Authors: Greg Curtis
Chapter Nine.
Five days later, just as they were leaving the Hammeral forests and heading into New Vineland, the party ran into their next threat. Unfortunately they weren't ready for it. They weren't ready for much in truth as they'd been riding hard. Ascollia was in a hurry to reach Ender's Fall, though why he wouldn't say.
Left to himself, Yorik would have liked to have taken his time on the journey. There was nothing good waiting for him ahead, and he would have liked to enjoy the beauty of the forests a little while longer before having to face his fate. But he hadn't been given that chance. Ascollia, a military minded elf, had set a stiff pace for them to keep up, and each night when they'd set camp it was all they could do to eat and rest. Like the elves who had escorted them for the first part of their journey out of the lands of Hammeral it seemed he was in a hurry. A hurry that spoke of panic and fear, even if he would not explain. Always assuming he knew.
It wasn't his hurry. Or at least the urgency wasn't only his. From the haste with which he, Genivere and Ascollia had found themselves hurried on their way, escorted as quickly as possible out of the forests of Hammeral themselves by a party of elven rangers, he knew others were impatient for their journey to end. Myral meanwhile, had left them for the city as they'd been escorted away, walking arm in arm with Annalisse and strangely Yorik found himself missing the querulous wizard. He hadn't even waved farewell as he'd left. Meanwhile Annalisse he had been told was more than just an elderly elf herself. She too was some form of master wizard, and an elder too. She was also the one who had given them their travelling instructions. Long before they'd even arrived.
That he suspected, was her magic at work. Ascollia hadn't confirmed it, in fact he'd been quite reticent about just what her gift was. And Genivere had steadfastly said nothing. But Yorik could think of only two ways she could have known when they'd be arriving. She had either the gift of far sight or foretelling – he wasn't sure which – and with it she had been able to direct others to act before anyone knew that they had to. He suspected that was why she'd left even before they'd been given their instructions. Before he had even had a chance to open his mouth. But then she already knew what he was going to say anyway, and like Myral, she hated wasting her time on foolish questions. In fact the two of them were much alike; contrary and overbearing. That though was a thought that he kept to himself lest it upset the others. The elves were notoriously protective of their elders.
Still, even if they kept things from him the elves were good company, and Ascollia in particular was a great source of information about all things of the forest. He had a sense of humour that could have made the dead laugh, and a detailed knowledge of just about everything elven which he was happy to share, and for some reason Yorik was glad to listen. It took his mind off his troubles, the pain of his past and his uncertain future. And having wandered through the forests of Hammeral for weeks, he was curious. Perhaps, one day, he would have the chance to return. Not as a paladin of course, but perhaps as a man.
It wasn't going to be this day however.
The first Yorik knew that there was trouble was when his armour started glowing, a sure sign that there was dark magic nearby. And strangely too Ascollia's armour did the same. But then it wasn't actually strange as he quickly realised. Despite having explained little or nothing of how there could be rangers of the Order of the Lady among the elves. Despite the fact that it was ranger armour. His armour was the same. It was bound by magic to the Lady, and it carried a trace of her presence. So it reacted exactly as did his. That wasn't strange. That was exactly as it should be.
“Brother.”
Yorik drew his great sword while Ascollia reached for his longbow. A few heartbeats later Genivere reached for her own bow. Then the three of them sat there on their mounts, hunting for the enemy.
“Thoughts?” Ascollia didn't waste words, a sign of a warrior.
“That the grass is long and the last time we were attacked in such lands it was by undead dire wolves hiding in it.”
“Genivere do you have knowledge of the binding of root and leaf?”
Ascollia's was a good suggestion Yorik thought. Even more so when she nodded and started mumbling under her breath. He didn't know if the magic would be powerful enough to hold a dire wolf, but when the long grass wrapped itself around their legs it should slow one down. Unfortunately it also told their enemy that they knew he was near. Yorik discovered that when he watched the first of them rise up from out of the ground.
Undead soldiers, not wolves.
Seeing them rise out of the grass barely fifty paces ahead of them, Yorik hurriedly sheathed his sword and drew his two crossbows. With two bolts apiece they would take out four of the enemy, and given the number that were rising up, he wanted to take out as many as he could before the distance between them closed and they were forced into melee battle.
The others were ahead of him of course, and he watched four of the undead burst into flames even before he'd spoken the Lady's blessing upon his weapons. Six more were burning by the time he'd released all four of his bolts. As he should have expected the elves were capable with their bows.
But the enemy was prepared for them as well. Even as he was reloading his weapons he heard the sound of a horse whinnying in fear and he knew it was bad. He turned instinctively to see that a band of undead archers were standing to one side taking aim. Aphallia had been hit and was snorting in pain, shock and terror. Genivere was having a hard time controlling her. She was a well-trained horse, but she had never been hurt before. Not like that. Not with an arrow to her side.
Seeing her like that Yorik knew instantly what to do. He drew his great sword, screamed his battle cry and charged the undead archers to their left. It was a dangerous thing to do, but not as dangerous as simply remaining where they were and making themselves a target. They were the immediate threat, not the sword and axe wielding soldiers who were held back by the grass.
