Age of the Undead, page 2
part #1 of Zombicide Black Plague Series
“The snake has lost its head,” observed the man in the crypt, a thin smile twisting his face. The High Marshal was the only one who might have prevented the army from disintegrating into a rout. With him gone, the battle was lost. Now the massacre would begin.
The mages sent by the Wizards’ Guild tried their best to wither the horde’s numbers by loosing powerful spells on the undead. Clutches of zombies were immolated in arcane fire or frozen in blocks of enchanted ice, but the enemy weren’t without their own magic. Several necromancers, set to supervise the walking dead, employed their own spells to counter those of the wizards. Sorcerous duels fought in the minds and wills of the combatants, the skill and discipline of the mages might have prevailed over the unrestrained recklessness of their opponents but for the fact the necromancers didn’t need to overcome their adversaries. They needed only to keep the wizards occupied long enough for the tide of zombies to wash over them. With the morale of the archers broken, with the infantry too far away to protect them, the wizards and their retainers were unable to stave off disaster. One after another, they were brought down by packs of slavering undead.
“Carnage,” the observer declared, as he gazed on the finish of the battle. Only a small portion of the army escaped the zombie hosts. Many of those who fell to the horde rose again to increase their ranks. In the end, far from exterminating the zombies, High Marshal Konreid had doubled their numbers.
“Now it’s our turn,” the man whispered. He willed the crystal to show him not things already past, but events that were still unfolding. Not all of the necromancers had gone to the southern swamps to participate in the great ritual, but these too had their part in the cabal’s plan. With the army gone away to fight the horde, they now set upon their own conjurations. Many of them had received relics to facilitate their magic and allow their spells to draw upon the morbid Darkness. The observer had a moment of terrified uncertainty. The artifacts were by nature evil and their power unpredictable, ever ready to twist the desires of those who called upon them into unintended nightmares. For now, at least, the dread forces evoked by the necromancers were obedient. In hamlets and villages, towns and cities across the northern Duchy of Mordava, the dead stirred in their graves. From scores of graveyards, zombies emerged to attack the living.
“All the kingdom is beset,” the man declared. He glanced around at the walls of the vault, his senses keyed to the least sign of motion. Even the rats were still now, as though the vermin sensed the hideous power at work in the land.
“Eye of Darkness, past and present you’ve shown.” The observer leaned over the crimson crystal and set his hand across it. His body trembled as he fought to impose his will upon the orb. “Now show me those things which are yet to be…”
Red shadows flickered through the vault, sending the rats scurrying for shelter. There was a sharp crack as the staff clattered to the floor. The intruder clasped one hand to his chest and groaned in agony. The Eye of Darkness was a potent artifact… but its greatest powers demanded a price.
Chapter One
The armored rider crested the hill just as night fell upon the village of Mertz. He strained his eyes but not so much as the flicker of a rushlight shone from the community. He’d ridden long and far to reach this place, but it wasn’t the homecoming he’d expected. A chill crept down his spine. There was something menacing, almost predatory about the darkened buildings. The only sound that rose from the place was the whistle of the wind through the thatch roofs and the groan of the waterwheel outside the mill. In vain did he try to pick out the drift of smoke rising from a chimney. Nothing… just the desolation of a forsaken place.
The rider urged his steed away from the village. The horse staggered as it turned onto the path that wound up the hill above the village. The walls and battlements of a castle reared up, dark shadows against the night sky. Even less sign of life exuded from the bleak fortress. No watchfires in the towers, no sound of activity from the keep, no moonlight shining from the helm of a sentry at the battlements. Just the same silent menace as the village.
From the castle, however, the rider would not turn. He’d driven his horse hard to reach this place, crossing half the province to find his way here, sparing neither himself nor his steed. The knight was one of the few survivors of King Heinrich’s army. Two days in the saddle since the disastrous battle with the undead. In that time, he’d passed through a landscape ravaged by evil, finding no succor in village or hamlet. From this castle, however, the knight would not turn. For his name was Alaric von Mertz, and this was his home.
