Rise of the Dead Prince (43 page)

“Oh yes!” he continued. “My name is Crocus now.” He traced the letters in the air. “Sounds softer, yes? No more hard Ks like our people in the north. I think Mother would approve,” he said, stroking his smooth chin ruminatively. Kuvali laughed a
gain.

“Mutter wäre wütend, und du weißt es!” she yelled at him playfully in their native lang
uage.

“That’s not quite fair,
liebe Schwester,
and
you
know it. Mother was always angry at other things, but never our desire to go south. She would be fine with a more Valahian name,” Crocus said with a playful squeeze of the most ticklish spot on the back of his sister’s arms. Kuvali squealed and batted at
him.

“Crocus is
not
a Valahian name, my goofy brother,” she retorted. Crocus hummed a
gain.

“Well
…
maybe not. But I think Mother actually
would
be furious if I changed it any more. Besides, I said
more
Valahian, not all the way Valahian,
my
goofy sister.” With that, they stood looking at the stars in silence for a time, each exhausted of light things to say. It hurt them both, but it was time for goo
dbye.

“So you’ll just go north, not knowing what waits there? You don’t even have any money,” Kuvali said somberly. Crocus lau
ghed.

“I’ve got my hide and my humor, don’t I? It was the same as when we left home, if you remember. I’m older and wiser now. I’ll be fine, sister.” Kuvali didn’t find it funny at all. Her heart was sinking at the thought of never seeing her brother a
gain.

“If Suvira is ever in danger again, I intend to leave the house of Beol. As for Lovo
…
he’ll never change,” she admitted. “Just promise me you’ll be there if I ever come looking.” Crocus patted his sister’s shou
lder.

“I will be there as long as I can. You just take care of that sweet niece of mine,” he said and then, pulling her close with his arm around her shoulder, said, “I love you, little sister.” The words came as a surprise to her. It had been so long since they had been able to drop their guard. Kuvali snif
fled.

“I love you too, big brother,” she said tearfully, pulling him into a full, firm hug. Crocus was overtaken at last. He cried warm tears for the first time since he had taken the dark oath. Remembering himself, Crocus broke
free.

“You best leave at once, sister. They fear you right now, but there’s no telling if someone will start getting unthinkable ideas about Little Suvira.” The thought hit Kuvali like a bolt. Crocus was right. With a final goodbye, the siblings parted in opposite direct
ions.

Meanwhile, Lovo was deep in thought. He knew what had to be done. One such as her could never be allowed to rule the clan. He would have to prepare at once. After all, he knew her weakness. It took only a matter of days for the trap to be
set.

They attacked when she was weakest. Kuvali was in her chamber with Suvira. The two seemed to be playing. They had only to wait for Suvira to leave the room for her lessons. In that second, they snatched and bound the child, then hailed Kuvali. It went even smoother than they had planned. They took Kuvali to the rack without a single spell being cast. Once there, Suvira was released and made to suffer. It was necessary to fix what had been done to her. It took several weeks to completely erase the sentiment that had been pressed into her. Two thoughts had been imprinted on her by threat of pain. Her mother was a villain, and she had never had an uncle. Lovo was her father and her only remaining attachment. Meanwhile, Kuvali was given the worst form of torture the house of Beol could devise. This was done in an attempt to cleanse her mind as well, so that her great powers could be put to use for the clan’s benefit. All attempts to take her power by force were disastrous. On one notable attempt, Kuvali had actually
absorbed
some power from her attacker despite her fetters, making her even
more
dangerous. Only the avenue of
conditioning
remained, and Lovo saw to the treatment himself. He wanted it to be his face that she both venerated and feared. Day after day, week after week, he tortured her. He found her many songs, written in books and hidden away. One by one, he read them aloud then burned them as she screamed. She tried to hold on mentally, tried to remember each line he had taken from her. The pain eventually robbed her of anything she had rememb
ered.

It was about the time that Suvira aged to seven years that Kuvali was considered to be ready. She answered every question, repeated every promise, and passed every examination that Lovo gave. Once done, Kuvali was released. This coincided perfectly with the near completion of Lovo’s tower. After decades of construction and contrivance, the plan was near to fruition. It was something that the house of Beol had been working toward for centuries but had never been able to realize. Finally, the puzzle had been solved. The source had been dammed at the convergence of the lines. The massive power of it had been focused into a single point, flooding the area surrounding it with unthinkable energy. The house of Beol gathered for the momentous event, each hoping to increase their personal power beyond their previous ability to ima
gine.

