Rise of the Dead Prince (14 page)

This time, it was he who lunged forward and embraced her. For some reason, this came as a terrible shock to her. “You’re still you, Allie,” he said tenderly. “Please don’t lose that.” The words hit her at the core. Had she begun to lose her identity? In many ways, she had been remade into a different person, and there was no going back to the innocent days of blushes and secret feelings. They were both changed beyond repair. But, she thought, that was life. No one could go back, no matter much they might wish to. Slowly, she returned his embrace, and there they sat entangled in the mud for some
time.

“It has to be me, Allie
…
I can end all this. I just know it. I
feel
it. Somehow I’ll make it,” he said with feeling. “You said I’d been brought back for a reason, Allie. This is it.” Together they stood up and looked down at their mud-drenched clothing. She was dressed much like a man, with a thick canvas shirt and sturdy leather breeches. They looked at each other then and shared a brief smile. They were a mess. It would take a lot more rain to come c
lean.

“You know, Allie, you look quite fetching in brown,” Meier said coyly. For the first time in weeks, Allie laughed. It wasn’t for very long, just one note or two, but it was plenty. Meier smiled widely, and then the moment was gone. They both turned their gaze south. Allie’s lips turned upward into a slight smile. She sighed and no
dded.

“You’re a silly fool, Meier
…
and this might be goodbye,” she said. “But
I believe in you
. Just like you know you’ll make it to Arnovo, I know
…
that you’re going to save us all.” Allie turned to face Dias and lifted her petite leg as though she were about to mount but then suddenly stopped. She took a deep breath, and then quick as anything, she turned to Meier again. Taking the back of his neck in her small hands, she kissed him. Meier was too stunned to move but managed to return the kiss at last. With his good hand, he cradled her pretty face with his cold touch and stroked her cheek gently with his t
humb.

“For luck,” she said finally. “And because I always wanted to.” Allie looked up blushing and then took Meier’s hands in hers, bones and all. Meier felt a flush, the first since he had died. Was there a touch of color in his pale face? With a wide and suddenly girlish smile, Allie spun and gracefully vaulted into the saddle. Meier managed to stand there and smile like an idiot for a few long seconds. He eventually snapped out it and remembered something important he was going to say. He stumbled over the words on the first couple of tries, while Allie sat high on Dias, looking at him with coquettishly raised eyebrows. He finally spat it
out.

“Would you take Callista back to Targov for me, Allie?” There. He had aske
d it.

“I was just about to say that very thing, Meier,” she replied. Another few seconds pa
ssed.

“Well, I guess this is goodbye
…
for now, anyway. Thanks for everything, Allie,” he said then took a deep breath and looked south again. It was a long walk to Ar
novo.

“Goodbye, Prince Meier.
Please
be careful. Your life is more precious than you know,” she responded. His life? Yes, he supposed that is what he must call it. A second life, tacked on to the f
irst.

“You be careful too, Allie
…
Your life is precious to
me
,” he said. She smiled and then patted Dias on his muscled
neck.

“We’ll be fine, Meier.” With that, she took Callista’s reins and turned her north. With a final goodbye to the objecting mare, Meier sighed and started to walk slowly south. He felt a sudden flutter of fear. He had no idea what he was doing. One thing was for certain though. He was going to avoid going through any more t
owns.

21
The Pilgrim’s Progress

“I
reckon this is gettin’ tougher,” said Dor, twirling his hatchet by the leather thong around his w
rist.

“I reckon,” said Trent, swinging his hoe with a resounding crack into the last skeleton. The thing shattered into no less than thirty pieces. That business finished, the two men practically collapsed against the tree they had been fighting by. They had long since taken to fighting with their backs to a tree, and if there wasn’t one, they fought back to back. All around them was a semicircular mound of fallen bones and
strigoi
. Arrows were sticking out in all directions from the heads of the
strigoi
, and the bonewalkers were mostly dashed to pi
eces.