The doughty warhorse, accustomed to carrying its armored rider into battle but not bearing his weight for hours on end, finally surrendered to exhaustion. The animal had no sooner started up the slope toward the castle than a tremendous shiver swept through its powerful frame. It wilted to the ground, giving Alaric just enough time to slip his feet from the stirrups before his mount rolled onto its side.
“Poor Thunderstrike,” Alaric said, leaning over the horse and running his hand down its froth-flecked neck. The destrier had endured beyond any reasonable expectation. If he could have spared it time to rest he would have, but to linger even an hour in zombie-infested country was to court disaster. More, there was his fear for his family, a driving passion that pushed him on against all restraint. The long-serving Thunderstrike had paid for his determination. The animal would be helpless for days, if indeed it could recover from the exertion he’d demanded of it. Alaric looked back at the darkened village with its aura of malice. How many zombies might be hiding in those shadows, waiting to strike out at the living? Through his mind flashed images of steeds brought down during the battle and how they’d been torn apart by the undead.
“That much, at least, I can spare you old friend.” Tears glimmered in the knight’s eyes as he drew the dagger from his belt. He stroked the horse’s mane, nerving himself for what he had to do. His dagger struck true. A shiver, and Thunderstrike was beyond the pain of its passing and the threat of zombie teeth.
Alaric turned away from the dead warhorse and climbed the path up to the castle. He tried to quell the dread that swelled within him with each step and cling to the last tatters of hope. Someone was alive! They had to be! The silence, the lack of light, it was all because the Baron was taking precautions against attracting any packs of zombies to the castle. Over and over, he repeated the idea in muted whispers. He was almost able to convince himself it might even be true.
It was the sight of the main gate that ended Alaric’s happy illusions. The drawbridge was down and the portcullis raised. The castle’s defenses would never be lowered if the Baron still held command. His noble father was strict and precise in his way of doing things. Habits honed by years on the frontier fighting orcs were ingrained into Baron Gerhoelt von Mertz so deeply that they formed the backbone of his character. Even when he’d been awarded a demesne far from the border, the Baron never lost the caution that enabled him to survive years of skirmishes and ambushes.
Alaric drew his broadsword as he approached the yawning gate. The darkness of night made it difficult for him to be certain, but it seemed the surface of the drawbridge was splotched and stained. He leaned down to get a closer look, but as he did, his eyes caught something floating on the surface of the moat below. It was pale enough to contrast with the murky water and there was no mistaking its distinctive outline. The object was a human hand, severed at the wrist.
Hope dies hard in a desperate man. Alaric could no longer delude himself that his home had escaped the plague sweeping the land. Still, it was just possible some of the household had managed to barricade themselves in one of the rooms. He didn’t know how long any such survivors could hold out, but if they were in the castle, he would find them. He put two mailed fingers to his lips and whispered a prayer to the God of Justice that some of his family were still alive. It was too much to expect the old Baron to have run from a fight, but his mother, sister, and younger brother were a different matter. It took all his self-restraint to keep from shouting their names as he rushed into the courtyard.
The place was a shambles. Broken arrows and splintered shields were strewn about the paving stones. A flock of hideous black crows gamboled about the shattered remains of the stables, picking at the mangled carrion in the stalls. Slumped against the base of a watchtower, Alaric found the final proof to what had happened here. It was a corpse with an axe buried in its skull, but the advanced decay of the body told that it hadn’t been truly alive when it suffered the blow that ended its existence. He’d seen enough zombies to recognize this carcass for one of them.
The door to the watchtower was broken down. A quick glance across the courtyard showed Alaric that the one opposite it had likewise been forced. He doubted if any of the inner doors would have withstood anything that could smash the steel-banded outer portals. If there were survivors here, he’d have to look elsewhere.