Lovo arrived last, Kuvali and Suvira by his side. At the moment of completion, Kuvali had been free for just under a month. None dared to challenge Lovo’s might. He had tamed the most powerful master of the dark that any had seen in their long lives. With a word, he could easily unleash her on any upstart that might emerge. The year and a half of torture had many side effects. For one, she was stricken completely silent, except in rare moments, and in these she seemed only to mutter rhymes in her native language. As no one could understand her, they soon ceased all attempts at communication. She was left alone completely in her quarters, as a reviled yet respected pariah. As for being respected, the term was used loosely, for Kuvali was treated with the same respect as a wild beast. All hated her, but none more than the Young Suvira. As a result of her conditioning, the little girl had attached to her father completely and become the perfect example of a necromancer. Her growth in power and skill was impressive to say the least. Soon he would have two weapons by his side. His place at the head of the Beol Clan was so firmly consolidated that it seemed he would never be dep
osed.

Lovo had made two mistakes in his life, and on the night that the clan gathered at the source, they finally returned to take their toll. It was a bright night, lit by a barely occluded full moon. Lovo’s first mistake was that he had not killed Kuvali when he had the chance. The second and most egregious was something he had never once considered. He had taken Kuvali’s little girl away from
her.

As the doors closed, Lovo prepared to announce his plans for what would be the conquest of the known world. They had minions, all of them, but the problem was this. There were not enough corpses to go around. The source made that problem obsolete. The great plague merely awaited one with the power to cast it, and this they had. Lovo addressed the gathered crowd. The area around the blinding wellspring was crowded to the point of discom
fort.

“Brothers
…
sisters,”
he rasped with an echo passed to each ear,
“the time has come.”
Kuvali began to twitch. Without touching it, she cracked her neck on one side then the other. Lovo slowly turned to look at her. He was just in time to hear her start laug
hing.

“The time has come
…
You hear the drum?”
she rasped with a wild cackle. As many stirred to defend themselves, Lovo began to command her. She did not
hear.

“The drum resounding. You hear it pounding?”
she hissed venomously. Lovo began to scream his commands. She did not
hear.

“I hear it slowing. You hear it lowing?”
she rasped again, loud enough to make many of them cover their
ears.

“The world is awry. You hear it decry?”
she said rhythmically then began to shake to the beat of the drum in her head. Enough was enough. The necromancers begin to cast their spells. She didn’t feel
them.

“The drum speaks of pain, of ending your reign, so now you all
DIE, AND YOU ALL KNOW WHY
!”
Kuvali cast off her robes, revealing a dress of pure white. Her power expl
oded.

What followed was the most violent, ruthless slaughter imaginable. Kuvali’s eyes glowed blindingly bright as she tore through the huddled, screaming masses of the Beol Clan. Many were wrapped in the shadow’s grasp; other were sundered to pieces, limbs and heads flying away from their bodies where they stood. Kuvali ripped through them one by one, holding the doors closed with her mind, even as they piled against them like drowning rats. She ripped through chests with her bare hands, her body clothed in purple fire. She flew unnaturally far from door to door, crawling up the walls, all the while shrieking with mad laughter. Lovo and Young Suvira alone stood paralyzed and untou
ched.

The head of the Beol Clan lifted his daughter into his arms, not to protect her but rather to use her as a shield. Soon there was nothing left but ruined corpses and the once happy family. The rest of Beol Clan had been brutally exterminated in under a minute’s time. Kuvali’s head began to crane to each side, and she started looking wildly at the source with a sort of insane scrutiny. She seemed to have forgotten Lovo and Suvira completely. Lovo made his move quickly. Dropping the child, he cast a spell through the center of the source, knowing it would be amplified. In the second that followed, Kuvali’s guard dropped. It was the sight of a little girl crying, having been carelessly cast to the floor, that did it. Kuvali was blasted back, her head cracking on the obsidian floor as she landed. As Lovo approached her, it occurred to him that there was not a single stain on her d
ress.

