Rise of the Dead Prince, page 12
“Hail, good hunter,” was all he said. He then waited.
“Hail, good farmer,” replied Dor. Slowly, a smile crept on to each face, then a laugh, then a handshake. The two became instant friends. Just to see another living face was all they had needed. Somehow their burdens had been lifted, if only for a moment. From that second forward, their destinies were intertwined. When they learned of each other’s intentions to go south, an eerie silence followed. It surely was the hand of fate. And so they embarked on the foolhardy quest together, each determined to get to the bottom of it all. They did it for their lost friends and families, but more than this, they did it for themselves.
Trent was a tall and heavily muscled man, with a blond beard and hair to match. The years of hard labor had toned his body to near perfection, such that when he took off his shirt, it was more like a statue than a man. In great contrast, Dor was a small man, shorter than average and light of frame. His hair was long and dark, and it trailed down his back. He tied his hair at the back of his skull to keep the front locks from his eyes. His eyes were sharp and black, and he was pale complexioned, possibly from the lack of decent food over the past weeks. Trent was hearty and brown, and once he set out with his companion, he quickly shared the food that he had salvaged. Dor’s village had been hit by the great fire, whereas Trent’s had not. Having not spoken to anyone for such a long time, the men made up for lost time by talking about anything and almost everything. They walked ever south, moving through the wetlands very slowly. They were ever cautious, for the dead had taken to attacking anything living that moved, even animals. Once they had seen a human, they would chase them relentlessly. The only defense was to strike a blow to the head with force. Only then would the dead rest in peace.
The men were forced to fight many times as they traveled. Fortunately, they had not run into any large groups. They fought back to back. As for the quieter parts of their journey, it was not unlike a normal recreational trip across the land. The wetlands were deceptively beautiful. If the men so pretended, they could see the whole of the place with new eyes. Often they joked about taking a hike and camping in the woods, as though it were a vacation from the world. In a manner of speaking, it was very much like a vacation, but then they would be attacked and brought back to the harsh reality of the world as it had become. As for sleeping, neither man did very much of that. They took shifts throughout the night, and only made fire during the daytime. Even so, a campfire was like a beacon that drew the dead to them. They had to quickly heat their food and cook their meat and then run to escape the coming horde. They always left the fire still burning, the better to draw them to it instead of them. The thought of the fire spreading was of little concern given the dampness of the soil in the deep south of Valahia.
What was odd about the wetlands was that there seemed to be dead stationed at every turn and at set distances. These were like sentries. When Trent and Dor got close enough to be seen, the sentry would howl out to the others, and then they would be attacked by several all at once. Whether more would follow was something that the two men never waited to find out. They would simply lay the few that charged them to rest and then run as fast as they could to the nearest cover. Luckily, each man was in excellent physical condition. Had they not been, they would probably have long since been killed, most likely becoming sentries themselves, for they had learned in their travels that even the dead that had not been taken by the plague were rising as well.
After they had traveled for four careful days, they came at last to the swamps of Arnovo. They had left Valahia behind and were now on foreign soil. Whatever happened now, it seemed that the journey was nearing an end. Just what they were looking for, neither of them knew. They only knew that they must keep going. They would keep going until the bitter end, and chances were that it would a very bitter end indeed. Already the canopy of trees was blocking out the sun, making the world dark even in the daytime. The sentries became more frequent as well, so much that Trent and Dor did more hiding and running than anything else. Dor had started to use his hunter’s stealth more and more. He would sneak up on a sentry as quietly as he could manage. He would then line up from the shadows; and maybe, just maybe, he would score a perfect shot and avoid the sentry’s alarm. These instances were rare however, and the reason was twofold.
