Rise of the Dead Prince (18 page)

“But there is no such thing as immortality, Meier. Not for we, not for anyone,” Raven explained. “But I digress. The point is that you should not be able to come back, as you have done, so far into the world of the living. The reason is simple. The dead do not dream. Unlife, in a manner of speaking, is already a dream
…
and it is a dark one, shrouded in mist and shadow. Do you understand thus far?” Meier slowly no
dded.

“Again, I think so. What does it mean?” Meier asked. Raven conti
nued.

“I don’t know
…
and as a raven, that confession is
very
unusual. There is a saying among the ravens, an idiom that would best be translated to you as saying ‘when pigs fly,’ but the raven version is ‘when the dead dream.’ Again I digress, but suffice it to say, this means that you are singularly the most unique person I have ever known.” Meier nodded a
gain.

“So that was why you asked me to sleep, yes?” he asked. Raven nodded and clicked his beak. It was a strong affirma
tive.

“Precisely, Meier, and that is why I want you to do this every night as you are able.” Meier was confused but nodded a
gain.

“As you wish, Raven. I will do it, though I do not understand. Why were you so interested in my dreams?” Meier asked honestly. Raven shrugged and spread his wings slig
htly.

“Nothing for you to worry about, Meier. It was an experiment. Not worth explaining.” He was returning to his old self somewhat. Still, his behavior was highly suspect. Meier wondered again what it could mean, but just shrugged and shook his head. What had this all been about? Raven wen
t on.

“Anyway, on to the subject of magic. I do not know if I can teach you, nor do I know that even if I do that it will have even the slightest effect.” Now Meier was beginning to unders
tand.

“It is because I am the anomaly, yes, because I can dream? I don’t see how that matters,” Meier admitted. Raven sighed a
gain.

“There are two distinctive sides to magic, Meier. To simplify I could call them ‘light’ and ‘dark,’ but in truth a better way to put it would be
‘life’
and ‘dark.’ Either side requires a certain state of being to use, and you, quite frankly, do not seem to qualify for either one.” Meier didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. He remembered nothing of this in Crocus’s lecture. Of course, it hadn’t mattered then, or so he thought. As if reading Meier’s mind, Raven conti
nued.

“Undoubtedly, the old man in the castle, the one with the good manners, has taught you something or at least
tried
to teach you. Am I correct?” Raven asked pointedly. Meier made a noncommittal sort of n
oise.

“He did try, Raven, but I confess I don’t remember any of it. His approach was not very
…
direct
…
and I wasn’t paying very close attention,” he admi
tted.

“Well of course, you weren’t!” said Raven, coming back to his old self by degrees, “So let me dumb it down for you. The dead and undead side of magic is dark, and the living side, based in the natural world, is life magic. Now with you being dead, I was going to teach you the dark side. I could do that simply because Ravens are versed in all forms of magic. To us each is like a unique language, and we are fluent in all of them. But you are like some newly emerged patois dialect that doesn’t fit either side. You’re simply too
alive
for dark magic and still far too dead for life magic. I think this means you are stuck with neither.” Meier thought on it. It made sense for the most part. Still one thing nagged on his
mind.

“What would magic have done for me anyway? Shouldn’t I be fine without it? I never needed it before.” Meier was trying to look on the bright side, but Raven would have none of it. He squawked lo
udly.

“Foolish boy!” cawed Raven. “You’ve also never been south of here before. What do you think is waiting for you, eh?” Meier shrugged and admitted that he had no idea. “Bloody right you don’t! Clip my feathers, but if you only knew!” Raven was clearly out of sorts. Meier had never seen him quite like this. And he had been so serene only minutes
ago.

“In any case,” Raven declared, “I have no choice but to try. You’ll have absolutely no chance against a necromancer without it.” Meier raised his eyeb
rows.

“A what?” he asked bemusedly. Raven hopped once on Meier’s
arm.