Kuvali woke up in the rack again. Lovo’s voice was the first thing she heard, and the first thing she felt was indescribable pain, of the type that would kill most on impact. Kuvali, however, had developed a tolerance to her torture over the course of nineteen mo
nths.

“So falls the house of Beol,” he muttered hatefully. With another stab, he said, “Your torment will be eternal
…
this I promise you.” Suvira ran forward and slapped Kuvali’s face as hard as her tiny hand could. Although she hardly felt such a thing, Kuvali opened her eyes, feeling a deep and sinking pain in her c
hest.

“Can I kill her, Father?” came the little voice, even as her large eyes began to glow. Lovo raised a
hand.

“No, Suvira
…
but you may torture her for as long as you wish,” he said coldly. Suvira began to unleash her teachings on the hanging body of her mother, filling them with all the spite she could muster. Kuvali began to shriek and writhe uncontrollably. Lovo’s eyes widened. It was not a reaction he was used to. Young Suvira’s spells were not that st
rong.

“Suvira, please
…
no one else sees
…
that I am your mother
…
and there is no other.”
Kuvali sobbed plaintively. Lovo knew at once what he was witnessing. With a low, sinister laugh, he left the chamber, leaving his daughter to her busi
ness.

54
A Hero’s End

Q
uickspear had an effective test for his skirmishers. Of the seventeen hundred left, he expressly ordered them all to go and protect the scattered convoy. It was a direct order. It was when five hundred came over and began to rip the skirmisher sashes from their waists in order to join the militia that he knew who was staying. He told them to keep their clothes on and then laughed. Everyone either left or stayed with their honor intact. Ian couldn’t help but smile at the simple beauty of Quickspear’s test. Behren followed suit with the two hundred and fifty regular soldiers that were left. He ended with seventy
men.

After this, there were also some thirty militia men and women who also stayed, including Allie. At Ian’s request, she relinquished her pitchfork and took up one of Quickspear’s “farked” spears. More than this, he made one last request of her that was too great an honor for her to refuse. Allie rode through the gates and into the town wearing Queen Mira’s golden chain armor and breastplate. With Mira having been much taller, it meant that the last smith in Targov had to spend an hour adjusting the breast plate to Allie’s more slight features, giving it a high polish when he finished. Riding atop Dias, she looked like a legend made flesh. No storybook could have illustrated a more impressive image. As for Allie, she felt embarrassed to be so doted upon, but looking on the men and women gazing up at her, she realized that symbols were exactly what they needed. Such things bred courage beyond that which the remaining six hundred had already s
hown.

It was noon on the fifth day of Meier’s capture that the advance scouts saw the galloping horde converging on Targov. The men took time to count the ranks and files and came up with a total of just over one hundred thousand. It was a force dedicated solely to erasing Targov from existence. Other armies had spread out for miles in an unbroken line from east to west, forming a net to make sure that no human would remain in Valahia once they passed. Indeed, there were none among the living that the army had found south of Targov. All others had either come
to
Targov, only to abandon it, or else had gone north of their own volition, instinctively knowing it to be the opposite direction of the invasion’s advance. The fate of the western marches was unknown, but it was assumed that they had acted similarly. Valahia was soon to be a country empty of human life and, though they could not have known it, so was Karavunia. The concentration of dead soldiers was greatest along the lines that had once been Dobrodici centuries before. This was done as a darkly poetic homage to the founder of the Beol
Clan.

The riders returned, Quickspear among them, nodding with dark smiles on their faces. “Sher as th’ narth wind, they gat a’nuff fer th’jab!” he yelled to the others, a bit more hastily and unintelligibly than usual. This done, he rode to Allie’s side and whistled loudly at her impressive appearance. “Sher y’don’ want t’gat married?” he said mischievously. She gave him another killing look like before but then had to l
augh.

“I’m already in love, Quickspear,” she said plainly. Quickspear nodded, still smi
ling.

“Lucky man!” he declared with admiration but then a bit more seriously, said, “So has he gone ahead, or is he gon’ to be late?” He spoke more clearly as a display of respect. Allie knew at once what he m
eant.

“I think he’s going to be late, Quickspear
…
but not by much I fear.” Her voice was steady. She lowered her head for a moment, her thoughts absorbed by the image of Meier in the deep. Quickspear sighed and nodded, his eyes lost in the sky for a few sec
onds.

