mature. They were invariably stronger, faster and tougher than when first created, and usually by a lot. Collin would rather take one than a Dullahan, rather take four or five in fact, but even veteran soldiers would be disadvantaged against them without Vigour. He’d heard of skeletons cutting apart ten or twenty men before dying, or Knights being killed by a scant few.
“Skeletons.” King Galukar grunted, then smiled. His face was ghoulish in the dim light, raindrops following the curve of his grin like blood running off a scythe blade. “Good to work the knots out of my muscles, at least.”
It took a few minutes before the enemy was within range, at the foot of the hill upon which Collin and his allies perched. That was quite fine by him, because it took just barely less time to send the order through his side’s ranks and ready them for an attack.
They numbered one hundred, their enemies one thousand. It wasn’t a ratio most men would feel confident in, but Collin had more than a few reasons to let the steel lace his spine. Rangers were one thing, Shaiagrazni’s undead another, and the star pupil of Windmage Walriq quite possibly another order of combatant still. King Galukar, though…Well, he was the sort of man who defied description for his powers. Most of the contemporary words for deadliness and strength were referencing his own famous feats to begin with.
At last the enemy were in position, and Collin gave the order. King Galukar moved before anyone else by simply hurling himself from the hilltop.
He flew as if he were a stone tossed by a catapult, coming down in a great arc, hitting the ground from a hundred yards high and barely even bothering to bend his knees. He swung once, lopping an entire row of skeletons in half with the motion, then undead were falling in behind him and rangers were letting bolts fly. Collin made sure he wasn’t the last to fire, having half expected the abrupt beginning anyway.
The enemy, it seemed, had not.
Undead ripped skeletons fully in half, lithe, efficient things almost like skeletons themselves. They seemed suits of bone-textured armour puppeted by economically placed weaves of musculature within, and moved like sacks of vipers. Appearing wherever an enemy’s strike wasn’t, striking wherever an enemy’s spine was. Thirteen was all they’d been given, and thirteen seemed almost excessive.
Arion Falls fought at the middle range, turning away volleys of arrows, unbalancing particularly troublesome enemies, wounding or killing others by advantageously hurling dropped weapons with subtle gestures. He seemed a conductor giving commands to an orchestra, and the song he was playing rang much the same as any other battle. Death, mayhem. Fun. Collin let himself get lost in it as he loosed one arrow after another, picking his marks as carefully as ever, grinning his bloodlust as carelessly as always.
Nine hundred or so skeletons had made up the bulk of the enemy’s force, and they moved predictably. Undead always did.
A man, when suddenly peppered with arrows like ballista bolts and hacked away at by a screaming lunatic bigger than most bears, might have felt themselves influenced by such thoughts as staying alive.
Oh, that huge horrible man is about to hit me with a block of rusty iron so hard my guts are squeezed out of my arse. They might have thought. I reckon I ought to stop that from happening, seeing as I enjoy living and all, running away seems like a good idea.
Not an undead. They didn’t much care for living, on account of not living to begin with, and would much rather kill an enemy than keep from being killed. It made them fucking awful to fight in some situations, but trivial enemies for a prepared ambush.
Because they always moved the same way.
The undead made two main bodies; one charging for Galukar, the nearest living thing, and the other turning to head uphill and carve into the Rangers, the most numerous living things. Both were doomed, for different reasons.
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At Collin’s signal, Arion Falls hurried back up to the crest of the hill and splayed his arms. The ground rumbled as wind shook it, then a mountain of black dirt fell, made into heavy sludge by the rain, and rolled down to bowl them over. The arrows came shortly after, smashing open whatever skulls or limbs first emerged from the avalanche. Collin’s were the most carefully aimed by far.
The other group of undead, the ones charging King Galukar, died for a rather different reason. They were fighting King Galukar. Collin had gone most of his life assuming the phrase “one man army” was merely hyperbolic, but what the King did to stave off his own assault proved otherwise. He suddenly found the bastard’s whiney arrogance just a shade more tolerable.
As his quiver ran empty, however, and his victory close, Collin realised something about their enemies. There hadn’t been two groups, there had been three.
“REGROUP!” He ordered, smelling a danger in the unexpected change. All the deadliest enemies were bunched up among that third pack, Dullahan, Fomori, and a few other, smaller things that were dressed in fancier armour than either. King Galukar heeded his order with a swift decisiveness, hacking one last line of skeletons to bits before rushing uphill.
Arrows, arrows, more arrows. Always more fucking arrows, and always less enemies after they were fired. Soon enough Collin was out, all of his quivers emptied, and as he looked down the row of Rangers he saw his was a common situation. The undead below remained where they were. They’d been the subject of the most recent shots of course, but they’d hung back, kept their distance. Sidestepped the streaking iron and managed to avoid even a single hit.
