Rags & Bones
The words: "At least it’s a dry heat," didn’t comfort Tyr the Nomad. A stove containing a roaring fire had a dry heat, but he wasn’t going to stick his head in it.
The northern islands of Khamorrah didn’t prepare him for the heat of the Lemurian desert in summertime. Tyr was beginning to wonder if the sun had something personal against him.
At least the work that brought him to this baking wasteland was easy. An army from the witch-realm of Stygia had invaded Lemuria’s vast Kolloman Empire. The Kolloman Emperor asked the northern Borean kings for assistance in repelling the demon worshippers.
The Borean kings put aside their many differences to fight their mutual enemy by recruiting professional mercenaries to assist the Kollomans. Tyr answered the call, tempted by good pay and especially adventure in an exotic land. He had not been called ‘The Nomad’ for nothing.
An experienced veteran by the age of twenty-six, Tyr was made a high-sergeant and given the task of turning local farmers and shepherds into soldiers.
At first, Tyr didn’t know how easy this job was going to be. He set up a regimen and the men, all eager to defend their families and long hardened to physical labour, had thrived under it. They were becoming good soldiers, ready to follow their commander, Captain Akhab, into battle, and many were just tough enough to make it back out again.
However, that wasn’t the easy part of the job. That came when the Emperor’s elite warriors, the Rasha’Dahr, unleashed their fury and the Stygian invasion collapsed faster than a cheap tent in a sandstorm.
It looked like the conflict was going to end before Tyr could even draw his sword. If it weren’t for the ungodly heat this would have been the easiest war Tyr had ever seen.
Some recruits griped about missing the glory and action, but Tyr knew how lucky they really were. He had faced the followers of the Dark Lord of Serpents in battle before, and he had found them fierce, cruel, and totally ruthless. The truly fanatical disregarded fear, pain, or even death. He once saw an entire battalion cover themselves in oil that they then set ablaze. The burning fanatics then charged, their weapons swinging madly, in an attempt to break the Borean line.
The Stygians also used the dreaded firbolgs in battle. The firbolgs were beings that skirted the thin line between man and beast. A squat, fierce people with long ropy arms, bulbous noses as big as a man’s fist, thick bony skulls, and large, yellow teeth, perfect for rending flesh.
Since ancient times, the firbolgs served Stygia as living weapons spreading terror and death. Tyr was quite content to let the Rasha’Dahr deal with them.
"You know," said Tyr to the elf Ewan Rainbird. "These fellows don’t appreciate how lucky they are to have the war wrap up so quickly." The burly northlander took a damp rag and rubbed it on his hard, scarred face and through his hair, which some called ash-blonde, others a shade of drowned rat.
The young elf shrugged and scratched his pointy left ear. "I know how they feel," said Ewan. "There’s a chance at glory and we’re sitting here gathering dust."
"Better to gather a little dust and lot of pay than scars," mentored Tyr. "When you’ve been around as long as me, you will learn to appreciate soft jobs."
Ewan smirked, stood up, and walked out of their open tent. He had answered the call to prove himself in battle. He had all the skills necessary for a man-at-arms, except experience and wouldn’t be happy until he proved, if only to himself, that he could look death in the face.
Ewan impaled a watermelon on a stick like a traitor’s head, and took ten long strides back.
Tyr watched him from the open tent. Whenever Ewan got bored, he practised using his elven ringblades. The elf slipped on the special ring-handling gloves, made from the deceptively soft leather of a young wild dragon, and took out his weapons. They were broad rings of light silvery metal, decorated with ancient cursive elven script and possessing a blade sharper than any razor.
Ewan took a deep breath and one by one threw the ringblades at the impaled watermelon. One by one, the ringblades easily sliced off a different hunk of the watermelon, and one by one arced and flew back to their master’s waiting hand.
Ewan smoothly caught each ringblade and hooked them back on his belt. It took real talent to master such a complex weapon and he felt justified pride in his skills.