As he charged, swiftly covering the seventy or so paces between them, the air all around him was filled with arrows. Some from his companions, most from the undead archers themselves. Thankfully they all missed him. The undead were never as fast or accurate as the living, and he knew to ride at an angle towards them, changing directions as he did. It made it harder for them to hit him.
The spells on his armour helped as well, making it harder for the enemy to take aim at him.
By the time they'd loosed their arrows and were reloading, he was among them, and they were falling right and left to his flaming sword. Many of them had already been in flames before he'd reached them and the fire blinded them. It might take a long time for the fire to destroy them, but while they burnt the flames blinded them and they had no idea where he was. That was the advantage he needed and he took it.
Luckily they were a poorly defended and stupid enemy. Whoever was controlling them, or who had instructed them in battle, had told them nothing of dodging; only how to use their bows. So they actually stood there as he charged them down, calmly reloading as if they had all the time in the world, and loosed arrows at him. Unluckily for Yorik their master had also taught them nothing of formations either and so they weren't lined up in an archer's line. That would have made things too easy. Instead he had to constantly change directions as he hunted them down one by one.
That gave them time even as it made him an unpredictable target, and several of them managed to hit him with arrows. They bounced off his armour though, none of them doing him any damage, and soon there were only the outliers of the mob to deal with. Thirty had become ten in short order and soon they would become none.
It was as he was thinking that that he heard another war cry and turned around hurriedly to see that Genivere's spell had not held all the undead warriors at bay. Some of them had broken free of the grass holding their legs and were hurrying towards her as she sat there on her horse loosing arrow after arrow at them. But hers hadn't been the cry he'd heard.
Instead Ascollia had put away his long bow and was charging half a dozen of the undead foot soldiers with a pair of flaming rapiers. Again they too were unprepared for his attack and had no thought of self defence, but in melee combat often attack was a form of defence. They didn't dodge but they still knew enough to strike at him as he charged them. And Ascollia was only lightly armoured.
It was then that Yorik knew they had a problem. He needed to go and stand beside his brother, but he couldn't leave the remaining archers or they would be free to continue loosing arrows at them, and sooner or later they would get lucky. Yet at the same time they were no true threat to a properly armed and armoured paladin. Ideally he should be wading into battle with the foot soldiers while Ascollia was destroying the archers.
“Genivere target the foot soldiers!” He screamed it at the maiden knowing that he had no need of her covering fire and Ascollia did. Then with a hurried prayer to the Lady he continued tearing the undead archers apart, moving as quickly as he could so that he could finish and then go and help his brother.
It took surely less than a minute until the last of them was down, but it seemed like hours. And yet as he worked and the sweat poured down his face, he noticed that Ascollia seemed to be holding his own. In part it was because the foot soldiers were still somewhat held by Genivere's magic and so couldn't rush him as they no doubt intended. But in part it was also due to Ascollia’s exceptional training in the deadly arts. Seeing him in combat Yorik knew him for a brother in arms. He knew and practised many of those same moves himself.
The ranger controlled his horse perfectly with just his knees and a few words, while they wheeled and charged the foot soldiers almost one at a time, and those swords of his were slicing through bone and leathery skin as if they were smoke. By the time Yorik had finished with the last of the archers, severing the top half of its body with a flat strike through its chest, Ascollia was done with his.
That left only another fifteen foot soldiers standing, all of them completely trapped by the grass no matter how they struggled against it, and half of whom were on fire. Yorik charged them, deciding that the sooner this battle was ended and they were all ashes the better. Ascollia had the same idea and they came at the mob from both sides screaming the same war cries.
After that it was carnage. Golden swords flashed like lightning while the rusting steel weapons of their opponents went flying along with pieces of their bodies – arms and heads mostly. The foot soldiers might be stronger opponents than the archers but they were still too slow and lacking in training. Something Yorik assumed was due to their necromantic master's lack of knowledge in battle.
A minute later all of them were gone and the battle was won. All that remained of the undead soldiers were half creatures, still standing where they had. Many were missing heads and arms, some had nothing left of their bodies above the waists, and yet many of them were still moving, still trying to walk. That was disturbing. Watching a pair of legs and a scrap of body still trying to rip itself free of the grass binding its feet was deeply upsetting. And when it was on fire it was even worse.
The one thing Yorik knew though as he surveyed the battle field, was that while the battle was over, it wasn't completely won. Not yet. And as he rode over to his brother in arms he was already calling upon the Lady for her guidance. A moment later he watched as his great sword and arm suddenly aimed at a figure in the distance, behind Genivere. The necromancer. They must have ridden right past him as the necromancer lay in the long grass and never seen him.
As before he too was undead. Very undead. His body was little more than bones and ribbons of leathery flesh covered in strips of decaying cloth. He had no eyes and no tongue, nothing at all of the softer flesh that should be inside a man. But somehow, despite all of that he was muttering. Incanting some sort of spell and even waving his arms about as he tried to rebuild his army. But not for long.
“Genivere!” Yorik called to her as she sat on her horse with her bow still ready looking for more undead. “One more, behind you.”
She turned hurriedly, spotted the necromancer standing there trying to cast his spell, and immediately loosed her flaming arrow at him. A moment later he was on fire.
As he burned he kept trying to cast, but soon the flames completely engulfed his head and body and his movements stopped. Shortly after that the remaining undead soldiers that were still standing, collapsed to the ground.