“Looks like you win again, Trent,” said Dor, panting. Trent just nodded, his head propped back against the bark of the cyp
ress.

“Too many boneys in this group. Wasn’t fair,” he replied. And it really wasn’t. Arrows were no good against the bonewalkers. Dor had to use his hatchet in those types of fights, and even though it was big for a hatchet, it was still a small weapon. Dor had to block or grab the incoming arms of the things before he could get close enough to get a nice hard swing at the spine, whereas they never got close to Trent. He could even get two at a time if they lined up right. He hadn’t got three in a row yet, but he kept on tr
ying.

“What I wouldn’t give for a decent club or mace,” said Dor idly for perhaps the dozenth time in as many days. The weapons in his wishes kept on changing, but the general sentiment was the same. The boneys were hard to put
down.

“I reckon I’d take a big ol’ hammer or maybe a good two-hander sword,” said Trent. “I bet you I could take three or four at a time that way.” He made a whooshing sound and swung his arms from one side to the other. They were like two young boys talking about their upcoming birthdays. It passed the time well en
ough.

“You know what I miss most from back in the world right now, Trent?” asked
Dor.

“What’s that, brother?” Trent respo
nded.

“Cornbread,” he answered. “Nice, hot, buttery cornbread with red beans on the side.” Their stomachs growled in unison. They sighed and started looking around for any bullfrogs in the immediate vicinity. It sure beat fighting on an empty sto
mach.

As for the fighting, there had been a near constant stream of battles the further south they got. The fights had taken a toll in sore muscles, but the greatest change was invisible. That is, until the action started. Their experiences had turned the hunter and the farmer into a two-man machine. They made no mistakes, and they wasted no movements. They simply could not afford to. Even an injury would spell the end of the road, and so they finished every fight untouched. Again, this was because they simply ha
d to.

Despite this, the fights were getting closer and closer. It was just a matter of time before the dead got them in a rush or else just wore them out with their vast num
bers.

“Can you run yet?” Dor asked. “I can smell more comin’.” And he could. Dor’s keen nose had become one with the air from all sides. He could filter out the reek of the swamp and hone in on the stench of the dead. He could even pick up on the charred scent of the bonewalkers. It was a gift that had saved them more and more the further they
went.

“I can’t run yet
…
but that don’t mean I can’t start walkin’. Another couple minutes? I’d sure like to get my breath,” Trent responded. Dor took another whiff of the
air.

“Two minutes is one too many, brother. Take one and then let’s kick out east for a spell. I think I heard some frogs that way anyhow. Who knows? The sun might shine on us, and we could get us a nice fat snake on the
way.”

Trent and Dor took a minute to recover, then with a series of creaks and groans, they were on their way at a slow run east. The sun shone down on them, just as Dor said it might, and they found not one but two snakes as they ran a
long.

“We’re having us a feast tonight!” said Dor and then whooped as loud as he dared. One had to be quiet in this country. Trent smiled but shook his
head.

“I reckon I’ll dry mine out in strips. No feast for me tonight.” Dor just held up his snake and looked it up and down hung
rily.

“To each their own, brother. I’m so hungry I reckon I could eat this old boy in one swa
llow.”

That night, they made a low fire and cooked on the coals. Since the bonewalkers had started to trickle south mixed in with the
strigoi
, things had gotten harder for them. The blackened skeletons had strange abilities of detection. Dor hadn’t quite figured it all out, but it seemed that every day he got a new piece to the puzzle. Trent had long since given up the quest to solve it all. He left that business to Dor, who, as a hunter, was a bit quicker to learn patterns among predator and
prey.

