"Shepard of the Dead" Short Story: The Child of Two Worlds
Available at all major retailers.
“Why did I let you talk me into this?” Isabell muttered from the shadows.
“Shhh,” Deegan hissed, pulling her into the corner of the alley.
Torches flickered in the street. Dozens of steel and leather-clad men hurried past, heading to the East Gate.
“I doubt the Goddess of Familial Love would agree with what we are about to do,” he said. “This is the only way to make them understand me. We may even save the city.”
A heavy boom rumbled in the distance, rattling a couple nearby windows, as if to emphasize his point. The Talarian Horde hammered against the city’s doorsteps, fighting the church’s protective spells on the gate with the magic of their own violent deity.
“Save the city? Of course. Assuming the townsfolk don’t kill us first. Or afterward, for that matter,” Isabell shot back. “Why can’t we just sneak onto the battlefield and let you do your thing there?”
“Too risky,” Deegan said. “One stray arrow and I’d be killed.”
“Not like raising an army of corpses from the local church’s graveyard,” Isabell sighed, rolling her eyes. “That’s completely safe. No chance the priest might take notice and burn us to death where we stand.”
“This is a battle, Izie. Everyone’s focused on avoiding a one-way trip to the graveyard. Not visiting one. The civilians are huddled away in the inner keep and the soldiers are watching the walls for more attacks. No one is watching the dead.”
“Fine,” Isabell replied. “But if we are caught, I’m insisting you brought me out here by force.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Deegan said. He took her hand, fighting a nervous quelling sensation in his stomach. “You will survive this, even if I have to carry you out of the city myself.”
Isabell blinked in surprise. “Deeg…we’re going to get through this.”
“Let’s go.”
At the alley’s edge, Deegan carefully watched the corners of the intersecting streets. Years spent picking pockets and dodging guards gave him a firm sense of the soldier’s movements. He led Isabell down narrow side streets. They passed an apothecary, windows shattered, door broken in. Looters flitted around the shop. Even the criminal element knew the city was in real peril. The looters would head west after this, to slip out through exits of their own devising. Deegan clenched his fists, drawing a squeak of pain from Isabell.
“Sorry,” he muttered, moving her hand to his shoulder. “Better to hang onto me, in case I need to use my hands for spell casting.” He glanced over his shoulder at the apothecary. Thieves needed the city as much as the honest man. What good would retreat provide? If the region fell to the Horde, where would the thieves go then? Better to stand and fight.
Turning back to the cobblestone road, Deegan swallowed his anger. If it weren’t for his Dualist magic, he’d be running as well. He set his sights on the nearby cathedral’s bell tower.
Torches ahead.
Deegan jerked to the left, scrambling down a side alley. The soldiers wouldn’t kill them on sight, but there wasn’t time to argue the merits of his plan.
“Who goes there?” someone cried. “Reveal yourself!”
Deegan glanced over his shoulder and winced. Of course, he’d gotten clear in time, but they’d seen Isabell’s cloak as she followed after him.
She paled, glancing at the road. “What do we—”
Deegan dragged her down the alley. Heavy boots smacked against cobblestones as the soldiers advanced, though they still hadn’t rounded the corner yet.
The end of the alley, a side entrance to the graveyard, was blocked off by a tall wrought-iron gate. Headstones peeked out from among bushes and shrubs on the other side of the barrier, as if teasing him. A large rusty padlock kept the gate sealed, heavily corroded by time. No skill with lock picks could undo that obstacle.
Deegan slammed his fist against the gate, reviewing his options. None of them were...subtle.
“You there!” four men cried, hurrying toward Deegan and Isabell. “No civilians allowed in the outer district. Can’t you see what’s going on? We’re at war!”
“We are here for—” Isabell said, but Deegan pushed her aside.
“No time,” he insisted. Raising both hands, the left toward the gate and the right toward the soldiers, he looked inward. After half-a-day spent in meditation, power stewed inside him, spells awaiting release.
A shockwave ripped out of his left hand, punching through the iron gate. To his right, the soldiers were subjected to the backdraft, the spell’s opposite effect. It jerked them forward, their torches clattering aside. They spun and rolled toward Deegan as his spell pushed the gate’s remains away from his position.
“Hurry!” Deegan said.
Isabel scrambled ahead of him, tripping over a twisted chunk of iron. She rolled onto her back, staring pale-faced at the nearby guards, but she was clear of the fence.
“Good enough,” Deegan said, hoping over the twisted iron remains. Again, he extended his hands.
The soldiers scrambled to their feet, drawing their weapons.
“Torches!” one cried, peering into the darkness. “Does anyone still have—”
That was all the time Deegan needed. The earth in front of him heaved. A tall slab of stone rose to replace the broken iron gate. Behind him, the earth gave way, the spell’s backdraft revealing a hole behind Deegan of the same size as the earthen wall.
“Deegan, I know it’s you!” one of the men shouted. “They warned us you might try something foolish. The King will see you hung for this!”
“We don’t have much time,” Deegan said grimly.
“You’ve got that right,” Isabell hurried to her feet. She limped on her left ankle, but swatted his concerned hand away. “What’s next?”
“I need to reach the center of the graveyard,” Deegan said. “There isn’t time for subtlety now.”
“Are you sure you can get the dead outside the city?” Isabell asked, matching his pace. They cut to the left, pushing through a nasty rosebush.
“The irrigation grate, beneath the northern wall,” Deegan said, his mouth dry as he eyed the shadowy gravestones. His heart raced and his palms felt moist. He could feel the bodies stretching out before him, empty vessels waiting for someone to fill them. “The church’s enchantments on the city walls prevent Dualists from breaking into the city, not out.”
“That’s right at the base of the cathedral,” Isabell said uneasily, pointing northward. “What if a priest notices? I don’t want to be caught between two Dualists. Or behind them either. Cursed backdraft.”
The imposing stone structure, so beautiful in the light of the day, looked more like a stone-skinned many-eyed monster at night. Candles within attested to the efforts of the church’s priests, laboring to fuel the powers of their brethren on the front lines.
“They won’t bother to look outside, unless a nearby patrol sounds the alarm.” Deegan prayed he was right. He hadn’t worked for the church in years, but they were heavily steeped in tradition. Surely their protocols hadn’t changed so drastically in a single decade.
Deegan and Isabell reached the highest point of the graveyard. The distant rumbles of war seemed far away now, a minor inconvenience next to the might of the Gods. The dark hid most of the Cathedral’s beauty, but added a sense of immense power.
Deegan’s plan would make any priest cross indeed. He turned, facing the dead. Hundreds of marble stones winked back at him, marking the remains of so many departed loved ones. The richest and most powerful people the city had ever known. He reached out tentatively at first, like a child taking his first step into a bakery full to the brim of every manner of sweets.