For starters, the dead had exceptional senses considering their condition. Trampling through the mud and muck made too much noise, so it was very hard to sneak up on them. Last, because of the first reason, Dor was often forced to make hopelessly difficult shots, based on the fact they had to stop so far away to avoid detection. His marksmanship was good, but not quite that good. He hit one in every five targets that way. The rest were shots from middle range against running targets. These he hit every time as though his life depended on it, which of course it did. Trent on the other hand was strictly melee. He would swing his bladed hoe in wide arcs, mowing through the dead as though they were weeds in the field.
That night when the men camped, they risked building a low fire. The nights were getting colder, despite it being the warm season. Something was in the air, and they both felt it.
“D’you reckon we could smoke some of this here for the road ahead?” Trent asked in his thick southern Valahian accent. It was the same dialect that Dor used as well. The men had taken to eating snakes and other low forms of life. Dor had managed to kill an alligator as well, for he had heard that the tails were good eating. He was not used to swamp living, so his guess was as good as any.
“It couldn’t hurt to try,” Dor replied, taking another bite of snake meat.
“You know, I never reckoned snake would be so tasty,” said Trent, taking a bite as well.
“It beats lizards and frogs, that’s for sure,” said Dor, smiling. Trent laughed but then remembered himself and quieted down.
“You said it, brother,” he said softy, “although I like me a big ol’ bullfrog like the one from back yonder.” He carefully kept his voice down, pointing in direction they had come from. They were deep in the swamp now, with sentries every half mile or so.
“What do you reckon is controllin’ ’em?” Dor asked casually. The men had discussed it before, but never in detail. In truth, the reasons behind it all did not overly matter to them. They moved forward like men possessed with a single-minded drive.
“I’ve been thinkin’ on that more and more as we run into ’em. I had it in my head that we might go around. Of course, I was plainly wrong about that. As for what’s controlling ’em, I reckon it has to be magic, some kind of magic. Yeah, that’s what I figure,” said Trent, nodding. This time, it was Dor who laughed and then had to button up.
“You believe in magic, son? Shoot, I’ve not heard about that stuff since I was a young boy. Back then, I believed in any old thing. But not now. No, sir,” he said with a slap to his knee. Trent just smiled at him and took another bite of snake off the mossy fire.
“Well,” he said, “if you had told me that the dead would rise up and go bitin’ on folks last month, I woulda got the doctor and told him you’d been out in the sun too long. Either that, or ate the wrong kind of mushroom.” This time, they both laughed.
“I reckon you got a point there, Trent,” said Dor. “I expect, with all that’s happened, anything must be possible. Magic, dragons, demons, you name it. Somethin’s controllin’ them though, that much we know.” The men nodded again.
“They’re gettin’ to act like soldiers more and more,” said Trent. “Like some general is ordering them about. I tell you what … if they get too much more like soldiers, we’re going be lookin’ at an army soon,” he finished, shaking his head.
“Suits me fine,” said Dor. There was a full minute of silence following the comment. Neither man had any illusions about how their trip would end. They kept on going anyway.
“I reckon we’ll get a lot more of ’em before they get us, Dor,” said Trent, patting his companion on the shoulder with his thick, muscled arm.
“I ain’t got a solitary doubt about it, brother. I got a feelin’ we’re goin’ to be at this for a good while yet,” answered Dor. Neither man had talked this much all at once since they started. In that time, they had become fast friends, but there were still some subjects were inherently taboo. For example, neither man asked about the other’s family. It would have been rude to bring up the painful past. There were still a few questions that had not been asked however.
“Hey, Dor,” said Trent, “why’re you doin’ all this?” The big man thought he knew the answer, and what’s more, he somehow believed that his own answer would be the same. Dor mulled the question over in his mind. After a short while, he had an answer.
“I expect half of it’s payback for what I lost. If I ever find who’s responsible, I intend to put an end to them right there, clean and cool.” Dor pulled his bowstring back and pantomimed a shot. His brief smile faded, and after a somber pause, he went on. “The other half is in the work we been doin’ laying these folks to rest. I reckon the more dead I put down, it’s all the more of ’em that ain’t in limbo. It feels like … I’m settin’ ’em free. I can’t think of how else to say it.” Trent sat by stoically and listened. He felt a great surge of emotion, but he fought it back. He wasn’t ready to feel yet.