“I lef’ me ma,” he said, uncommonly serious. “I like to look after me ma.” He withdrew a small pendant, kissed it, then pushed it back down into his armor. Allie leaned over and put her hand on
his.

“You’re a good man, Quickspear,” she said compassionately. He scoffed but then laughed lig
htly.

“Here’s hopin’ I see ’er on th’other side,” he said, smiling. Allie nodded. The Oameni were one of the peoples that believed firmly in the afterlife. Allie found that she was immediately jealous of this comforting belief. She scoffed as well but not maliciously. It was done with a smile. She found herself looking up to the sky as he had
done.

Meanwhile, Behren and Ian were preparing to reinforce the heavy doors of the castle with anything and everything possible. The general plan was to engage the enemy well enough to get as much attention as possible. The skirmishers, with Allie among them, would ride sidelong across their front line, harassing them but keeping a fair distance. After all, what good were spears, even forked ones, against skeletons in plate armor? Being on horseback merely compounded the skirmishers’ plight further. The best chance to even cause minor casualties was to either aim for their arms or trample them under hoof. Once the riders had baited them, the plan was to run straight for the castle and, once inside, barricade the outside and inside to the extreme. When the gate was breached, for there was no doubt that this would happen, the plan was to cripple as many as possible then use hammers to finish the job. The best hope was that the breach would initially be small, giving the chance to restrict the rate of entry to a slow, manageable trickle. And that was the best case scen
ario.

Many other things could go wrong, and very little was likely to go right. The biggest problem would come if the beasts knew to use fire on the wooden gate and barricades. They had water to dump over the battlement, but their supply was dangerously fi
nite.

At present, Behren and Ian walked the wall, talking about this and that. Soon there was no more planning to be done. Ian asked what he had been thinking from the second Behren had refused his royal request to lead the evacua
tion.

“You have a daughter, yes?” he asked, trying to sound casual, but given the situation, it proved impossible. Behren no
dded.

“Yes,” he said with a sigh. “She is in my uncle’s care.” Behren was somewhere near forty years. It guided Ian’s next ques
tion.

“How old is she?” he asked. Behren sm
iled.

“Seventeen years. Of my three children, she was the oldest. The other two went with my wife in the plague. As for my uncle, he is sixty-three years, hearty as a bull, and the only one left of that generation.” Behren laughed and shook his head at the thought of his uncle’s constitution. There was a brief silence. Ian had not asked his question. As it turned, he did not have to. “You wonder why I left her, yes?” he posited. Ian felt the tension and possible rudeness of the inq
uiry.

“Yes, I have wondered that. Forgive me if the question is indiscreet,” Ian admitted. Behren put his hand on Ian’s shou
lder.

“Nonsense, my lord. If anything, it is a question I secretly hoped you would ask,” Behren said with a smile. There was another brief pause while Behren chose his words. “It is because I love her so much that I let her go without me,” he said proudly then continued. “Let me explain. The northern march is a fool’s dream. But you knew that. What you do not know is that
I am
a fool, Ian. I believe that by staying, and by every minute that I hold the line, and by every enemy I defeat, I make that fool’s dream closer to coming true. As her father, I can think of nowhere that I can do more good for her than right here on this wall, or at that gate, or in this courtyard.” Ian smiled then held out his hand. Behren shoo
k it.

“I think I understand, Behren. Thank you,” said Ian gratefully. Behren hummed lightly, waiting to ask his ques
tion.

“My lord, forgive me for asking the same question. As the king, it seems only fitting that you lead what is left of the people rather than die with the last line of defense.” Ian lau
ghed.

“Good question. Like you, I have a similar answer. First off, I am not really a king, Behren. I know you think I am, and I know the people fully accept me. That does not change the fact that I have never been a king in my mind. Not a day goes by that I have not wished that it was Assur or Meier that had become king. Assur would have stayed, true, but Meier would have had enough sense to leave, I think. Not because he is a coward, but because, like you stated, his sense of duty as a king would have guided him,” Ian admitted but then paused. Knowing that Ian was not done, Behren politely waited. “The truth is that I am afraid of surviving the fall of Targov. I am afraid of dying out there on the road, all the while wishing I had died here. More than this, I too have a foolish dream. You might rightly laugh, even though I know you won’t. I can’t help believing one incredible t
hing.”