“A necromancer is a lord of the dead, Meier, an adept user of the dark side of magic. And what’s more
…
this one is the most powerful in probably a hundred human generations! Meier, I hate to say it, but you have essentially no chance of defeating such a person! Still slim, even with magic!” Raven squawked angrily. Meier felt suddenly defl
ated.

“There has to be some way. It’s my destiny, Raven. I can
feel
it!” he retorted loudly. He had not come all this way for nothing. Raven sco
ffed.

“Remember what I told you about destiny? It’s a flawed mind-set, Meier, that inspires humans for reasons unknown, except for what they might have read in a child’s storybook! Look to anyone who ever had a ‘destiny’ and you’ll see that their story omitted the word until after the fact! Destiny, as you call it, is declared
after
great things have already happened, Meier, never before. And as far as
you
are concerned, you’d best wipe the word from your mind, lest it gets you killed
again
, like so many unsung would-be heroes in the ruthless and unforgiving
past!”

Meier felt a wave of overwhelming despondency. Still, he would not surrender his belief that a light would follow this darkness the world was in. He simply
had
to bel
ieve.

“I can go deeper, Raven,” he said steadily, “deeper into the gray world. I know I can. I’ve been afraid to do it so far. Will you teach me dark magic then?” Raven hopped again on Meier’s arm and made his sighing n
oise.

“I already said I would try, Meier. Now for starters, it bears mention that apparently you never once did anything magical, never made anything happen without explanation, never bent anything to your will. Is this correct? Think hard, because this gives us an idea of your potential.” Raven sat, hopping occasionally on Meier’s arm, waiting for his answer. Meier thought
hard.

“I don’t think so, Raven. Is that bad?” he asked. Raven cawed once in a sort of exasperated l
augh.

“Extremely! Given that most wizards start to do things unintentionally at around age ten
…
of course
…
` your people don’t believe in magic, do they?” Raven tilted his head again. Meier shook his
head.

“Not until recent events took place,” he admi
tted.

“So let me get this all straight. You were coached by the old man, sort of. And he saw it in you since when?” asked Raven. Meier thought for a se
cond.

“A few months ago, maybe?” Raven nearly fell from his p
erch.

“Gah! That’s just
great
. You’re the product of a wild, centuries-old recessive gene. Dim as a flicker, dull as a spoon, hopelessly remedial
…
I could go on, but then the real topper is that you are squarely in the middle of the road of life and death. In other words, successfully teaching you magic would be an amazing work of magic in itself. Gah! You’re lucky I’m a raven!” ranted the flustered black bird. Meier took the abuse in stride, but it raised a question he had been wondering about, and there was no time like the present to as
k it.

“Why do ravens know so much about magic?” he asked innocently. Raven was quick to an
swer.

“A fair question, student Meier. We ravens are magic itself, in many ways. We know more than any other living thing about magic, simply because we are the original keepers of magic. There are
…
details
to that statement that I will not explain. In any case, all that mankind knows has been crudely discovered and forgotten many times over. To oversimplify, all that lives is magic, Meier. The mastery of it is counted in knowledge, and we ravens never forget what we have learned.” Meier nodded. The original keepers of magic? Yes, it was his great fortune to have such an instructor. Meier snapped his fin
gers.

“Wait! I remember a strange occurrence. I was about to be killed, er again, by some skeletons, and I yelled
‘stop,’
and for a second, they hesitated. Does that count?” Raven’s small, round eyes got wide for a second. He cawed a laugh. He shook his black head then laughed a
gain.

“Yes, it counts, Meier!” he said at last. “You used dark magic, however briefly, but with no training in it and from a state closer to life than any dark magic user has ever been. One thing I forgot to mention is this, Meier. No human should be able to use dark magic without training! Get into the gray state, my boy! We’re going to see if you can make a
strigoi
dance!” Meier complied, and then they continued s
outh.

