The Beginnings Omnibus: Beginnings 1, 2, 3 & Legend of Ashenclaw novella (Realm of Ashenclaw Beginnings Saga) (14 page)

Shamans of the Chansuk tribe made their way quickly to those suffering the effects of the contagion, chanting to spirits through the din of the battle and asking for healing energies. For the most part, they did their best. Many of the barbarians stood again and renewed their attacks, smashing or slicing into the zombies, reducing them to pieces of rotting flesh.

Saeunn felt the healing of the spirits and was suddenly unburdened by the fatigue. The attack continued and the barbarians’ losses were very few. Both Scarr and Saeunn noticed that Magreth, leading a smaller pocket of barbarians further north, was stumbling and looking fatigued. He was most certainly affected by the same ailment that she had been. The two barbarians pressed on as they were greatly thinning the horde of zombies.

Saeunn jammed her sword through the head of a zombie lying on the floor that she’d placed there with a leap and shoulder check of her own. She held a boot on its head and yanked her sword free, looking around at the waning battle. The tide had turned in the favor of the barbarians. It appeared they were victorious. Scarr approached his daughter and summoned Shaman Syth to his side.

“The unending tide of undead creatures appears to have an end after all,” Scarr smiled. “You fought well, my daughter, as I knew you would. Syth, tend to my son.” He pointed to the north where Magreth knelt in obvious discomfort.

 “I have already asked the spirits to bless him, my lord,” responded Syth.

“Do it again!” Scarr ordered tersely as they advanced through the battlefield, finally making their way to Magreth.

“Aye, my lord. These things are called Blood Rotters,” revealed Syth as he shook a fetish. He followed that up with another incantation spoken in a dialect inherent to the shamans. “Blood Rot Zombies,” he continued. “I have spoken to the spirits and history talks of creatures such as these that make the blood boil. They are born of the purest evil. Their disease is direct and very… deadly.”

Shaman Syth said nothing more and continued to do what he could for Magreth, apparently diminishing the effects of the contagion for the most part as the young barbarian stood in a state of balance. Meanwhile, Scarr and Saeunn aided some of the wounded, helping them to their feet to bring them to one of the shamans for healing aid.

Suddenly, a shout rang out in the distance as a barbarian clearly vocalized: “More coming from the east!”

In the distance formed a second swarm of the Blood Rot Zombies, much larger than the first, heading their way.

It seems this is the day that I meet with The Champion after all, thought Saeunn grimly, as she tightened the grip on the hilt of her greatsword.

Scarr spoke once more, rallying his tribesmen against all odds. “For Chansuk! For The Champion!” he shouted. The barbarians steeled their resolve with each word. They knew that they faced an insurmountable task and that their outlook was bleak. Yet, those that stood smirked at one another, accepting the challenges of battle and grasping their weapons, moving with fervor toward the enemy.

Before any of the barbarians could advance to meet this second wave of Blood Rotters, a confident shaman began to move forward. He strode through the crowd, pushing to the front of the horde of barbarians to stand and face this new wave of dense undeath rushing toward their ranks.

A hush fell over the barbarians as Shaman Syth began speaking a ritualistic incantation as the Blood Rotters closed in. At the completion of the spell, a surging mass of fire erupted from his outstretched hands, engulfing the nearest half dozen of the oncoming creatures in magical flames. Those flames jumped from one creature to the next, and so on. The conflagration seemed to hiss and protest as it consumed the undead, sickly bodies. Soon after, several dozen of the Blood Rotters were ablaze with mystical fires.

The barbarians paused and winced at the sheer intensity of the torrent of flames. They watched as the fire changed color, leaping from zombie to zombie. They continued to gaze upon the phenomenon as the magical flames devoured the nearest ones, reducing their bodies to dust before they could slam into the wall of barbarian flesh behind the shaman.

This was only a brief respite, however, as there was another pack of zombies behind this one and it advanced on the barbarians, emotionless and tirelessly. Scarr feared that the hesitation in the fighting might spark doubt to creep across his people so he roared encouragement: “For Chansuk!”

The warriors turned to their leader, seeing a fierce determination on his face and a look in his eyes that conveyed courage beyond compare.

“For The Champion!” Scarr added for good measure as the barbarians began to rally around his words. The warriors began chanting the mantra in deafening repetition. Scarr felt the frenzy building within as they recited the words in unison.

Then he heard what he thought to be thunder in the distance. It began as a soft, low rumble, and then grew in volume. Now it sounded like rolling claps of thunder over the plains of Wothlondia, promising a coming storm. But suddenly he perceived words through the din. From behind them came a mass of riders, galloping and crying out similar encouragement. The words were distinct now and the compelling chants rang out. “For The Champion!” was followed by “For Greymoors!”