Dor had concluded several things. The bonewalkers were lacking in vision. They seemed to just
feel
their way through the swamp. This is not to say they could not see, for the men had already been sighted, even when still and breathless. The skeletons just couldn’t see very far. However, it was their hearing that one had to worry about. It was unnaturally sharp, and somehow there was a connection between the loudness of a sound and their ferocity. Loud noises seemed to whip them into a frenzy. Dor and Trent had trained themselves to fight them as quietly as they could manage. Of course, this was difficult, given the clatter of metal on bones. As a result of the findings, Trent and Dor had mastered the art of wildly blitzing them at the start of a fight and then fighting defensively after the dead had been r
iled.

Even so, despite their incredible achievements, Trent and Dor were only human. Every day that passed with them eating snakes and occasional mushrooms sapped their strength by imperceptible increments. It was hard living, and even though they were both harder than coffin nails by then, there was one fact that kept making itself known. Every day the dead grew stronger and more numerous, and every day the hunter and the farmer grew more tired and sore. The men had to be especially careful about their nighttime watches. They were so exhausted at the end of each day that if they were not uncommonly vigilant, they would drift off into a deathlike slumber in a single long blink. Luckily, the dead seemed to be more docile at night. The reasons for this were not clear, but Dor had a part of a guess that he hadn’t yet voiced. Suffice it to say, the men still kept watch every night, for on more than one occasion, they had been forced to break camp in seconds to avoid a shuffling mob of
strigoi
. Nowhere was really safe in the terrible swamps of Ar
novo.

It was the next day that the men got another big, terrible piece of the puzzle that was the plague of the risen dead. They wove their way south and east the whole morning, seeing the usual amount of sentries and dealing with them in turn. All told, it was a good day so far. It wasn’t long before the men started talking, albeit in muted tones. After all, it wouldn’t do to have an unnecessary battle for something as silly as the burning desire to talk. Despite this, it was a well-known fact that talking helped to keep a person sane, especially when madness was all around. It wasn’t good to stew in one’s own head for too long. Besides, Trent had a decent ques
tion.

“I been thinkin’,” he started, and Dor stopped walking to hear him better. It was about time for a rest anyway. Trent turned to face his partner. “We know the boneys are worse than the sleepwalkers in ’bout near every way that they can be, right?” Dor nodded yes; of course, the skeletons were worse by far. “And we’ve seen crowd after crowd of boneys movin’ through with the walkers,” Trent continued. Dor nodded again but raised his eyebrows slightly. What was Trent gettin
g at?

“Yeah, you said it. What of it?” he asked after a second or two had pa
ssed.

“Just this. Why is it that they use the sleepwalkers for sentries, when they really ought to use boneys? It don’t make sense t’all
…
,” Trent said, his voice trailing off while he shook his head. Dor nodded again, but took a while to respond. It was a good question all r
ight.

“There’s no tellin’,” he answered, “but if I had to guess, I’d reckon that whoever is pullin’ the strings has some other plan for the boneys.” Dor took a breath and put his hand to his chin. His eyes started to dart around. This meant he was thinking. “It could be they ain’t expectin’ company as yet,” he said, “so they don’t think it matters to up the security. I’ll say one thing about it though. We ought to thank our favorite star that the boneys ain’t on watch as yet.” Both men took a few seconds to mull it over. Each was staring into the distance. Trent suddenly snapped his thick fin
gers.

“Maybe it’s that the boneys can’t sing out like the walkers can. All the boneys do is that gritty hiss,” Trent declared. Dor nodded but then furrowed his
brow.

“I sure hope that’s it. Come to think of it, I bet that
is
it,” he said, nodding. “Wouldn’t do to have a sentry that can’t call out. Still, I wonder. Somethin’ odd there, but I can’t quite get to the meat of it.” Trent sighed and shru
gged.

“Well, I sure can’t,” he said, “but if them boneys get smart enough to start ringin’ bells, things are liable to get ugly fast.” Dor’s eyes got wide, and then he couldn’t help himself. He let out a laugh but then quickly put it back in the bo
ttle.

“Trent,” Dor said with a pat on the back, “you are a lot smarter than you think you are.” Trent just smiled a crooked smile and pointed to his te
mple.