Tyr clapped and Ewan responded with a theatrical bow. "Good work," said Tyr. "Too bad the poor watermelon had to die."
"Don’t you get bored?" asked Ewan as he returned to the tent.
"Sometimes," answered Tyr, "but I’ve been a mercenary since I was kid, so I’ve come to appreciate quiet times like this. I learned to speak dwarvish during my first siege."
"And the point of this parable is?" asked the bemused Ewan.
"Learn something," answered the northlander. "Read books, play music, learn a new language, or look for opportunities to make money on the side. Take advantage of the times when you’re not too busy fighting for your life to make life worth living."
"Maybe you’re right," said Ewan as he parked his lanky form in the shade of the tent. "Say," continued the elf, "I heard there’s a valley just a few miles from here that’s full of old tombs."
"It’s the Valley of the Vakashar," said Tyr. "It means ‘Tombs of the Vengeful Dead.’"
"You’ve heard about it?"
"Everybody’s heard about it," continued Tyr. "It dates back to the Demonic Age. The locals won’t go near it."
"I know," said Ewan. "That means there’s probably some good pickings to be had there."
Tyr dipped his rag in a bucket of cool water and whipped Ewan across the face with it. Water sprayed across the elf’s surprised face.
"What was that for?" huffed Ewan.
"To cool you down," said Tyr. "The heat’s affecting your brain. Are you insane?"
"No," answered Ewan.
"Then stay away from that valley," said Tyr. "Take it from someone who has learned from painful experience. If the locals won’t go near the place, then there’s a damned good reason why."
"But there could be treasure there," pleaded Ewan as he dried his face on his tunic.
"Maybe," answered Tyr, "but there could also be traps, curses, or some god forsaken abomination lurking around every corner."
Tyr lifted his sweat-stained tunic and showed the young elf a thick scar that ran from his left nipple to his navel.
"Do you see that?" asked Tyr.
"Yeah," answered Ewan. "It looks nasty."
"It almost killed me," said Tyr. "I went into an old tomb to impress a girl named Rhiannon. She had hair as red as fire, eyes as green as emeralds, and a…" Tyr’s voice trailed off. "But that’s another story. The main point was that a demon’s concubine was buried in that tomb with her jewellery. I reckoned those jewels would impress Rhiannon and make me rich."
"Sounds tempting," said Ewan.
"Don’t interrupt," said Tyr, flicking the elf with the wet rag. "It looked easy, and being a kid with more libido than brains, I charged through the front door. Do you know what happened next?"
Ewan shook his head.
"This giant scorpion, about twenty feet long, came out of nowhere and nearly gutted me with his claw," continued Tyr. "I would have bled to death if Rhiannon hadn’t saved my sorry ass."
"You were saved by a woman," Ewan’s machismo was shocked.
"Yes I was," said Tyr. "She scared off the scorpion with a torch and dragged me out by my feet. I did manage to grab a necklace on my way out."
"So the trip wasn’t a total waste," said Ewan, trying to offer some consolation. "The fact that Rhiannon came after you meant she cared and also you scored some treasure."
"That’s not the end of the story," said Nomad. "While I was laid up, I realised that my great prize wasn’t gold and diamonds, but painted bronze and cut glass. Total value, six copper pennies."
"Now that’s painful," said Ewan Rainbird.
"Always remember," continued Tyr, "old tombs are more trouble than they’re worth. Stories of hidden treasures were made up by the old demon lords to provide their pets with a steady diet of the greedy and stupid."
A soldier rapped on an outer tent post. "Sergeant Tyr."
"Yes Private Jafar," answered Tyr.
"Captain Akhab wants to see you right now," said the private.
***
Tyr liked Captain Akhab. He was solid, honest, and unwilling to order a man to do anything he wasn’t ready to do himself. Like his men, he was a conscript, drafted into command because of his volunteer work in the Empire’s Reserve Guard. In real life, he was a successful textile trader, and when he first joined the Reserve Guard was more like a merchant’s benevolent society than a real military unit. But fate had taken him far from his wife and family, to guard the rear of an army that probably didn’t need guarding.