“W—wait,” Isabell sputtered, gripping his shoulder. “These are the ones you’re going to raise?”
“Yes.” Deegan furrowed his brow as he looked into her eyes. “That’s always been the plan.”
“You can’t raise the people the city remembers,” Isabell said. Her soft hair tickled his face and smelled like strawberries. “How would you feel if someone dug your parents up from the grave?”
“I was raised in a cave by a band of corpses, Izie.” Deegan shrugged. “Corpses are…comforting. Honest. Obedient. No hidden agendas or lies.”
“If you raise the city’s loved ones, they will hang you for turning their loved ones into killers,” Isabell insisted, stomping her foot.
“Then how do you suggest I do this?” Deegan grumbled, his nostrils flaring angrily. Another hollow boom rumbled through the city. “We need an army. Right now. Did you come along to help me or to stop me?”
“Look beyond the gravestones,” Isabell said, touching his arm.
Deegan paused. He looked down the hill. The gravestones got progressively smaller and less ornate, as only the church’s most respected and wealthy patrons could afford a plot so close to the cathedral.
There, at the base of the hill, hundreds of stakes lined the southern edge of the graveyard. Centuries of unnamed bodies collected from the street or the headsman’s axe.
“Can you manage this battle with only the nameless dead at your command?” she asked.
“I hope so,” Deegan sighed, giving her hand a grateful squeeze “You are right, Izie. I couldn’t do this without you.”
When he let her go, her face paled, looking over his shoulder. “Deeg?”
Deegan turned. A dozen yellow torches flickered in the distance, gathering like a swarm of fireflies and converging on the graveyard.
“Let’s go,” Deegan said.
She refused, jerking him to a halt.
“I can slow them down.” She squeezed his hand, looking deep into his eyes. “You will need time to raise so many and get them out of the city.”
“I know,” Deegan sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t know the living well enough, though. How can I keep them from hating me?”
“Pretend they are me,” Isabell said. There was a raw tension to her voice, a desperate sincerity. “Treat them like you would me. Now go.”
Swallowing his fear, Deegan plunged deeper into the graveyard. Part of him longed to raise the rich dead around him, ensure Isabell’s safety by force of numbers and somehow make the people see the truth. The dead were tools, no more. They weren’t monsters or dangerous in the hands of the right master.
How to make the people understand?
The gravestones grew progressively smaller and less pronounced as Deegan rushed down the hill. His mouth felt dry and his heart hammered in his chest. Isabell was his interpreter when it came to the things of the world.
What if, in order to win the battle, he did something the people couldn’t forgive? What if, in saving the town, they tried to execute him for aiding them in all the wrong ways? Or Isabell? Would the guards arrest her on the spot and converge on him? No, he had to trust she could talk her way out of this. She had to.
“Treat them like I would Izie,” Deegan grumbled. “Trust a diplomat’s daughter to hide the means of saving the city in a riddle.” He stumbled over a squat tombstone. The cool grass leapt up to meet him and he regained his balance in the midst of a field of short stakes. He could feel the dead lying in wait underground, marked by a garden of blank stakes. Silent. Empty.
Ready.
Casting aside his concerns, Deegan closed his eyes and reached into the earth with his Dualist powers. Separating the unnamed graves from the rich was surprisingly easy. They could afford to keep their plots an equal distance apart from the rest. Here, the bodies were stored in tangled heaps.
“Come on, come on, come on,” Deegan whispered. “I need you. The city needs you. Your city needs you.”
Energy trickled through his chest and down his arms, an itching, burning sensation. From his hands, black vapor poured onto the ground. The gas seeped into the ground, driven by Deegan’s conscious will.
This was the magic the church feared. A kind without backdraft. Powers that pierced death itself, after a fashion.
The first body quivered in response. Deegan gasped, “Yes, yes!”
Then ten. Twenty. But not enough to face the Horde beyond the walls. The tingling in his arms intensified, as if an ant swarm were coating his limbs. Crawling. Gnawing. Feasting. He poured more black vapor into the earth. Fifty. A hundred now. More. The tingling shifted into pain, then trembling. Deegan fell to his knees, hands resting on the soft grass.
Black cracks cut down his arms in a spider-web formation, like mud after baking in the summer heat for too long. Warm blood oozed down his arms, leaving the patch of grass beneath him slick with crimson. Deegan fell onto his side. The world blackened for a precarious moment.
A foul odor rushed over him as the earth gave way to hungry groans. Foul, but so familiar. He sighed and smiled contently. Comforting even.
They stood around him expectantly. Faces blank and open. Toothy maws hanging agape. Their bodies were suspended in various stages of decay. Some more bone than flesh. They wore tattered leather or linen, burial clothes partially eaten by worms and time. Their fingers ended in sharp claws. Despite their feeble appearance, Deegan could feel an otherworldly strength flowing through them.
“You’re here.” Deegan laughed with glee. They watched him, motionless, his words sparking not a single emotion. So gloriously simple. “You’re finally here! It’s been so long. I’ve missed your kind so much.”
Yellow light touched the corpses. Men shouted from the top of the hill. A horn rang out in alarm. The tones of the cry set Deegan’s teeth on edge. They were already marking his creations as enemies of all living. Deegan spat on the ground.
“You will prove them wrong,” Deegan tried to rise. His legs spasmed and he flopped back onto the earth, smashing his fist in frustration against the slick grass, red with his blood.
The soldiers’ cries were louder now. There was no more time.
“Carry me,” Deegan said to the closest corpse, a sturdy creature with no neck and surprisingly thick muscles. The creature obeyed, holding Deegan like an infant
“I will call you Base,” Deegan said. “The rest of you are my Arms. Now, all of you, head west. Follow the irrigation ditch. Take me to the city wall.”
The undead army moved with surprising swiftness. A few arrows hissed at their back, marking the soldiers’ advance. The projectiles stuck uselessly in a couple of his minions’ arms and legs. One frail corpse, a woman with long hair and twisted bones, took an arrow in the skull and collapsed.
“Morons,” Deegan grunted. “If I was a threat I’d be attacking them, not running away.” He glanced at the irrigation ditch, eight feet wide and nearly as deep. Another arrow sailed past, close enough to for Deegan to hear the hiss of approach and the thunk of wood against bone.
“Into the ditch. Run. We will have to punch through the grate together.”
Deegan’s forces moved into the ditch, a tightly packed band of living corpses, nearly two hundred strong. The pursuing arrows faded as Deegan’s undead outdistanced the soldiers.
“Hold me over your shoulder,” Deegan said to Base. "In case I have to protect us with magic."
