Ferral's Deathmarch Army

9

  Ferral’s Deathmarch Army

  The demon walked at a slow pace for a while, not caring how long it took her to complete the next part of the journey. For just a brief moment, the only thing she wanted to do was feel the wind on her face, touch the high grass that surrounded her, listen to the quiet of the night. Those were simple pleasures that she rarely noticed any more. They were memories she often tried to forget, no longer wanting to remember.

  Tonight was different. The demon did not feel like obeying Ferral. She did not want to move these mindless creatures westward, but she could do little about it. The demon had done the one thing that she could to defy Ferral and their master. Now, Allisia was in better hands. The demon could no longer shape the future, at least where Allisia was concerned. Ferral was on guard now against her disobedience, though he was too injured to understand how she had helped Allisia. His magic and power were growing, and she could no longer resist him. If he called for her, she would have to obey.

  The demon knew she was closing in on another settlement when the dead started walking with more sense of purpose. For most of the westward journey, the army required her to exert her willpower to herd them along, but whenever they sensed the living, the dead moved with quiet efficiency straight for their prey. She had seen it many times over the last week and knew what would happen. The dead were drawn to the strong life-force of those secure in their future, to those that had much to lose. Though they showed no emotion, the demon thought the dead somehow resented the living for being alive. Since they could no longer enjoy life, the dead sought to destroy anything they could not have. Ferral manipulated his living minions in the same way, the Belarnian officers and priests that followed the sorcerer-king killed for him because they hoped to obtain things they did not have: money, power, recognition, and their assured survival.

  The echo of dogs barking reached her long before she saw the village.

  She could even hear the frightened people whispering to themselves.

  “What’s out there?”

  “I don’t know. Whatever it is sure has gotten the animals agitated.”

  “Do you think that king and his friend were right? Do you think they’re coming for us?”

  “Bah, we’ve got more important things to do than listen to ghost stories. Come back into the house, Margie. It’s probably just a pack of wild dogs or something. It’s nothing that’ll bother us.”

  The demon heard their door shut and the bolt slide into place.

  There was no reaction on her face. The demon was beyond sympathy, beyond rage. Thousands had joined Ferral’s army since she started guiding it away from Belarn and toward the Holtsmen. Thousands more would join it before she left the plains.

  The demon crested the last rise before coming to the village. The dogs barked much louder now. She could even hear some horses in their stables, begging in their simple language to be let loose. Their misery would end soon enough. Animals were not subject to Ferral’s curse; they did not return to do his bidding. Only humans would be raised, creatures with minds and souls that should have been strong enough to never let something like this happen in the first place.

  The dead detoured around the demon as they continued forward toward the village. Even the dead acknowledged the evil forces at work within her, and respected it. They had little left within them still human; they could only feel an intense hunger—not to feed but to destroy. They could see, hear, and hold simple objects. And the dead could sense an overwhelming, evil power controlled them—like Ferral’s power, like her power.

  They’re not much different than others throughout history, the demon supposed. It doesn’t take much for a cruel man to manipulate his fellow men, convincing them to do murder and worse. The dead are just another form of mass hysteria.

  She watched a man look at the approaching army from his porch. He stood frozen for a few moments, not trusting his eyes. Shaking himself out of his shock, he hurried back into his home. The demon ignored the sounds of panic coming from the house. The dead already tore at the doors and windows.

  Someone, a woman, screamed as the first creature broke through into the main room. A man shouted, and the woman pleaded for mercy, but then their agonized screams filled the night. Those that had not yet seen the dead knew something was wrong. No human could block out the screams of the dying. Still, the demon ignored the individual scenes of murder surrounding her.

  She continued down the single, dirt road past small homes and neatly trimmed yards. She passed shops, barns, and a blacksmith’s forge. This was an ordinary, quiet place, a place that had never done anything to deserve such injustice.

  None of the towns we have entered have done anything to deserve this, the demon reminded herself. Ferral was wrong. You can’t change the world by forcing others to worship the way you want them to. You can’t murder innocents in the name of a god.

  That logic would not stop the dead; they were beyond reason or caring. They were inhuman machines that could serve only one purpose.

  Now, the screams rose from a hundred different homes. A few of them caught fire, casting wild shadows across the street. Some villagers tried to escape into the open plains. A few of the dead started toward them at a lumbering pace but almost immediately turned their attention back toward the living trapped within the village. The demon always found it interesting to watch the creatures. They seemed to have some sort of built in gauge, some way of telling which of their prey was closest even if they could not ‘see’ them with their necrotic eyes.