“You said it all, brother,” said Trent quietly. “You said it all.”
Nothing else was said that night. They put out the fire, hoping it hadn’t been seen by the dead. They must not have, for no one came looking for them. They both slept peacefully in shifts that night, knowing they hadn’t been seen by soul. In this assumption, they were wrong. That night, they were seen by not only one but also two pairs of eyes, one of which was a raven’s.
17
The Trial and the Arrow
Three weeks after Ian forbade Meier to venture south, and one week after Trent and Dor had set out on their fateful self-assigned mission, the dead were still trickling out of the woodwork, as though something had designed that they should travel in a constant stream, ever harrying the living. The attacks on humans had tripled, and the migration had become more erratic. Instead of heading ever south, they often detoured to wander through major cities. The army had their hands full to say the least, and they would have been unable to protect even the major cities if it were not for the volunteer militias that had sprouted up across the land.
It was unsafe to go anywhere. There was an increasing concern that the food would soon run out, for the farmers could not safely return to their lands until the threat had passed. The people of Valahia were effectively beleaguered on all sides. Despite the warnings from Ian that all people should make their way to the largest cities, some villagers stubbornly held on to their homes, refusing to give in to the threat. These were often of the older generation, which ironically were the most susceptible to the attacks. Many losses were reported, and those who went out to investigate often did not return.
It was in these days of despair and hopelessness that Ian became a light shining in the darkness. Despite the terrible occurrences, he still had the love and trust of the people. In itself, this was no small task. The people knew that he would fight for them and that he would not rest until his country was safe. He slept four hours a night at most, often passing out only when he could bear the fatigue no longer. Stories of his dedication spread across the land. If anyone could save them, it was Ian. He was the last bastion of their hope.
However, he was not alone. Always behind him was Meier, now known as the Dead Prince. Sadly, he was greeted with mistrust and fear because of his condition, and this much was entirely understandable. But things soon got ugly. And they got uglier. As Meier took to the streets one day, there was a particular incident that brought the simmer to a boil.
Meier rode Callista down the broad main road through Targov and as he did so was hailed by two middle-aged men that had been volunteers under his command. He knew their faces but not their names. Naturally, he stopped to talk with them.
“Do you know me, sir?” asked the first man. The men wore the curved swords of the Gunars, undoubtedly taken from the fallen of the battle for Targov. Meier smiled down at him in a friendly way.
“You marched with us to Aram, did you not? I do not know your name though.” The man exchanged glances with his friend. Something was odd about the way they were behaving.
“I am Errol,” the man said, “and this is Dego.” The men both nodded. Quite unexpectedly, Callista snorted and took a step back.
“Easy, girl,” said Meier with embarrassment. But not more than a second after he said it, an arrow flew straight and true into his chest! An assassin! The force and shock of the arrow nearly knocked him from the saddle. It had nearly passed through him altogether.
“Guards!” yelled Meier. “We are under attack!” Errol and Dego drew their swords.
“How dare you wear his skin!” yelled Errol.
“How dare you take his memories!” yelled Dego. Meier was reeling from shock still, and the arrow still protruded from the left side of his chest.
“What are you talking about?” yelled Meier over the panic that had erupted in the street.
“Don’t play dumb, demon!” screamed Errol, “Our beloved Meier is dead!” Another arrow whistled through the air, barely missing Meier and planting itself into the wood of the house behind him.
“Imposter!” yelled the archer on the roof, jumping down to get a better shot.
“Strigoi!” yelled Dego.
Strigoi was the term that had recently been given to the walking dead. In the old folklore, the strigoi were evil spirits that rose from the grave. And they were yelling it at him. It hurt more than the arrow.