The ride was a lot less comfortable as Base’s thick shoulder jabbed into Deegan’s chest with each step. They were at the outer limits of the city. The buildings were smaller and more rundown. A single civilian or two, too stubborn to abandon their homes, took one look at Deegan’s rotting forces and bolted into the darkness, screaming. Perhaps the nearby patrols would find him easily after all.
Base lurched to a halt so quickly that Deegan fell backwards into the muck.
“Slow down gradually next time,” Deegan scolded, rising to his feet. Base grunted, a blank and hollow sound. “These people have a hard enough time trusting me when I smell like sweat and old books. Ugh.”
Base did not reply, staring ahead with the empty expression Deegan once found so comforting.
“Head’s as empty as the marketplace after a plague,” Deegan sighed, shaking his head. He pivoted, facing the rest of his forces. “Now, why did the rest of you stop?”
The rest of the undead, his Left and Right Arms, had indeed hit the irrigation grate as one. They’d run into the thing in mass.
“No, no, no,” Deegan shouted, stomping his foot. “Back up. You need to tear it down. Not with your teeth, Left Arm! Does that iron look edible to you?”
Both Arms clawed at the iron grate in turn, but the metal was Dualism reinforced and anchored in the bottom of the city wall. A heavy rumble echoed through the city, coming from the east, where light and fire flashed. Even at this distance, Deegan could make out the screams. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to order his thoughts.
“Fine then. Arms, step back.”
The undead obeyed.
Extending his left hand toward the target and his right hand behind him, Deegan sent a blast of force into the iron grate. The barrier blew apart, torn chunks of iron shooting down and away from him. Despite the need for secrecy, Deegan let out a squeal of delight. As he’d theorized, the wall was much better protected against magical attacks from outside.
“Arms, get moving,” Deegan ordered, swaying on the edge of the ditch, fatigue gradually claiming the use of his limbs. “Base, catch me.”
The burly corpse reached out and managed to save Deegan from falling into the mire.
“Move through the opening,” Deegan shouted. “Gather beneath cover on the other side and prepare for battle.”
“Who goes down there?” a soldier called from atop the wall. “What was that awful noise? Are you a Dualist?”
“Yes, I am Deegan of Coldwell! I am here to save the city. Whatever you do, don’t shoot us!”
“The Horde is all the way over there, young one,” the soldier shouted back. “What do you plan to do from down there?”
“Well you just sit up there and find out what I’m doing,” Deegan said. “Arms, Base, march through that godforsaken hole!”
***
They gathered in a copse a short walk from the wall, well out of arrow shot. Deegan shakily rested his weight on a makeshift crutch he’d fashioned from a broken tree branch. A heavy silence lay over the trees.
“The Horde are the ones wearing animal fur,” Deegan said. After the debacle at the gate, he wasn’t taking any chances. “Not metal! If it's wearing metal, keep your distance. I don't want any misunderstandings.”
They watched him with blank expressions.
“So, if they are wearing animal fur, you must kill them. Take them apart,” Deegan said. “Don’t eat them. Take and use their weapons only if you are skilled with them, and move on to the next target. Got it?”
A chorus of hollow grunts echoed through the copse of trees.
Another flash of light from the east. Something in the distance, impossibly heavy, thundered to the earth.
“March to the Eastern Gate and go to work. Remember, if it’s a human wearing fur, kill them!”
The undead groaned in agreement, marching toward the flashes of light and screams of the dying. Deegan wobbled unsteadily, Base appearing at his side just in time, scooping Deegan up into the thickly muscled corpse’s arm.
They moved through the underbrush with surprising speed.
A Horde scout burst from the foliage, firing his bow into the crowd. He tried to sprint away, but Deegan’s forces were too swift. The scout went down, torn apart by sharp claws and even sharper teeth. Deegan shuttered against the sound. Perhaps the people were right to be afraid.
A couple more Horde scouts popped up. The undead clamored over them in a swarm, reducing their targets to patches of crimson goo in moments. Yes, surely this would be enough power with which to save the city. Better yet, with their lookouts killed, the Horde wouldn’t see Deegan’s forces coming.
They crested a rise in the terrain, overlooking the carnage. The mighty East Gate, once blessed with the Gods’ own magic, lay in a broken heap. Through the opening Deegan saw a thin line of steel-clad soldiers standing against a mob of Horde forces.
The real trouble was the Dualists. A thin line of spell casters stood behind each force, the church’s priests pitting their knowledge and faith against the Horde’s shamans. Because of the backdraft, the terrain behind each of the casters was constantly exploding or freezing or erupting with divine power. The hands of the Gods extended through their acolytes, ripping into the physical world.
Deegan’s troops advanced straight for the shamans, right toward their backdraft.
“No, no, no!” Deegan cried, pointing at the terrain behind the Horde’s shamans. “You wouldn’t last three breaths in there. Left Arm, circle to the left. Right Arm, circle to the right. On my mark, flank them!”
The undead shuffled off, following Deegan’s bidding. Deegan extended his hand. The air in a one-foot circle before him rippled, amplifying his vision as if he were standing a dozen feet from the wall. The details of the battlefield emerged on the swirling air.
The Horde had used roughly constructed siege towers set on wheels to protect their troops from the archers atop the city wall. Horde bodies littered the base of the wall, blood-coated stones and patches of steaming oil marking the city’s other defenses. The massive battering ram lay abandoned on the side of the road leading up to the east gate.
As his forces marched, he felt his connection to them weaken. Deegan gasped at the sensation. That was a weakness the textbooks never mentioned!
“Take me closer,” Deegan said to Base, pointing to a cluster of trees on the right side. “But stay behind cover. I need to be close enough to feel them.”
By the time the Left and Right Arms were in position, so was Deegan. His timing was none too soon. One of the shamans landed a ball of fire, engulfing a half-dozen soldiers. The priests rushed to magically douse the flames, but the Horde fighters were already there, forcing their way into the city.
Attack, Deegan thought, aiming all of his rage at the shamans ahead of him.
The undead charged from the left and right, letting forth a primal roar, the unearthly magic permeating their very beings, all directed through him at the shamans.
Deegan closed his eyes, tapping into his connection with the corpses. The visions of both his Left and Right Arms flashed before him. The shamans shrieked in fear, turning and striking out at Deegan’s forces with heat or cold.
The attacks snuffed away dozens of Deegan’s minions. However, each spell’s backdraft hit several of the Horde’s own shamans. The Horde’s fighters pulled away from the battle line, falling back to support their shamans. With each blow of a Horde fighter, an undead connection vanished.