Tyr spotted a strange horse watering itself by the captain’s tent. Its saddle bore a silver crest of crossed scimitars, the mark of the Rasha’Dahr.
Tyr smelled trouble brewing.
"Come in Sergeant Tyr," said Captain Akhab striking his chest in salute. "I’d like you to meet Captain Bashyr of the Rasha’Dahr."
Captain Bashyr, a strikingly handsome figure with the piercing dark eyes of a born hunter, stood up and returned Tyr’s salute.
"I am pleased to meet the legendary Tyr the Nomad," said Bashyr holding out his hand. "I understand that you have slain more renegade giants than anyone."
"It’s not that hard when you have a good plan," answered Tyr as he shook the new Captain’s hand. "Naturally I’m more impressed to meet the great hero of this war."
Bashyr shrugged. "The only heroes out there are those who gave their lives for the freedom of our people and our great father."
Bashyr referred to the Emperor as his father because the Rasha’Dahr were orphans adopted by the Imperial house and raised to believe that the people of the Empire were their family and the Emperor their father. A lifetime of discipline, training, and devotion to their ‘family’ made them legendary fighters. Tyr had heard of Bashyr, a standout even among the elite, his courage and skill was directly responsible for many of the Empire’s victories.
"What brings you to our humble camp?" asked Tyr, expecting a troubling answer.
"A human officer with the Stygian army has slipped through our lines with a small band of firbolg marauders," answered Bashyr. "We believe they intend to terrorise civilians to distract us from our offensive."
"Sounds like the Stygians," said Tyr.
"Captain Bashyr and his Rangers have tracked them to this area," said Captain Akhab as he unrolled a map. "Specifically the Valley of Vakashar."
"You have an expert on the valley in your unit," added Bashyr.
"I do?" asked Tyr.
"Yes," answered Akhab. "His name’s Effar, your supply clerk."
"The teacher," said Tyr, remembering the wiry little man with the shaved head.
"He’s more than a teacher, he’s a great scholar," explained Bashyr, "and he’s an expert on the valley’s history, and more importantly its layout."
"I want you and that elf to take Effar with the Rasha’Dahr into the valley," said Captain Akhab, no doubt wishing to be back in his shop. "Effar will be their guide, and your job’s to keep him alive while they take care of this Stygian and his firbolgs."
Tyr struck his chest in a smart Kolloman salute. "Of course sir."
Captain Akhab sat down and sighed. "I’d send somebody local, but locals won’t go near the place."
"I understand Captain," answered Tyr, while thinking that young Ewan was going to get his chance to check out the valley after all. Tyr hoped deeply that the elf didn’t do something that they were all going to regret.
"Good," said the Captain as he fingered the cloth of his uniform tunic and pondered its quality. "You’re to leave at sunrise."
***
"The valley of Vakashar isn’t really a valley," said the skinny academic as he balanced uneasily on his horse.
"Really," said Tyr. Normally he found the obsessive chatter of scholars to be tedious, but since he was going to be fighting in Effar’s field of expertise, he listened intently.
"It’s really more of a canyon," continued Effar, who cut a comical figure in his ill fitting breastplate and too-large helmet. "I’ve mapped some of it over the years. Too bad my papers are at the university, they could be helpful."
Ewan guided his horse closer to Effar’s. "Is there anything nasty there we should know about?"
"Like monsters," answered the scholar. "Not likely. These are no kings or queens buried there, only a general and his soldiers."
"It’s a military tomb?" Learning that the valley, or canyon, was more than just a tactical problem piqued Bashyr’s interest. "What about the legends of a curse?"
"General Phacrates," lectured Effar, "was a mortal commander in the service of the Demon Lord Thanos." Everyone, who heard the mention of that ancient evil, touched their lips and their forehead seeking the protection of the Maker of the Universe. "He was a terrible man, whose speciality was burning cities with all the people inside. He called it his ‘education plan.’ During the Great Rebellion he and his army were ambushed and massacred by locals out for revenge."