Warily, Alaric circled the courtyard and approached the keep. He saw the broken heft of a halberd and a horribly mangled body dressed in the von Mertz livery. The zombies had shown the man-at-arms such attention that there wasn’t enough left of the soldier to join the undead. Not enough face left for Alaric to put a name to the warrior. Whoever he’d been, the knight prayed the man had given a good account before his finish and that he’d already been dead when the zombies tore into him with their teeth and claws.
The massive doors at the front of the keep had been torn from their frame and lay sprawled across the corridor beyond. There was even less light inside than there was in the courtyard, but Alaric didn’t need illumination to pick his way through these halls. This was his home, the place he’d grown up. He knew it as well as he knew the back of his own hand. It took him only a moment to orient himself. He tried to think where the best place was for someone to try and hide from the undead and finally decided to start in the chapel. He’d seen for himself that the roadside shrines and village temples had offered no sanctuary from the zombies, but others couldn’t be expected to know that. They’d try to seek protection from the gods when force of arms wasn’t enough. If anyone had survived the initial onslaught, he expected to find evidence of them in the chapel. Perhaps even a clue to where they’d gone from there if, indeed, the zombies had left them anywhere to run to.
As he moved through the dreary halls, Alaric stumbled over the many objects strewn about the floor. Proof that there had been fighting here as well as outside. Some of the things he brushed against he thought must be overturned braziers and upended chairs. Others he was certain were discarded swords and helmets. Once he almost tripped over something that gave under his boot and made a sucking noise when he withdrew his foot. He tried not to think of what it was… or who it had once been.
Though he could find his route through the keep, his frequent encounters with obstacles wore on Alaric’s nerves. What else might be waiting there in the darkness? The knight could find his way through the halls, but he had no way of knowing what else might be in those corridors with him. He strained his ears, listening for any sound that might betray the lurking undead if they lurched into sudden motion. So intense was his concentration that the slightest noise he made felt to him like the roar of a dragon. He paused, focusing on the blackness around him, trying to will it into surrendering its secrets to him.
Alaric’s crazed wish seemed to be granted when a tiny light disturbed the gloom. He blinked, wondering if the strain had been too much on his eyes, but the light remained when he opened them again. Just the smallest glow, like a little firefly flitting across a meadow. If the surrounding darkness wasn’t so complete, he doubted he’d have noticed it at all. Notice it he did, however, and a thrill rushed through him when he realized where the light was coming from.
It was in the chapel!
The knight hurried to the room, pushing open the barred gates. “Who’s there?” he called out.
The light was somewhere down near the altar. He had only a momentary glimpse of a human shape, little more than an outline, before the illumination was obscured. “It’s me, Alaric,” he said, trying to allay the fears of whoever was in the chapel.
“Keep your voice down,” a scolding voice hissed at him from the shadows. Alaric winced at the reprimand, knowing himself to be in the wrong. There was no knowing what else might be within earshot.
The knight didn’t call out again, but he speedily made his way down to the altar. He kept a firm grip on his sword as he advanced, wary lest his incautious appeals had been noticed elsewhere. Alaric was brought up short when he saw the light again, shining from the floor just to the right of the altar. It was a wax candle, like any of hundreds that would normally illuminate the keep’s chambers. Something about it, though, excited his suspicions. He spun around to the left side of the altar. By the candlelight, he saw a figure brandishing a dagger. The shape drew back when his sword turned towards it.
“Now there’s a hostile greeting for you.” The voice was the same that had scolded Alaric earlier. It belonged to a stocky man with dark, close-cropped hair and a rough, haggard face.
Alaric kept the tip of his sword pointed at the man. He wasn’t unknown to the knight. Neither was the burgundy doublet he was wearing or the dagger in his hand. The doublet was from his brother’s wardrobe, the dagger was one he’d seen many times hanging from the belt of the castle’s seneschal. He might have expected, if anyone in the castle would be slippery enough to escape the zombie horde, it would be this rogue. “Gaiseric,” the knight said, finally putting name to the man. “The last I saw of you, the Baron had you locked safely away in the dungeon.”