A painful buzzing built up in his mind as he managed dozens of bodies at once, trying to coordinate all of their attacks. Sparse archer fire rained down from the wall, but Deegan couldn’t tell if they were trying to help him against the Horde. Through flickers in the chaos, Deegan noticed the city soldiers reforming.
He flinched as he felt one fighter pull a corpse’s head clean off. He was losing. How could he turn the tide?
Withdrawing his focus back to his own body, Deegan forced himself to see the entire battlefield. The city’s best soldiers stood resolutely within the broken city gates, their faces pale with fear. They were so few now.
The memory of Isabell’s face as she turned to face the soldiers in the courtyard cleared his mind. The bloodlust faded. The longing for power. The thirst for complete control of his surroundings.
“Treat them like I would treat Isabell,” Deegan muttered. “How can I show them? How can I allay their fears? Base. Take me close enough to reach the walls with my mind.”
The smell of burned flesh grew thick around them, broken shamans lying upon the ground. The skulls on their staffs were clearly human. Through the chaos Deegan saw a flash or two of heat. A couple of shamans had survived and organized a real resistance.
“Base. Put me down.” Base obeyed.
Deegan knelt and put his hands to the earth.
“More,” he said, reaching out with his senses. He hissed in pain as the wounds on his arms opened up again. Warm blood oozed down his forearms. The world tilted dizzily. “We need more.”
He reached out to the fallen bodies he once controlled, but they were too battered to re-use. The Horde’s dead, however, were another story.
Gritting his teeth, he focused his efforts on the Horde’s fallen, lining the outside of the walls. The dark vapor traveled beneath the earth, only rising up to fill the lungs of the Horde’s dead. The tall, mighty warriors drew breath anew, rising from the earth like silent wraiths. Even from this distance, Deegan’s mouth hung ajar as he felt the difference.
“Fresh corpses are so much stronger.” Shaking himself from the realization, he took control and aimed them at the throng of the living Horde troops.
Kill them, he ordered.
If the city folk’s dead were strong, these ones were mighty. They dove into the circle of foes with reckless abandon, biting, breaking and tearing their way into the enemy ranks.
Finally, the last shaman shrieked out a curse, and the battlefield erupted in a small quake. The force hurled Deegan’s troops thirty feet into the air. The collision with the earth would have killed most men, but his undeads’ limp bodies endured. They rose to their feet. Blank faces awaiting new orders.
Deegan collapsed onto his side. The cracks along his arms re-opened, oozing crimson streaked with black. His head throbbed with pain as he forced himself to rise to his feet. Retrieving a broken spear, he held himself upright, facing the soldiers and priests still lining the gate. They faced the undead, eyes wide, faces pale, tightly gripping their weapons.
All of you, form a circle, Deegan commanded, hobbling toward the front lines. If he wanted to prove to Isabell that he wasn’t a threat, how would he do it?
The massive lumbering corpses formed a ring, each standing within arm’s length of the other. They hefted their heavy maces in both hands, ready to strike. Deegan made sure the remaining corpses from the city graveyard did the same.
Soldiers at the gates and along the walls shifted their weight nervously from one foot to the other. A couple archers loosed arrows, which sunk into undead shoulders and legs without effect.
Once they were all in position, Deegan grit his teeth. He could take this undead force and walk away. Build an army so powerful the world of men could not threaten him. Or he could park this force outside the city and swear them to the King’s service. Put the rest of the King’s military to shame. Show the church the folly of their ways.
Despite the carnage around him, he remembered the strawberry scent of Isabell’s hair, her light-hearted laugh. There was so much more to being human than having raw power. So much more to the life he wanted than these blank-faced servants. The people had to see his sincerity, his gentleness.
Nodding to himself, he prayed Isabell was right and that he’d understood her meaning. He gave the final order.
Decapitate the corpse on your right.
As one, the undead attacked with all their might. The undead bodies collapsed to the earth.
Deegan walked into clear view, hobbling along. A long shadow stretched from his feet to the city gate, the sun peeking up behind him. The battle had gone on much longer than he’d realized. Perhaps the sun would make him look more imposing, and the people would overlook the feces and urine stains on his tunic. And the blood. And the odd black-edge scars lining his arms.
“Does the City of Dawnshire have room for a battered Dualist?” Deegan called. He paused, clutching his makeshift walking stick. “Or is saving the city not work a bath, fresh clothes and a loaf of bread?”
“Let him pass,” a gruff voice cried from the rear of the battle line.
Soldiers stood aside. Isabell stood next to General Tallwin, an unshaven man in his mid-forties, wearing blood-spattered chainmail. Behind them, the priests watched Deegan intently. Their eyes were unblinking, their features stiff in anger or fear. They weren’t howling for his execution. But was their silence a sign of forgiveness for raising the dead, or fear of the general’s wrath?
Isabell hurried to his side. “Are you all right?” she asked, pulling a roll of bandages from her belt “Who did this to you?”
“Me,” Deegan replied.
Isabell bound the cracks in his flesh. The throbbing pain brought the world back into focus. They approached the broken city gates.
When he reached the General, Deegan paused, eyeing the man. The General’s mace hung from his belt, dripping with fresh blood. Smoldering holes in his chainmail attested to his willingness to face the enemy head on, in the defense of his city. His boots however, were stained with the familiar stench of feces.
“You were watching the whole time, ready to kill me,” Deegan said aloud, though given the massive fatigue weighing on him, he couldn’t summon the ire he should have felt.
“If you turned on the people,” The General said. “Instead, you saved them. I can’t speak for the rest of Dawnshire, but from the bottom of my heart, well done.”
“Thank you,” Deegan said.
The soldiers visibly relaxed, though the priests whispered back and forth to each other.
Deegan took a deep breath and tried to huff in pride, only to cough and lean heavily on Isabell.
“Easy,” she said, holding him upright. “Just a little while longer. Then you can rest.”
“We will see you tended to,” the General said. “On behalf of Dawnshire, I thank you, Deegan of Coldwell, for saving our fair city.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” Deegan said.
“You have great potential,” the General said. “The city will remember this for generations to come. It’s not every day our own dead rise up to save us.”
“In some ways, I feel like the dead always do,” Deegan said, glancing over his shoulder at the army he’d just cast aside. “Their stories give us something to live by. To strive and fight for.”
“What do you fight for?” The General asked. “If you were after power, you could have kept that army you just destroyed. Greed or fame, as well.”
“I’m a child of two worlds,” Deegan said, shrugging. “The living and the dead's. But the dead's rest would be hollow indeed, without the spark of life to give it meaning.”
Leaning on Isabell's shoulder, he gave her hand a loving squeeze and added, “I just want to protect our worlds. My world."