"Sounds like someone educated him," said Ewan.
"After the battle," continued Effar while swatting a sand fly. "The remaining followers of Thanos mummified the general and his troops and converted a network of natural caves into sealed tombs."
"What about the ‘Vengeful Dead?’" asked Tyr.
"That’s actually a mistranslation of the ancient tongue," answered the sorcerer. "It actually means that the victims of Phacrates have had their vengeance on the evil commander."
"So there’s nothing there but mummified soldiers," Ewan looked a little crestfallen. His chance for adventure and profit dashed.
"They were buried with their weapons and armour," said Effar. "They’re of some academic interest but nothing more than that."
"At least we’ll be fighting some firbolgs," said Ewan, eager for action.
"They are fierce," added Bashyr. "Maybe too fierce. They are too undisciplined to be true warriors."
"I’ve seen bog-suckers in action," said Tyr. "They’re more interested in terror and looting than discipline, but they’re vicious and cunning to the core."
"That’s why we must stop them," said Bashyr. "We can’t let them strike an undefended village. It would be a gross dishonour to our family."
"It is odd though," pondered Tyr aloud.
"What is?" asked Ewan.
"There are over half a dozen villages, and at least one small town between here and the coast," said Tyr. "Why pass up such plump targets to end up in a canyon full of dead men?"
"I thought of that too," said Bashyr as he scratched his beard, "and it worries me."
"Look," said Effar. "There’s the mouth of the valley, I mean canyon."
Effar pointed off into the eastern horizon. Before them stood two high mounds jutting skyward like monstrous fangs.
"Rasha’Dahr," barked Bashyr. "Dismount and prepare to march." Without a question, or a gripe, the elite soldiers obeyed, quickly followed by Tyr and Ewan, who had to help Effar off his horse.
"We can’t go in through the front door," said Bashyr. "Is there another way?"
"I know what you’re looking for," said Effar, his eyes alight with excitement. "Just follow me."
***
After several hours following a narrow path through high stone walls, Effar’s eyes opened wide and a smile cracked on his narrow face. "We’re almost there," he whispered, pointing to an arcane half-eroded glyph carved into the red stone. "This marks the path. There’s a wide ledge that has an excellent view of the canyon."
"How many tombs are here?" asked Ewan.
"Before the war I did a survey of about half the tombs," answered the scholar. "I had counted about five thousand before I was conscripted."
"That’s a lot of places to hide," said Ewan.
"The firbolgs will be camped out in the open," said Tyr. "They have an even bigger fear of tombs than we should have," he added for the elf.
"The northlander’s right," added Bashyr. "We should be able to catch them in the open and my archers will do most of the work."
"Let’s hope it’s that easy," said Tyr, drawing his sword.
***
The Rahsa’Dahr warriors and their companions crawled quietly onto the stone ledge.
"I smell a campfire," Bashyr wrinkled his hawk-like nose at the thought of what, or who, their quarry might be cooking.
Ewan belly crawled out to the edge and took a tentative peek over.
"There’s about fifty of them," said the elf, "sitting around the fire with no sentries. I guess they’re counting on no one coming in here."
"What about their human officer?" asked Tyr.
"No sign of him," said Ewan. "The tomb at the end of the canyon’s open."
"That’s the tomb of Phacrates," said Effar taking his own peek over the ledge.
"Now that worries me," said Tyr.
"Archers," whispered Bashyr. "Assume positions."
Bashyr’s twenty Rasha’Dahr readied their bows, and took out arrows with needle-like tips.
"Aim," said Bashyr as his archers read the wind and angled their weapons accordingly. Bashyr drew his scimitar. Sunlight danced along its blade as he held it aloft.
"Now!" he barked as the scimitar came down and the arrows took to the sky.
Ten firbolgs fell screaming under the first volley, while their compatriots howled and drew their weapons.
"They know where we are," called Tyr as he shoved the slender Effar behind a rock.
"Here they come!" Ewan drew his ringblades. His golden eyes alight with the fire of impending battle.