25
A Time for Heroes

C
aptain Behren was running out of time. That said, he was still fortunate for the time he had been given. After the initial sighting of the mob of bonewalkers several days prior, it was established that they were comprised of several hundred, and these would have still been a serious threat. Then, for reasons unknown at the time, they had stopped mysteriously. That was the good news, but of course, there was also bad news. The mob had been the first part of the staging. Soon there was a second and then a third. There were now some three thousand or so headed for Targov. Seven hundred was a problem, but three thousand was a nightmare. The pace in Targov was frantic. If it had not been for a serious intervention, Behren’s time would have been up already. King Ian had sent the skirmishers to harry the enemy mob as it advanced. They had marginal success, but the truth was that the fighting men had no experience with this sort of battle. They would have to be quick to learn if they were to survive. When facing what looked to be a well-organized group of bonewalkers, even the fabled skirmishers had proven mostly ineffective. Despite all of this, the morale in Targov was high. Tense, but ready. And it was a good thing too, because ready or not, the dead would be in Targov by night
fall.

A runner darted up the stone stairs, weaving through the guards to the battlement where Behren stood gazing at the growing defensive wall around the town through a brass spyglass. Such a tool was rare to have, but Ian had given it to Behren with his own hands to aid in the defense initiative. He was especially careful in handlin
g it.

The runner knelt at Behren’s side, panting for breath. “Report,” said the captain cu
rtly.

“Sir! The barricades are in place along the perimeter with only a few gaps. The southern approach, per your orders, is completely covered.” Behren took a deep br
eath.

“What did you mean by ‘only a few gaps,’ messenger?” He turned his steely, sky blue gaze to meet the runner’s. The messenger hesitated but answered quickly en
ough.

“Sir, the number of wooden barricades constructed has proven to be insufficient to cover the entirety of the eastern and western approaches to the town proper. As such, several gaps on the outer edge were allowed, the better to maintain the focus on the southern approach.” Behren no
dded.

“Send this message to the acting lieutenants, runner. That is unacceptable! The outer edges are manned by militia men and women, some as young as thirteen years! We will not gamble their lives by leaving flimsy defenses in their areas, solely on the assumption that the skeletons will attack directly from the south. Tell the lieutenants this: Fortify the outer area and leave the gaps, if in fact they are unavoidable, near the very front. To that end, our first goal is to adjust so that there
are
no gaps. We will need to tighten the circle and ensure evacuation outside of it. Tell them to send word the moment the new line is calculated. Do you understand?” The runner sal
uted.

“Yes, sir!” And the runner turned to leave the way he
came.

“One other thing, messenger,” Behren stopped him in midst
ride.

“Sir?” he respo
nded.

“One thing to ask them from me:
How many cows does a fence with gaps hold?
” Behren smiled at the young man. “And if they scorn you, messenger, tell them I’ll come for them myself next time. Ha, ha!” The young man smiled at saluted a
gain.

“Yes, sir!” he said loudly and ran down the battlement steps again. Behren was a strong believer in not blaming the bringers of bad news. These boys and girls had a hard enough job without taking undue abuse. His policy extended to all in his command. He held men and women accountable for their actions, but so many things were out of anyone’s hands these days. Best not to make it worse by being overly strict. Despite this policy, however, Behren was still very firm. He had a reputation for pressing every worker and fighter to the limit. He made sure they all knew what was at stake, and at the end of the day, the results spoke for themselves. Targov City had a nearly perfect defensive wall; and every man, woman, girl, and boy who could swing a shovel was armed as well as could be expe
cted.

Meanwhile in the throne room, Ian and the ministers were coordinating the city’s outer defense. The standing army was depleted and scattered, but around two thousand soldiers were still available. The idea was to use cavalry to hit weak spots then quickly run before being swarmed. One issue they had was that the horses were reluctant to charge into the bonewalkers. Even the most faithful steeds were fearful of these unnatural enemies. The reality was that the main fight would come to the barricades, and at that time, they would need every man and woman off their horse and at the defensive wall. Planning was something of a nightmare. Ian called for all opinions, and he certainly got more than he asked for. Voices were raised in the throne room. Most were somewhat timid in their suggestions. One was clearly
not.