“Shhh,” Deegan hissed, pulling her into the corner of the alley.
Torches flickered in the street. Dozens of steel and leather-clad men hurried past, heading to the East Gate.
“I doubt the Goddess of Familial Love would agree with what we are about to do,” he said. “This is the only way to make them understand me. We may even save the city.”
A heavy boom rumbled in the distance, rattling a couple nearby windows, as if to emphasize his point. The Talarian Horde hammered against the city’s doorsteps, fighting the church’s protective spells on the gate with the magic of their own violent deity.
“Save the city? Of course. Assuming the townsfolk don’t kill us first. Or afterward, for that matter,” Isabell shot back. “Why can’t we just sneak onto the battlefield and let you do your thing there?”
“Too risky,” Deegan said. “One stray arrow and I’d be killed.”
“Not like raising an army of corpses from the local church’s graveyard,” Isabell sighed, rolling her eyes. “That’s completely safe. No chance the priest might take notice and burn us to death where we stand.”
“This is a battle, Izie. Everyone’s focused on avoiding a one-way trip to the graveyard. Not visiting one. The civilians are huddled away in the inner keep and the soldiers are watching the walls for more attacks. No one is watching the dead.”
“Fine,” Isabell replied. “But if we are caught, I’m insisting you brought me out here by force.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Deegan said. He took her hand, fighting a nervous quelling sensation in his stomach. “You will survive this, even if I have to carry you out of the city myself.”
Isabell blinked in surprise. “Deeg…we’re going to get through this.”
“Let’s go.”
At the alley’s edge, Deegan carefully watched the corners of the intersecting streets. Years spent picking pockets and dodging guards gave him a firm sense of the soldier’s movements. He led Isabell down narrow side streets. They passed an apothecary, windows shattered, door broken in. Looters flitted around the shop. Even the criminal element knew the city was in real peril. The looters would head west after this, to slip out through exits of their own devising. Deegan clenched his fists, drawing a squeak of pain from Isabell.
“Sorry,” he muttered, moving her hand to his shoulder. “Better to hang onto me, in case I need to use my hands for spell casting.” He glanced over his shoulder at the apothecary. Thieves needed the city as much as the honest man. What good would retreat provide? If the region fell to the Horde, where would the thieves go then? Better to stand and fight.
Turning back to the cobblestone road, Deegan swallowed his anger. If it weren’t for his Dualist magic, he’d be running as well. He set his sights on the nearby cathedral’s bell tower.
Torches ahead.
Deegan jerked to the left, scrambling down a side alley. The soldiers wouldn’t kill them on sight, but there wasn’t time to argue the merits of his plan.
“Who goes there?” someone cried. “Reveal yourself!”
Deegan glanced over his shoulder and winced. Of course, he’d gotten clear in time, but they’d seen Isabell’s cloak as she followed after him.
She paled, glancing at the road. “What do we—”
Deegan dragged her down the alley. Heavy boots smacked against cobblestones as the soldiers advanced, though they still hadn’t rounded the corner yet.
The end of the alley, a side entrance to the graveyard, was blocked off by a tall wrought-iron gate. Headstones peeked out from among bushes and shrubs on the other side of the barrier, as if teasing him. A large rusty padlock kept the gate sealed, heavily corroded by time. No skill with lock picks could undo that obstacle.
Deegan slammed his fist against the gate, reviewing his options. None of them were...subtle.
“You there!” four men cried, hurrying toward Deegan and Isabell. “No civilians allowed in the outer district. Can’t you see what’s going on? We’re at war!”
“We are here for—” Isabell said, but Deegan pushed her aside.
“No time,” he insisted. Raising both hands, the left toward the gate and the right toward the soldiers, he looked inward. After half-a-day spent in meditation, power stewed inside him, spells awaiting release.
A shockwave ripped out of his left hand, punching through the iron gate. To his right, the soldiers were subjected to the backdraft, the spell’s opposite effect. It jerked them forward, their torches clattering aside. They spun and rolled toward Deegan as his spell pushed the gate’s remains away from his position.
“Hurry!” Deegan said.
Isabel scrambled ahead of him, tripping over a twisted chunk of iron. She rolled onto her back, staring pale-faced at the nearby guards, but she was clear of the fence.
“Good enough,” Deegan said, hoping over the twisted iron remains. Again, he extended his hands.
The soldiers scrambled to their feet, drawing their weapons.
“Torches!” one cried, peering into the darkness. “Does anyone still have—”
That was all the time Deegan needed. The earth in front of him heaved. A tall slab of stone rose to replace the broken iron gate. Behind him, the earth gave way, the spell’s backdraft revealing a hole behind Deegan of the same size as the earthen wall.
“Deegan, I know it’s you!” one of the men shouted. “They warned us you might try something foolish. The King will see you hung for this!”
“We don’t have much time,” Deegan said grimly.
“You’ve got that right,” Isabell hurried to her feet. She limped on her left ankle, but swatted his concerned hand away. “What’s next?”
“I need to reach the center of the graveyard,” Deegan said. “There isn’t time for subtlety now.”
“Are you sure you can get the dead outside the city?” Isabell asked, matching his pace. They cut to the left, pushing through a nasty rosebush.
“The irrigation grate, beneath the northern wall,” Deegan said, his mouth dry as he eyed the shadowy gravestones. His heart raced and his palms felt moist. He could feel the bodies stretching out before him, empty vessels waiting for someone to fill them. “The church’s enchantments on the city walls prevent Dualists from breaking into the city, not out.”
“That’s right at the base of the cathedral,” Isabell said uneasily, pointing northward. “What if a priest notices? I don’t want to be caught between two Dualists. Or behind them either. Cursed backdraft.”
The imposing stone structure, so beautiful in the light of the day, looked more like a stone-skinned many-eyed monster at night. Candles within attested to the efforts of the church’s priests, laboring to fuel the powers of their brethren on the front lines.
“They won’t bother to look outside, unless a nearby patrol sounds the alarm.” Deegan prayed he was right. He hadn’t worked for the church in years, but they were heavily steeped in tradition. Surely their protocols hadn’t changed so drastically in a single decade.
Deegan and Isabell reached the highest point of the graveyard. The distant rumbles of war seemed far away now, a minor inconvenience next to the might of the Gods. The dark hid most of the Cathedral’s beauty, but added a sense of immense power.
Deegan’s plan would make any priest cross indeed. He turned, facing the dead. Hundreds of marble stones winked back at him, marking the remains of so many departed loved ones. The richest and most powerful people the city had ever known. He reached out tentatively at first, like a child taking his first step into a bakery full to the brim of every manner of sweets.
“W—wait,” Isabell sputtered, gripping his shoulder. “These are the ones you’re going to raise?”