“Can’t say I know what you mean there, but thanks for sayin’ it
…
you know Ma always said I was the sharpest
…
’course my brothers didn’t know dirt from sand, so it wasn’t sayin’ much.” This time, they both let themselves laugh a few notes. For some reason, it got funny again, and the men started giggling in short bursts as they turned south a
gain.

“I was just thinkin’ that you called it, Trent,” said Dor. “You gave us a piece of cud to chew. ’Course, it’s most likely goin’ to be the death of us at some point.” The comment, while dire, did not keep the humor of the previous joke from coming back a few more times. Dirt from sand? It kept being funny to them. It must have been the way Trent had sai
d it.

“Death of us, huh,” said Trent. “You mean when they get where they’re goin’? I figured we’d get a few more but never get quite that far.” Dor slapped Trent on the back a
gain.

“Brother, that is
exactly
what I meant. And yeah, truth is, I figured we’d be gone by
now,
let alone get most of the way there. I sure do like bein’ wrong about that, though.” The hunter and the farmer smiled at each other. They had accepted the situation for what it was. And so they kept on walking south, just like the migrating
dead.

It might have been the laughing that did it. Of course, it might have just been the sound of walking through the mud. It might have been neither of these things. In any case, once it all began, none of it mattered. Dor and Trent heard a strange screeching sort of clank, and then they saw it. Once it had started moving, the sound was ringing out all over the swamp. No doubt the bonewalkers would hear it from miles around. It came into sight at last. The sound was that of heavy armor, and it was a skeleton that wore it! The men, despite their many battles, were so startled that they practically fell over backward into the murky swamp waters. They exchanged glances, and each man’s eyes were wide with fear. After the initial shock wore off, however, they both took a deep breath and sm
iled.

They charged. The approaching bonewalker suddenly produced a large sword that had been hanging from its back, clattering all the while on the heavy plate it wore. The thing was slower, and its movements were a bit clumsy, but this didn’t change one important fact. The spine was protected inside a metal shell. Also, this was not the same brand of enemy that they had been fighting all along. This thing was using a sword. Chances were good that it could use it as
well.

The runners clashed. The skeleton started with a charging overhead attack at Dor, who nimbly dodged it, but it was uncomfortably close. The swing was decent, but not expert. The men took immediate note. The blade splashed into the muck and stuck there. Even if it hadn’t, Trent was already sending an answer, for the second the sword hit the water, Trent’s hoe flew in a monstrous arc that connected with a deafening clang. It was not a perfect hit, however. Trent had been aiming for the seam in the side of the armor. As the bonewalker had fallen forward, it moved downward as well. As a result, Trent hit the thing’s helmet with the force of a hurricane’s gale. This sent the helmet as well as the head inside it flying for at least fifty yards if it was an inch. While undoubtedly satisfying, the attack was also wholly superfl
uous.

Luckily, it took a moment for the thing to free its grip from the muddy hole it had made; and Dor, ever quick to think, had his answer ready as well. Rather than hack at the straps on the torso, he planted his hatchet with a hunter’s precision into the torn mesh at the elbow of the ancient and partly rusted armor. This broke the thing’s grip on the sword, but that was not the only effect it had. The cut could not break the metal of the armor of course, but it
could
break bones. As the bonewalker renewed its grip on the sword and hefted, the shattered arm separated from the elbow down and fell into the water with a splash. The sword fell from the loosened grip; and again, Dor was quick. He lunged forward and snatched the hilt of the falling blade. With a jump backward, he freed the heavy weapon from the puddle and, tossing his hatchet to the ground, lifted it with both hands. Meanwhile, Trent was swinging again; and this time, he hit the mark soundly, cutting cleanly through the top strap holding the breastplate on. The blow rocked the skeleton so hard that it went flying over onto its side. It started thrashing wildly, trying to gain footing a
gain.