The Greymoors barbarians had arrived.

Kernagos and Rothnarr were at their command, leading the attack on horseback as was their way, and they raced into the throng of undead horrors.

And so, the fight began anew.

Magreth joined the counter attack with the Greymoors on the rear flank of the zombies. They circled to the north in an attempt to drive them south toward the Chansuk tribe. He caught up to his battle brother, Rothnarr, who had jumped to the ground, preferring to fight beside Magreth.

Although the barbarians themselves did not have the magical fire of their shamans, they did carry torches with one end soaked in oil. Magreth, with as cunning a mind as his father, immediately withdrew his torch. As he ran past a Blood Rotter corpse still engulfed in flames, he plunged it into the conflagration to ignite it.

“Fight with fire, barbarians!” called Magreth, holding his battleaxe aloft in one hand and the blazing torch in the other. “They will burn and die quickly! They cannot survive it!”

“Nor can they survive without their heads, brother,” observed Rothnarr with a grin upon his face, glancing at his sword. Magreth looked at his battle-brother and gave a hearty laugh.

The barbarians nearest him followed suit and began to ignite their own torches. They charged into the masses of the Blood Rotter army, torches and blades at the ready. They moved as one, cutting and burning their way through the zombie horde. The undead were single-minded, though, ignoring the threat of the fire and looking only for flesh upon which to feast.

“It is good to see you again, brother,” Rothnarr smiled at Magreth as he sliced a zombie’s head off. Magreth then shoved his torch into its body, setting it ablaze.

“And you, brother,” Magreth replied, butting his brow onto Rothnarr’s own.

”Perhaps you will yet achieve the mark of heroes upon your arms!” teased the blonde barbarian, motioning to a specific tattoo on his own right shoulder.

“It is good to have you fighting at my side again, too,” answered Magreth with a grunt, ignoring the remark and kicking a zombie in the chest, knocking it to the ground and burning it just as quickly.

He turned too late to see another of the Blood Rotters closing on him. Rothnarr cleaved its legs in two at the knees just before it reached Magreth, and its upper torso fell flat onto the ground with a thud. The son of Scarr took that opportunity to sever the thing’s head and then set all the limbs ablaze by pouring a flagon of oil upon its body parts. The stench of the burning, contaminated bodies was enough to make the barbarians reflexively gag and cough while pressing on with their assault. The entire area was lighting up in the sunset, bathing the battlefield in artificial light. Barbarians on foot and on horseback continued their assault on the Blood Rotters as the sun continued to sink into the clouds to the west.

The two barbarians moved in a semi-circular fashion, herding the Blood Rotters and forcing them toward the rest of the force and away from the villages of Chansuk and Greymoors alike. They were weary. Magreth realized that they’d been fighting for the better part of the day.

As they dropped the last of the straggling creatures, Magreth saw something appear on his flank. From out of the dense brush came a sudden bolt of lightning. It struck Rothnarr, lifting him off the ground and sending him into the air, some twenty or so feet. A second bolt jumped from Rothnarr and landed upon Magreth’s flesh, shocking him and knocking him to the ground. It seemed to merely send a tingle through Magreth while Rothnarr received the worst of it.

Magreth watched as Rothnarr landed hard on the wet ground and fell limp, his weapon lost to him. He was unmoving, which a handful of the Blood Rotters noted and so began to move toward him. Magreth returned his attention from Rothnarr to the hideous creature responsible for the bolt of lightning. It looked similar to the Blood Rotters, but seemed different. A headdress rested unconventionally atop its head and a noble’s robe was draped over its bloated bulk. That clearly defined it as something altogether greater than the others—and certainly more deadly, judging by the arcane power it possessed.

Magreth watched as it cocked its head at him in a manner that suggested a base cunning or intelligence. The thing moved its hands wildly and spoke something incoherent. Magreth began to sprint away. The undead mage unleashed another bolt of lightning meant for him. He instinctively ran in a zigzag pattern so the bolt landed directly to his right, singeing some of the dark hair along his arm as it scorched the ground next to him.

He looked back to see what had happened to Rothnarr, but was out of sight of his friend. He was in dire straits himself as the zombie mage shuffled quickly after him, forcing him away from Rothnarr. Magreth attempted to move back toward his fallen battle-brother, but a third lightning bolt forced him still further away as he had to tuck his body tightly into a roll, finding cover behind a nearby thicket of trees. He was not sure how much longer he would be able to continue this game of cat and mouse, he thought, worried that Rothnarr was already dead.