“Yes.” Deegan furrowed his brow as he looked into her eyes. “That’s always been the plan.”
“You can’t raise the people the city remembers,” Isabell said. Her soft hair tickled his face and smelled like strawberries. “How would you feel if someone dug your parents up from the grave?”
“I was raised in a cave by a band of corpses, Izie.” Deegan shrugged. “Corpses are…comforting. Honest. Obedient. No hidden agendas or lies.”
“If you raise the city’s loved ones, they will hang you for turning their loved ones into killers,” Isabell insisted, stomping her foot.
“Then how do you suggest I do this?” Deegan grumbled, his nostrils flaring angrily. Another hollow boom rumbled through the city. “We need an army. Right now. Did you come along to help me or to stop me?”
“Look beyond the gravestones,” Isabell said, touching his arm.
Deegan paused. He looked down the hill. The gravestones got progressively smaller and less ornate, as only the church’s most respected and wealthy patrons could afford a plot so close to the cathedral.
There, at the base of the hill, hundreds of stakes lined the southern edge of the graveyard. Centuries of unnamed bodies collected from the street or the headsman’s axe.
“Can you manage this battle with only the nameless dead at your command?” she asked.
“I hope so,” Deegan sighed, giving her hand a grateful squeeze “You are right, Izie. I couldn’t do this without you.”
When he let her go, her face paled, looking over his shoulder. “Deeg?”
Deegan turned. A dozen yellow torches flickered in the distance, gathering like a swarm of fireflies and converging on the graveyard.
“Let’s go,” Deegan said.
She refused, jerking him to a halt.
“I can slow them down.” She squeezed his hand, looking deep into his eyes. “You will need time to raise so many and get them out of the city.”
“I know,” Deegan sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t know the living well enough, though. How can I keep them from hating me?”
“Pretend they are me,” Isabell said. There was a raw tension to her voice, a desperate sincerity. “Treat them like you would me. Now go.”
Swallowing his fear, Deegan plunged deeper into the graveyard. Part of him longed to raise the rich dead around him, ensure Isabell’s safety by force of numbers and somehow make the people see the truth. The dead were tools, no more. They weren’t monsters or dangerous in the hands of the right master.
How to make the people understand?
The gravestones grew progressively smaller and less pronounced as Deegan rushed down the hill. His mouth felt dry and his heart hammered in his chest. Isabell was his interpreter when it came to the things of the world.
What if, in order to win the battle, he did something the people couldn’t forgive? What if, in saving the town, they tried to execute him for aiding them in all the wrong ways? Or Isabell? Would the guards arrest her on the spot and converge on him? No, he had to trust she could talk her way out of this. She had to.
“Treat them like I would Izie,” Deegan grumbled. “Trust a diplomat’s daughter to hide the means of saving the city in a riddle.” He stumbled over a squat tombstone. The cool grass leapt up to meet him and he regained his balance in the midst of a field of short stakes. He could feel the dead lying in wait underground, marked by a garden of blank stakes. Silent. Empty.
Ready.
Casting aside his concerns, Deegan closed his eyes and reached into the earth with his Dualist powers. Separating the unnamed graves from the rich was surprisingly easy. They could afford to keep their plots an equal distance apart from the rest. Here, the bodies were stored in tangled heaps.
“Come on, come on, come on,” Deegan whispered. “I need you. The city needs you. Your city needs you.”
Energy trickled through his chest and down his arms, an itching, burning sensation. From his hands, black vapor poured onto the ground. The gas seeped into the ground, driven by Deegan’s conscious will.
This was the magic the church feared. A kind without backdraft. Powers that pierced death itself, after a fashion.
The first body quivered in response. Deegan gasped, “Yes, yes!”
Then ten. Twenty. But not enough to face the Horde beyond the walls. The tingling in his arms intensified, as if an ant swarm were coating his limbs. Crawling. Gnawing. Feasting. He poured more black vapor into the earth. Fifty. A hundred now. More. The tingling shifted into pain, then trembling. Deegan fell to his knees, hands resting on the soft grass.
Black cracks cut down his arms in a spider-web formation, like mud after baking in the summer heat for too long. Warm blood oozed down his arms, leaving the patch of grass beneath him slick with crimson. Deegan fell onto his side. The world blackened for a precarious moment.
A foul odor rushed over him as the earth gave way to hungry groans. Foul, but so familiar. He sighed and smiled contently. Comforting even.
They stood around him expectantly. Faces blank and open. Toothy maws hanging agape. Their bodies were suspended in various stages of decay. Some more bone than flesh. They wore tattered leather or linen, burial clothes partially eaten by worms and time. Their fingers ended in sharp claws. Despite their feeble appearance, Deegan could feel an otherworldly strength flowing through them.
“You’re here.” Deegan laughed with glee. They watched him, motionless, his words sparking not a single emotion. So gloriously simple. “You’re finally here! It’s been so long. I’ve missed your kind so much.”
Yellow light touched the corpses. Men shouted from the top of the hill. A horn rang out in alarm. The tones of the cry set Deegan’s teeth on edge. They were already marking his creations as enemies of all living. Deegan spat on the ground.
“You will prove them wrong,” Deegan tried to rise. His legs spasmed and he flopped back onto the earth, smashing his fist in frustration against the slick grass, red with his blood.
The soldiers’ cries were louder now. There was no more time.
“Carry me,” Deegan said to the closest corpse, a sturdy creature with no neck and surprisingly thick muscles. The creature obeyed, holding Deegan like an infant
“I will call you Base,” Deegan said. “The rest of you are my Arms. Now, all of you, head west. Follow the irrigation ditch. Take me to the city wall.”
The undead army moved with surprising swiftness. A few arrows hissed at their back, marking the soldiers’ advance. The projectiles stuck uselessly in a couple of his minions’ arms and legs. One frail corpse, a woman with long hair and twisted bones, took an arrow in the skull and collapsed.
“Morons,” Deegan grunted. “If I was a threat I’d be attacking them, not running away.” He glanced at the irrigation ditch, eight feet wide and nearly as deep. Another arrow sailed past, close enough to for Deegan to hear the hiss of approach and the thunk of wood against bone.
“Into the ditch. Run. We will have to punch through the grate together.”
Deegan’s forces moved into the ditch, a tightly packed band of living corpses, nearly two hundred strong. The pursuing arrows faded as Deegan’s undead outdistanced the soldiers.
“Hold me over your shoulder,” Deegan said to Base. "In case I have to protect us with magic."