Errol and Dego charged with their foreign swords raised. Meier pulled on the reins to turn Callista, but she was one step ahead of him. Before they could reach him, he had turned, and Callista took off like a bolt. The men pursued him through the crowded street, all the while screaming that he was not the true Meier to all who would listen. For fear of trampling some poor citizen, Meier was forced to slow Callista to a slow trot, though she kept trying to run. At that pace, the men would have intercepted him, had it not been for the arrival of the guards. These men appeared and quickly saw the situation for what it was. They surrounded Meier defensively. Errol, Dego, and the rooftop archer saw the guards and began to hesitate. It became clear that they had not intended to harm anyone other than Meier or, as they believed, the creature pretending to be Meier. Once surrounded, they dropped their weapons and gave themselves up. The guards rushed to Meier’s side, asking if he was all right. He told them he was fine and that he had not been hurt. Just how or why he had not been hurt was a complete mystery.
The three would-be assassins were led away to the jail, where they would wait for trial. And chances were it would be a very swift trial indeed. Meier did not know what to make of the attack. He dismounted and started to walk Callista back to the castle. A small contingent of men escorted him at a short distance. He tried to tell them it was all right, but he was lying and they knew it. His life, or whatever it was now, had nearly been taken. Or had it? Looking down, he realized the arrow was still in his chest. It did not hurt. In his dazed condition, he had forgotten all about it, inescapably evident though it was. Such was the impact on Meier’s psyche. The attack had left him spinning in shock, but more poignantly in grief. With a single long tug he pulled the arrow free. That part hurt. It had also hurt when he was initially shot, although not nearly as much as one would expect. Reluctant to toss it aside in the street, he clumsily tucked the arrow under his arm like a riding crop and started to amble down the street in a disconcerted way, looking on each side nervously. He found that his hands were shaking.
Everywhere he looked, he saw faces of mixed emotion. How many of them believed he was a demon? Was he more like the strigoi than he was living men? It was a question for which he had no answer. All he knew in that moment was a feeling of profound sadness. As he walked along in an aimless way toward the castle, he was hailed yet again. This time, it was a little voice. A young girl walked up to him and pulled on his tunic. Given the recent attack, it startled Meier so much that he nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Prince Meier, sir?” asked the girl. She could have been no older than eight. Meier put his woes aside momentarily and knelt beside her. He felt something of a nervous hope, and though his heart ached fiercely, it was not in him to simply ignore her call.
“Yes, little one?” he asked as coolly as he could manage. He knelt to face her then closed his eyes, trying for a moment to shake free of the images of assassins and their hate-filled faces. The girl took a deep breath then scrutinized him in the way that only a child could. She seemed to understand what had happened, at least on some small level. She had, like everyone else, heard the cries of the men; and while many had wished they could approach Meier in those moments after, it was only a child that dared to. Her tone was both questioning and sympathetic.
“Does it hurt to be dead?” she asked innocently. His eyes grew wide. It was not what he had expected, but such was the unpredictability of children. Meier felt a strong pang, but it melted when he looked at her pretty little face.
“Not really, no. But it is a bit …,” he began to say, but trailed off momentarily.
“Lonely?” she finished the sentence for him. The word struck him like another arrow. She could not have spoken truer. Meier cast his eyes downward. His heart felt like it was about to overflow.
“Yes, little one. It is lonely. Or … it is now.” Meier found that he was sniffling lightly, despite his struggle against it. The little girl put her arm on the prince in a very grown-up way.
“My daddy says you saved his life,” she said, almost cheerfully. She was trying to comfort him. Even the guards that surrounded him seemed moved. Meier was at a loss for words. “When I grow up, I’m going to fight strigoi just like my daddy,” she said earnestly, smiling. Meier found himself laughing weakly as she flexed her arm at him. Suddenly, the girl’s mother appeared from the crowd and began to collect her. She was all bows and apologies, but Meier would have none of it. Before he could thank the girl or the mother, they disappeared into the crowd again, leaving Meier where he had been before, lost in a sea of faces.