They were outnumbered two to one. Then it became one and a half to one after the archer’s second volley, but Tyr was ready to face them. He had confidence in his comrades, all he had to do was keep up his end.
The firbolgs charged up the slope towards their attackers. Their attackers drew their own weapons and charged down to meet them.
Steel met steel, steel met flesh, and blood met the ground.
A firbolg, a particularly large and hairy brute brandishing a wide bladed falchion, charged Tyr. The northlander expertly ducked the beast-man’s clumsy swing and Tyr thrust his sword through its chest.
Ewan slashed one brute across the neck with one ringblade and sent the other one flying into the face of another.
As the two firbolgs fell, Ewan caught his returning ringblade and in the heady rush of first combat called out to Tyr. "I beat two of them at once!"
Tyr’s only response was to send a dagger flying right at Ewan. The wind from the speeding blade caressed the elf’s cheek as he turned to see it buried in the head of a firbolg coming up behind him.
"Don’t get cocky kid," said Tyr. "Tombs are full of cocky men."
The roar of battle quickly faded into the moan of the last dying firbolg as Bashyr pulled his scimitar from its chest. Then everything was silent.
Ewan pulled out a rag with a trembling hand and started wiping the blood from his ringblades. "We beat them," muttered the elf as he surveyed the slaughter. "We beat them all."
"It’s a dirty and bloody business," said Tyr, "but too often it needs to be done."
"Rasha’Dahr," called out Bashyr. "Call out."
The Kolloman warriors answered with their names, ranks, and health status. No dead, but a few had minor injuries.
"By the Maker of All Things," called out Effar as he stumbled down the slope, his armour jangling like change in a purse. "That was the most incredible thing I ever saw. I must write this all down for the chronicles."
"What’s that?" asked Ewan, his keen ears pricking up.
"I hear it too," said Bashyr and Tyr, almost in unison.
It was a man’s voice, echoing from the black depths of Phacrates’ tomb. It was low and rhythmic, like a chant.
The scholar stepped closer to the tomb entrance and listened for a second, then his eyes widened with terror.
"Run!" screamed Effar.
"What is it?" asked Bashyr.
"The dead," said Effar as he scurried back up the slope with unforeseen speed. "We must get out of here!"
Tyr looked around, and for the first time since he arrived in this forsaken canyon he noticed the thousands of tomb doors. They were old stone, riddled with arcane glyphs that only learned men like Effar could read, and they were moving.
The doors were moving.
"There’s something going on with the tombs!" said Tyr as he followed Effar up the slope. "The doors are opening!"
"Rasha’Dahr: back to the ledge," ordered Bashyr and the men followed him up the slope to the relative safety of the ledge.
Stone ground against stone as the sepulchres gave up their guests. A gust of foul air filled the canyon as if the caves were exhaling like a choir of demons.
Tyr sniffed the air. There was the expected stench of ancient death, but this miasma held something different. Something familiar and sickly sweet that he couldn’t put his finger on.
The men paused as they scurried up the slope and listened. There was a strange sound, like the rattle of bones and the rustle of ancient rags.
"We must run!" screamed Effar.
Some things were coming out of the tombs. Bony claws grasped ancient swords and axes and they wore tightly wound rags beneath their dusty armour. Their eyes were empty sockets animated with an unholy flame.
"He has raised the dead," said Bashyr, touching his mouth and forehead in an act of blessing. "What foul sorcery is this?"
"We can figure that out later," said Tyr. "Let’s get out of here first."
The mummies charged the living with unnatural speed. The men were fast, but not fast enough.
One Rasha’Dahr fell screaming as the sword of one of the undead buried itself in his back.
Tyr cleaved the arm right off one of the accursed things, but it didn’t even slow down. The creature picked up its sword with its remaining hand and charged again.
Limbs flew as steel and bone met, but the undead kept coming. Tyr and his companions had to get out before they were overwhelmed. Bashyr gave the order, and the elite warriors formed a tight formation of interlocking shields and protruding swords. With another order from Bashyr the formation crashed through the mass of the undead like a plough through the earth.