The culprit was the new leader of the skirmishers, handpicked by Ian himself. While Ian admired the man, it would be safe to say that absolutely no one outside the skirmishers did. He was loud, brash, and lacking in social graces. Apart from this, he was also hard to understand, because of his rapid, slurring accent. He was of the nomadic Oameni people, one of Valahia’s ethnic minorities. The man’s name was Sulita, which was a given name that meant “spear” in his native tongue, and his parents might have been prophetic to name him thus, for the man was without equal with the weapon. In fact, he had been given the nickname Quickspear some fifteen years prior, and since then, he was known by nothing else. In appearance, he was of average height, with a build like twisted iron. When he was in his drink, he often invited men to hit him as hard as they could, only to laugh when they bruised their fists. He was olive complexioned, with black hair and blacker eyes, as were all the Oa
meni.

“Ian! Wahderwedoin’ sall far? We can take the fight t’the boneys, but we need the farked spears!” said Quickspear in a chain of emphatic gestures all over the place. When he was agitated his accent thickened. Luckily for all present, he was not quite agitated. At least half the room was wondering what he had said, and the other half had good guesses. Ian understood perfectly. He nodded at Quickspear but had his own resp
onse.

“We already tried the direct approach, Quickspear, and we’re out of time. We can’t outfit the whole army on such little notice.” The ministers and others present turned their eyes to Quickspear, who was looking more exasperated than be
fore.

“We failed befar cous we din have the tools fer’th jab! Th’tools fer th’jab is farked spears! Don’ need the whole army worth, only the front line!” said Quickspear, jabbing into the air. He then whistled loudly enough to make people cover their ears. “Y’fancy a demonstration, eh?” he said again. Ian no
dded.

“Sure, why not?” As he said it, several skirmishers marched into the room carrying a writhing sack. When they got to the front of the platform where Ian sat, they surrounded it on all sides. It became clear what was inside, and the court was thoroughly mortified. Ian was smiling. He enjoyed theatrics. Besides, he knew Quickspear well. He would never endanger the king and certainly not when it was his good fr
iend.

“Here’s a boney far ya!” he said; and the skirmishers, who also understood Quickspear, emptied the sack and stood back, weapons at the ready. From it a headless, armless skeleton fell and clattered onto the cold stone floor. A collective gasp of fear went up through the room as it writhed around and found its foo
ting.

“Wahdaya frightened far? S’ahnly a boney with no freegin arms! It’sa dag with no teeth!” said Quickspear over the commo
tion.

“What is the meaning of this?” yelled the eldest minister and then looked to the king. Ian held up his
hand.

“Would you rather see this creature for the first time as it gouges your eyes, minister?” he asked seriously. The minister, as well as the others, was silenced at once. Still they looked on in ho
rror.

“Tanks, Ian!” said Quickspear, and then with a sudden jerk in the minister’s direction, he caused the man to flinch. “Yar always t’farst t’go, fat man! Ha, ha!” said Quickspear impishly. Ian shook his head at the abuse, and Quickspear just shrugged. “Valanteer from th’crowd?” he asked, but there was no an
swer.

“Ah, you there, bahy,” said Quickspear, pointing to a page toward the back holding a ba
nner.

“I didn’t raise—” said the lad, but Ian just laughed and motioned for the boy to come for
ward.

“It’s all right, lad. You won’t be harmed. Have you ever used a spear?” Ian asked. The boy mumbled something. “Speak up, lad. Say it so all can hear,” Ian said ge
ntly.

“No, my lord,” he said in a loud yet terrified voice. Ian clapped his h
ands.

“Well one way or another, your first time will come today. You might as well get a bit of practice in. Keep in mind there is no better teacher than Quickspear
…
assuming you ever learn to understand him.” There was a murmur of nervous laughter. Quickspear just bowed in a somewhat sarcastic, irreverent
way.