  Perhaps that is because it is easier for them to surround their victims, ensuring they cannot escape. She watched those lucky enough to flee into the night. It really doesn’t matter. The army is so large that they are bound to stumble into more of the creatures before dawn. In the end, they will all serve Ferral.

  By the time the demon reached the other side of the village, hundreds more had joined the Deathmarch Army. They stumbled toward her, regrouping after the clumsy attack. Still giving her a wide berth, the dead waited for her next command.

  Without looking at them, without taking notice of the new faces that had joined Ferral’s Army, she lifted her hand and pointed west. The dead hesitated only a few moments before returning to their shuffling march toward more victims. As their ultimate objective grew nearer, the demon knew she would not have to direct them as much. The life force emanating from the mountains to the west grew stronger with every step. Soon, the dead would know where to go without her.

  The demon suddenly stopped. Beyond the sickening stench of the dead, a familiar scent lingered in the air. She lifted her head and took in a deep breath.

  Mikhal was here, maybe less than a week ago.

  She felt an immediate desire to go to him, to spy on him and learn as much as she could. The demon could not understand why she was drawn to the cavalier. He had done nothing special to merit her attention, yet she could not help but think of him.

  The demon tried to push him out of her mind. She did not need or want to be haunted by dreams of things she could not have.

  I am a demon of Hell. I have only one purpose … to destroy what is good.

  She pulled the hood of her cloak back over her head and started walking west among the dead that could feel nothing—that could care for nothing.

  The demon rarely dreamed. Sleep did not give her rest, but her mind sometimes wandered while she guided the dead. She remembered the first time she saw Mikhal. They caught each other’s eye inside the Duellrian palace. His face was full of honesty and concern, and even desire, she thought. She also remembered how he reacted after she transformed into the monster. Mikhal was fierce and determined as he stood his ground to protect his prince.

  The demon thought Mikhal must be of a proud lineage the way he led others and tried to protect Kristian from harm. She imagined what it might be like to have his love. She already felt an intense desire for him. The simple thought of Mikhal kindled a heat within her that burned
more intense than the raging anger she felt as a demon. It left her wanting to see him again, to be with him, to feel safe and secure. In that moment, the demon thought she might be capable of loving Mikhal, not just with physical desire but with the kind of love that sought the best for the other person. The kind of love that transcended all bonds and oaths.

  Her feelings of safety and love evaporated then, replaced by feelings of disgust and self-loathing, separation, and a lack of hope. She felt the black, empty loneliness that was her personal hell. Mikhal would never return her love. They both knew her nature, knew the things she had done and continued to do.

  Night after tormented night, the demon marched Ferral’s army until they reached their destination. Once there, the demon raised her hand and the thousands of dead halted their stumbling advance. She stood at the crest of a hill and stared at the massive, solitary wall of granite that erupted up into the night sky. The mountain, at least five thousand feet tall, stretched for miles to the north and south. A wide, rock strewn valley would lead her and the army up the final slope toward the gates of the Holt.

  The defenses impressed even her. With her massive army and her own enormous power, it would still take time to destroy this fortress. The walls connected two jagged ridgelines that came down from the solitary peak, covering the last portion of the valley. The ground was rugged; the sixty foot stone wall followed the contour of the valley floor, like a deceptively beautiful wave. At regular intervals, squat, round towers jutted up from the wall.

  She could see sentry fires and a catapult on each of the towers.

  Beyond the towers and walls was her prize; the first clan of the Holtsmen—the Chieftain of the Cougar Holt and his people. A single, columned entry allowed access into the holt—a doorway into the heart of the mountain, but to get to it, the dead would have to breach the walls and gate.

  Ferral wanted the Holtsmen destroyed so that they could not stop his plans, but the demon also wanted them obliterated. She no longer remembered what her grievance against these people might be, but the hatred in her boiled to the surface. She would finally let her inner-monster loose on these mountain warriors.

  The demon commanded the dead to stay hidden in the darkness while she approached the single gate.

  “Ostuglaitia klub!” a harsh voice barked at her from atop the wall.

  She continued a few more steps before stopping but did not lift her head to look at the guard far above her. The demon just stood there, her red cloak hiding her face and body within a curtain of darkness.

  “Ktoi tubai klub? Chtoi tubai nuzha?” the guard demanded of her. Who are you? What do you want?