An awkward smile pulled at Gaiseric’s face. “All a misunderstanding,” he insisted. “Your father thought better of keeping me chained after you left. I mean, after all, to imprison a competent, hale…”
The knight’s eyes narrowed. “The Baron wanted to hang you,” he reminded Gaiseric. “I persuaded him to be lenient. He didn’t think too much of someone who’d steal from the village temple.” Alaric’s eyes darted to the rogue’s other hand. He spotted one of the golden icons that should have been on the altar in the little man’s hand.
“The deacon shouldn’t have left the window open,” Gaiseric protested. “It’s tantamount to deliberately encouraging sin from people with compromised willpower. You’d not hold it against a fox for taking bait from a trap, would you?”
Alaric groaned deep inside himself. He couldn’t explain even to himself why he felt so charitable toward Gaiseric. Maybe it was the unabashed boldness of the thief, a bravado more to be expected from a swordsman than a burglar. The knight always respected courage, and however larcenous Gaiseric might be, it was hard to deny that he was brave as well. Perhaps, had he been born to a higher station rather than the son of a cutthroat who was hanged for cattle rustling, he’d have proven himself a dependable comrade-in-arms.
“I wouldn’t set the fox free to do it again,” Alaric stated, reminding himself that Gaiseric was a thief just the same. He stepped forward, pressing the tip of his sword against the rogue’s neck. “My father didn’t let you go. What happened here?”
Gaiseric’s visage grew somber. “You won’t like what I have to tell you. I’m sorry about that.” He glanced fearfully toward the entrance to the chapel. “We’d best keep our voices low and our eyes open.”
“I’m keeping my eyes on you,” Alaric returned. “Wotun’s Scales aren’t the only thing you’ve stolen from the castle,” he added, plucking at the rich doublet Gaiseric was wearing.
The thief shook his head. “I took what nobody had use for,” he said. There was an unexpected note of sympathy in his tone. Alaric could see the regret in Gaiseric’s expression when he spoke. “You saved me from the hangman, and I wish it wasn’t an ill coin I had to repay you with.”
Alaric felt the last flicker of hope dying inside of him. “What happened to my family?” he demanded.
Gaiseric lowered his eyes. “They’re dead. Everyone in the castle.” A visible shudder pulsed through the thief. “I escaped only because I was in the dungeon.”
The knight moved his sword away and grabbed Gaiseric by the collar instead. His fingers twisted in the rich cloth, tightening it around the rogue’s neck. “What happened here?” he growled.
“Zombies,” Gaiseric replied, horror in his face. “Even in the dungeon, I could hear the screams, the sound of doors being battered down. So much screaming…” He lost himself for a moment in the grisly memory. The scene must have been truly horrible to rattle the thief in such a manner. It took Alaric shaking him to draw him back into his account. “Eventually everything went quiet. Then they came down into the dungeon looking for me.” Again, the thief shuddered. “There must have been dozens of them… zombies… each more horrible to look on than the next. Some looked almost alive but for some ugly wound where they’d been bitten by the undead. Others were so decayed I couldn’t understand how they could be moving around. The worst was Otto Grueber, the farmer they buried last spring after he fell under his own plow. His flesh was completely rotten with worms still crawling through it…”
Alaric shook the thief again as the horror of his experience threatened to overcome him once more. “How did you escape?”
The question caused Gaiseric to laugh, but he quickly checked his merriment and cast an anxious look at the corridor outside the chapel. “The hall between the cells is narrow,” he said. “Only one zombie at a time could try to break down the door to my cell and it was too much for them to manage. While a zombie was scratching at the door, I made my own way out.”
Alaric shook his head. Twice before Gaiseric had found a way out of the dungeons. They’d always thought he’d bribed the jailer or somehow picked the lock. Different jailers and new locks, however, didn’t prevent further escapes. “How did…”