Ian started to laugh at himself. It was an honest, warm thing, accompanied by the shaking of his head. Again, Behren waited. Ian stopped and nodded, finally prepared to voice his ridiculous thought. “I believe,” he said, “that Meier is going to save us all.” Behren smiled, and together the two men laughed loudly then returned to guiding the def
ense.

Less than an hour passed, and then it was time for the charge of Quickspear and the skirmishers. They numbered four hundred ninety-eight. Adding Allie made four hundred ninety-nine. Unable to live with an uneven number, Ian mounted up with a laugh. They left the town and rode for glory and ruin. The dust cloud kicked up by the approaching ten myriads of the dead was enough to block out the blue of the southern sky. On the five hundred rode, in a wedge, Ian at the head in his golden armor, with Allie and Quickspear on his sides. When the sprinting masses where in sight, the riders began to make a large turn, not unlike the shape of a question mark. The goal was well known to all of them. They must goad the enemy without risking themselves. It proved to be much harder than they anticipated. The problem soon became evident. These dead were intelligent. They moved to intercept, thinning their ranks to encircle the riders. Before the five hundred could adjust, the dead were on them from two sides. Ian led the retreat for a half mile to gain distance. They were shocked to find that the dead had put on a burst of speed. And they had only managed to goad perhaps a tenth of them. It was everything the riders could do to outmaneuver the coming mass, let alone make their presence known to the remaining ninety thousand. Still, they had to try. If not stopped, the remaining forces would possibly avoid Targov and spread to encircle the escaping survivors. Ian made a deci
sion.

He lead the charge through the lightly spread enemy line. Seventeen of their number fell while breaking through. On they rode to the remaining masses. Ian led the wedge in a different manner the second time. For the next mile, they rode at a distance, inching slowly closer to discover the distance at which the dead would move to intercept them. Soon, thirty thousand, then forty, then fifty thousand were on their backs. Mile after mile they rode, until at last they had the force in pursuit. The horses were beginning to tire from the pace when at last they began to head for Targov. Still, they outpaced the dead well enough to slow momentarily, still keeping them in pursuit. The riders spread out into a long horizontal line. Then in a moment of tragedy, a horse took a bad step and the rider fell. Knowing they could not go back, the tortured line watched as the man stood and readied his spear. Unable to stand it, a single rider broke
rank.

She rode back for the fallen man, knowing that Dias could save them both. The problem was not his strength or his speed. It was the fact that thousands of dead soldiers would be upon the man in seconds. She was unfazed. Allie rode straight for the man and with a swoop came to his
side.

“Jump!” she commanded him. Dias snorted at the coming horde. With a girlish grunt of effort, she managed to pull him up with a single tug added to his jump. It was too late. The dead were on her like a pack of ants. Allie managed to turn into the horde and let out a battle cry. The others felt a stab of pain as the great horse disappeared from sight. On they
rode.

The riders arrived at Targov less nineteen than when they set out. In they went, and the doors were barricaded behind them. The horde was closing and would be there in minutes. The skirmishers dismounted, grieving the loss of the battle maiden even as they did. Her bravery and sacrifice etched itself onto their hearts, strengthening their resolve. She would not leave a fallen comrade behind. Even though it would have meant certain death, many cursed themselves for not doing the same in her stead. In the end, they knew it did not matter. They were all going to die, but some would go more heroically than others. That much had been made clear. The reality sank in. It had been a good d
eath.

The dead arrived, trampling everything in their path. Many huts and temporary structures fell as though they were made of dry twigs. In a massive clash, the dead crashed into the defenses, immediately dashing them and leaving dozens of their crushed comrades under foot. The forces surrounded the castle completely in under a minute, their massive numbers so thick and deep that they seemed to reach the horizon. Beyond everything the defending Valahians had believed, the worst thing imaginable happ
ened.

The gate was not the problem. The dead intended to scale the walls. Body after body was crushed under the weight of those behind it. They would soon have an incline, made of thousands of smashed bodies, and enter the castle on all sides. So it was that the castle of Targov would be breached, leaving the gate untou
ched.