  She called out in their language, “My master wishes me to pay homage to the great clans of the Holtsmen. Ferral, King of Belarn, proclaims himself the Great Prophet of Belatarn and wishes for all people of Erinia to acknowledge his god and Belarn’s supremacy over the other kingdoms of this land.

  “Open your gates embrace Belatarn and join his army,” she declared.

  The man laughed at her. He then echoed her words to his companions up on the wall, and they laughed also. The guards did nothing to her, confident that she could do nothing to harm them.

  The demon smiled and raised her hand.

  The guards watched her carefully seeing no danger in a single woman. Soon, they heard the shuffling of thousands of feet and the jingling of armor and weapons.

  One of the guards cried out a warning. In response, fires sprang up all along the wall. The shadows around the demon receded, and the first few lines of dead emerged from the darkness.

  She heard the surprised gasps coming from the walls. Even if Ferral’s Deathmarch Army were human, its numbers would be enough to send fear into any man.

  One of the guards launched a stout arrow. The steel head penetrated the soft, leather armor of a dead Duellrian soldier, making a soft, sickening sound. The dead thing barely registered the impact of the missile and continued toward the wall.

  More and more arrows flew toward the creatures that passed to either side of the demon. None of them had any effect. The demon compared the dead to ants that have identified an obstacle between them and a source of food. They swarmed the gate and towers and started climbing over each other; their rotting hands grasping for the living above them.

  The Holtsmen realized then what they faced. Many of the younger warriors retreated from the wall, but sergeants barked orders and they moved back into position. The stalwart captain of the guards motioned for a ballista to fire into the seething mass below. The larger missile slammed into several of the creatures, tearing two of the creatures into pieces. Otherwise, it had little effect. Those knocked down, even the ones missing a hand or arm, stood again and continued toward the wall.

  Finally, one of the guards loosed an arrow at the demon. She sensed its approach but let the missile hit her. The steel tip bent away from her skin, and the shaft shattered in hundreds of splinters. Several more arrows flew at her, all of them bouncing away, doing no damage.

  By dawn, the men on the bulwarks were exhausted. Nothing had repelled the creatures. They swarmed over each other until their mounded bodies threatened to reach the top of the wall. Only fire and oil seemed to have any lasting effect, but the warriors already knew they did not have enough to destroy even a tenth of the army. They looked down, dumbfounded, at the creatures that stared blank-faced back up at them. There was nothing for them to do but wait for the corpses to reach the wall and push them back down.

  The light of the morning sun spread across the valley floor inching toward the wall. With its touch, the creatures fell to the ground motionless.

  The Holtsmen looked out across the valley counting the creatures, but the size of the army made the endeavor impossible. Some estimated more than twenty thousand dead at the walls of their fortress.

  Only the demon, in her simple red cloak, still stood before the gate, as silent and motionless as she had been through the entire attack.

  The gate opened after long discussion, and a band of Holtsmen moved out in a protective wedge. They were impressive in their gleaming, decorated armor and shields; their swords and axes were long and powerful—made for strong and fierce men. The demon did not move. The men were of no consequence to her.

  The Holtsmen avoided her, having heard the reports of how arrows, and even ballista missiles, shattered when they hit her. Instead, they hacked at the dead creatures lying on the ground.

  The demon then understood their strategy. They will hack off the limbs of the creatures so they can no longer climb or hold weapons. She could not allow this to happen.

  As she transformed into the monster, growing to overshadow them, the men shrank away from her. The demon laughed and then growled at them. Then the growl grew into a howl of rage and bloodlust.

  One of the Holtsmen charged forward. Calling out the name of his clan, he chopped at the monster’s abdomen with his axe. The blade shattered on its scaly hide just like the arrows. Some of the shards of metal ricocheted back toward the man and into his face. He barely had time to register this, though, before the demon grabbed him by the head with one massive, clawed hand. It twisted the Holtsman’s head completely around and then flung the body back at his companions.

  Infuriated by his death, the remaining warriors charged. Some lunged at it with spears while others tried to get close enough to use their swords and axes.

  Their attacks failed utterly. The demon ignored the strikes upon its back and legs. It grabbed the men at will and pulled them apart or threw them back over the wall.

  When the demon finished, one hundred warriors lay dead around her. It snarled at the guards’ lifeless bodies and then roared up a challenge to those watching in horror from the walls. The men shrank away from her, fearing for their lives.

  The demon returned to her human form, pulling the shredded remains of her cloak back over her body. She decided not to continue the attack but to wait for the sun to fall behind the soli
tary mountain. Then the dead would again rise up and continue their relentless assault.