Stronger undead did tend to be smarter, too, in Collin’s experience. He’d never fought something more powerful than a Fomori, but he knew they were out there. Evidently these mysterious new ones were examples of that most esteemed order of might. He turned to King Galukar, keeping them in the corner of his eye as he whispered a question.
“What do you recommend we do with these ones?”
Still, they simply waited. If an undead could afford to do one thing, it was wait. Fucking immortal bastards.
The King studied them, brow furrowing as he thought.
“We should attack as one, have your best shots gather up all the remaining arrows, have everyone else switch to close combat weapons. Charge in a single group with me heading it and Falls protecting the masses with air, with luck we’ll be able to break them apart and overwhelm them. We have the numbers now, with the skeletons dead.
“We have the numbers, not necessarily the strength.” Collin breathed. “One Dullahan is worth five or more Rangers in close combat. There’s twenty there, plus Fomori, and those others.”
Galukar growled.
“Shaiagrazni is scum, scum of the lowliest kind, but he can make potent servitors. I’d wager the undead in our forces against any of theirs individually, mix them in among your men and you’ll have units able to bear the brunt of enemy violence while the Rangers strike from sidelong.”
Collin thought, then nodded. It made sense. He sighed.
“Give the orders.”
Their enemies waited patiently as they reorganised, apparently confident in winning the charge provided they could hold their ground. All told Collin ended with some seventy Rangers wielding blades and shields, merely twenty left with bows. He almost felt the doubt seep in, so buried it with fury.
“ALRIGHT LADS!” He roared, forcing himself to project a non-existent certainty. “LET’S GO AND FUCKING DO ‘EM!”
Cheers erupted around him as they started downhill, King Galukar bounding ahead. Within moments the sound of screaming bowstrings rang out, and the volley of arrows raced down just ahead.
Their enemies had no shields, and thus their options were limited. Try to slap near-sonic projectiles from the air, which was not an option. Move rapidly to avoid them, which was, but would break their balance and formation immediately before the charge hit them. They instead chose the third, simply weathering the blows of thrown iron as a means of retaining cohesion. Collin’s men hit them like a battering ram, and the violence started.
He was among them of course, however good he was with a bow Collin had no intention of sitting out of the most dangerous of the fighting. He wielded a pair of long daggers like his father, magus-wrought steel far stronger than any non-magical metal, and doing a fine job of prying open Dullahan plate or scraping along Fomorian tendons. King Galukar was less a man than a fate, befalling whatever tried to stand in his path, and everyone else just washed over their enemies as a tide of jagged, swearing soldiers. Collin had rarely felt so proud of the angry bastards.
One Dullahan fell, another, then half were gone. Collin headbutted one, saw stars as his helmet dented against theirs, then headbutted again to knock the thing down before knifing its brain to mulch through the eye holes.
Men fell and carved around him, a Fomori stumbled as one of Shaiagrazni’s undead latched onto its head and started chewing through its skull. Another volley of arrows hit the back of the enemy line, which had not yet been engaged but were still close enough that any men but Rangers would doubtless have hit their allies in trying the shot. Then, suddenly, the path was clear.
Undead lay in bits at their feet, some still active enough to crawl and bite at ankles, most still and destroyed. All that remained was one Fomori and a quartet of the unidentified ones.
King Galukar strode forwards, intercepted by the Fomori as it lunged, lithe limbs lashing out. He took both off in one swing, then the legs beneath. His third strike fell before the creature even hit solid earth, turning its head into a gory mess. Then he rounded on the last four.
Collin stepped in to cover the King’s back as he approached their final enemies, ten paces away, cast in shades of darkness by the cloudy sky. Eight paces, Galukar faltered. Six and he stopped. Collin stopped too, taking only another stride to glance at the man’s face, suddenly fearing he’d been struck by some spell.
It wasn’t magic that held the King, however. Mind-clouding spells left a man senseless or dazed, and Galukar’s face could not be more sharp with emotional thought. His features were twisted by agony, regret, guilt. Sorrow. The Godblade fell from his suddenly limp fingers, and a shiver took him. When he spoke, his voice was quiet enough that Collin knew only his ears were sensitive enough to catch the words.
“No.” He breathed.
Collin saw he was staring at the undead, and followed his gaze. They were men, clearly reanimated soon after death for the lack of rot, clearly potent for the quality of their arms and armour. He saw nothing more in them than that however.
Not until King Galukar spoke .
“My boys…” The King sobbed, tears falling freely, voice as stable as a collapsing cliff. “My sons…What has he done to you?”
The undead came on without a word.