The living men had made it back into Effar’s narrow path with the undead in hot pursuit when Tyr saw their chance. "Bashyr," Tyr pointed to a large boulder. "Help me shift that and block the path."
Ewan joined in and the three men pushed their combined weight against the boulder. With one great heave the great rock rolled to block the narrow passage.
"I think we did it," said Ewan.
Then the great boulder moved an inch.
"That won’t hold for long," said Tyr. "I suggest we get the hell out of here."
"Suggestion accepted," answered Bashyr, and the three men joined their fleeing companions.
***
"Sorcery," muttered Captain Akhab after hearing their report. "I was hoping we could go through this war without it."
"We need a more defendable position," said Bashyr.
"Agreed," said Akhab as he unfolded his map of the region. "We can move the company to the village of Razjur. It has an old stone wall where we can make our stand. Even if they’re undead, they can only travel so fast, so we have some time to prepare."
The men nodded in agreement. Tyr turned to Effar. "Tell them what you told me."
The diminutive scholar took a sip of water and said: "What we saw was an ancient black magic spell that has been believed lost for millennia. I believed it was a myth, one of my assistants thought it was real, but that’s another story."
"How do we beat them?" asked the Captain, impatient with the scholar’s detour.
"Well," replied Effar. "They don’t feel pain, hunger, thirst, or exhaustion. According to legend they will obey the spell-caster and kill everyone until they’re completely destroyed."
"Maybe we can get a sorcerer from the Imperial court," said Tyr. "Fight fire with fire."
"I’ll send a messenger immediately," said Akhab. "Then all we have to do is hold out until help arrives. That sounds easy… doesn’t it?"
***
Tyr watched men load his folded tent into the back of a cart. Holding out until help arrived did sound easy, but Tyr knew how hard it would be.
Ewan’s horse sidled up to Tyr. The barbarian saw the worry lining the young elf’s face. "I guess you can tell I’m scared," said Ewan.
"Everybody’s scared," answered Tyr. "I’m terrified, and anyone that tell you they’re not is either a liar or a madman."
"I always dreamed that I’d be brave in a situation like this," said Ewan.
"You are brave," said Tyr, mounting his own horse. "You haven’t run away, or defected to the Stygians, those are the acts of a coward. Use fear to stay alive, but don’t let it use you."
The pair followed the cart on horseback as it rolled through the rapidly disassembling camp. A conscript was helping the company cook burn garbage. The soldier held a long scrawny branch covered in bulging brown and red berries over a tinderbox. The branch came from a bush that grew among the rocks and was used for starting fires fast. Two sparks later the berries burst into flames with a series of loud pops and a sickly sweet stench.
The stench was familiar to Tyr, causing him to stop his horse dead in its tracks.
"That’s it," screamed Tyr as he reared his horse and charged to what was left of the Captain’s tent.
"What are you doing?" asked Ewan.
"No need to worry," answered Tyr. "I have a plan."
***
Night swept over the desert, chilling the air and the hearts of living men.
"I hope this works," said Bashyr from the rampart of the village’s stone wall.
"Effar said my theory was sound and it can’t hurt," said Tyr.
Effar and Ewan came up onto the rampart.
"Anything yet?" asked the elf.
"Not yet," said Tyr. "They’ll come. They have to come here to control the road."
"How many do you think there are?" asked Bashyr of Effar.
"I can’t say," answered Effar. "I was halfway through my survey and I counted five thousand tombs by then. We thought that it was one soldier per tomb, but when they came out, I realised that they had been stacked like firewood. There could be anywhere between twenty to thirty thousand. Which means the old chroniclers weren’t exaggerating."
Bashyr hissed in surprise. "We are less than two hundred men, most of them conscripts against an army of the undead. I don’t question their courage, it’s just that…"
"I know how you feel," said Tyr. "I’d rather have a hundred thousand Rasha’Dahr, ten dragons, and a friendly giant with a big war-hammer, but we can make my plan work with what he have."