The ride was a lot less comfortable as Base’s thick shoulder jabbed into Deegan’s chest with each step. They were at the outer limits of the city. The buildings were smaller and more rundown. A single civilian or two, too stubborn to abandon their homes, took one look at Deegan’s rotting forces and bolted into the darkness, screaming. Perhaps the nearby patrols would find him easily after all.
Base lurched to a halt so quickly that Deegan fell backwards into the muck.
“Slow down gradually next time,” Deegan scolded, rising to his feet. Base grunted, a blank and hollow sound. “These people have a hard enough time trusting me when I smell like sweat and old books. Ugh.”
Base did not reply, staring ahead with the empty expression Deegan once found so comforting.
“Head’s as empty as the marketplace after a plague,” Deegan sighed, shaking his head. He pivoted, facing the rest of his forces. “Now, why did the rest of you stop?”
The rest of the undead, his Left and Right Arms, had indeed hit the irrigation grate as one. They’d run into the thing in mass.
“No, no, no,” Deegan shouted, stomping his foot. “Back up. You need to tear it down. Not with your teeth, Left Arm! Does that iron look edible to you?”
Both Arms clawed at the iron grate in turn, but the metal was Dualism reinforced and anchored in the bottom of the city wall. A heavy rumble echoed through the city, coming from the east, where light and fire flashed. Even at this distance, Deegan could make out the screams. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to order his thoughts.
“Fine then. Arms, step back.”
The undead obeyed.
Extending his left hand toward the target and his right hand behind him, Deegan sent a blast of force into the iron grate. The barrier blew apart, torn chunks of iron shooting down and away from him. Despite the need for secrecy, Deegan let out a squeal of delight. As he’d theorized, the wall was much better protected against magical attacks from outside.
“Arms, get moving,” Deegan ordered, swaying on the edge of the ditch, fatigue gradually claiming the use of his limbs. “Base, catch me.”
The burly corpse reached out and managed to save Deegan from falling into the mire.
“Move through the opening,” Deegan shouted. “Gather beneath cover on the other side and prepare for battle.”
“Who goes down there?” a soldier called from atop the wall. “What was that awful noise? Are you a Dualist?”
“Yes, I am Deegan of Coldwell! I am here to save the city. Whatever you do, don’t shoot us!”
“The Horde is all the way over there, young one,” the soldier shouted back. “What do you plan to do from down there?”
“Well you just sit up there and find out what I’m doing,” Deegan said. “Arms, Base, march through that godforsaken hole!”
***
They gathered in a copse a short walk from the wall, well out of arrow shot. Deegan shakily rested his weight on a makeshift crutch he’d fashioned from a broken tree branch. A heavy silence lay over the trees.
“The Horde are the ones wearing animal fur,” Deegan said. After the debacle at the gate, he wasn’t taking any chances. “Not metal! If it's wearing metal, keep your distance. I don't want any misunderstandings.”
They watched him with blank expressions.
“So, if they are wearing animal fur, you must kill them. Take them apart,” Deegan said. “Don’t eat them. Take and use their weapons only if you are skilled with them, and move on to the next target. Got it?”
A chorus of hollow grunts echoed through the copse of trees.
Another flash of light from the east. Something in the distance, impossibly heavy, thundered to the earth.
“March to the Eastern Gate and go to work. Remember, if it’s a human wearing fur, kill them!”
The undead groaned in agreement, marching toward the flashes of light and screams of the dying. Deegan wobbled unsteadily, Base appearing at his side just in time, scooping Deegan up into the thickly muscled corpse’s arm.
They moved through the underbrush with surprising speed.
A Horde scout burst from the foliage, firing his bow into the crowd. He tried to sprint away, but Deegan’s forces were too swift. The scout went down, torn apart by sharp claws and even sharper teeth. Deegan shuttered against the sound. Perhaps the people were right to be afraid.
A couple more Horde scouts popped up. The undead clamored over them in a swarm, reducing their targets to patches of crimson goo in moments. Yes, surely this would be enough power with which to save the city. Better yet, with their lookouts killed, the Horde wouldn’t see Deegan’s forces coming.
They crested a rise in the terrain, overlooking the carnage. The mighty East Gate, once blessed with the Gods’ own magic, lay in a broken heap. Through the opening Deegan saw a thin line of steel-clad soldiers standing against a mob of Horde forces.
The real trouble was the Dualists. A thin line of spell casters stood behind each force, the church’s priests pitting their knowledge and faith against the Horde’s shamans. Because of the backdraft, the terrain behind each of the casters was constantly exploding or freezing or erupting with divine power. The hands of the Gods extended through their acolytes, ripping into the physical world.
Deegan’s troops advanced straight for the shamans, right toward their backdraft.
“No, no, no!” Deegan cried, pointing at the terrain behind the Horde’s shamans. “You wouldn’t last three breaths in there. Left Arm, circle to the left. Right Arm, circle to the right. On my mark, flank them!”
The undead shuffled off, following Deegan’s bidding. Deegan extended his hand. The air in a one-foot circle before him rippled, amplifying his vision as if he were standing a dozen feet from the wall. The details of the battlefield emerged on the swirling air.
The Horde had used roughly constructed siege towers set on wheels to protect their troops from the archers atop the city wall. Horde bodies littered the base of the wall, blood-coated stones and patches of steaming oil marking the city’s other defenses. The massive battering ram lay abandoned on the side of the road leading up to the east gate.
As his forces marched, he felt his connection to them weaken. Deegan gasped at the sensation. That was a weakness the textbooks never mentioned!
“Take me closer,” Deegan said to Base, pointing to a cluster of trees on the right side. “But stay behind cover. I need to be close enough to feel them.”
By the time the Left and Right Arms were in position, so was Deegan. His timing was none too soon. One of the shamans landed a ball of fire, engulfing a half-dozen soldiers. The priests rushed to magically douse the flames, but the Horde fighters were already there, forcing their way into the city.
Attack, Deegan thought, aiming all of his rage at the shamans ahead of him.
The undead charged from the left and right, letting forth a primal roar, the unearthly magic permeating their very beings, all directed through him at the shamans.
Deegan closed his eyes, tapping into his connection with the corpses. The visions of both his Left and Right Arms flashed before him. The shamans shrieked in fear, turning and striking out at Deegan’s forces with heat or cold.
The attacks snuffed away dozens of Deegan’s minions. However, each spell’s backdraft hit several of the Horde’s own shamans. The Horde’s fighters pulled away from the battle line, falling back to support their shamans. With each blow of a Horde fighter, an undead connection vanished.
A painful buzzing built up in his mind as he managed dozens of bodies at once, trying to coordinate all of their attacks. Sparse archer fire rained down from the wall, but Deegan couldn’t tell if they were trying to help him against the Horde. Through flickers in the chaos, Deegan noticed the city soldiers reforming.