“I
…
am
…
honored,” he said carefully. There it was, they all thought. Proof that the man could speak normally, albeit still with a strong accent. Doing it was apparently just an effort against his upbringing. Dutifully, the page came to the front of the room with banner in hand. Quickspear gave him a quick look over. “Whadaya call that inyar hand?” he asked the boy, who could not have been a day over fourteen years. The boy looked perplexed but then answ
ered.

“A banner? Sir?” Quickspear just cla
pped.

“Looks like a spear! Eh? Give it’ere!” The page obeyed again. Meanwhile, the bonewalker, headless and armless, was being knocked around inside the cage of spears created by the skirmishers. With banner in hand, Quickspear took the boy around the shoulder and guided him to the edge of the circle. The skirmishers widened the circle to make way; and, as if somehow knowing the weak point, the skeleton charged the boy and Quickspear. The boy yelped; but Quickspear, quick as a blink, whipped the banner point forward and knocked the thing on its tail
bone.

“Off with ya!” he yelled, patting the scared boy on the arm and smiling. “It’s all in th’arms! Watch it again!” said Quickspear; and with a second slower thrust, he knocked the sternum of the thing lightly, rocking it backward again slig
htly.

“Now you try, bahy,” he said, putting the banner in the boy’s hands. To aid the first try, Quickspear kept his hands on the shaft as well, and together they knocked the skeleton back again. After that, Quickspear let go and let the boy try alone. The skeleton charged the boy again, and he stabbed wildly forward, missing completely. As it approached the screaming lad, Quickspear grabbed the ribcage with his bare hand and threw it back
ward.

“Dan’t warry bout that one! Try again!” he said encouragingly. Again, the boy stabbed, but failed. “All right! Try this one!” Quickspear said finally and then produced his own spear from the table behind where they stood. The thing was practically double the lad’s height and maybe half as heavy. The boy shook his head, but couldn’t refuse. He took the spear and the back end immediately hit the floor with a clatter. The blade of the spear was a hand’s breadth wide, which tapered down to a keen point. There was a small steel cross beam not far below the blade. The boy looked at Quickspear’s swarthy face, hoping for some assistance. After all, he was making a fool of him
self.

“If’ya want to kill a boney, ya hav’ta brak the spine!” he said so all could all could hear. “Hit th’spine, bahy, just try once, dan’t warry ’bout it. It’s na th’tool fer’th’jab,” he said with a pat on the boy’s back. He smiled at him once; and the boy, taking his cue, let out a war cry and stabbed forward with all his might. Despite the weight of the spear, the page managed to nick the process of the spine below the ribcage, just an inch wide of the column itself. It was a nearly perfect blow, but nearly perfect in a real battle would have been completely ineffective, as the bonewalker approached unhindered once again. This, of course, is exactly what Quickspear was trying to demonstrate. Quickspear clapped and patted the boy on the back a little harder than was comfort
able.

“Th’ bahy’s a natural!” he said loudly. “But it’s na th’tool fer’th’jab! Han’ me’th’farked spear, bahy.” Quickspear pointed to the spear on the table that had been next to his own. The page lifted it up and looked at the difference. They were identical for all purposes, except that the one he held was cover in dust and tarnish. There was one other difference, but it was only from the cross beam up. Instead of a single blade, there were three, and these extra blades stemmed from the base of the first at forty-five degree angles. Like Quickspear had said (in his own peculiar way), it was a forked s
pear.

Quickspear took the spear and held it aloft. “I found this in th’armary in th’ahld wing, covered in’th dust of a handrad years! Plenty mar, three handrad maybe. Found mar on’th walls, mar in’th hands of ahld armar,” he said emphatically. “Try it, bahy. Just like befar. Push ’im hard and twist ’im!” Quickspear exchanged weapons with the boy. The page held the forked spear just as he had the other one, with the butt end rested on the stone floor again because of the weight of it. Again, he let out a war cry as the bonewalker came his way, and again, his thrust was near perfect. This time, the outer prong caught spinal column and stuck there. The skeleton started to tw
itch.