Ewan froze and his ears pricked up.
"Do you hear something?" asked Tyr.
"Yes," answered the elf. "The rattle of bones."
That rattle grew into the roar of bony feet stomping hard earth. It grew closer and closer, then they could see what was coming.
It was death as far as the eye could see. Skeletal faces glared from beneath dusty helms and masks of rags, their eyes afire. The undead marched in perfect phalanxes until they were less than a hundred feet from the village wall, and then they stopped.
"I guess I gave you a conservative estimate," said Effar.
The undead parted to form a path through their ranks and a lone living figure in a blood red cloak strode to the front of the army.
"Hear me," declared the lone figure. "I am Sejidar, sorcerer of the order of Thanos. Lord of the Serpents and Master of the Undead."
"I know that voice," muttered Effar as he leaned over the wall. "Seji!" the little man called out. "Is that you?"
The sorcerer pulled back his hood, revealing a round face that smiled at Effar. "So, I see fate has brought us back together Master Effar."
"You know him?" asked Tyr.
"He was my assistant," answered Effar. "You remember the assistant that believed the legend? That’s him, that’s little Seji."
"Hear me, my former master," said Sejidar. "I am offering a chance to escape with your lives. Surrender now and submit to the dark lord Thanos and live."
"What if we don’t," asked Tyr, goading the sorcerer on.
"Then you will all die screaming!" bellowed Sejidar.
"We can’t worship a giant snake," said Tyr. "I can’t obey something that tastes good grilled with a little salt and pepper."
"You will pay for your insolence!" screamed Sejidar.
The sorcerer then raised his right hand and signalled his skeletal army to charge.
"Now Bashyr!" cried Tyr. "Now!"
Bashyr raised his sword to signal the archers. The glow of their flaming arrowheads illuminated the courtyard.
"Fire!" bellowed Bashyr.
Streaks of flame jetted over the village wall and into the ranks of the undead. Fittingly, the first burning arrow struck the remains of General Phacrates himself. The once feared commander burst into flames, his bony jaw dropped, as if in surprise and then fell off entirely. The flames rushed up his skeletal body, consuming his leathery flesh and finally the once colourful plume on the top of his helmet.
The fire consumed the ranks of the undead, two or three formations at a time. Within minutes, the whole horizon was aglow with the last march of the army of Phacrates.
"It’s working," said Tyr, as surprised as the others. The air reeked of sickly sweet smoke and ancient death as whole regiments succumbed to the flames. It was foul, but to Tyr it smelled like victory.
"I knew they used those berries as a preservative in mummification," thought the scholar aloud. "But I had no idea they’d still be so flammable after so long."
The undead’s formations collapsed as the undead soldiers blindly crashed into each other, sending blazing pieces flying in all directions. This spread the flames even faster and the archers were soon able to put away their bows.
"Sometimes," said Tyr, "there’s nothing better than just simply starting a fire."
***
Dawn came and the smell of the battlefield reminded Tyr of the day he saw a tannery burn down. The northlander and Bashyr strode out onto the field; their swords ready in case any undead escaped the onslaught.
Their concerns were unfounded, for there was nothing left but ashes, scorched bones, and the melted weaponry of their fallen foe.
Tyr heard something scurrying behind a big rock. He stopped and signalled Bashyr to follow. Swords ready, the two warriors crept around the rock and prepared to strike.
Sejidar, once master of the undead, now master of ashes, leapt to his feet with his arms outstretched in an attempt to look fearsome. "Stand back puny mortals," screamed Effar’s former assistant, still clad in his singed and blackened cloak. "Harm me and you will face the wrath of Thanos!"
Morning light flashed off Tyr’s sword. Sejidar’s head rolled one way in the sand, his body another. A look of surprise permanently etched on his round face.
"One thing I can’t stand," said Tyr as he cleaned his sword on the sorcerer’s cloak, "is someone who doesn’t know when to shut up."
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