He flinched as he felt one fighter pull a corpse’s head clean off. He was losing. How could he turn the tide?
Withdrawing his focus back to his own body, Deegan forced himself to see the entire battlefield. The city’s best soldiers stood resolutely within the broken city gates, their faces pale with fear. They were so few now.
The memory of Isabell’s face as she turned to face the soldiers in the courtyard cleared his mind. The bloodlust faded. The longing for power. The thirst for complete control of his surroundings.
“Treat them like I would treat Isabell,” Deegan muttered. “How can I show them? How can I allay their fears? Base. Take me close enough to reach the walls with my mind.”
The smell of burned flesh grew thick around them, broken shamans lying upon the ground. The skulls on their staffs were clearly human. Through the chaos Deegan saw a flash or two of heat. A couple of shamans had survived and organized a real resistance.
“Base. Put me down.” Base obeyed.
Deegan knelt and put his hands to the earth.
“More,” he said, reaching out with his senses. He hissed in pain as the wounds on his arms opened up again. Warm blood oozed down his forearms. The world tilted dizzily. “We need more.”
He reached out to the fallen bodies he once controlled, but they were too battered to re-use. The Horde’s dead, however, were another story.
Gritting his teeth, he focused his efforts on the Horde’s fallen, lining the outside of the walls. The dark vapor traveled beneath the earth, only rising up to fill the lungs of the Horde’s dead. The tall, mighty warriors drew breath anew, rising from the earth like silent wraiths. Even from this distance, Deegan’s mouth hung ajar as he felt the difference.
“Fresh corpses are so much stronger.” Shaking himself from the realization, he took control and aimed them at the throng of the living Horde troops.
Kill them, he ordered.
If the city folk’s dead were strong, these ones were mighty. They dove into the circle of foes with reckless abandon, biting, breaking and tearing their way into the enemy ranks.
Finally, the last shaman shrieked out a curse, and the battlefield erupted in a small quake. The force hurled Deegan’s troops thirty feet into the air. The collision with the earth would have killed most men, but his undeads’ limp bodies endured. They rose to their feet. Blank faces awaiting new orders.
Deegan collapsed onto his side. The cracks along his arms re-opened, oozing crimson streaked with black. His head throbbed with pain as he forced himself to rise to his feet. Retrieving a broken spear, he held himself upright, facing the soldiers and priests still lining the gate. They faced the undead, eyes wide, faces pale, tightly gripping their weapons.
All of you, form a circle, Deegan commanded, hobbling toward the front lines. If he wanted to prove to Isabell that he wasn’t a threat, how would he do it?
The massive lumbering corpses formed a ring, each standing within arm’s length of the other. They hefted their heavy maces in both hands, ready to strike. Deegan made sure the remaining corpses from the city graveyard did the same.
Soldiers at the gates and along the walls shifted their weight nervously from one foot to the other. A couple archers loosed arrows, which sunk into undead shoulders and legs without effect.
Once they were all in position, Deegan grit his teeth. He could take this undead force and walk away. Build an army so powerful the world of men could not threaten him. Or he could park this force outside the city and swear them to the King’s service. Put the rest of the King’s military to shame. Show the church the folly of their ways.
Despite the carnage around him, he remembered the strawberry scent of Isabell’s hair, her light-hearted laugh. There was so much more to being human than having raw power. So much more to the life he wanted than these blank-faced servants. The people had to see his sincerity, his gentleness.
Nodding to himself, he prayed Isabell was right and that he’d understood her meaning. He gave the final order.
Decapitate the corpse on your right.
As one, the undead attacked with all their might. The undead bodies collapsed to the earth.
Deegan walked into clear view, hobbling along. A long shadow stretched from his feet to the city gate, the sun peeking up behind him. The battle had gone on much longer than he’d realized. Perhaps the sun would make him look more imposing, and the people would overlook the feces and urine stains on his tunic. And the blood. And the odd black-edge scars lining his arms.
“Does the City of Dawnshire have room for a battered Dualist?” Deegan called. He paused, clutching his makeshift walking stick. “Or is saving the city not work a bath, fresh clothes and a loaf of bread?”
“Let him pass,” a gruff voice cried from the rear of the battle line.
Soldiers stood aside. Isabell stood next to General Tallwin, an unshaven man in his mid-forties, wearing blood-spattered chainmail. Behind them, the priests watched Deegan intently. Their eyes were unblinking, their features stiff in anger or fear. They weren’t howling for his execution. But was their silence a sign of forgiveness for raising the dead, or fear of the general’s wrath?
Isabell hurried to his side. “Are you all right?” she asked, pulling a roll of bandages from her belt “Who did this to you?”
“Me,” Deegan replied.
Isabell bound the cracks in his flesh. The throbbing pain brought the world back into focus. They approached the broken city gates.
When he reached the General, Deegan paused, eyeing the man. The General’s mace hung from his belt, dripping with fresh blood. Smoldering holes in his chainmail attested to his willingness to face the enemy head on, in the defense of his city. His boots however, were stained with the familiar stench of feces.
“You were watching the whole time, ready to kill me,” Deegan said aloud, though given the massive fatigue weighing on him, he couldn’t summon the ire he should have felt.
“If you turned on the people,” The General said. “Instead, you saved them. I can’t speak for the rest of Dawnshire, but from the bottom of my heart, well done.”
“Thank you,” Deegan said.
The soldiers visibly relaxed, though the priests whispered back and forth to each other.
Deegan took a deep breath and tried to huff in pride, only to cough and lean heavily on Isabell.
“Easy,” she said, holding him upright. “Just a little while longer. Then you can rest.”
“We will see you tended to,” the General said. “On behalf of Dawnshire, I thank you, Deegan of Coldwell, for saving our fair city.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” Deegan said.
“You have great potential,” the General said. “The city will remember this for generations to come. It’s not every day our own dead rise up to save us.”
“In some ways, I feel like the dead always do,” Deegan said, glancing over his shoulder at the army he’d just cast aside. “Their stories give us something to live by. To strive and fight for.”
“What do you fight for?” The General asked. “If you were after power, you could have kept that army you just destroyed. Greed or fame, as well.”
“I’m a child of two worlds,” Deegan said, shrugging. “The living and the dead's. But the dead's rest would be hollow indeed, without the spark of life to give it meaning.”
Leaning on Isabell's shoulder, he gave her hand a loving squeeze and added, “I just want to protect our worlds. My world."
###
What did you think of The Child of Two Worlds? Let me know at seth@sbsebrick.com
Did you like this story? Buy your very own copy at all major retailers.
Did you like this story? Buy your very own copy at all major retailers.